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Poetry
Legend of the Cockle
by Deborah Spaulding In Loch Ness lore, upon its banks there came a lovely lad with golden hair and sparkling eye, in tartan he was clad. And with his mates he romped and played with nary such a care; their laughter could be heard as far as Inverness, they swear. They’d lay upon the sun-warmed sand and climb the rocks ashore and wade in pools left by the rain and scamper then some more. But never would they enter in, the Loch was ever banned. The kelpies there were legend but
Deborah Spaulding
The Riders
by Janette Schafer TW: Child sexual assault The first time I sat on his lap was to color in my Santa Fun Book at Christmas. I never stayed in the lines, threw my whole body into coloring, leaned on the table, elbows braced, plopped back down onto his legs, curled my calves under my knees, heels chocked on either side of his thighs. He cupped my 7-year-old hips in his palms, directed my movements in a way I was too young to understand. Did I hear distant hoofbeats of the shado
Janette Schafer
In Retracing a Memory
by Aleah Bantas there is a photograph of a girl in a white dress inside an album, kept only by a plastic rack I grew up remembering how to pick cotton, separate the seeds, each one, fruit in search of an embrace in the verses of Mahmoud Darwish, on a river dying of thirst. After class of halaqah, reading the Qur'an, a white face, eyes narrowed into a slit. Into the echo of a daughter singing. I do not mind being named after a flower, for it holds a thought of tenderness, the
Aleah Bantas
El Niño
Aleah Bantas She heard her name being called, reclining in a daze. A voice said, get up. The heat index climbs past numbers, melting into the sheets like a wax doll in May. The fat glare opens at her as she staggers back and forth. The earth cracks, the crops dry, and the sun bares its teeth. Her bronze shoulder does not move. Driven away by a swarm of locusts, yet the voice calls her name, twice this time. The little canoe beneath the mound of soil is moored to her breathing
Aleah Bantas
Blue Lilies
by M. Void The sweet rhythm of her smile reminds me that she listened to blue world for me, because of me. I couldn't keep my hands to myself. I kissed girls in bathrooms and took double shots. Her quiet, pained face listened to the beat like a 4:4 critique of me and my infidelity. Well, this mad world made me crazy. That's what I told her when I talked about polyamory. Blame the devil on my shoulder for making me shady. I know she set me up, told that bathroom siren to seduc
M. Void
The Unlimited Moon
by Uğur Olgar The unlimited moon shines brightest on aged faces binding its celestial belt to the wrinkles on the forehead while the skirts of darkness ignite in the white night Then we imagine northern flowers in the south A murderous man comes, gathers all the clouds, and leaves without looking at the bloody tail behind him While we wonder if it's a real glimmer that girl has long since mingled with the wind and rain The moon is limitless, new maps are drawn in the windows
Uğur Olgar
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
El Niño
Aleah Bantas She heard her name being called, reclining in a daze. A voice said, get up. The heat index climbs past numbers, melting into the sheets like a wax doll in May. The fat glare opens at her as she staggers back and forth. The earth cracks, the crops dry, and the sun bares its teeth. Her bronze shoulder does not move. Driven away by a swarm of locusts, yet the voice calls her name, twice this time. The little canoe beneath the mound of soil is moored to her breathing
Aleah Bantas
Sep 29
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
Aug 19
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
Love poems
Poems about love, sex, and relationships.
Blue Lilies
by M. Void The sweet rhythm of her smile reminds me that she listened to blue world for me, because of me. I couldn't keep my hands to myself. I kissed girls in bathrooms and took double shots. Her quiet, pained face listened to the beat like a 4:4 critique of me and my infidelity. Well, this mad world made me crazy. That's what I told her when I talked about polyamory. Blame the devil on my shoulder for making me shady. I know she set me up, told that bathroom siren to seduc
M. Void
Sep 27
A Day At The Beach
by Brian Hawkins I can imagine us lying in the sand at the lake, your toes tracing memories around discarded bait buckets and cigarette butts. I close my eyes to see you loosen your top as you turn your back to the sun while I open my book and pretend not to read, sneaking peaks at the edges of your small breasts over, under, and around the empty pages. You glance at me and smile, reaching out to touch my hand, but only for a moment so that your tan will be even there, too. I
Brian Hawkins
Sep 20
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
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.
Bhun-na
by Khadeeja Bilqees the epitome of culinary art my mother told me and you can never cook well till you have mastered the art of letting the meat simmer till it embraces the flavor till the excess evaporates she said I’m too impatient to do it right i turn off the flame too soon before the ghee has truly learned its place the chai i made for the people in the drawing room tasted bland because i didn’t let the patti fully claim the milk it should be made to simmer till it has n
Khadeeja Bilqees
Sep 16
Easy Mexican Wedding Cakes Recipe
by Michael Brockley Combine one cup of softened butter, one cup of powdered sugar, two cups of sifted flour, one cup of ground nuts, and one teaspoon of vanilla Your family kept a small, wooden nativity display on a table in the living room. The infant was hidden behind the shed with the manger and Mary and Joseph already on display. The saints and animals looked as if they’d be painted by a holy card artist. One of the camels tucked in front of the baby had a naked wire in
Michael Brockley
Sep 3
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
Urban poetry
Disenchanted Evening
by T.J. Masluk for Kafka In the wards, sleep Gurdjieff would appreciate. Have I awakened in a dark wood? In streets and narrow alleyways, by light of a ragged moon, noctambulists shuffle about unredeemed, fugue-fingering. In the marketplace, men with flaccid droop and Rx script opt for blue-diamond bliss (“Honey, this should fix our problem”). The world is ablaze! Girls in thick makeup and cheap perfume prattle on, boys tattooed wither in waste, needle in arm. Everywhere you
T.J. Masluk
Sep 17
Street Seer
by Patrick Roland I saw a prophet on the sidewalk. Nineteen degrees. Wind like a whip. Shirtless, rooted, as if nailed to the concrete. Not young enough for dares, not poor enough for pity. A bag of clothes dangled from one hand like armor refused. Head tilted skyward, as if calling on light, or thunder. Lips moving faster than speech. His chest slack with gray, skin red and chapped with cold. The city bent around him, water skirting stone. It did not stop. Neither did he. Wh
Patrick Roland
Sep 2
They Came in Scent
by Steven Visintainer A reflection on the New York City subways - 1990s. And outside, as a child, above the grate, the steam would rise, and my grandmother would say there were devils down there. And years after, they came in scent of electric smoke, from high voltage burn that changed my childhood imaginings of someone in red to the now-dead musk of blue spark and current arcs that traveled from moving train, that swayed with long, thin pricking screaks in tunnels, to the li
Steven Visintainer
Sep 1
Political and War Poetry
In Retracing a Memory
by Aleah Bantas there is a photograph of a girl in a white dress inside an album, kept only by a plastic rack I grew up remembering how to pick cotton, separate the seeds, each one, fruit in search of an embrace in the verses of Mahmoud Darwish, on a river dying of thirst. After class of halaqah, reading the Qur'an, a white face, eyes narrowed into a slit. Into the echo of a daughter singing. I do not mind being named after a flower, for it holds a thought of tenderness, the
Aleah Bantas
Sep 30
El Niño
Aleah Bantas She heard her name being called, reclining in a daze. A voice said, get up. The heat index climbs past numbers, melting into the sheets like a wax doll in May. The fat glare opens at her as she staggers back and forth. The earth cracks, the crops dry, and the sun bares its teeth. Her bronze shoulder does not move. Driven away by a swarm of locusts, yet the voice calls her name, twice this time. The little canoe beneath the mound of soil is moored to her breathing
Aleah Bantas
Sep 29
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
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