Featured Poems

X from Everafter

by on March 7, 2021 :: 0 comments

Take this as a whimpering petition
or as an alert from a broadside
posted on a bullhorn

Heed it and go
with a charge fueled by murmurs

Take notice
the mark you came in with
will be the eternity you pursue

Let the hunt go
with a polished scream at that notice

Take this darting announcement
of a brittle uprising
lashing back against forever

Take it and go
injure tomorrow with yesterday’s claim

editors note:

Legacy or lethargy; we’re finished at the start. – mh clay

“i’m with the bandwidth”

by on March 6, 2021 :: 0 comments

you said you didn’t
have the bandwidth.

don’t say that about my friend!

there is someone in your doorway
casting a shadow
and i cannot see you anymore.

stay away.
come back to me.

it is difficult to hear you
over my pained echo.

i see why we left it at

editors note:

No matter how you leave it, you need bandwidth to deal with it. – mh clay


by on March 5, 2021 :: 0 comments

So long you thought you know the profundity of all that you have in your clutches.
The more you have pulled them the more you have distanced yourself. You are ransacking the roads and avenues to find everything empty. Yet you have never measured its depth. You haven’t pulled the hums and throbs out of the screen. You haven’t called her by the nickname. Flying the chariot you have never asked for transparent water in a transparent glass and the food for the grass. Like before you haven’t sought anything floating on pluta swara. You have considered precious all that you have seen and got. You have put all the horizon long hangover of success in your showcase, keeping the distance bound to you. You haven’t bound up any hour. Do you ever win seeking the ways for scented coins? Triumph is but an illusion. It buries its head just after kissing the moment.

– Utpal Chakraborty

editors note:

Tripping on the transitory; listen for the long voice instead. – mh clay


by on March 4, 2021 :: 0 comments

How many yolks are whipped into your discourse?
For half an hour you have dwelt on the repose
of a primrose
in flamboyant prose.

You whisk the yolk of your words
with a trickle of lushly pollinated thoughts
that drips from the amber of yonder rose
wrapped up in a clause.

With how many yolks have you exposed
the layers of gold that streak your odes,
the saffron of fire suffusing your tropes,
the dandelion permeating your metaphors?

editors note:

Our ever engrossing attempts to make the perfect omelette. – mh clay


by on March 3, 2021 :: 0 comments

The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
– Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening, Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know. His house
could be anywhere across this busted,
split to bits country, where nearly all the
frightened people are masked to hide their fears,
as cities burn and bullets scar the air.

For twelve years, Paula has been a cashier.
In the village it’s very still these days;
quarantine times and perpetual masks,
still, the Ocean State Job Lot is busy,
Paula on a register, eyes smiling.

Paula and I have become friends over
the years, her constant smile, her eyes not right.
The darkest evening of the year won’t stop
her ringing at the light of Number Two,
her wild, wide black hair pouring down her back.

We’ve made small talk over these many years,
though our connection has not been easy.
She is quite timid and prefers quiet.
The sound between us, oftentimes silence,
and the sweep of wind in the parking lot.

Until the day she said, “You a teacher?”
I said, “Yes I am. I teach poetry.”
“Oh, I love that!” Her eyes beamed and she spoke —
Whose woods these are I think I know, she said,
and she spoke the whole poem perfectly.

Whose woods these are I think I know. His house
in the village is very still these days.
The darkest evening of the year won’t stop
the sound between us, oftentimes silence,
though now she says the poem perfectly.

– John L. Stanizzi

editors note:

Friendships found in verse abound. – mh clay

A Poem a Day

by on March 2, 2021 :: 0 comments

If only my poetry could
bring down my mortgage debt,

I would write a poem a day
for the bankers who own my home.

I write a poem a day and sometimes
two, but mostly for myself.

I never expect a dime out of poetry.
It does not lower my blood pressure.

It did not stop the cancer that
the doctors skillfully treated.

I am just thinking out loud.
No banker would take my poetry as

payment. They would not wipe their
noses with any page I have written.

I am just going to work until I am dead,
and write poetry as well,

until my mind is gone and
the banker forecloses on my home.

editors note:

Nope, no money; but richer, still. – mh clay

Night Wings

by on March 1, 2021 :: 0 comments

I was contracted to marry a powerful Emperor
In Ancient China. A total stranger who terrified me.

My friends envied the fabulous gifts I was sent.
But what do fine silks and jewels matter when expected
To leave everything you know and live with
A stranger in a strange land?

I didn’t love him, but in time I grew to like him.
Together we created a magic palace whose tricks and
Secrets people would still be trying to uncover
A thousand years later. I know this because I was
There as an explorer in the 21st century too.

I watched the sun rise over a valley filled with flowers.
Rainbows burst to life as the rays hit the waterfalls.

I established an orphanage on the moon. Led my
Warriors to victory. Had conversations with Caesar
And danced on the rings of Saturn.

My reality may be full of stress and my days empty,
But when I drift off at night, I rise.

I become a queen, a warrior, explorer and so much more.

I forget the fear, anxiety and loneliness of my reality
And soar through time and space in my dreams.
All that weighs me down melts away and I grow wings.

editors note:

Yes to the place where everyone can fly. – mh clay