Sunday, November 18, 2018

Suavecito by Joanne Olivieri


Sparkling chimes
magical mandolins
humming in time
strummung in rhythm

Timbales click
congas pound
voices rise softly
as the mood calms

Our hearts meld
in peaceful harmony.

Sunday, November 4, 2018

The Depository Of Religion by Michael Brownstein

We woke early afternoon to a Witch's Day,
the blue lit sky framed in a curvature of cloud.
On the counter, cool drinking water from the creek of red horse-mint
and the scent of greens mixed with onions and discolored peppers.
Don't tell me you do not know this feeling of things gone well,
self-satisfied, colored purple-red.
Near the deadfall, we built what was ours to build,
opened it to a sea of stars in the evening before an erosion of light,
settled in beneath thick quilted blankets and soft sheets,
listened to the way charms and blessings spread into eveningsong,
the way bearwalkers move in the dark four days after the burial.
We have two more days to lie here waiting. Make yourself at home:
you can not say this was not the way of our life,
the creek and the cemetery our autobiographies,
the faint shadow of rainbow, the glitter of warmth in a touch,
the leather pouch with its victim set safe behind vinyl.

Tuesday, October 30, 2018

Five Thousand Days by Colleen Keller Breuning

Five Thousand Days


Dawn blooms in red sky

morning chill pervades my soul

frost on the window


Steely clouds loom low

fragile lives hang by a thread

unraveling fast


One final embrace

the warm expanse of your arms

grow cold as March snow


Your spirit soars free

betraying my bargains with

sullen moon and stars


Waves of emotion

strong riptide pulls me under

crashing on the rocks


Empty solitude

as five thousand days slip by

last light fades to black


Colleen Keller Breuning © 2017

For Bio and more information about Colleen and her works visit her page on this site at: Colleen Keller Breuning Poet and Photographer

Fertile Ground by Michael Ceraolo

Fertile Ground

The seeds of this poem were sown long ago,
though it took years for me to realize it
When I was old enough to walk to school by myself,
either in second or third grade
(there were two or three streets to cross
without benefit of crossing guards),
there was the prescribed way to go,
and I usually went that way
But not always
                         Sometimes I would walk
                 or even three
streets out of the way to make it a different way,
arriving at school late on those days
I would look to see if anything was different
on any of those other streets
I didn't notice a whole lot different:
the sidewalks were a similar mix
of concrete blocks and slabs of the local bluestone;
the houses were mostly the same
and the roads were similarly paved,
though on two of the streets it seemed
that there were a few more taller trees

These occasional excursions
led to further explorations,
this time on non-school days
There was another street
where the newer section of the paved road ended:
there were houses only on the east side;
there were woods on the west side
where the sidewalk ended,
I would explore the woods all the way
back to where they butted up against
the fenced-in gold course
even back then I was glad I had,
in a few years the road was extended again,
the woods torn down,
                                and new homes built

I am still exploring the area,
and noting the changes

Saturday, October 27, 2018

Saturday, Outdoor Shopping Mall by Alyssa Trivett

Alyssa Trivett is a wandering soul from the Midwest. When not working two jobs, she listens to music while chirping down coffee and scrawling lines on the back of gas station receipts. Her work has appeared in many places (including the trash bin), but also at In Between Hangovers, Duane's PoeTree site, and recently at The Rye Whiskey Review and Under the Bleachers.

Saturday, Outdoor Shopping Mall

There was a 

Fall tide in the afternoon,

the hours melted away,

with busybodies

and shopping bags floating and coffee cups bobbing.

I wandered with a best friend 

across scarred cement 

amongst stores of every type of clothing and every type of everything.

My pocket change rattled,

was almost

high school football 

team tackled

by a small crowd.

Threw comic bubbles.

I'll never forget it.

Even if I made eight 

figure-eights and

followed every 

diagonal arrow

of where the bathroom swore it should have been.