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Poetry
On Missing O'Keefe
by John Repp We thought to train to Brooklyn, where dresses hovered in a cool gallery, where hats & shoes, thick silver bracelets, pantaloons, bone necklaces & gobbets of turquoise rested permanent & stark as basalt, fecund aridity geometric & fundamental as Georgia herself in every photograph, but Union Square waylaid us, thousands of tulips, a bed of tiny purple somethings—no, I don’t want to hear you play “Stormy Weather” or disappea
John Repp
The Red Shoes
by Richard Wellx translated by Richard Wellx 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 Wellx
Two Poems by Chris Corlew
by Chris Corlew Grilling in the City After the Kids' Bedtime dear moon smoke is right under your nose do you smell fajitas? can neighborhoods have muscle memory? a stencil on the sidewalk: our neighbor was kidnapped here I don’t leave the house without a whistle I do feel bad that it took the ICE invasion for me to start knowing my neighbors or contribute to the PTA wind tunnel courtyard of apartment porch gardens commuter train whooshing loud cumbia sonidera playin
Chris Corlew
Two Poems by Susan Haifleigh
by Susan Haifleigh The Pianist Walking down cobbled streets daffodils blooming in tight circlets around trees with grated feet cutting knifelike through the city noise, it summoned me façade faces line the boulevard they hear it too, I tilt my head, listening intently the sound building up steam struggling to make sense of the tune, one key pressed closely after another concentration on cadence, a ghostly sheet of music forms in my head deciphering each line transmitting it t
Susan Haifleigh
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
Union
by Stephen House for thirty years wattlebirds have lived in four sprawling grevilleas i planted when i bought my small house in a big city my contribution to native birds i realized over time through their come and go presence they swoop and dive perch and flutter feed on nectar of flame red flowers that blossom when they do he crows complex call at dawn patient wait changes rhythm until she coos soft response as i lay awake in my dim room window open wide absorbed in outside
Stephen House
May 10
Two Poems by Michael Paul
by Michael C. Paul Trash Heaps Our cities are just trash heaps if you think, I say that with my tongue firmly in cheek. Look underneath your couch and you will find Your daughter’s toys from when she was just three; Dig down and find the coin your neighbor dropped Before you bought the house in ninety-four. Dig deeper still and find some broken shards Of porcelain the Ming sold in the East Then shipped to England under James the First Whose colonists left fragments in t
Michael C. Paul
Apr 28
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
Love poems
Poems about love, sex, and relationships.
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
Agate
by John Swain Agate the sea wreathes mosaic, we wade in the shallow, we float on gold rosettes to the diamondback sandbar, your eyes fletch the sunlight, the sun stills in prism. The sky shines to billow the skirt of your dress like a sail, you move to tilt the wild sphere, you curve to mindful blue. We wash transparent, you necklace sun inscripted on the pendant clasped with agate bound like wind behind my neck.
John Swain
Jan 7
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
On Missing O'Keefe
by John Repp We thought to train to Brooklyn, where dresses hovered in a cool gallery, where hats & shoes, thick silver bracelets, pantaloons, bone necklaces & gobbets of turquoise rested permanent & stark as basalt, fecund aridity geometric & fundamental as Georgia herself in every photograph, but Union Square waylaid us, thousands of tulips, a bed of tiny purple somethings—no, I don’t want to hear you play “Stormy Weather” or disappea
John Repp
2 days ago
The Red Shoes
by Richard Wellx translated by Richard Wellx 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 Wellx
7 days ago
Two Poems by Chris Corlew
by Chris Corlew Grilling in the City After the Kids' Bedtime dear moon smoke is right under your nose do you smell fajitas? can neighborhoods have muscle memory? a stencil on the sidewalk: our neighbor was kidnapped here I don’t leave the house without a whistle I do feel bad that it took the ICE invasion for me to start knowing my neighbors or contribute to the PTA wind tunnel courtyard of apartment porch gardens commuter train whooshing loud cumbia sonidera playin
Chris Corlew
Jun 30
Political and War Poetry
The Red Shoes
by Richard Wellx translated by Richard Wellx 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 Wellx
7 days ago
Two Poems by Chris Corlew
by Chris Corlew Grilling in the City After the Kids' Bedtime dear moon smoke is right under your nose do you smell fajitas? can neighborhoods have muscle memory? a stencil on the sidewalk: our neighbor was kidnapped here I don’t leave the house without a whistle I do feel bad that it took the ICE invasion for me to start knowing my neighbors or contribute to the PTA wind tunnel courtyard of apartment porch gardens commuter train whooshing loud cumbia sonidera playin
Chris Corlew
Jun 30
The Political is Personal
by Lynn White I watch them on the screen, witness their weeping, their abjection and wailing, their despair tears pleas pouring pleading for help or screaming with hate spewing out in vengeful cries. I hear them. I listen. But I cannot move beyond my own weeping grief. Just know, just know that this time it’s personal
Lynn White
May 3
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