Linda M. Crate- Three Poems

wingless   

what is a raven without her wings?
nothing but
white noise scattered
in the wind
jeweled berries dripping with the
kiss of a promise
cannot hear her;
so i must regrow my wings
burst forth in feathers
painful to regrow
because i was shattered once on the
furthest star of oblivion
singing out against
the pitch of night
whose black mouth devours stars
as easily as my heart,
but it's okay
i know that i have erred
no moon silver wolves will dance their
samba in my veins again—
what is a raven without her wings?
nothing but
a broken promise,
you've shattered a lot of those;
so i hold my head up high
i've cried for you all the tears i will cry
now i must remain strong
grow my feathers
without fear or remorse or looking back
our eyes face forward for a reason
so there's no reason to think of the painful
memories of the past,
only to look forward to the golden future
and so goodbye; my once lover,
we are no longer friends or strangers
just enemies,
and it's a pity because it need not have
ended this way —
you're just a masochist,
and i have yet to grow my wings.



promise me forever
 
sing me
a spring day full of
tulips and rain
weeping willows
with canopies of green
leaves
swaying dreams
tantalizing and sweet
as your roses
let me kiss the clouds
robing myself in
the silver garments of the moon —
sweep me into
the ocean's lingerie of music
crested waves,
and dance ribbons of sunshine
in my hair
crimson leaves of autumn days
etch them into those
ribbons, too,
and
hold my hand assure me all will
be okay
laugh me a sunset
to chase away the greyest day
because life's too short
to dwell so long in winter
lonely and cold
breathless as the night you were
catching me off guard
sparking
the glow of fireflies to
etch their stars
across my heart;
so many men
have cut me with their distance
don't dizzy me in that
vertigo —
arched spirals of sky punched
summer's night
are the angel glow
of your eyes,
and i just want a forever love
in the wings of my black
dragon
your white raven
waits in the shadow of the
season falling between
winter and spring
let me
sing you a song of summer
to light the fires of your soul
promise me forever,
and i'll always be true. 



ringed
 
let's burn the night open
pour out our
wounds to the feasting sun
of morning;
the fires of which we came
hang our shadow
still in the etchings of
the stars,
do you think our star mothers
remember us?
no, i agree, their memories
are dim
they thrust us from our grace
yet there is no
reprieve
in this world they thrust us into
so let us be the peace
and quiet
needed for our souls to thrive —
let us be one once more
when illuminated with you our
souls are one and complete,
here we're only
people but once we were born
in the same halo of light
star crossed lovers, soul-mates forever
waiting for a little life
to cross across the star dust
you're my world,
and i am yours
hold my heart in the flames of your fire
let us burn together with only
a desire for one another
let us kiss one day that lasts forever
as the gold that will twine
us in her rings
a never ending circle
immortal into death.



 
bio: Linda M. Crate is a Pennsylvanian native born in Pittsburgh, but she was raised in the rural town of Conneautville. She attended and graduated from Edinboro University of Pennsylvania with a degree in English-Literature in 2009. Her poetry, articles, reviews, and short stories have appeared in several journals online and in print. Her chapbook A Mermaid Crashing Into Dawn was published by Fowlpox Press recently, and her novel Amethyst Epiphany is forthcoming from Assent Publishing under their imprint Phantasm Books.

Michael Cluff- A Poem

Still Waters Cover-up:
Explosive Nouns, Adjectives and Verbs

To be truthful,
Polly Grider could not
recall exactly
the word or term
that made her unbalanced enough
to attack Dusty
and then drag him around
her front yard
when she was twelve
and he nine;
she must of had
a tight and intense grip
into his scalp
since he had the shortest crew cut
Hiram had ever seen
in his forty-four years
of life.

It took the Loyza twins and Mr. Materson
combining their strength
to pull her off him
and some blood
remained below Eloy L's fingers
for days to come.

Now
she resents them
for letting her release Dusty
with so little damage incurred.
And she takes it out on strays
when she hides them
straight off the abandoned back street
near the silent-encrusted
railroad tracks
of Meander Park.

Paul Tristram- A Poem

The Other Side Of Hate 
 
They say that love is
simply the other side of hate.
Yet, this seems strange to me,
for I have never, ever
loved anyone that much.

© Paul Tristram 2005

Published in Garbaj, Issue 23, November 2005



Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories and sketches published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.

Donal Mahoney- A Poem

Three Ways of Looking at a Father

Dead these many years,

Dad's still there for me

every day, pointing

from a star

toward excellence,

the goal we shared.

I missed two free throws once

at the end of a high school game

and we lost by a point.

On the way home 

after the game, he said,

"Why did you miss 

those free throws?"

Years later in college

I came home with all A's

and one B. I showed him

my grades and he said,

over his newspaper,

"Why did you get the B?"

After graduation I was thinking

about getting married but I

wasn't certain. So I asked him

what did he think. Once again

he was there for me.

Sipping his tea, he said

"You asked the girl, right? 

Follow through."

Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

Les Merton- A Poem

Satisfaction

In a fogged out
side street who cares.

Here down – way down
the social scale,

its blues and cruising,
looking for skin tight sex.

Got to get some… .
Satisfaction

Satisfaction… like blowing
a smoke ring from a sawn off.



Bio:
Les Merton is Cornish and proud of it. He is an author, poet, editor and publisher. Les likes writing in different genres and within that writing expressing himself in an unusual way.

Denny E. Marshall- Three Haiku

Halloween Haiku

Halloween party
later alone pull at mask
she’s not wearing one


the jack–o-lantern
grows body, arms, and some legs
runs away with witch

 
this year since the war
Halloween festivities
are held underground

Sy Roth- Three Poems

The Eyes Have It

Eyes sharpened at the whetstone

Honed to a glistening edge,

They used them to slice and dice for

Homeworks forgotten;

Rooms left in cyclonic disarray;

Reports unfiled;

Presents left ungiven;

Promises unkept---

Scythe-like orbs slipped into you

And poured you into the ground an

Unripened watermelon pulp

oozing red and pits.

They said that eyes had not

A rapier wit, nor rending ability

Though you learned they did,

As life essence formed a puddle

Like water broken before birth.

Give Her a Russian Name

Her skin, blue-green in the dewy morning

As the train slips slowly away in the graying mist.

Tattered clothing barely clings to her withered frame,

Arms laden with a squirming, mewling bundle.

Mother’s eyes green lanterns pleading.

She struggles, barely keeping pace with the moving cattle car.

The riders know their own life struggle.

The mother tosses her in their midst,

Falls back spent, her green eyes a dim memory.

Only “Give her a Russian name”

A scream ripping into the clatter of the train’s wheels.

They had no milk.

One in the rear whispered,

“I will tell,” eyes, a red glow.

She did.

They watched her ripped from them

carried like trash from the guard’s extended hand

broken like a ruler over his extended knee.

They wept in silence,

no time to give her a Russian name.

Balance

Tittup squandering of white feathers

Neve snowfall of them when they enter the dovecote.

The tenders blink in the whiteout of their squawking.

A soft down rests like a dandruff blanket

On their shoulders and in their hair.

Doves separated in their frenzy

Anxiously seek reconnection,

Until finally a calm settles in like the eye of a storm

And the tenders can go about their duties.

Their rakes muck at the ground

Where the doves have left a thick paste of that brew.

Tender’s faces covered in masks to dam the malodorous offal.

The coop, stifling prison balanced on an airless aerie

As life teeter-totters on a beam of expectation.

And they all know—

The trees,

Waiting stoically

And the tenders

Who fill their baskets with the congealed, white droppings.

They know when they sing prayerful benedictions to the air,

And as they fill the ground with their gift, that they are one.

And the tree blesses them

with a snowy shuddering of its branches

and its dangling fruit.

He comes riding in and then canters out.  He resides in Mount Sinai, far from Moses and the tablets.  This has led him to find words for solace.  He spends his time writing and playing his guitar. He has published in many online publications.  One of his poems, Forsaken Man, was selected for Best of 2012 poems in Storm Cycle.  Twice selected Poet of the Month in Poetry Super Highway.  He was named Poet of the Month for the month of February in BlogNostics. Included in Poised in Flight anthology.  A Murder of Crows named Poem of the Week in Toucan.

Brittany Zedalis- Two Poems

Mema

We would drive

in the heat of the

afternoon, down long

winding roads.

A silly nickname

for a long railroad

and another

reminiscent of a cat.

Her house would

be full of church

hymns, and the smell

of homemade biscuits.

Sometimes, when I close

my eyes, I still hear

her humming, and her

rummaging around the kitchen.

I open them, and

see an empty room, a 

home vacant of one

once loving and strong.

Long Country Road

I walk down

the familiar road,

surrounded by trees

and flowers.

The familiar scent

of honeysuckle, and

the sound of a

truck flying by.

13 years ago, this

would have been a

normal day like

any other.

Today, a funeral

looms on the horizon, a 

tear falls from

my eye.

A memory full of echos.

Gregory Liffick- Three Poems

TRIMMED

Leaves
have
no
birth
control,
other
than the
infrequent
fire.
Still,
they
commit
suicide
in
droves,
dropping
from the
limbs
of trees
like
scorned
lovers
from
bridges
or cliffs.


ACCESS

No pin
number
for
entry to
joy.
It
isn't
an account
to draw
from.
You have
to
stuff it
in your
mattress.
Rainy
days
come on
Sunday
when
the banks
are
closed.


ALBERT

Though
he lost
weight,
he'd
already
made
a heavy
dent
in the
Einstein
fabric
of his
life.
His
former
object
would
never
let the
subject
of him
be
light.

Josette Torres- Three Poems

This I Don’t Believe (is Really Happening)

for Aaron Hoover

Glenn Beck implores the FOX Nation to believe
in something, even if it’s wrong. I believe wrongly
that lifequakes are healthy. I believe wrongly that
my busted heart will heal if marinated in alcohol.
I believe wrongly that I can write myself out
of bed when nothing else works. This I Believe?
More like This I Used To Believe When I Was Younger
and Easily Influenced. Each Tuesday without fail
I call you, as two Virginias work pastoral magic
on two transplanted Hoosiers. As each week passes,
as the voicemail picks up, I wonder why I ever moved
from the sidewalk under my old bedroom window.
I jam as many words into your voicemail as I dare
in five minutes.  We can’t ride the cell towers
to our Indiana homes, but I’ll be damned if I let
this connection drop now. Where does this rabbit
hole lead us? Will I still be holding your hand
when the water turns to air and we fall through
two more years like sycamore leaves?

Why a Traditional Fallen Woman Narrative—Misplaced, Then Remembered—Got Me Out of Bed Before Sunrise

[Stark forgetfulness shakes me
awake in the first snow’s light.]
In the cavern of a waiting room,
timelines of daily commuters
buffer my adventure to the big city.
I sit on a bench, flipping through
a magazine, passing this article
and that photo spread between
bored fingers [I need the article,
I need it in my hands. I run
white streets, melt in library
fluorescent lights. My feet know
exactly where to go.] until I find it--
boy meets girl, one magic summer,
it all ends in tears--[I slip the rubber
band from the microfilm around
my wrist as a reminder.] and I think
That’s almost me, maybe it could
be me, thank God it’s not [But now
it is. How could I have forgotten this
for so long?] then a voice announces
my train is boarding and I stand up,
leave that story behind in the rush.
[I sit on a bench sorting photocopies
while the heavens blanket my discovery.
No need to imagine. That’s me.]

A Non-comprehensive List of Subjects I’m Tired of Covering in Poems

Sex. Technology. Adultery.
Depression. Literacy.
Sarcasm. Isolation.
Personal issues.
Love. Rejection.
The media. Weather.
Longing. Hatred.
Silliness. A sense of place.
Affection misplaced.
His weakness for blondes.
Her divisiveness. Green
grass. Black clothing.
The silence between
bodies. The words
I’m not speaking.

A brief bio:

Josette Torres received her MFA in Creative Writing from Virginia Tech in 2010. She also holds a BA in English and Creative Writing from Purdue University. Her work has been published in The New Verse News, Down in the Dirt, and Emerge Literary Journal and is forthcoming in Ayris. She is the Writer in Residence at the Lyric Theatre in Blacksburg, Virginia.

Frank C. Praeger- A Poem

I Celebrate 
 
I celebrate the least among us, 
a clanging, 
a gang, 
urbane microbes, 
ourselves. 
Past grape hyacinth, perwinkle we walked  
as we had walked before. 
Past 
our ratcheted up pasts, 
our tattered dreamtimes, 
past catkin berribboned trees 
into the turbulent torturous onward growing green, 
flagrant, 
precipitous. 
Past tulips, forget-me-nots, dog turds, horsetails - 
immense demonic onrushing spring. 
Past our furtherest reach 
the pussy willows dream. 
We have kept walking where we had walked before. 
Faded fortune's best 
attested to. 
Brazenly indifferent 
to climatic, gripped, 
incandescently  
brief surges. 
Trees, wind, and driven rain. 
What's left? 
parched cacophony's spring? 
Attenuated,  
lessened to a brown-green?   
Not to have stood still, 
a litany of gross, 
flamboyant, 
unprepared to be compost. 

Gene McCormick- Three Poems

Barnes & Noble

Serene, doing nothing to attract attention
as she sits reading in the bookstore,
right leg crossed over the left,
slowly flipping through a women’s
fashion magazine with a similar  publication
across her lap. There is no hurry today.
Unobtrusive mid-length strawberry blonde hair
is parted on the left and is long enough to drape
across her lightly freckled face.
With a complexion so fair and with
such a hair color, freckles would be expected
(actually, her hair is more of a deep auburn—
no, completely red—than strawberry blonde).
A thin gold necklace with small glass insets
defines her slim neck and her clothes
are stone perfect for a warm day:
short, pale green summer weight jacket over a
blue-gray tank top and denim mini skirt.
As her leg involuntarily bounces,
dark leather sandals can be seen.
They look new.
Putting the fingers of her left hand
to her mouth to pinch her lips
or absently rub her nose or touch her cheek,
a wedding ring is evident although
a woman of her age—mid-twenties
and so pristine—
seems young to be committed to marriage.

She wears no finger or toe polish.

Overhearing nearby conversations,
her eyes unfocus but stay on the magazine page
as she smiles with just the corners of her mouth,
laying her free hand against a large,
black plastic weave purse.
The conversations continue;
she is a silent partner.



110 Film

110 film? Decades-ago black and white rolls
in yellow boxes painstakingly hooked
to sprockets inside a sturdy box camera.
A dime-sized circular window on the
camera back shows the photo number
through a transparent red plastic cover,
the film hand-cranked to the correct position
to produce remembrances of vacations,
special events and family members
immortalized by the click of a button.
Neanderthal mechanics by digital standards,
the results weren’t half bad,
nowadays turning up at flea markets
and swap meets, encased in
maroon cardboard-covered scrapbooks
or trays of curling, yellowing memories.



Wood Chips In The Grass

Wanted it to be a cherry tree, but no;
it was a mature oak cut flat to the ground,
sawed, pounded and glued into a set of
four chairs setting around a kitchen table .

In a seldom-used upstairs bedroom facing north,
a cherry wood chest-of-drawers backs up
to floral wallpaper on the far wall,
filled with sheets, blankets, linens and clothes
out of season and long out of size.
A faded red, yellow, orange oblong swatch
of an Indian-design blanket drapes across
the chest top, protection from scratches
and other casual harms, except dust.

At the elbow where driveway intersects
with road by the edge of the front yard
there is a noticeable dip, or hollow
—far too slight to be considered a gully—
where the oak stood. Many seasons passed
before the ripped shreds of small limbs fed to
the chipper were finally absorbed into the soil.

The kitchen is seldom used, abandoned
for a flat screen TV on the family room wall,
the leather L-shaped sectional, coffee table,
bookcase and French doors with sun
thrusting through to the hardwood.
Nobody eats in the kitchen.


Brief Bio: Paparazzi have reported that Gene McCormick gets poetic inspiration from tossing back tequila shooters with Lindsey Lohan, worm included. No truth to that at all; McCormick doesn’t drink worms, Lohan is on the wagon.

Michael Cluff- A Poem

Untitled

The pomegranate seller
 slips between alleys
 Walmarts and strip malls
 and into the garden
 the snake
 only knows where
 the tree this ripest
 fruit grows
 upon.

 Miss Eva
 always pays
 the best prices
 it is her better way
 to keep Mister Abraham
 enthralled and ever
 solvent.

Richard Schnap- A Poem

AFTER THE RAIN

I listen to the wind
A lonely chanteuse
On the shadowy stage
Of the cabaret of the night

Lit by a cloud-veiled moon
A fingerprint smeared
On the sable-skinned sky
Like a lover’s last caress

As I remember the words
Of a man I once knew
"When you learn to stop caring
Only then are you free"

But for now in this darkness
It is enough just to wait
And listen to the wind
Does it listen to me?

Tom Hatch- A Poem

A Cog in the Gear

The wheel house is on the line

Toasting the other cogs to be

Lube-jobbed-up juice on whisky breath

Rolling into the oil pan of life’s viscosity

A double on the rocks

Dripping into retreat or forward motion

Is the same as long as all the other

Cogs do their job not knowing any names

All the cogs I know are stiff

With a hard on but never

Getting to lay becoming horny rolling

Back down into the viscosity

Of oblivion I am a Mercedes

Or a maybe a Buick at 6:31 in the morning

Undulant down the double yellow lined

Asphalt road to the station getting

On the 6:51 sitting next to all the other cogs

Reading headlined newspapers, electronic

Devises plugged into their brains 

And sleeping the sun flickering in said

Nothing about anyone in the morning

Against yawns only slumping shadows of silhouettes  

Cast on the back of doldrums beige seats

Bio 

Tom paid his dues in the SoHo art scene way back when. He was awarded two NEA grants for sculpture back then. And taught at various colleges and universities in the NYC metro area in art (including Princeton and U of Penn. in Philly). He he is a regular at The Camel Saloon, Dead Snakes and BoySlut. He has published at The Mind[less] Muse, Jellyfish Whispers, Napalm and Novocain, Rusty Truck and Pyrokinection among others. He lives in CT with a few farms up and down the road works in Manhattan. His train ride to and from NYC is his solace, study and den where it all begins and ends.

Linda M. Crate- Two Poems

a reason to smile
 
i'm good at distancing people
that way i don't get hurt
forgetting it cuts
like a dagger either way
could have smiled at that little girl
today, but instead i looked away
her innocent heart could have been warmed
by my smile, but indifferently
i shut her out like a winter's wind;
cold as all the hurtful
people that stung me with their apathy
the guilt hounds me
long after she's forgotten
seeing my face —
i wish i could shed my scars
like snakeskin,
open my heart to trust again
be joyful as i was when
i was a child
running with outstretched arms toward
the sun
i'm going to smile
even when my heart's breaking
be a blessing not a burden in the world
for we're all struggling
against the hypocrisy of our glass castles
breaking with new found wounds.




rose petals
 
you were a swirling
vortex of rose
petals falling over me,
but even those
have razor edges;
and you cut me on the
rims of your
insincerity
your lack of remorse for
hurting me shows me
you never truly cared i was
simply a cheap thrill
another notch in your bedpost —
there are times that i hate
you, but i don't truly
because i love you
i don't like what you did or said
or how you made me feel
sometimes i don't even like you,
but i know
one day someone will heal me
from the scars you've
cut into me;
and one day someone will want a
forever love with me,
he'll make me feel beautiful —
the words he'll pull out
of me will etch the world in vibrant
hues you've long forgotten
in your pursuit of sex
you won't be able to find the love
we have,
and one day it'll be me
pitying you
hurting and alone.

Paul Tristram- Three Poems

Pretty Nice

We were out driving today
when my three year old daughter
turned to me and said,
“Look at the sky daddy,
it’s all pink and pretty nice!”
Ah, thank you, you wonderful little girl
for showing me this
and for lifting the lid
off my solitary depression.
Yes, the sky was pretty nice
but not as pretty nice
as you.

© Paul Tristram 2004

Published in The Yellow Crane, Number 25, Autumn 2004

It Can’t be Avoided

Play no drunken games,
speak not when spoken to,
dissolve interest into nothingness.
Take control and hold it,
face the other way,
dim all surfaces
so no reflection escapes.
Still transparent
I feel it all,
the burn of shame,
the hell of accusation.
As together we go
our separate ways
into more of the same.
Searching always searching
but arriving again
exactly where we started.

© Paul Tristram 2006

Published in Poetry Cornwall, Number Sixteen, Summer 2006

It’s A Night Thing

The spectral mist
is tangoing with the trees
upon a carpet of grass,
the grass lays backwards
upon itself
refusing to even consider
that anything
as beautiful as the sun
can ever exist.

© Paul Tristram 2006

Published in Reach, Issue 103, May 2006



Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories and sketches published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.

Donal Mahoney- Three Poems

Windsor Knot

Do you remember how

to tie a Windsor knot 

the way your father taught you

on graduation day

in eighth grade

the man who wore a tie 

twice perhaps at most--

on the day he got married

and the day he was put to rest,

the same tie for both events.

Then almost every day for 40 years

you tied that Windsor Knot

because office attire required it.

Now you haven't worn a tie  

since the day of your retirement.

 

You'll need that knot 

twice more for certain--

as pall bearer for besotted 

Uncle Pat and for yourself 

the day you're buried. 

Both days your Windsor Knot 

had better pop out right 

or the ghost you don't believe in 

may drop by to show you  

one last time how to tie it.

It Happened at the Art Institute

"Tell Pablo I cannot see!" 

says the man in the Picasso painting

as I pass by, program in hand.

The man has a hairy nose 

where each of his ears should be.

And his ears have become a butterfly 

where his nose ought to be.

I paid top dollar to see this exhibit.

The man in the painting rants on:

"Pablo has done me wrong!

The eye in the middle of my forehead 

has a detached retina.

I need a new eye so I can watch  

you and the other voyeurs  

roll your eyes and laugh at me.

Tell Pablo I cannot see!"

Three Women Wait for the Morning Bus

One, a nun, has

her transfer in her hand.

She's silently praying.

Another, a hooker, has 

her income in her purse.

She's lighting a cigarette.

Another, a mother, has

her mind on her children.

She's going to work.

None of them knows what 

they share this morning:

ova ripening.

Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

Barbara Link- Three Poems

                        October                                                            

           

                        Sometimes at night

                        you hold my hand

                        as my thoughts tumble

                        like tennis shoes in the dryer.

            I know too little about you

too much about me,

I dispel the total darkness

by opening my eyes

gaze at familiar curtains and lamp.

           

                        Our separate but connected bodies

                        in the same solar system;

                        held by threads

as slight and strong

                        as spider spinnings.
 


                       East of Modesto                                                       

                        All day long I’ve been connected

                        to the car

                        speeding through green orchards

                        to the piano tinkling on public radio

                        to the earth.

                        My fingers reach for words

                        and soft bright pebbles,

                        you are out there, I know—

                        our lips feel the same wind.

                        Dry Creek                                                                                       

                        It is enough for now,

                        to hear a dove cooing in the rain,

                        to play the piano all morning,

                        to read my history in poems,

                        to hold in my hand like a soap bubble,

                        the fragile structure of loss and gain.
                       Remembering, it was your hands,
                        I loved first and last,

                        hands true and stronger,

                        than candlelight, white tablecloths,

                        than nights on pillows by the fire.

                        And now it is enough to have

                        walked by the dark water,

                        felt your wool coat and the stars,

                        stood together on the bridge,

                        seen the pomegranate in the water,

                        floating toward us, through us, past us,

                        like a bursting red sun.



Bio: Award-winning California author and poet, Barbara Link, has had three stories aired on KVPR, a National Public Radio Affiliate. Her poetry and fiction  have appeared in numerous literary magazines and small presses. She also received the Sacramento State University Bazzanella Prize for fiction. Her memoir, Blue Shy was published in 2010 and awarded first prize in the Sacramento Friends of the Library First Chapter contest.

Partial list of publications. American River Review, Poetry Now, Earth’s Daughters, Mindprint Review, Anima, Whitefish Review, Missouri Review, Women’s Compendium, Hardpan, Dead Snakes.

Shaquana Adams- Three Poems

Her Journey

I remember the light of childhood.

We would gather together and clap our hands to a song.

The world was simple and love was for princesses, 

which we wanted to grow up to be.

Middle school turned out privates into bleeders

and our thoughts into curious felines.

It wasn't long before we bloomed into 

delicious fruits that our counter

parts planned to pop.

We remember our firsts,

We remember our seconds.

And all we ask in return is to forget the 

ones that couldn't care to remember us.

Time we hear. No it's not time,

but forgiveness.

It's a long pilgrimage for the big at heart.

We leave so many...

I walk along the beaten path of those before me

and hope that one day I too can be free.

Making The Best Of It.

All this green creates a rewind button for eyes only.

Tree after tree and needless meadow...

grass as far as the trees and bushes will allow.

Damn.

Can I get a four leaf clover?

So maybe I can fast forward?

-Nah, now is not the time. I have more to do here in this state.

On a cloudy afternoon, I sit in the backseat of my car

wishing for weed and thinking of nice things that are not green.

Free Memories

Little by little

Small bits raped by time

Over and over until…

23 suits me like 80 as

I lose.

Why just yesterday,

I could not remember his dog's name

Or the way he phrased things.

For a moment in time,

There was no more

Slithering, sinister, sense of

whatever he was.

One day I will forget his

Face and no longer cringe

When looking upon a fellow

Not unlike himself.

Shaquana Adams is a graduate of Francis Marion University. She has been published in several literary magazines and journals such as The Snow Island Review, The Bicycle Review, Napalm and Novocain, Twenty Something Press, and The World of Myth. Outside of poetry,  she enjoys yoga, crocheting, and reading novels in her spare time.