Poetry – Year V – Number 40 – September 2020

A trap I have mixed feelings about what happened that day --following her out of curiosity,staying in her place for no reason except… Pity. Is it the right word? A table, a chair, a bed, a single...

Decay of Democracy The political charadein divided Americabecomes tenser dailyas issues, agendas, ambitionsrasp the public well-beingtrying to survivean irresponsible President,who tells the people‘there are good peopleon each side’when nazis and radicalsfight each otherfor extremist views,instead...

Alabaster Breast Milk Ilk Horns Dragon-Lilies Zodiac redemptionIrish wine Brandy sniffer graceShe’ll be back in a flashLimp as a wet rag looking at her facePollenate paraphernalia paper trashAlabaster Breast Milk white gulden embraceCotton polis flourished...

A stained glass imaginingFrom the third floor the treetops are filigree fine,emergent tendrils nod frantic nervousnessin the ethereal breath of a gossamer breeze.Lace leaves play like piano fingerscaught by ripples from whipish curlicue. The street...

A Column of Smoke ghosted west to the seaand I missed my off ramp like most of the otherswho prayed to the fire gods oh please, not me,and I saw from a distance the mean residueof burnt chaparral...

A Poem for the wind When the veil of darkness finally descends,and that light within us diminishes,perfect peace and contentment shall stand for eternity then,when our days on earth are finally finished. When I stand on...

Noticing Women I am not the woman in the front row staring with adoring eyes at the poet,her husband, on the stage behind the podium, reading from his collection. Nor am I the woman standing behind...

MASQUERADE: This Face I wear to show what the world expects to see,a carefully painted visage rendered in muscles strainedand emotions held in check. These garments I don to match the Face with its painted smile,the...

TRAVEL ADVISORY Some days the world is a luscious peach.Others, a cold boiled potato. The differencebetween knowing what to do and doing itis four dollars. How you get there is your business.If praying your way,...

The Child I Was They were like some terrible writingsWrought by a Fate’s fearful handTo dictate its warnings by lightningsNo man can decipher to comprehend, With each stroke’s streaking effulgenceFollowed by a split second of silenceTo...