I carry my burdens,
sing my songs,
hold goodness within,
not much different, it seems,
than a common wooden chair,
the bells of a working clock,
an ordinary vessel of clay.
Larry Schug says, “I could be considered old, though I am terminally immature.”
Life is a brazen Chevrolet
in whose locked glove compartment
Death, disguised as a map of
New York State, lies curling
at the edges.
https://billyarrow.wordpress.com/ is a website, not a sentence.
henry 7. reneau, jr.
The Book of Hours
The sun sets on enhanced interrogation,
even as it rose, exponentially, on drone strikes,
like the sum of collateral damage
became a euphemism, beyond our peripheral
vision, & we held the shining black eye
of history in our mouth, as if
we imagined God in our every breath, as if we
are, all of us, alone in the complicity of others.
henry 7.reneau, jr. writes words in conflagration to wake the world ablaze.
My brother sits across from me
in the prison visiting room,
his jumpsuit the color
of coffee-stained teeth, and says,
“Keep the letters coming.
Whenever I read them, I’m free.”
Scott Hughes typically writes fiction much longer than one sentence. https://www.writescott.com/
Where most are
too shy or numb to
mossy and shadow,
Karen Stanislaw, fighting for her right to poet, is in current wrestle with – relatives and muddier Saturnian forces – the idea that she’s not honored “enough” survival and security concerns.
The lady sitting at the counter rubbing her straw
up and down against the apparently empty
sent my last nerve into the empty space
of the diner where Ruby’s young innocent
hands once served me hot bitter coffee
with a smile and a flounce of her copper
colored pony tail, every morning
when I stopped
on the way to my mundane job, now
all I see is the newspaper photo the
new waitress showed me of a
tangled blue Toyota, with license tags,
” Ruby Red”,
wrapped around a broken
Zee writes from a barn loft in rural Texas with a great view from her window which offers ample fodder for her stories and poetry. She has been published but desires to see more of her work in print.
Austin Davis is a widely published poet and his first full-length collection, Cloudy Days, Still Nights, is being released by Moran Press this spring.
Under the silk nightgown
her fingers worry the lump
like a rosary bead,
counting the hours until dawn.
Lissa Perrin is a psychotherapist and occasional writer of poetry from Ann Arbor, MI.