In alphabetical order by poet's last name.
(To find specific poems easier, use 'Ctrl' + 'F' & type in the name
of the poem/poet you're searching for, then hit 'Enter.')
Once a Good Girl’s Gone
by Molly Arndt
such good girls
sitting down in white dresses legs crossed at the ankles
sweaters rolled up to the wrists hair tucked back
such good girls, singing their hymns
and saying their Hail Mary’s
such good girls
smile when you’re nervous, cry when you’re angry
be polite take up less space be quiet
get ahead but don’t be pushy be a leader but follow the rules
smile take up less space
such good girls
when the shit hits the fan and they tell you it’s not your fault--
when you sit in the dingy room white-faced, with clenched knuckles--
nod when they say it’s not your fault don’t believe them
take criticism to heart, be better be exceptional be perfect.
be the grades the college the job the house the husband the kids--
the everything, but be nothing
such good girls.
but once a good Girl’s gone--
The Initial Stage in Analysis Involves Perception
by Jason Arnold
A wash of white uncertainty suffers
history & pastels pour
from openings left in the sky.
Our boat, constructed
from stringless cellos, slides
on ribbons of fish.
Above, wings of flesh reflect fire
bodies over St. Francis.
Our adopted sails, imitating
southern crosses & temporary bridges,
orbit a sunrise of text.
We move ghosts to see again
in any form other
than hovering weightlessness.
Indoor animals push against the walls
of our craft.
Time swells into repeated singing-
Every mother aboard moves quietly
from one outstretched palm to another
I AM Elephant
by Arna Baartz
Storyteller mirror silent giver of wishes true.
I am an elephant.
Oh how I love me this way,
my close up folding,
my sheets of warm skin,
the magnified texture
and pores of space.
Dust rises under lined feet,
planets rotating from bone to bone,
across arterial heart,
kicking up dreams.
These eyes are before,
I am lost in my own wet, gaze.
There is orange, I see, underneath
the roots of millennia,
embers of genesis,
Yes I am,
so deeply all,
so deeply me,
by Jerrice J. Baptiste
Sun in morning
Opens eyes to new day
Where heart beats again
Almost in tune with piano
Recalling once again
When fingers reached towards sun
black and white bars
Body now flows with dance
Knows it’s a beginning not end of life.
Inching closer to sun
Feeling its pull to be one
With orb of light and sound.
Time, like the ocean
by Alfonse Battistelli
Time, like the ocean,
remembers as it forgets...
the great blue beyond
past its fastening
the spirit of water
affirms the flesh of the moment.
I crave you.
You want nothing of me;
yet this instance take to be
seemingly and my awe to will...
the differential hides
within the swelling of tides…
Our eyes, moonlit horizons,
the rapture among stars,
you are all that I carry.
Time, like the ocean, remembers
as it forgets.
by Sandy Benitez
Unearthed from a restful sleep,
I feel the tug of your arms,
long and invasive as tree roots.
Clumps of dirt collapse beneath me
fall back into the tomb I called home.
You dusted me off, watched,
as pieces of me fell from your sky
like a shaken tree in Autumn.
I never invited you into my story,
yet here you are, devouring every word
every chapter of my existence;
brittle bones lodge in your throat
as you attempt to swallow me whole.
There is nothing here to discover,
only the sound of choking,
gasping for fresh air.
Ripples of Red on a Bed of Blue
by Matthew Bernobich
Ripples of red on a bed of blue:
Sighs of a satisfied lover
Etched in the sky
For me to translate.
I write in sunsets and moon shine,
Getting all the mystics drunk
As my words
Spill on the grass.
Tears of laughter mix with tears of pain
In the bitter sweetness of goodbye.
The warmth of the sun’s last light
Mingles hesitantly with twilight’s chill.
As a pregnant moon rises on her path,
A familiar sigh on the wind reminds me:
We cannot return without leaving,
We cannot remember without forgetting,
And we cannot revive without dying.
by Reilly Blackwell
you paint me in broad slashes of pretty colors,
paint a masterpiece onto my skin.
the colors drip and trace
the lines on my hips, trace
every broken plea,
but you still want to put me in a museum.
you'd build me a palace, and you have:
a tower so high you can't see me at the top.
It's not a small kingdom any longer,
it's a labyrinth in the clouds and I am Pasiphae;
I will give birth to nightmares
until you can't kill them all.
And you'll weave us blankets to keep out the cold,
a dowry chest crafted
to hold still all my lies
to wrap up the ice in my bones; believe it won't burn you,
and the yarn that led you into the maze
will weigh you down onto my bed.
you'll spin out a story to keep me believing
that the Mother of Monsters is tamed,
that you're safe,
and the children I bear in my panic and fear
will rip every last seam
of the tapestries in your halls.
I am not Daedalus, who turned to creation
even as the Gods turned against him.
I would tear apart the nets that catch me as I burn.
More like Icarus, asking for something that hurts,
but in this case it's you who will fall,
and maybe Pasiphae, not Minos, was the villain after all.
by Nathan Blan
Though I was sitting at the window watching for him
the mailman came and went without my knowledge
most likely when I was in the kitchen
brewing another pot of coffee
when I saw the flag was down I felt certain
that I received mail as well as given
but after putting on my boots and walking to my box
I found it to be empty
and felt so disappointed
I wanted to go to bed early
and wake that much closer to tomorrow’s mail
small birds in the bare trees
chattered at me mockingly as I began
the walk back to my room empty-handed
considering what I have become
and how the highlight of my day is the mail
their high-pitched ridicule put it into my head
that I wish my bones could become hollow
and I grow feathers like theirs
my arms outstretched and flapping
I would run down my road
before rising into the clouds
never return to my fully human form again
by Stephanie Bridges
lightly let your fingers linger over
every hollow and
slip slowly into the softest parts
press your lips to mine and
let me swim to you.
here, we will find rest.
pin-pointed starlight illuminates the darkness,
and Little Death beckons your soul to dance.
tip-toeing, i follow.
dressed in shadows, I see you waltz
Little Death closer to each star.
with every step, the shadows lighten
until you arrive within me, and
i am naked, bathed in light.
as the sun illuminates the moon,
you shine and i glow.
reaching within my chest, i hand you my heart,
“there’s not much left.”
“but, it is enough,” you mend the darkened pieces
with the brightest parts of your own.
i no longer fear the night: your fingertips guide me.
this heart brightens the stars, and
bathes me light.
Boy on a Tree
by Oiswarya Das
Imaginations unfold like
feathers from wings
a million birds flying in frenzy,
comforting the bleak winter sun.
The afternoon lull settling in shadows.
Demanding rest, approving peace.
A loner on a lonely tree
closes his eyes to further see.
He sees white, whitening bleach,
He sees a lady speaking a foreign language.
his mind now often deviates,
to unworldly abysses, ungodly syndromes,
and he breathes malice.
by Jessica Duane
Three points of white light
An orange planet hanging:
Too distant to touch
* * *
A snowy blanket
And clear skies above us both.
Look -- a shooting star.
* * *
See the path of light,
Brighter than I’ve seen before--
Waits, ever above.
by Jason Constantine Ford
A central machine is feeding clones with a message
That they can relate to each other without a word
As newly created commands make the passage
From one clone to the next regarding what is inferred.
Through portal of a microchip, clones communicate
To one another without words as fate’s hands designate
Tasks to sleeper cells with deadly desires driven.
Intellects are being fed with the objective
Of releasing the flu and disguising its features
As an outbreak of cholera most infective
Unto a state of blindness among many creatures.
An enhanced microchip creates a vital link
Between different clones who begin to think
As one regarding a task already given.
In the early morn, a virus infects each database
Which tracks the identities of ones with the flue
And removes its existence without a trace
To be replaced with cholera nobody knew.
As governments try to fight cholera non-existent,
Signals between clones become more persistent
In the form of a command to obtain a final goal.
Through telepathic channels that remain unknown
To other forms of life, the clones are able to devise
A strategy of polluting water in every zone
Of human beings destined for their own demise.
On a night when cholera is thought to be spreading,
Allotted agents of death are slowly treading
Through a dam with defenses cut by a gaping hole.
Winter at Green Lake (After Lu Yu)
Poehemian: a poet or artist who does not adhere to the norm; a bohemian of poetry or art; a poet or artist who is quite possibly (subconsciously or consciously) inspired by the great Edgar Allan Poe.
"With me poetry has not been a purpose, but a passion." -Edgar Allan Poe
"Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things that escape those who dream only at night." -Edgar Allan Poe
"All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream." -Edgar Allan Poe
"Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development,
invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears." -Edgar Allan Poe
"Experience has shown, and a true philosophy will always show, that a vast, perhaps the larger portion of the truth arises from the seemingly irrelevant." -Edgar Allan Poe
"The death of a beautiful woman, is unquestionably the most poetical topic in the world." -Edgar Allan Poe
"The true genius shudders at incompleteness - and usually prefers silence to saying something which is not everything it should be." -Edgar Allan Poe
"Science has not yet taught us if madness is or is not the sublimity of the intelligence." -Edgar Allan Poe
"Were I called on to define, very briefly, the term Art, I should call it 'the reproduction of what the Senses perceive in Nature through the veil of the soul.' The mere imitation, however accurate, of what is in Nature, entitles no man to the sacred name of 'Artist.'" -Edgar Allan Poe
"It is by no means an irrational fancy that, in a future existence, we shall look upon what we think our present existence, as a dream." -Edgar Allan Poe
"There is an eloquence in true enthusiasm." -Edgar Allan Poe
"I would define, in brief, the poetry of words as the rhythmical creation of Beauty." -Edgar Allan Poe
"Never to suffer would never to have been blessed." -Edgar Allan Poe
"It may well be doubted whether human ingenuity can construct an enigma... which human ingenuity may not, by proper application, resolve." -Edgar Allan Poe
"All religion, my friend, is simply evolved out of fraud, fear, greed, imagination, and poetry." -Edgar Allan Poe
"I wish I could write as mysterious as a cat." -Edgar Allan Poe
"We loved with a love that was more than love." -Edgar Allan Poe
"Years of love have been forgot, In the hatred of a minute." -Edgar Allan Poe
"And all my days are trances, And all my nightly dreams, Are where thy dark eye glances, And where thy footstep gleams -- In what ethereal dances, By what eternal streams." -Edgar Allan Poe
"Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December; And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor." -Edgar Allan Poe
"Can it be fancied that Deity ever vindictively, Made in his image a mannikin merely to madden it?"
"The most natural, and, consequently, the truest and most intense of the human affections are those which arise in the heart as if by electric sympathy." -Edgar Allan Poe
"The customs of the world are so many conventional follies." -Edgar Allan Poe
"Either the memory of past bliss is the anguish of to-day, or the agonies which are have their origin in the ecstasies which might have been." -Edgar Allan Poe
"Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence— whether much that is glorious— whether all that is profound— does not spring from disease of thought— from moods of mind exalted at the expense of the general intellect." -Edgar Allan Poe
"The realities of the world affected me as visions, and as visions only, while the wild ideas of the land of dreams became, in turn,—not the material of my every-day existence-- but in very deed that existence utterly and solely in itself." -Edgar Allan Poe