Christopher Bursk: The Procession to the Palace of King Neptune
How could a man, barnacled as rock
at low tide, rank as seaweed,
have a story worth listening to
by a prince enamored of the moon?
Katy Giebenhain: Falling Asleep in a 300-Year-Old Industrial Cottage in Derbyshire Surrounded by Star Wars Action Figures
the enemy with a thousand faces
the mentor with a thousand faces
the waitress with a thousand faces
Chard deNiord: I Was Swimming
I was swimming with you in a river
that was both rushing and still.
Remember?
Robin Davidson: Mrs. Schmetterling Kneels in a Garden
Mrs. Schmetterling is tired. Her imagination is
pressed like a tiny chestnut blossom between the pages
of old letters and recipes, a book of days.
Kari Gunter-Seymour: Conflagration
I hoped returning
would spark memories, fill her with light,
the way the heat of day warms the bones.
Charlotte Mew: The Cenotaph
Not yet will those measureless fields be green again
Where only yesterday the wild sweet blood of wonderful youth was shed
James Dubinsky: Veterans turned poets can help bridge divides
Today, there are approximately 20.17 million veterans – 7 percent of the U.S. population. That’s more than 20 million stories, along with the stories of their loved ones. Sometimes poetry is the most effective way to capture both the ambiguity and the story.
Lisa Zimmerman: That Blue
When the poet said blue city of bees
I was reminded of the blue cotton robe
my husband gave me, a shade my mother loved
Virtual Book Launch! “Nightjar” by Michael Simms, w/ Gerry LaFemina, Gail Langstroth, and Sharon Fagan McDermott — Today!
Poet and classical scholar Rachel Hadas notes that the poems “recall the darkly vatic voice of Brecht’s late lyrics. Yet, Simms always sounds like himself: plainspoken, intimate, vulnerable, courageous.”
Al Ortolani: The Taco Boat
Last night, I bought a 12-pack of tacos
at Taco Bell, not because I was
especially hungry, but because I could.
Mary Jane White: Why, Friend, With Surprise and Awe
I weep easily and often
now for the world.
Michael Simms: Compost
fine white strands
of mycelium reach
into the cells of the woody stalk
and hard husk of sunflower
Amy Lowell: A London Thoroughfare. 2 A.M.
Opposite my window,
The moon cuts,
Clear and round,
Through the plum-coloured night.
George Drew: Drumming Armageddon
I, too, have friends dead from drugs,
guys I hung out with on my hometown streets
and in the war memorial park with wood railings
we kept falling off, too stoned to balance on.
