Migratory birds
fly south for the winter
to escape the cold,
find good feeding grounds.
Imagine their shock
when they finally land
in North Carolina
and it’s so cold
they just keep going
until they reach
Miami Beach
that’s so crowded
with SUV’s and hummers
they can’t even find
a place to land
and get something to eat.
Category: 2018 Poetry
Read Poem: THEY WERE EATING LIVING THINGS, by Nicole Marie Kupper
A)
And the food-stamps were cut off
Three months or more
The children’s eyes were
Stuck in the black of their pupils
And the doctor said wait
And the CPS officer said wait
And JFS said take a hike to the FREE STORE
And the chicken they got there got real hot
Came alive in the old oven
And blew up.
B)
And she said
Mom, the food’s alive
It’s eyes are seeping
A sunrise contraption
Green cucumbers
The color of grass
The blades are strangling me
Chocolate like mother earth
The vegetables on TV dance so happily
Then why can’t we buy any food
Colors are everywhere why can’t we eat
Shh.. the mom said, you have a fever
Then in the store at the top of her lungs
The girl began to scream.
C)
The hungry children
Stood brown on the unsuspecting road
Walking up
Crossing at the stop light
They saw their mother sell their toys
And they would try to stop her
On the hot, black tar
Of the Cincinnati road.
Read Poem: Bright Creation, by Constantine Argiropoulos
In the vast universe
a fragile human heart
beats outside exposed
for the first time,
billions of stars
mark the unique moment,
it is so bright
everyone must
shield their eyes,
the umbilical cord
is cut with precision,
a cry emanates to every
corner of human existence,
there are tears
mixed with joy
so much to absorb,
to celebrate
the special occasion
poignant refined music
emanates from
the lips of an artist,
each universal note
feels like a warm caress,
time recedes,
the future is a
dancing silhouette
stark like a skeleton
as full as a
bucket of wet kisses.
Constantine Argiropoulos
April 30/2018
Read Poem: How to Write a Summer Poem, by Marta Knobloch
Slip time from your wrist.
Feel the pulse of the day become your heartbeat.
Curl into the nutshell of this moment.
Float on a sea-glass sky.
Breathe July’s green sweat.
Bathe your eyes in shadows.
Grow deaf to the thrumming of bees.
Watch a breeze stir ripples in your nether-mind.
Wait
Read Poem: Leaves During the Fall, by Dallas J. Short
Silent screams echoing throughout my soul,
turn to white noise after a while,
constructing impenetrable walls,
yet unable to crack a smile.
Happiness such a memory,
if it was ever attained at all,
lied to by heart and brain,
as the trust leaves during the fall.
Genres: Depression, Divorce, Alone, Hurt, Emotional, Strength in Vulnerability
Read Poem: MORONIC MOTORISTS, BY JOHN ROSS HARVEY
Driving is a skill; it requires math, and reading.
Being a motorist is not skilled because math and reading are not performed.
If you block an intersection, you lack brain function.
This is kindergarten level geometry.
You don’t fit don’t be a twit.
Engage your eyeballs before your feet to not be an ass.
Left is not right
One is not two
The only people who turn wrong are motorists without an IQ.
You don’t have 18 wheels, you don’t get two lanes, taking them is proof of no brains.
That’s how moron came to be, because they don’t know the difference between one and three.
The zipper merge is a fantasy of great proportions.
Your rectangular car does not fit in a triangular space simply because you ignored the diamond shaped road sign.
The hundred feet behind me are easier to merge than the ten feet in front of me. Learn geometry.
No lights at night are no brains in sight.
No lights in rain are not using brain.
Snow is the worst motorist problem because it creates the highest amount of stupidity. Morons with a complete inability to see.
They are the Three Forces of Evil:
Mobile Snow banks, Defroster Dunces, and the Wipers Only Brigade.
Wipers are not a snow removal device.
Elbow grease is.
Brush and Scrape and stop being impaired by stupidity, ice and snow.
Your filled wheel wells will not allow you to go.
Clean your roof, before it kills somebody when it slides off as a sheet of ice.
Drivers are more skilled, and far more nice.
Nobody dies from patience, only impatience.
Impatience is stupidity.
Stupidity is bad for mobility.
Be a driver, read and do math.
If you don’t, you’ll hear my wrath.
Read Poem: Broken Heart, by Farin Powell
“You’ve broken heart syndrome,”
the doctor says.
Such a poetic title
for a sickness that can’t be cured.
Little veins break,
around your heart, you don’t see the blood,
but you feel the burn.
The cells die, then,
they revive when you breathe.
***
Years ago, he left home
without a word,
leaving me with a broken heart.
I’m traveling on a train,
but the images travel with me,
the sleepless nights
when his fever reached the roof,
the first day of school,
his prom night, his college years.
***
I get off the train & go home;
some one has painted his face
on the pane of the windows,
on the wall,
on my pillow.
I put my hand on my chest,
feel the heartbeat and wonder:
how much more broken can it get?
Why don’t you let go?
***
I look at the closed door of his room,
I can still hear his voice.
I miss his laughter,
his jokes…
The dreams I had
die one by one;
I won’t be seeing his wedding,
I won’t be watching his child grow,
instead, I’ll be asking why forever.
Read Poem: Babalonshi, by Robert Meacham
A louder wind fanned through a coppice gate.
Above the crypt hung a cloudy canopy
And in mysterious form,
There you stood unveiled,
Whispering dark caresses.
A sky scored of specter gray
Belched angry storms
That rang clear with madness-
The pleasure of chaos.
Mute spirits summoned the black festival;
The four squared altar and roughly hewn
Held intolerable desires.
Your body lay in flames of infernal fashion,
A labyrinth passion fed.
Your petals bloom the scented flower of death.
Assailing from your pure and perfect eyes,
And bending from your fervid lips,
A slow sweet breath of yearning,
As a celebration of your birth swept the skies.
Read Poem: Prophet, by Arthur Rosch
Oh lord, oh lord,
what has befallen me?
That which I hoped to make straight
becomes more twisted.
That which I should understand
only becomes more strange.
How did I land on this unexpected shore?
What am I to make of the walking wreck of myself?
I can still think, still work,
still speak in poems
in the sleepless time of the night.
It is a mixed gift, this life, it is hard
to feel so completely lost
in complexity I don’t know how I made.
I wanted to be a radiance
but I am more like a garbage can
tipped by a starving animal in predawn hours.
I pick myself up,
I sweep my contents
into a tidy pile,
but each time I think to rest,
I am again overturned.
I speak to you, o lord,
like the wounded Jew,
like the baffled bloodied prophet,
like the broken fated sage.
I take help from any quarter,
even those with dangerous denizens.
I take comfort with the scorpion,
I sleep with diseases,
I’m astonished that I’m alive.
Oh lord, what has befallen me?
You see, I have nothing but questions.
It could be much worse, I freely admit.
It could be much better,
I ruefully entreat.
Pieces of me have gone numb.
Whole continents of my psyche are submerged,
drowned, forgotten.
I am the world I have made.
I am a man, dreadfully incomplete,
unwilling to meet the terror,
reluctant to behold the fire,
shrinking always from the worst case,
taking the hand of any wiser being,
like a lost child who needs to be led home.
I shall try now to snatch a bit of sleep
from the bottom of the night’s cup.
I’m glad we had this little talk.
I thank you, awkwardly,
like one who has opened the wrong gift
at the wrong party.
Oh, is this for ME?
I’m not quite sure it fits,
I’m not sure how to use it.
I’ve broken it a little
but it still works. See?
I’ve tried, I’ve hopped on one foot,
I’ve danced insanely.
I’m still here,
waiting for your soft voice
to bring me peace.
Read Poem: Too Young, by Camille Deluca
Too Young, written 11/2/79
I was too young to ever see
How good you would have been for me
To see you grow from day to day
I wish they didn’t take you away
I try to forget but I never will
There is always that void to fill
Everyone said it was better this way
I never could have made him stay
Of us, he didn’t want no part
This truly broke my loving heart
I hope you’ll forgive me for what I’ve done
Without you baby, I never really won.
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