Category: Poetry

Slowly like a disease it happened. 
The escalator went first, 
out of service the sign read.

Everything you need 
Bedding, floor two. 
Cosmetics, ground floor. 
Appliances, third floor.  

Sanitary white tile floors 
with a permanent layer of dirt, 
sticky at my feet.

Mannequins I bump into, 
apologizing to the person 
I thought they would be.… ...continue reading

Is gone.

She was probably on her way out, even, the many times you chose to ignore the raging fire behind her thinly-veiled mist. Who could’ve thought?

Who could’ve thought that of what you thought was likely a storm that would pass with the night, clear up by the crack of the dawn, would leave no trace of her by morning?

‘Let bygones be bygones,’ some say. But hard though it is to not reminisce about your times together; hard – to just give in to it like that. You sift through the memories and latch on to the bad ones; admittedly, there weren’t many of the other kind.

‘Aargh!’ you scream in frustration, ‘God!’… ...continue reading

Let’s all live in Bruno’s world
the Land of Mars
where uniformed bullies don’t terrorize immigrants
on behalf of cowardly charlatans
and yogic concentration on silk clothing and gold jewelry
makes all the ugliness disappear
like a magnum of strawberry champagne on ice
disbursed among a proper gang of Hooligans
who beat only on deeply groovy drums
detaining innocents with arresting dance moves
and the promise of all-night love

Maybe if we sing with all our soul
dance as though we’re sexier than our fears
place freaky funky fabulousness
above narrow definitions of belonging
we can make the thugs go back to their children
no longer ashamed at cruel moms and dads
pretending to be heroes
while destroying carefully constructed lives
built on American dreams
lacking proper papers

– MK PUNKY

… ...continue reading

The path is always the same
The sequence is always the same:

The door of the school
The sidewalk
The sloping walkway down the hill
The concrete bridge over Ann’s Run
The crossing guard on Main Street
The gas station
The climb up Davis Street
The parking lot of the apartments
The empty lot with the long grass
The short stretch of Gordon Street that connects
………….the disjointed blocks of First Street
Mrs. Coffman’s house
The turn from First Street to Liberty Avenue
Home

The same pattern
The same routine
Day in
Day out

The door of the school
The concrete bridge
The crossing guard
The gas station
The parking lot
The empty lot
The disjointed blocks of First Street

Evenings spent with Mrs. Coffman in front of her coal fire
………crackling embers
………acrid smoke
………the warm sitting room
………the cold never-used living room beyond
She wasn’t my babysitter
I chose to visit her
I don’t recall our conversations
or her first name
only our connection
………The door of the school
………The concrete bridge
………The empty lot
………First Street
………Mrs.… ...continue reading

Along the moonlit river tame
A silent vessel glides
Where maiden voices grace the night
In silvered choral tides.

All robed in white, with flowered crowns,
They lift a vesper song.
The water listens, hushed and still,
And bears the prayer along.

The gentle hymn the moon receives
From hearts unsmirched by day.
It drifts like incense o’er the stream
And keeps the dark away.

Then sudden mirth the stillness cleft
With torch and timbrel wild.
Red smoke in wavering circles swept
Above the singers mild.… ...continue reading

Those lovers’ stains
will soon coalesce
on the burgundy flannel
sheet like old Polaroids.
But they needn’t breathe on it,
timing the minutes. Their fixative
might just be the moonlight going
down across the tarred road.

*

In the turquoise Android photos
taken around the pool
last July, you can almost hear
a belly smacker but this one,
developing where they laid,
whimpers into the box springs: Oh
man. Oh God. And later: It feels
so cold. Let me stay
over on your side.

– Christopher Dungey… ...continue reading

my heart keeps monitoring the precious memory
from when your eyes first met mine.

my arms are now full of your phantom
presence, as I attempt to bargain with you, telepathically,

to join in recovering every missed opportunity to
have been brave enough to go at our own speed in
finding what true love is all about,

rather than rushing
to each milestone, rather
than holding onto each other
so tightly from being afraid of
our passion resting, even if only
for a little while.

I mourn you and I,
and the wisdom that evaded us in
those early teenage days.

just the mere thought of your face, or the slightest utterance of
your name, sets the flame in me fully ablaze.

– Tony Nicholas Clark

Author’s Note: I wrote this poem while reflecting on teenage love and how, while often brief, it can leave an impact on us that never fades.… ...continue reading