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Poetry
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
Memoirs
by Suman Mondal its almost unfeasible to write about the memoirs of my past some fragments are pale and dim others still rove inside my head now if you ask me tell us some like a meander these broken pieces ramble but its too hard to retrieve them so listen to my heart now honey colored reminiscences dry and wrinkled now listen close to my heart a quick and platonic love in the urban gala of splendor poverty a sweet sweet odour of the place where two strangers share the remna
Suman Mondal
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
Bar Quiz
by Paul Bavister We formed a team for the quiz that played to our strengths: geography, politics and film. We called out to the quizmaster, who shuffled his papers under a slow-turning fan. Then he started: Who is having an affair with who? Who is secretly in love with who? Why have things grown cold between you? At first we laughed, but when we saw the empty sheet on the table in front of us, we started filling out the answers, and this sudden honesty was a quiet, outward br
Paul Bavister
Inner City Blues
by Kirsty Niven If we leave the windows open at night, we can hear the chaos of the city playing out like the sea captured in a seashell. The wash of the cars on gushing roads, the serenading of un-spayed cats— drunken cackles a jazz style percussion. Saturday’s soundscape skips like vinyl, silence interrupted with each party’s end. Arguments float upwards, helium balloons, until each overinflated ego pops explosively. Gotham grunge trickling down the drains, until shop shutt
Kirsty Niven
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
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
7 days ago
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
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
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
3 days ago
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
4 days ago
Inner City Blues
by Kirsty Niven If we leave the windows open at night, we can hear the chaos of the city playing out like the sea captured in a seashell. The wash of the cars on gushing roads, the serenading of un-spayed cats— drunken cackles a jazz style percussion. Saturday’s soundscape skips like vinyl, silence interrupted with each party’s end. Arguments float upwards, helium balloons, until each overinflated ego pops explosively. Gotham grunge trickling down the drains, until shop shutt
Kirsty Niven
Jul 29
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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