Category: Poetry

CARAVAN BY JOSEPH S. PETE

Caravan, caravan, caravan of tired, poor, huddled masses yearning to breathe free, wretched refuse surging inexorably toward the Rio Grande.   Caravan of foreigners, others, alleged Middle Easterners and the like proceeding...

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BAYING BY T.M. THOMSON

~After GDBee’s, “Space Letterman”   Rain runs down trees streaking black bark with transparency.   Haze holds a pin oak hostage while its pale brown leaves— leathery stars slick as moon— hold assembly above squirrels that scurry...

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THE PATRIOT BY T.M. THOMSON

~After Kay Rasmus Neilsen’s, “In Powder and Crinoline” Skin of profound umber   hair like an obsidian cloud visited by sharp golden stars before it recasts itself in peacock and sky and tangerine and magenta   lips frothy and...

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GATE TO MOON BY T.M. THOMSON

Yes, rush against the stars.   The gauze that swirls around your body—moss and twilight and carnation stippled with onyx— lets in light so that your spear-like figure can be seen with its wild sinews of arms and legs and torso...

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SEVEN YEARS BY SHANNON HARVEY

                             (for my daughter on her seventh birthday)     One chord attached you to me, enclosed us in a symphony; Two feet you found your way around, holding papa’s hand, you learned to stand; Three pirouettes,...

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BAYING BY T.M. THOMSON’S

Rain runs down trees streaking black bark with transparency.   Haze holds a pin oak hostage while its pale brown leaves— leathery stars slick as moon— hold assembly above squirrels that scurry between roots.   Lilacs float in...

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FIRES BY WINDFLOWER TOWNLEY

(for Debbie) Before the fires the woman across the street whose garden grew from rubble gave us a bouquet of sunflowers the color of flame   A month later ash and smoke rained down waking us to the horrifying fall of colors...

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BABYSITTING DESPERATION BY JOHN CULLEN

Just for fun, my nieces pull the wings off Lego airplanes.   “Behave!” I say, reminding them of their mother’s last words before she passed   a box of sparklers around and drove to the mall for a pedicure.   I’m in charge, but...

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DANCES BY JOHN CULLEN

Regardless of vintage a Two Buck Chuck boogies like a teen at prom. The gustatory cells hula and google like novas and the body waltzes toward evening as ligaments spring to keep up counting “one-two-three   one-two-three.”  Oh...

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