This period of furious passion.
The role of lover
is not how I
had pictured my life.
From a simple meeting,
the working of the mind
to the subtle way thought
jagged through my veins.
And, it hurts.
Oh. How it does hurt.
such colourful moments.
like the growth of wisteria
above the lintel of my front door.
Amy Barry writes poems and short stories. She has worked in the media, hotel and Oil & Gas industries. Her poems have been published in anthologies, journals, and e-zines, in Ireland and abroad. Her poems have been read and shared over the radio in Australia, Canada and Ireland. She loves traveling. Trips to India, Nepal, China, Bali, Paris, Berlin have all inspired her work. When not inspired to write she plays Table Tennis.
I sauted up a green stir of words
adding the agraffe wire clamp
from the champagne bottle
for iron, saving farctate
for when my stuffed stomach
might hurt after dinner
tossing in gambrinous for the stout
with the little plastic bead in the can
my hand found garlic and ginger
and butter and onions when I wanted
to smell the kitchen calling
the children down from upstairs
to sit at my table, often
exsibilitating their views
of kale, those slubberdegullions
of a family, all of whom
Tricia Knoll is a Portland, Oregon poet. Retired from communications work for the City of Portland, she feels the tick of time in her work. Recent publications include Windfall-A Journal of Poetry of Place, Flycatcher, VoiceCatcher, and many others. Every day she writes haiku, dances, tends a butterfly and native plant garden. She is a regular contributor to New Verse News.
Because now I have the time,
they’ve given me the title, Fisherman.
They ask me when I return,
“Did you catch any fish?
How many? How big? What kind?”
Because they call me a fisherman,
they think my success is in catching fish.
I cannot be counted on
to catch fish.
I put the bait on the hook.
I put the line in the water.
Michael Mark writes to break things so he can learn and be further mystified. He is the author of two books of fiction, Toba and At the Hands of a Thief (Atheneum). His poetry has been or is scheduled to be published in The New York Times, UPAYA, Awakening Consciousness Magazine, Dead Snakes, Forge, Empty Mirror, Sleet, Outside In and other nice places. He thanks you for reading this profile, though this is not him.
Each section of poet Lyn Hejinian‘s prose poem sequence My Life originally contained 38 sentences, one for each year of her life at the time it was first published.
Try writing a poem that contains one line (or one sentence if you decide to do a prose poem) for each year of your life.
Alternatively, try writing a poem that demonstrates multiple ways of telling about one event in your life.
Keep in mind that this prompt may produce a very long piece, so if you plan on submitting something that results from this prompt to Every Day Poets, it may not meet our word limit requirements. But if it does come in under 500 words, we’d love to see your work!
Sometimes I almost understand,
Under a vaulted arc of sky
Stretching over us like God’s cupped right hand.
Other star-dusted nights I’ve made demands
Worried about that unconditional–and can God lie?
But now sometimes I almost understand.
Clouds, hawks, space-stations criss-cross above these lands,
Careen through heaven’s dooryard, while mortals cry
Into God’s cupped hands;
And why must pain endure, must cruelty stand?
Job found, perhaps no one can tell us why–
Still, sometimes I almost understand,
Shut my mouth and listen to my soul expand,
Set my spirit loose to watch it fly
Off up into God’s cupped hand.
Someday, minutes stretching back to birth as tiny-numerous as sand,
I’ll give up, nestle in, and die,
Hoping on that day to more-than-almost understand,
Curled up safe in God’s cupped hand.
Wilma Bernard wilmabernard.blogspot.com
o for mouth
no one home
world of one
but at night
he sees the
and at dawn
a fire ball
o for mouth
Bill West wrote poetry as a teenager but stopped. In 2004 he started writing Flash Fiction and has been published widely. Only recently has he revisited poetry. Bill is Senior Editor at The Linnet’s Wings Literary Magazine http://www.thelinnetswings.org/
They believed in the closing light
Though thoughts of no long sleep
The night walk past graves of men
Someone would come
Lungs filled with dust
waiting by the moss-grown gate
remembered no more
Cold dark nights
they stood watch
the hollow moonlit road
Shadows swallowed by the
consent of darkling tide
A broken-winged lover
of cold stone, the black trees stilled
Waiting for someone to
George D. Brockner b. 1953 still alive, nearing retirement. married 37 years. From Louisiana.
“You have lost your mind!”
they told him. His eccentricities
surpassed the boundaries
they regarded as
Determined to get his mind back,
he searched forest, roadside,
bridge, cemetery….everywhere he remembered
visiting; wondering whether his mind existed or not,
because he had memories.
Ted, started poetry writing in mid 2002, while in high school. Has had a poem “Poem without words”, published by Muse-Pie Press, Issue #11, in Shot Glass Journal. Recently, he published a poetry book with Lulupress, which is titled “Painting of Life in Poetry”, his first edition.
Where I come from we burned Christmas trees.
We stood em’ up, and lit em’ up.
Christmas trees burn real good.
I say ‘good’ and not ‘well’ because a tree doesn’t burn well,
it burns good.
Having sex isn’t well, it’s good.
Being warm by a fire is the end result,
like a lover’s soft body as you hold them.
It’s all the snaps and pops along the way that light you up.
When you get burned by a stray spark
it hurts for a second, but man, you feel something;
like having you ear bit or your back scratched.
You want a fire to go up the first time, like a virgin wants it to be
just right. You don’t want to embarrass yourself and have that
wood staring back at you because you couldn’t do it. No, you
want that wood hissing and cracking, flaming and spitting,
sparking everything to life and you want it go for hours playing
around in the darkness. You and her. Fire baby.
Jesse Carter graduated from Augusta State University in 2006 with a B.A. in communications with an emphasis in professional writing. His poetry seeks to invite readers to see the world from a different perspective. The voices and images of his poetry promise to tell stories for everyone.
whisks colour from a flower
Nancy May has haiku published in Haiku Journal, Three Line Poetry, Poetry Quarterly, Inclement Poetry, Twisted Dreams Magazine, Vox Poetica, Eskimo Pie, Icebox, Dark Pens, Daily Love, Leaves of Ink, The Blue Hour Magazine, The Camel Saloon, Kernels, Mused – the BellaOnline Literary Review, Writer’s Haven, Dead Snakes, Danse Macabre – An online literary magazine, High Coupe, A Handful of stones, Lyrical Passion Poetry E-Zine and UFO Gigolo. Haiku will soon appear in The Germ and 50 Haikus.
She has reached The Heron’s Nest consideration stage twice and the Chrysanthemum consideration stage once. Haiku is published weekly on Haikuary.
She is working on her first haiku collection.