Category: Poetry

The Voice by Samuel Maffioli

As I sit on my chair at the desk near the doorThe curtains drawn completelyI hear a voice below the nightIt’s speaking to me. Nature’s greatest song is crickets’Haunting, taunting cryThe bass of a neon highwayA songbird in the sky. Coyotes or frat boys howl at the moonIncredibly out of tuneBeethoven’s Symphony No. 7Plays in

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The Bird and the Labyrinth by Samuel Maffioli

In the forest a bird rises from anold and lengthy tree.As it beats its feathers it looksout from there to see The mountainside, so wild and greenthe bird begins to sound.Its voice is a crescendoThat is heard from all around. From its perch the bird can see aLabyrinth, frigid dark.This frosted crypt with cobalt veinsLeft

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Making Gardens Out of Graves by Brook Jessup

in the wake of your leaving the sun continues to riseplayfully peering out between peakspromising the return of soft spring wind.it warms my bonesbathes my skin in sticky sweet goldchases away the winter shadowsthe chill you left behind. in the wake of your leavingmy heart beats againunfrozen after monthsof tumultuous snow.it nourishes my rootsbrings colour

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Prayers Unanswered by Brook Jessup

motherpleasei have prayed and prayed and prayedfor solace of the softest kind.of honey-sweet retribution.i ampressed,palms downto blue-cold tile.a statuesque relicof pity-poor faith.the stars have no answers.unwavering,blinking down with soft set eyes.there is no salvation herefor sin wrought skin.when god does not answerthe devil finds me in the depths of the nightlays my head in his

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Veni, Vidi, Vici by Liam Borhaven

Vanity is veal to voracity,Valiance invites violence. Vehement cheers for victors of war,Visualized as virtuous models.Very little did virtuosos voice forVilified foreign men, trapped in a bottle. Vast disfiguring of varied peoples,Valued only for velvet and land.Values of theirs “vile” and illegal,Vassals for veterans and viscounts they must stand. Veni, vidi, vici a man once

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What Else is There to do but Dig? by Enny Oar

the moss is cool against my fingersmy back dampthe sky has lost its blue at my feet, the remnants of decadesrusted cans, a rotten shoei make a bed of copper leavesand let the treeswash my hair with their dew an unseen squirrel chitterson a far away branchbut i don’t want toleave too soon i feel

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Butterflies by River Mossfield

Scattered  across  my  arms  like  constellations  in  the  skyA  kaleidoscope  of  butterflies,Wings  painted  in  silky  smooth  inkEach  with  its  own  unique  design,Its  own  enchanting  name.But  each  with  the  same  purpose:To  keep  me  from  harm Two  instruments  sit  in  front  of  me,One  that  draws  in  crimsonAnd  the  other  in  ebony  ash,One  with  a  dangerous  edgeAnd  one 

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August by Cassidy LaFond

Where I am fromit’s a late August morningfresh eggs and Canadian baconit’s my brother’s old flannelcowboy bootsand work clothesit’s the tender sun on a dusty truck dashboardwith sleep still in our eyesit’s John Denver on the radio Where I am fromit’s a late August afternoondriver seat pushed all the way forwardpink boots barely touching the

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Thinking of You by Cassidy LaFond

I am sitting by the oceanAnd I’m thinking of youof inky wishing stones and straw hatsFloating on the surfaceConsumed by viscous memories slipping my mind I am watching the loonsThey call for you stillBaying in the smoky portsEach methodical note rippling away forever in hopes to reach you I am in my roomA hope chest

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The Pen by Maggie Silverson

I can see her,everlasting ripples along glass.The river is carrying her through the earlymorning light —a linen sheet soaked with sweat.Chemtrails overhead, silky seaweed below.Sadistic figures crossing the creaking bridge,cursingan embodiment of monogamy — of loyalty.A supercut of innocence within one frame.Did you see in between the valley of her wing?A streak of mud, of

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