Poetry - Year VII - Number 53 - January 2022

The Institution by Aracelly P. Campo Love-the grand illusionTheatrical spectacle presented to us on an empty stageTransaction driven unions that dictate the roles we are to playWe follow conventions of our own inventionsWe surrender our willAnd...

WRITERS’S BLOCK Words scuttle around the squaremarking the edge of my mindrunning in chaosfrom corner to cornerupstairs and downstairsnot lingering on the landing for restI struggle to put them to pen! Words of exquisite love,darkest despair,desire...

ODE TO THE WIND To the wind,I wonder, where you're goingWhere you've beenYou've blown across mountains, forests, seasYou've blown across polar ice caps & cities of treesYou've blown in valleys, over hills and plainsBirds fly...

I. What Colour is Peace and Home? Is it to consume the gothic or expend the sublime?Would coloured value survive in white that seethes number?For all known times, when colours be at peaceable rest, white...

“Late Summer Sunday Afternoon Hike” Hiking late summer Sunday afternoon,Sun yet strong still.What does it matter,Where do we go? Venule-shaped verdant leaves,Now surround me everywhere.Colorless sky staring back overhead,Giving off a soulless glow. Distant bird tweeting,Now flying...

My Streets HobbledBy a narrowStoic universeOwing nothingTo anyoneAloneOn the cobbled stonesWith an airy desperationFirm in my pocketAnd hiddenFrom everythingWorth hiding fromFrom anythingUnseenBelow the waterlineAlong the swiftSwollen riverWith the dark currentsOf old tormentsAnd the windswept spacesBeneath...

The Saddest Thing I’ve Ever Seen (Chapter I) My left palm still hurts. Going, preparing without a backpack on my back. My left palm still hurts so much that my stomach feels like burning for...

DALI SET Self-Portrait 1921, Salvador Dalí out of cross-hatchshadow from underthat battered hat brimcast your cool eyeon everything more weightythan my usual fluxsmoke one last pipefor the old meistersbefore you melt the past Flaming June, Museo de...

why i dreamt of the west coast a suicide maybe bitter taste ofabandoned hope says he hates her saysshe hates him and then there’s thekid forgotten at thebottom of the bathtub asshole in the front yard saysshe owes...

“There are people who see a beautiful flower and rush over to pick it. They want to hold it in their hands, they want to own it. They want the flower’s beauty to be...