This is gorgeous work! Click the link below to see and read.
A pair of paradox, or pandora’s box We are forgotten yesterdays of tomorrow, note-booked mementos on thighs time travelled, back from the future, a few tsha-tsha with flashes blackouts and gray-matter gashes, the slurred dance of good memory, crib-notes on collar-bones, bare chest, a loose tie, knots, not around neck formal education white suits, tucked-in […]
This is poetry that I don’t completely understand on a logical level, but its sound and flow and rhythm make me feel like I understand something about it viscerally. Click the link to read the 2 poems!
His Body Retold He abraded marble Until he reached skin, inner than Any thigh and equally muscular. He plucked flowers off vines And glued them with marrow To stone slab as it becomes Altar, ulterior Motive for fiction and Its facts: go in too
Another steep climb over slick gray rocks, but at least
that day the sun was shining. Short on breath, once again
but I paid no mind as I drank it all deep.
Another cliff side looking down to a fall into crashing blue
waves, but this time I faced the height. With cautious steps
and shaking hands, I lowered myself into a sitting
position and swung my feet over the edge.
Boots still muddy from the day before shone dusty against
sapphire waters, far, far below. I leaned low, facing the fall
with a lurch in my stomach and my heart. Oh, I fell.
I wrote this piece when I traveled to Ireland for the first time last year. Been missing it like crazy. I need to go back! It’s been a busy year, and a busy month, but I wanted to make at least one contribution to National Poetry Month.
One part whiskey, two parts hot brew poured slowly
into that fancy ass glass, and topped off with a frothy
cream. Liquor at 9 a.m. is when I knew I’d embraced
the Emerald Isle.
The first sip was bracing, like cold fire spreading
from my throat down my chest into my belly
and suddenly 41 degrees Fahrenheit wasn’t freezing
for this Florida Girl.
The second gulp went down smooth, and the third
I knocked back like a pro. Before the final chug, my
new friends and I raised the last of the rich, brown
concoction, clinking glass. To our newfound Irish health.
From the Drabble’s feed. A beautiful poem that I wanted to share with everyone.
By Johnlmalone The bus shelter at the end of our street grinds its teeth at night. Sometimes I sit with it, hold its hand, listen to its tale of drunks and suicides, of lycanthropes baying at the full moon, of lost Lotharios weeping in their fists I talk to it too about my problems Of […]