Category Archives: Poetry

across the room by Riley Nisbet


across the room

I saw you
in a flower dress
and I wondered where
the other summer
clothes hung
in the closet
during cold months
like February

something happened
between us
and we wound up
lying beside
each other
as I read to you
O’Hara,
Williams, Roethke,
and one by Creely;
and while Bon Iver
played through the speakers
my mind wandered
to your dream catcher
tattooed shoulder
and your postered wall
of Lennon/McCartney
in ‘65.
I like The Beatles.
I like Bon Iver

I like books too
and writing
will you read what I write
if I write it for you?
about you?
my book
could be on your shelf
and myself
in your mind
I’d like that

I like breakfast
I like the one
we had together
this morning.

                – Riley Nisbet

I am a student at Central Michigan University, and I am terrible at introductions.
Twitter: @rileynisbet

transfiguration by Audrey Dimola


transfiguration

there is a purpose
cracking open
inside of me
in the squint of
the sun
the rumble of tires
on road
the electric sheen
of the river
in the morning
with city from end
to end –
this glimpse
of the green in the
gray –
ephemeral spirit
of spring,
it tells me –
you will not lose
yourself to this
season.

and if you do
it will be
to find a side of
yourself
that would otherwise
remain
forever hidden –
and unchanged.
i trust
through the ache
that splits the
heart
as the sprout
heaves its first
breath
of unbearable
newness..
i trust
as i always have
in some corner
of myself
that sometimes pain
can transfigure the
soul
even more than
joy.
                – Audrey Dimola

Audrey Dimola is an editorial acrobat and lifelong lover of words whose mantra is: burn bright, never regret it. She writes, sings, reads, and dreams her way through life in her native New York City, usually wearing leopard print and always rediscovering the magic of everyday.

The Light by Julia Fehrenbacher


THE LIGHT

In this patch of sunlight
she writes
and wants
and waits
for something that will not come.
Steam rises
from the cold, wet grass
a single droplet
lets go
of the oak leaf.

It does not matter
what happened yesterday
or even a moment ago
The trees do not remember.
They do not
wait either, as she
does now.
They know
this full moment
is all
there is
That within it
rests
the Sun.

                – Julia Fehrenbacher

During the small windows of time when her two little girls are occupied elsewhere, Julia paints and writes and contemplates the deep questions of life. More than anything she wants to sprinkle some good around in this world and is always looking for ways to do more of that. If you’d like to join her on this path of shedding & opening and living from a place of truth and authenticity, please visit her at paintedpath.org, she’d so love to have you there.

Just Drive by Ellie Di


Just Drive

Get in the car, drive my love to work.
Pulling away from the curb, I’m suddenly drenched in the need to just drive.
It soaks through to my marrow.
The rising sun reveals the bruises of the sky, heavy with waiting autumn rain and crisping the air to that scent and temperature I’ve always found exhilarating.
The battered and dirty skyline seems oddly new and strange for a city I’ve known for years.
Main Street unfurls before me, the yellow and white lines broken beacons against the asphalt, and just beyond it, I know, is the highway.
She calls to me.
The radio offers no reprieve from the tugging on my being, on my nature: this is my gimmick, I want to win it, I’m selling out, I won’t fight you no more…
The Wanderer grips the steering wheel, white-knuckled, torn in battle with the GrownUp.
I ache to keep moving forward, to straddle the worn lanes of the highway, to Niagara, to Kingston, to New York, to Montreal, to just gogogo.

But I don’t.

I make the left turn onto Caroline and circle back to my house, to my kitties, to my life, the invitation and the power of the moment still ringing in my flesh.

                – Ellie Di

Ellie Di is a headologist, spiritual nomad, compulsive scribbler, literary midwife, and professional pompom shaker who spends her days writing like a motherfucker for The Headologist.

Something Other Than Death by William Taylor Jr.


Something Other Than Death

We wake each day
to all the little things
that kill us

bit by bit

and we take it as best we can.

We have little choice,
really, other than
giving in.

I suppose the trick
is to convince ourselves

we are working towards
something other than death.

We have to believe it,
at least a bit,

in order to continue.

We have to believe
the moment will come

that will transcend
the doubt and emptiness
of an average day

and reveal the missing
pieces of existence,
finally fitting them together

in perfect fashion,

showing us, once
and for all, that our time
has not been wasted.

                – William Taylor Jr.


William Taylor Jr.’s first book of stories, An Age of Monsters is out by Epic Rites Press. You can connect with William on Facebook here.

Cold Water Morning by Gregory Luce


Cold Water Morning

No hot water
on this cold morning
so I rinse my body
and hair lightly,
warm a pan of water
on the stove to shave,
scrape the razor down
my cheeks and gently
move it over my throat,
the tenderness I give
my skin that I deny
my heart.

                – Gregory Luce


Gregory Luce is the author of the chapbooks Signs of Small Grace (Pudding House) and Drinking Weather (Finishing Line); he has published poems in numerous print and online journals and lives in Washington, DC, where he works as Production Specialist for National Geographic. Twitter: @dctexpoet

This is a Beautiful Line by Aleathia Drehmer

This is a beautiful line

“we all need to feel
like a bird on fire”

he whispered into
the crook of her knee
inhaling the perfumed
skin she was reborn
with—smoky and full
of flamed earth.

he traced the universe
on the back of her leg,
watched her ribs float
and stutter when a super
nova started to form,
spreading out like the fire
that brought her to him.

she felt the ashes
of her other life
painting her face, his face
their hands muddied
with ink and detritus;
their connection deeper
than the galaxy they
created on the tail
ends of breathing.

                – Aleathia Drehmer

Aleathia Drehmer hovers like a mother hen over her pet project Durable Goods and edits poetry at Full of Crow, and is currently more in love with life than she has ever been.

you origami me by Robert Lee Brewer

you origami me

fold me into animal shapes and hold
me like paper you don’t want to tear. i’ve
been here before. i’ve waited like money
and spent myself evenly across your
accounts of love. the time has come for our
withdrawal into the pleasures of night,
these simple transfers and deposits, these
points of interest. fold me as you will
and hold me longer still. i’m not a beast,
save when that’s the only way you’ll spend me.

                – Robert Lee Brewer

Robert Lee Brewer is the editor of Poet’s Market and can be found at My Name Is Not Bob.


Crushed Lily by Rebecca Schumejda

Crushed Lily

The crushed lily, cradled in my daughter’s hands,
proves there’s beauty in the folds of our faults.

She spreads back petals and examines the inside;
Focus, flip then fold as if a paper fortune teller

or as pre-teen girls call them coochie catchers.
Ask me a question, I tell her, pick a number, lift the flap.

                – Rebecca Schumejda

Rebecca Schumejda is the author of Falling Forward, a full-length collection of poems (sunnyoutside, 2009); The Map of Our Garden (verve bath, 2009); Dream Big Work Harder (sunnyoutside press 2006); The Tear Duct of the Storm (Green Bean Press, 2001); and the poem “Logic” on a postcard (sunnyoutside). She received her MA in Poetics and Creative Writing from San Francisco State University and her BA in English and Creative Writing from SUNY New Paltz. She resides in New York’s Hudson Valley and online at rebeccaschumejda.com. Her book, Cadillac Men, is forthcoming from NYQ Books.

The Many Reams of Perfect by Jason Neese

The Many Reams of Perfect

the night pours over us like starshine
that ankle wrapped dance

a mood

like a crude
revival, our hearts stitched together
a giant balloon

with a hot wet naked
to the air and a stringed flower
in the lush

little toes across the creek

and the flutes ring
and the silver
wears a feast
clinking to smile
the ridges lined
and you in white the red curling
and me in black the curl ready

our little ship floating in the bay
the lapping waves bouncing
us the starry night rinsing
us
off

                – Jason Neese

jason feels like they should play the national anthem directly following every episode of jersey shore before cutting to white snow. he lives in los angeles and works in tv. he has written four unpublished novels. snooki has written one. published.