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Poetry
Local Pub
by Bruno Talerico Alone, he enters the privileged atmosphere: cigarette haze thick with laughter punctuated by fat silences. Communal intoxication, boisterous banter, in darker corners, hushed intimacies. Clink of cheap glassware, clang of silverware, fragrance of overused frying oil and stale beer. Wood smoldering in the corner hearth provides minimal warmth. Would-be rockstar plucks notes on an untuned instrument, Would-be groupie swoons and giggles, punch-drunk lover. Mino
Bruno Talerico
In Ibiza
by Kheraden Perumal Night gathers over the marina. Yachts drift against their moorings, white hulls rocking in the black water. Bass carries across the harbour, glassware flashing beneath blue and violet lights. He steps from the car to a chorus of names. Phones rise around him, brief and bright as matches. Inside, the room opens in waves of music and perfume. Women lean close to be heard. Champagne sweats in silver buckets. Someone places a pill in his hand as casually as a
Kheraden Perumal
Two Poems by Stephen Barile
by Stephen Barile Pa' Ashi (‘big water’ in Yokut language) The end of the world came when the sky turned black, the sun eradicated. A roar overtook the ear, flapping wings by the billion; millions upon millions of geese, ducks, grebes, loons, swans, blue herons, egrets, pelicans, and gulls, taken to flight from the calm lake. So expansive, the lake stretched to the horizon like the sea. In the east, the silhouette of the Sierra Nevada range rising above the mist over the
Stephen Barile
Egressor
by Frank William Finney The pub, half-full on a Tuesday night. A songster sang acoustic blues, but soon the strings slipped out of tune, and then the mike went on the blink. I lost the mood – left tip and drink and headed for the Bull Dog. No sign of life. The lights were out. Graffiti mocked its rolling gate. Signs that say the place went bust. I wonder where they moved the band? I wonder where I’ll head to now? Better make tracks and head downtown before the taverns close t
Frank William Finney
Two Poems by Kerry Trautman
by Kerry Trautman The Places We Crawl Into As a home inspector, I shimmy under floorboards on dirt that foundations have claimed, and its centipedes and seep. On vacation, I wander Manhattan street grids at the feet of steel-glass towers of stacked lives. Home in Ohio, I test electric outlets, garage doors, faucets, and windows—the stuff of family morning routines and of children learning to name their corner of life. Where do you crawl in Times Square to see what’
Kerry Trautman
Compass Rose
by Josh Tecklin E. S. Shrunken fugue, becoming Called good-looking watchful of the small world, when I'm ulcered and emaciated, clogged-eye with my cheeks pressurized, sunken stasis in the big chamber. and the Big rubble, rise dogs barking back into blocks: everywhere I walk. crowd my roughshod city again. Across balconies Bristle with the discharge on the wires, in ingrown ballistic chic; bum the electric rabble, throu
Josh Tecklin
Generational Poetry
Poetry about the hardships of families.
Ephemeral
by Ubongabasi Iyanam the evening is the color of things that sway before the sun in dry season. like myself, a boy basking in the tenderness of kisses. I dissolve into my mother's arms, & I am learning how home makes two bodies permeable. say, earth is the anatomy that teaches the sea, she too, like breeze can touch the heavens. I trace the skin of my little self in search of where I am no longer this incandescent, where I can no longer chase tires towards the horizon. I will
Ubongabasi Iyanam
Jun 3
Stranger
by Amber Cannon Around Thanksgiving Since my birth I have received a birthday card From my maternal grandparents Accompanied by a phone call “You got your card right, now you spend That money on something just for yourself” They’ve never missed a year Even following my grandfather’s passing The signature in the card went from Grandma and grandpap To just grandma But she maintained their schedule With worsening shaky illegible signatures Until November 2020- No card A reminder
Amber Cannon
Mar 19
My Mother's Table
by Giuseppe Farina i kept my mothers' kitchen table eight chairs long, solid wood large enough to hold a feast of plates and all of us to sit around sharing food and lives she made bread upon it, sometimes twice a week and Sicilian sweets none of us could duplicate even with her recipes found handwritten in her Sicilian slanted script if i had been born the daughter she had always yearned for could i have learned her secrets, memorized her hands as they mixed, kneaded and bak
Giuseppe Farina
Nov 20, 2025
Nature poetry
Savage
by Melissa Giordano My cat moves with dissolute finesse Louche and savage With subtle muscles and bones That are locked into a furtive anatomy. The hunter’s prowl of my goddess Is driven by far-flung instincts Steeped in the histories and dynasties That swim behind her kohl lined eyes. I am blessed by her silence Her soft, artful presence The subtle imprint of affection And quiet, gentle acceptance. When she lies near me I can hear her purrs Fluttering inside her ribcage Like
Melissa Giordano
4 days ago
Two Poems by Stephen Barile
by Stephen Barile Pa' Ashi (‘big water’ in Yokut language) The end of the world came when the sky turned black, the sun eradicated. A roar overtook the ear, flapping wings by the billion; millions upon millions of geese, ducks, grebes, loons, swans, blue herons, egrets, pelicans, and gulls, taken to flight from the calm lake. So expansive, the lake stretched to the horizon like the sea. In the east, the silhouette of the Sierra Nevada range rising above the mist over the
Stephen Barile
Aug 16
Byssus (Sea Silk)
by Michael Smith Out on the crumbs of Sardinia in islands of ungraspable skill, lies the dying art of byssus still -- Weaving garments out of hard clam spit, like writing reems with merely water -- Poseidon, should he be an auter. A lemon gold, lost for countless years these cloths of a rarity ev’r rare, oft mixed with silk because a’ cheaper ware -- Mainly gloves, as if t’were known we must clutch the skill within Rosetta’s lines -- The ruling classes did with large fines. W
Michael Smith
Aug 2
Love poems
Poems about love, sex, and relationships.
Love Poem With Mile Markers
by Ace Boggess In the art museum where you denied Renoir his simple beauty; in the Blenko glass factory where fires lit your eyes like devils; in the Carnegie where an awful, awe-inspiring T. rex loomed, its bones encased in lead to protect us from its ongoing murderousness; in the Palace of Gold at New Vrindaban, peacocks & roses our spiritual purpose; in the megalithic prison at Moundsville seeing convict graffiti marring walls & bullet holes scarring a space used f
Ace Boggess
Jul 15
Corazón posible
by Ted Bernal Guevara Magdalena, serve another pricey drink my way. I won’t be bitter. This evening wrecks decay. Anyway, plans with you are up a steep hill, I know. I’m just a long wait to that sacred mill. My life is far from here, from any advance. I would be lucky to have circumstance. But, Magdalena, it’s in my soul to hold you normal, to release myself of distance and bridge all abysmal, to your bright sanguine of a heart, I long to touch. I will treasure your mortal, y
Ted Bernal Guevara
Mar 4
Longing
by Steve Evans My mouth is full of the aftertaste of chocolate, of red wine’s soothing soliloquies, and many other promises, but all they really speak about is you. I’m not feeling guilty, though. What am I to do when you aren’t here except eat more chocolate and pour more wine? You could appear and close the box, recork the bottle and offer me your own sweet tastes but you’re so far away. We both know that won’t happen. Shall I grow fat on the absence of you, sing hopelessly
Steve Evans
Jan 26
Death poetry
Spec
by Mehreen Ahmed the morning crow sits on the ledge. its wings were wet and heavy with pledge. it promises to clean up the world at its worst. that, a huge task the world on it has thrust. it only has a tiny beak but is ravenously hungry. the sandy beach is replete with corpses looking grumpy. of course they’re, these’re bodies, but what harm can they bring? can they bid farewell? can their sorrows sing? but they sing all right to the crow. who beaks the corpses to the bone t
Mehreen Ahmed
Apr 21
Reminders of Loss
by Sam Hendrian Lay awake ‘til 6 AM Waiting for the sun to rise So the shops would be open again And the radio would play something more relatable. The happiest day of the year Is the most miserable for many Who are forced to remember someone they’ve lost Or imagine having someone to lose. Thankfully it didn’t snow To add insult to injury Although the iciness of the air Failed to give hope that somebody might care. No presents to wrap, No wine bottles to cap Other than a sing
Sam Hendrian
Jan 28
Two Poems by J.D. Isip
by J.D. Isip Lavender Shrubs Never as many flowers as we imagined, yet see how sturdy they are, how strong the scent like your skin out...
J.D. Isip
Jul 10, 2025
Food poetry
Poems about food, cooking, and the love of sharing meals.
Pinch of Celery Salt
by Q.R. Williams The hidden ingredient, a taste of home no matter how far you travel. Special forces standing guard on pantry and cupboard shelves alike. The boost of flavor nestled between the bun of a Chicago-Style Hotdog. If you want to start a cultural-food war, dare ask for ketchup. The added love put into auntie's potato salad, before being paraded with paprika. Secured in the seat for a special delivery. The sprinkle of nostalgic joy, shaken on theater popcorn. A snack
Q.R. Williams
Jun 21
Kitchen After Empire
by Dr. Arya Gopi Every morning the republic begins again on a wooden board. Before parliament assembles, before headlines harden, before the anthem clears its throat, there is the quiet rinsing of vegetables under a reluctant tap. The knife waits without ideology. The vegetables lie gathered—green, purple, red, pale—like a delegation that does not yet know it will be negotiated. I stand there not as cook alone but as inheritor of instructions written in spice and silence. In
Arya Gopi
Apr 23
When Dad Was a Boy He Ate Rye Bread
by Lois Villemaire Buttered pumpernickel, bagels with cream cheese and lox. At the home of a friend he discovered white bread so delicious, he declared it tasted like cake. Mom did the daily cooking, cut up apples and oranges for snacks but on Saturday mornings to our delight, Dad might heat up a skillet of nova, eggs, and onions. Sundays afternoons he assembled sandwiches of lettuce, thinly sliced tomatoes, and cucumber on toast with mayo. He was a fan of Wheaties and ba
Lois Villemaire
Apr 19
Urban poetry
Local Pub
by Bruno Talerico Alone, he enters the privileged atmosphere: cigarette haze thick with laughter punctuated by fat silences. Communal intoxication, boisterous banter, in darker corners, hushed intimacies. Clink of cheap glassware, clang of silverware, fragrance of overused frying oil and stale beer. Wood smoldering in the corner hearth provides minimal warmth. Would-be rockstar plucks notes on an untuned instrument, Would-be groupie swoons and giggles, punch-drunk lover. Mino
Bruno Talerico
12 hours ago
Egressor
by Frank William Finney The pub, half-full on a Tuesday night. A songster sang acoustic blues, but soon the strings slipped out of tune, and then the mike went on the blink. I lost the mood – left tip and drink and headed for the Bull Dog. No sign of life. The lights were out. Graffiti mocked its rolling gate. Signs that say the place went bust. I wonder where they moved the band? I wonder where I’ll head to now? Better make tracks and head downtown before the taverns close t
Frank William Finney
Aug 11
Two Poems by Kerry Trautman
by Kerry Trautman The Places We Crawl Into As a home inspector, I shimmy under floorboards on dirt that foundations have claimed, and its centipedes and seep. On vacation, I wander Manhattan street grids at the feet of steel-glass towers of stacked lives. Home in Ohio, I test electric outlets, garage doors, faucets, and windows—the stuff of family morning routines and of children learning to name their corner of life. Where do you crawl in Times Square to see what’
Kerry Trautman
Aug 6
Political and War Poetry
After the Sirens
by Malkeet Kaur Sirens flare, slicing the morning open, their wail flooding the city. Metal throats spill grief, red lights bleeding across windows and skin. We watch how quickly life slips away, no warning, no reason. The newspaper arrives, thin and useless, headlines failing to explain. Names printed in tight columns, too small to hold the weight of what we’ve lost. The sirens bloom again across the sky. A child scuffs his shoe through dust, the playground empty, swings sti
Malkeet Kaur
Jul 26
Abandoned
by R.K. Singh With divided heart mind and colours deluded and dumb millions still blind to politicians peeling their flesh layer by layer like onion take pride in the knife that cuts them to core get cooked in debris of myths and history for kites and vultures of caste and sect now more vulgar breeds of tyrant flourish under the same sky they are gashed peels the abandoned bodies the rotten souls
R.K. Singh
Jul 21
The Red Shoes
by Richard Wells translated by Richard Wells The Women Las Perdidas Las Olvidadas Las Desaparecidas No one is invisible unless we make them so The shoes have been left for the women But the night has passed and no one has returned There is only dust In the city of Guanajuato a man knows where a body lies and in the countryside another man knows where a body lies and in this country men know where bodies lie Thousands are counted in the minds of men who will not spe
Richard Wells
Jul 2
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