The Black boy
about 9 or 10
you watch
on a crowded Q49,
make a call
and say,
yes mom
I made it.
Shaniece Devieux (featured in Entity Mag and The Inquisitive Eater) is a Gemini dreamer who hopes to one day write a book, own a Malibu Beach house, and be featured on a Beyoncé album (in no particular order).
No disrespect intended
to me or the others,
but it’s man himself
I fear most.
Gil Hoy is a Boston poet and trial lawyer who searches for winning poems in his legal arguments.
If pine and oak, ash
and larch, sassafras
and sycamore, if all
of them could weep,
they should weep
like the weeping cherry
tree whose snow white
tears are more beautiful
than laughter.
J.R. Solonche is the author of eight books of poetry, whose work has appeared many times on One Sentence Poems.
If I cannot make a poem
from the word cromlech
then there are no wizards
nor hidden realms
nor doorways waiting
in the bland landscape.
C G Holder lives in confusion, a synonym for England.
Well, it could be a metaphor for sex,
but I prefer to think of it as representing
the experience of being sacrificed
on the altar of the great god Pan
and then dismembered
and flung to the wolves
who are not mentioned directly
in the poem.
F.J. Bergmann edits poetry for (mobiusmagazine.com) and imagines tragedies on or near exoplanets. She is still dreaming of a better universe.
Summoning up
a kind of rage,
stubbornly walk,
or even crawl,
across a frozen sea
and then pass
through a hole in a fence,
on the other side
of which it’s dusk,
and maybe always is,
no people anywhere,
just stubble fields
and a black dog
with a red tongue.
Howie Good is on the pavement, thinking about the government shutdown.
On his birthday, you ice a cupcake with glacial blue
and eat the whole thing in one choked mouthful,
then you click onto his page, and watch the wishes pour in,
and imagine him at home, or at a party, or in a restaurant,
with the people he loves.
Toby Sharpe once fell down a manhole, but don’t worry, he’s still here, clinging on.
The smell of autumn has crept upon the suburbs:
you inhale lustily as you walk towards the station,
before sinking underground to be swept eleven miles south,
up an escalator, and into his arms.
Toby Sharpe once fell down a manhole, but don’t worry, he’s still here, clinging on.