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Poetry
Surges, November
by David Capps ‘I would kill myself, but I don’t have the courage’, I thought to respond when asked politely, ‘how are you?’ We were walking across the Green, in New Haven, and casually eyeing the naked Christmas tree, unstrung, yet already stripped of its significant dignity. ‘A joke’, I clarified, ‘A line from a Bergman film’. Maybe so. We were walking together across the Green, whatever else symbolized innocence and gave hope—Trinity church with its dank stained glass and
David Capps
Two Poems by Sarah Etgen-Baker
by Sarah Etgen-Baker Urban Meditation The subway whirs— a thousand hands press close in warmth, not fear. Streetlights blink like fireflies trapped in chrome. Laughter climbs brick walls, a thousand lives buzz, entwined~ The city breathes. We're not alone. Stacked Hexagons The city is a beehive— hexagons stacked, each buzzing with activity morning, noon, and night. Streets: wax-thin, sticky with footsteps. Buildings: golden, leaning into each other, their windows humming with
Sarah Etgen-Baker
A Dead Poet's Outcry
by Syeda Anika Mansour I'm a dead poet a poet whose words have withered like the youthful petals of roses after the scorching heat of Apollo's wrath. A poet whose emotions have ceased to nothingness, like the stillness of a hushed heart. A poet whose voice is lost among the restrictions imposed upon thoughts. A poet whose notions pass through the parting of the lips, only to return to an infinite bastille of thoughts inside! A poet whose failed expressions, not once but time
Syeda Anika Mansour
Pressing the Bell Twice
by Syeda Anika Mansour I look at the tinted broken windows of the upper floor of the old shophouse, contemplate what stories take shape inside those moldy walls. The black and white polka dot burkha on the woman standing beside the sidewalk stuns me for a moment and my rickshaw halts in a traffic jam. An earsplitting horn of a local bus turns my attention there, a face with a red bindi sitting by the window lost in thought with dark circled eyes. The beaver moon moved as my r
Syeda Anika Mansour
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
Give Us This Day
by Bryan Franco He was warned the city would eat him alive, chew him up, and spit him out. He savored the city and digested every experience it offered: sweet, bitter, beautiful, ugly. Honking horns and sirens sung him to sleep. The silence outside his childhood bedroom window riddled his visits home with insomnia. He found horizons in the asphalt and shadows that didn’t exist in The Gulf of Mexico. He had become a glutton for all the cul-de-sac had denied him. He delighted i
Bryan Franco
Generational Poetry
Poetry about the hardships of families.
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
Two Poems by Martha Clarkson
by Martha Clarkson The Last View Teenager, trying to fall asleep I worried my father would die driving home drunk, crash into the big oak along the speedy median and I’d be stuck with my mother. But when the time came at 94 it was just an undramatic fade huge oxygen tank heaving by the bed, my stepmother asleep on the living room pull-out. I paced the assisted-living halls wandered into in a game room where we’d once played bridge felt-covered card table the thrill of a six-h
Martha Clarkson
Nov 10, 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.
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
Menus
by Erin Jamieson cacophony of marigold taxis in cities whose perfume is Tuscan olive oil & fried cod a farewell to the Thai bistro, where you shared pad thai and he took your chopsticks a farewell to the cafe with discount espresso past mid day- he’d order two even though your mind was already racing a farewell to a family diner with sticky red polyester booths his double bacon cheeseburger dripping onto your salad plate- the salad he ordered without your consent I didn’t thi
Erin Jamieson
Apr 7
Urban poetry
Two Poems by Sarah Etgen-Baker
by Sarah Etgen-Baker Urban Meditation The subway whirs— a thousand hands press close in warmth, not fear. Streetlights blink like fireflies trapped in chrome. Laughter climbs brick walls, a thousand lives buzz, entwined~ The city breathes. We're not alone. Stacked Hexagons The city is a beehive— hexagons stacked, each buzzing with activity morning, noon, and night. Streets: wax-thin, sticky with footsteps. Buildings: golden, leaning into each other, their windows humming with
Sarah Etgen-Baker
4 days ago
Pressing the Bell Twice
by Syeda Anika Mansour I look at the tinted broken windows of the upper floor of the old shophouse, contemplate what stories take shape inside those moldy walls. The black and white polka dot burkha on the woman standing beside the sidewalk stuns me for a moment and my rickshaw halts in a traffic jam. An earsplitting horn of a local bus turns my attention there, a face with a red bindi sitting by the window lost in thought with dark circled eyes. The beaver moon moved as my r
Syeda Anika Mansour
May 17
Give Us This Day
by Bryan Franco He was warned the city would eat him alive, chew him up, and spit him out. He savored the city and digested every experience it offered: sweet, bitter, beautiful, ugly. Honking horns and sirens sung him to sleep. The silence outside his childhood bedroom window riddled his visits home with insomnia. He found horizons in the asphalt and shadows that didn’t exist in The Gulf of Mexico. He had become a glutton for all the cul-de-sac had denied him. He delighted i
Bryan Franco
May 5
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