All posts by Dale Wisely

David Hanlon

Your Promises 

layed out on the table
like our finest cutlery set
that shimmers & glistens
but is never used.

David Hanlon is a Bristol-based poet who can be followed at https://twitter.com/DavidHanlon13

Sarah Paulos

With No Umbrella

Yes, you’re supposed to kiss your lover in the rain,
But you’re supposed to kiss in a mild shower,
With good lighting, while the music swells,
Not in an April thunderstorm
When the raindrops batter you like hailstones
And make you squint into the darkness to see your lover’s face.

Sarah Paulos usually uses too many semicolons in her poems.

 

 

Sarah Paulos

In the Winter

It was winter when I inchwormed my way to the very forest floor
And crawled into the earth, hoping for its warmth,
Waiting to see if I could outlast the frost that kills the mayfly.

Sarah Paulos usually uses too many semicolons in her poems.

 

 

Devon Balwit

Rubbernecker 

Look, look away, the feed’s grim dance,
the lesser kudu, all whorled iridescence,

holding me a full breath or more, while
the starving polar bear, a slink of ribs and

misery, catches my eye only long enough
to identify it, before, unable to soothe and so

sick to see, like a rubbernecker passing
shatter, blood-spatter, I move on.

Devon Balwit admires and worries about the earth’s creatures.

 

 

Peggy Turnbull

Country Boy

After our long
welcome-back kiss
he spun away from me
to paw the ground
like a bull saying howdy
to a matador,
flapped his elbows
like an Oktoberfest
Chicken Dancer,
stuck out his chin
like a bugler at dawn,
whirled back to me
and grinned, “You’re smiling!
You’re smiling!”
all the way home.

Peggy Turnbull lives in Manitowoc, Wisconsin, where the moos of cows can mix with the melodies of polkas.

Keith Hoerner

Twin 

Brother,
mirror of me,
wewereconjoined,

and though sep arated,

in ways
imperceptible,
weremainedattached.

Keith Hoerner lives, teaches, and pushes words around in St. Louis, Missouri.

Kelsey Sorge

The Lonely

When The Lonely grew too large,
she locked it in the closet and fed it
loose buttons and wads of hair

raked from her hairbrush,
wrapped it safe and sound in the arms
of her grandmother’s old sweater

so that at night, when it thought
she was sleeping, it would sing
its tender song, the one where

she didn’t know the language
but the tune felt so familiar.

Kelsey Sorge once dreamed an entire novel and woke up unable to remember a word

Mark Butler

Dead Minus e = Dad

It’s grim work
this feeling nothing
when your father dies
40 years after you last
saw him, his turned back
spurning you more familiar
than his face ever would be,
as if you’re mourning
not for him, but for grief,
yet another thing
he denied you.

Born in Sydney 68 years ago, Mark Butler had a varied career in publishing and journalism combined with writing songs, books and poetry, and now contents himself with poetry.