Tag: poems

The Fertile Tree | Diana Kurniawan

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Image: Joshua Cotten

The Fertile Tree

On barren land at the corner

—————————of a long constant highway 

The Good Samaritan guards 

–————————-a tree of sparse green leaves

A most desired nesting point 

————————— for the American finch across

this homeland of Colorado

– ————————–A mother of homeless avian

The unmarried tree stands tall

————- – — – —–despite the dry gritty street

Finches flock to this virgin mother

————————- the kindling of all avian children

As the single woman without

———————– – –true love nor a loving partner

The tree reminds of the strength

————————- of women with dignified values

Preserving those around her life

—————- – – – —-with a fecund heart and soulful tears

Valor of hopeful spirit undefeated 

———- ——— —– Spiritual Mother of all children forever

Diana Kurniawan is a poet and writer based in Berthoud, Colorado. With by lines from Denver Life Magazine and Longmont Times Call for non-fiction journalistic pieces, she also previously served as Community Journalist for Denver Voice, a newspaper for the homeless. Recent publications include Twenty Bellows and Sortes Magazine for fiction and Ridgeline Review of Eastern New Mexico University and RawLit for her poetry in Spring 2023.

An Abandoned Dance | Chandrama Deshmukh

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Image: Jeremey Thomas

An Abandoned Dance

We have directions
Of a lost map
That leads nowhere
A miraged universe
An omnipresent pause.

Someone once told me
You are your own prison
And since then
I see birds everywhere
Sleep-walking
Chasing delusions 
Shrinking into coherence.

I tore my map 
wrote poems on it
And made paper-boats
That glow in moonlight

Now
My existence whirls
In an abandoned dance
And the ink-stained wings
Are drawing 
Their own astral map.

Chandrama Deshmukh is an author, poet, playwright, theatre artist, storyteller, screenplay writer and performance artist. She has four books of poems published. A Teaspoon Of Stars and Moonlit Monochrome in English and two books in her mother-tongue Marathi. Chandrama has done close to 100 poetry performances in Bangalore and continues to play her role in giving this art-form the appreciation it deserves. To Chandrama, poetry is the streak of silver lining amidst the chaos of life. The moon is her muse.

The Ghost of Texas Guinan | LindaAnn LoSchiavo

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The Ghost of Texas Guinan

“Mr. Guinan, I’ll bet your little girl Texas was born
  in the saddle and cut her teeth on a six-gun!” — — Buffalo Bill Cody

Since Texas Guinan had an appetite 
For wild, her feet detached from Waco's mud,
Wound up in Omaha. Auditions had
Begun for Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show.

  				 	Pale horse, pale rider — — hastening sunset.
  					If I keep robbing her of rightful rest,
  				 	Perhaps her death will never saddle up.

The time warp points to 1899.
Dawn broke as if it's roping scattered light.

A rifle shot by Annie Oakley grabbed
Attention — — but to Texas it translates
Brash promises of never hearing no.

When films were silent, heroism was shown
By how much good and evil fought onscreen.
Frail victims needed cowboys saving them.


But Tex rode roughshod over this belief,
Which scored new contracts in 1918.
For her they penned “Gun Woman.” She portrayed
The cowgirl sent to handle rescuing.

Before she mounts Bucephalus bare-backed,
She'll buckle up her gunbelt, knowing girls
Will take the reins by watching how it's done,
Strong knife arms swinging out to sever old
Restrictions Hollywood's boys' club imposed.

On camera, she'll hand roll smokes between
Two fingers, like scout's honor, execute
Her own stunts, thank you, and win back the ranch.

Refusing to play victims on the screen,
Be foiled by bullets, brave like Annie — — but   
On horseback — —Texas Guinan blazed a trail
Through celluloid, always maintained a voice
In how she was portrayed, unique this way,
A heroine in every interview.

As organ music swelled, the silver screen		
Replayed her derring-do, subtitles on.

  				 	If I deny The Reaper came to wrest
  				 	Control at 49, will she wake up?

The time warp points to 1933.
Westerns are not the way you left them, Tex,
When you starred in “My Lady Robin Hood.”
Once talkies had caught on, cowgirls were gone.

Producers wanted men as brave, rightful
Defenders of vast untamed prairie towns.

  					The hour of her untimely death reared up,
  				 	Then flung her, dazed, distressed, lifetime compressed.
  					Pale horse, pale rider — — uninvited guest.




Her spirit hovers over Hollywood,
Where she's their only female shooting star.

Greenwich Villager LindaAnn LoSchiavo, a Pushcart Prize, Rhysling Award, Best of the Net, and Dwarf Stars nominee, is a member of SFPA, The British Fantasy Society, and The Dramatists Guild. Elgin Award winner “A Route Obscure and Lonely,” “Concupiscent Consumption,” “Women Who Were Warned,” FirecrackerAward, Balcones Poetry Prize, Quill and Ink, Paterson Poetry Prize,and IPPY Award nominee “Messengers of the Macabre” [co-written with David Davies], “Apprenticed to the Night” [Beacon Books, 2023] , and “Felones de Se: Poems about Suicide” [Ukiyoto Publishing, 2023] are her latest poetry titles. Twitter. Youtube. Website.

LoSchiavo’s books can be found here:
Messengers of the Macabre: Hallowe’en Poems
Women Who Were Warned

Hands | Jessica Mehta

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Image: Jorge Lopez

Hands

The delight I take in watching my hands
age—endless. They are my grandmother’s
ridged veins, branches I thought long
gone to mill-dust. Slowly, dorsals
become paper, a crinkling of tissue
crepe marking birthdays. So, Doctor, tell me
again how Restylane will plump
them back to beauty. Make them youthful, dewy
again. Erase my years, the dogged
ones of clawing in & digging up, out,
free. Doctor, explain once
more how “hands don’t lie”—
you think I don’t know that? These hands
speak everything, flutter just truths.
They say, These lines
are wages earned, liver spots bonuses
clocked, tendons popped
with wisdom. In these hands are carried
the entirety of me: my cells cupped
by my mother, her mother, the whole
trail-weary tribe from Oklahoma and Cherokee
rose roads back. Doctor, you want
to rewind these hands with yours?
I handle my own unraveling,
shaking arthritic thumbs and all.

Jessica Mehta is a multi-award-winning poet and author of the Oregon Book Award finalist collection “When We Talk of Stolen Sisters.” As a citizen of the Cherokee Nation, space, place, and ancestry in post-colonial “America” informs much of their work. You can learn more at www.thischerokeerose.com.

my ghost considers music | Ashley Howell Bunn

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Image: Christina Deravedisian

my ghost considers music

now so often twinkling between the walls of my home
—————–moving and stopping abruptly, a dance and fall

when embodied i almost didn’t notice
——————how it changed the vibration in the air ——poetry moves the tide of emotion
=======================================================-this, i noticed

===========–for my body was water —— adherent

but spirit
spirit

is this other element without ground or liquid or oxygen or heat
——————spirit is
but ether
ether ———————is my best bet
———-as i let my ghost consider what moves through me

there are notes like cold rain, sleet in early spring
——————and campfires in late summer
cool autumn mornings with golden aspen coins

——————and there is heartbreak, the thought of him leaving
my father’s hand softening ———– the strands loose from her braided hair

something about flowers —–and how long they last

Ashley Howell Bunn (she/they) completed her MFA in poetry through Regis University and holds a MA in Literature from Northwestern University. Their work has previously appeared in The Colorado Sun, Twenty Bellows, patchwork litmag, Mulberry Literary, Tiny Spoon, Champagne Room Journal and others. She is an experienced yoga guide trained in a variety of styles. Their first chapbook, in coming light, was published in 2022 by Middle Creek Publishing. She leads somatic writing workshops and writes a monthly Yoga, Tarot, and Astrology column for Writual.They are a founding member of The Tejon Collective, an inclusive creative space in Denver, CO.

a worm | Yuu Ikeda

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Image: Ivan Ivanovič

a worm

lethargic hope
is limping in the bottom
of my mind,
like a worm is creeping
on the floor.
it never allows me
to give up on everything.
it leads me to dawn
again and again.

Yuu Ikeda (she/they) is a Japan based poet. She loves writing, reading novels, western art, and sugary coffee.She writes poetry on her website: https://poetryandcoffeedays.wordpress.com/. Her latest poetry collection “A Knife She Holds” was published from Newcomer Press. Her Twitter and Instagram : @yuunnnn77

Two Poems | Andrej Bilovsky

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Image: Bruno Mira

Factoring

I did not see the naked man on King Street.
He was one of those “Nudes for God.”
Instead, Jacob slides in like a snail on pink slime.
wailing, as high-pitched as a gibbon.

He rubs his puckered eyes roughly.
And his jelly-mouth ripples in the clock face.
Five in the morning detaches itself from time.
His kiss unties me though it smells of dead cologne.

I am only here so I can be here when he’s here.
My secret life continues it existence in him.
But he’s kin to a decomposed insect.
I squeeze his innards into a likeness of myself.

Well-Spread

There are parts of me everywhere.
Like curled up on a park bench.
Or preaching the dead cult of sex.
Or naked and looking for work.

I deserve breeze but reap the stillness.
My gloomy fire begins as ashes.
In the reading room of the public library,
that’s my head opened wide at page 3.

Herman Melville spits in my ear.
I follow a handsome man into a doctor’s office.
I slink into a movie theater, drink out of an army boot.
Snow or gay bar, the flakes prove inconclusive.

Andrej Bilovsky (he/him) is a gay poet and performance artist. Former editor of Masculine-Feminine and Kapesnik. His poetry can be found at the Quiver and Down In The Dirt.

Fog | David Dephy

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Image: Nathan Anderson

Fog

Fog lies low over the land.
Rain drives soft across the fields.
Comatose landscape.

There is nothing immediate we can hope for,
now we have nothing to do but breathe,
until something better shows up.

We are holding each other,
expecting a miracle at dawn,
as if there were no one and nothing to hurt us.

Beginning in mid-May the nights draw in,
our look turns warm and soft,
the fog passes gently over us,

we’d like to ask the fog—
don’t talk to us, our heart’s been broken,
we can’t listen to you, we can’t see you,

but the fog covers us and says:
I never see myself either,
in my own mind I’m invisible,

that’s why you may feel I’m almighty,
you are like birds, your flight
begins and ends in silence,

you will find yourselves in each other only,
silence is garden, among the growing dreams
and precious wishes

you will discover each other again,
everything that will ever be discovered,
already exists in the mist.

David Dephy (he/him) (pronounced as “DAY-vid DE-fee”), is an American award-winning poet and novelist. The founder of Poetry Orchestra, a 2023 Pushcart Prize nominee for Brownstone Poets, an author of full-length poetry collection Eastern Star (Adelaide Books, NYC, 2020), and A Double Meaning, also a full-length poetry collection with co-author Joshua Corwin, (Adelaide Books, NYC, 2022).  His poem, “A Sense of Purpose,” is going to the moon in 2024 by The Lunar Codex, NASA, Space X, and Poetry on Brick Street. He is named as Literature Luminary by Bowery Poetry, Stellar Poet by Voices of Poetry, Incomparable Poet by Statorec, Brilliant Grace by Headline Poetry & Press and Extremely Unique Poetic Voice by Cultural Daily. He lives and works in New York City.

I ACKNOWLEDGE MY MOUTH WORM | Aliza Saper

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Image: Sergei Akulich

I ACKNOWLEDGE MY MOUTH WORM

What do I know of my own tongue and the taste of love?
For one thing, I savor the bitterness of envelope glue.
This is love;
and the metal of minor open wounds in the absence of band-aids or tissues,
and the rim of a water glass that has sat reverently on a nightstand for too long.
All the food I eat on a day when I don’t feel like eating,
and toothpaste…look at me, taking care of myself.

What does my tongue know of me, and the soft skin of my inner cheeks?
The spots where anxiety has compelled me to bite.
Blisters.
Blisters are kind of like love.
Too much friction, and evidence to show for it.
How many flavors of Chapstick?
Where sweetnesses and disappointments traverse the landscape.
An ecosystem within an ecosystem.
Mother tongue.
My mother, tongue.

A muscle strong from carrying all the messages that never made it out of me.
Laced with secrets, and receptors of breaths both known and foreign.
A transformer, look!
Slack, and pointy, and soft, flat, and rigid.
Hot dog!
Clover!
Funny faces are love.

My tongue is well versed in survival tactics;
like, how to breathe through smoke,
and how to hold, and hold, and hold tension.
Braving cold summer snow cones and steamy winter teas.
It maintains equilibrium when the rest of the body cannot.

What does my tongue know of travel?
Having trekked roofs, and hollows, and caverns.
Cavities, too.
A paleontologist in its own right,
and a philologist, and a virologist, and a cytologist.
Knowing of more -ologies than a brain might ever be.
Teaching me, and teaching me, and teaching me.
This is love.

For a prisoner of the mouth, my tongue manages to sustain a taste for life.
For love –
and the bitterness of envelope glue,
and the metal of minor open wounds in the absence of band-aids or tissues,
and the rim of a water glass that has sat reverently on a nightstand for too long.
All the food I eat on a day when I don’t feel like eating,
and toothpaste.
Look at me, tasting it all.

Aliza Saper is an original Denverite, and a wearer of many creative hats. She is the winner of the 29th Paul Rice Poetry Broadside Series Contest, and a 2018 National Poetry Slam qualifier. Currently, she is a resident teaching artist specializing in theatre arts integration; fiercely advocating for arts education, and spaces that support it. Her affinity for self expression, and meaning-making has led her to pursue endeavors in storytelling via the visual, literary, and performing arts. Follow her on Instagram: @aliza_lynn.

glad god said i’m allowed to be alive | Tall City

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Image: Aditya Vyas

‘glad god said i’m allowed to be alive’ he said to whomever was listening,
sang a tiny song to praise god and included everyone in the room
buildings across the street bathed his armchair in rainbow neon
the combined aura of different advertisements at different distances
he sang a praise song to combat difficult feelings
the neighbor’s little girl asked him not to die until he got older
he promised not to die until he got older
so when she dies, everyone would be there to meet her in heaven
to walk her to her room

he washed dishes and wondered
if they were still rolling dice down the street,
he wiped down dishes and wondered
if all the stores were open,
he found his armchair was a neon tinted throne
his shadow on the floor held a stairway
he knew if he went down into the shadow stairway
he could keep going down forever
he wanted to go up instead
forever
but there was no staircase in the ceiling, not now
god said it was not his time to go yet
god said he was allowed to stay alive

there were just moths there, studying the lightbulb
there were just moths on the ceiling
with crushes on the lightbulb
he was sure the ceiling wouldn’t open until death
he promised her he wouldn’t die yet
she wanted to die now so she could see grandma
he assured her that grandma would still be there
he told her to live a life, find a man, have kids, grow old
she didn’t listen she was afraid of going outside
when she went to bed there wasn’t any music
just her voice improvising praise songs
to combat difficult feelings
he fell asleep before her

didn’t dream of anything at all
every night is a strange mystery
still he said ‘glad god said i’m allowed to be alive’
when he prayed at church we caught his cheating,
opening his eyes a crack to copy our wishes
opening his eyes a crack to check on his own shadow
to make sure there wasn’t a stairway there
to make sure the trapdoor was closed
so he wouldn’t fall into his shadow
and leave the sanctuary suddenly

the streetcorner crowded
the stores still open
the street goes past the bridge
but there it is just factories and warehouses
nobody there are night except those who don’t know what’s going on
the people who stand around like ghosts and
disappear when you turn your head to look

Tall City (Chris Bullock) was born and got bigger on Long Island, New York. He did a few things then moved to Colorado Springs after trying to study in Paris. He did a few things there too, then moved to Denver, where he went back to school for foreign language. A couple of years on scholarship in China, and he is back in Denver.