Featured Poems

Soaked Lips

by on July 19, 2019 :: 0 comments

These lips utter a pause of lipids
time after after
like a powdery cough.
they bloom and shatter
with details,
wisdom of lush lights
a fluid, a shade,
a soft sunset resting on my backbone

Each petal a dandelion of rays,
imperative words
upwards and sidewards,
spitting veins dipped in blue ink
blue sky…a blue world.
Porcelain drops of dew
like lust to wax
a moment of spurring thoughts
defying existence, one by one.

editors note:

With every word, we defy. (We welcome Devika to our crazy congress of Contributing Poets with this submission. Read more of her madness on her new page – check it out.) – mh clay

Ode to the Hollering Neighbor

by on July 18, 2019 :: 0 comments

She’s known for registering surprise.

Though she does it mainly with volume,
the occasional lilt,

it is why her children love her,
why the dog answers only to her.

The neighbors, at first annoyed,
soon learn to think of opera.

Next door, reading a book or swatting flies,
her arias lift them out of their thoughts

suddenly, all at once, Zowie, Look!,
unexpectedly out of the blue her loud

and infinite wondrous world.

– Laura Lee Washburn

editors note:

A different view, a new adventure. Zowie, Look! – mh clay

Quatrain of Female

by on July 17, 2019 :: 0 comments

Arrogance is my state of grace —
I announce I am here
Humbleness is a silent place —
In deference, I disappear

editors note:

No more should this pendulum swing be swung. Be here! – mh clay


by on July 16, 2019 :: 0 comments

I won’t give you
the satisfaction
of tasting my blood.
I will drink it all,

not leaving
a single drop
for you to lick
from the floor.

editors note:

My blood! My life! The sacrifice is yours. – mh clay

Stand Off

by on July 15, 2019 :: 0 comments

At first it is inconsequential and I pay it little attention.
Something more aroused than a whisper,
But much less defined than a whimper, a sound
In an embryonic state,
A decibel searching for identity.
My approach is casual, silent, but as soon as I
Touch the gate the sound is born,
Comes to life swelling like an organ in an
Empty church.
And I imagine that just around the corner there is
A rib cage rattling, a chest heaving, a larynx bulging.

From its bark alone I can tell the dog is big,
Instinctively I step back
As the shape of the sound rips up the yard, a big bull head,
Cropped ears and docked tail hurls itself at the gate.
In the stand-off that follows
It regurgitates old anger, regards me with contempt,
Openly mocking my cowardice.
Stares me down, issuing me with a challenge,
A challenge I simply cannot accept.

editors note:

During these dog days, hold the gate between you and the bite. – mh clay

POND, 5.3.19

by on July 14, 2019 :: 0 comments

1.14 p.m.
61 degrees

The hummingbirds returned today.

Pluck and aerials this 1/10 of an ounce, and
ovations are due each the time hummers return, as they did today.
Nervous polliwogs, disperse with every step I take, and
dive, bellies flashing white, vanishing into the mud instantly.

– John L. Stanizzi

editors note:

This poem is part of a 1-year project called POND; “Everyday, at different times during the day, I visit our pond with notebook and camera in hand. I jot down some notes… Then I head home and write a four line acrostic using the letters P, O, N, and D.” Cool!
mh clay

One Acidic Tooth to Another

by on July 13, 2019 :: 0 comments

Into lungs for straws and out to kiss
as if earth flooded for two of us, our sins,
annual attempts to drown summer.
Rain spots as we walk soaked asphalt
but it hasn’t rained since April.

Music won’t ever melt hearts, August will.

The 6th love language is remembering someone’s coffee order.
How much coffee actually hit our lips
as late summer atmosphere ate palms,
ice disappeared, fast as a favorite sunset.

Cups empty – leaving rings on tables, not fingers.

We held dull hands, numb to grasp
the sun and hold to mouths.
Taste heat and imagine it’s not blood
pulled from above, our god’s a gift from a hanging snake.
Go ahead, drink! Summer’s as temporary as Eden.

Empty cups – do they speak of what filled them?

Empty, all I have and know is who I am. All that’s left,
nothing to offer but two



On emptied cups.

editors note:

Belle and beau, barrista borne to a common craving for caffeine, if not companionship. – mh clay