Poem submission by doodlebimbee
Her life was a string of awkward moments no one else remembered.
“Who is this
Chameleon Girl?” when she entered a room they pretended not to notice her.
And she pretended to be a ghost.
She walked through hallways filled with glances that warped around and through her
always going somewhere
never where she was but she took up more space than a ghost.
She had a room full of memories that didn’t belong to her.
Sometimes she made up stories about the girl who lived there.
she looked at photos of fickle smiles and wondered,
Who is this
Poem submission by asimplenobody
From the bowels of the dark room
came “I’ll do it later.”
Its source, the quiet mumble of
Its body smelled of dirt and grime,
its hair was unshaven,
the deep black seemed to seep out from
its ungodly haven.
The TV flickered COPS reruns,
frozen food for dinner -
would it get the work done in time,
this great slothful sinner?
The screen was half-filled with some text
of incomplete paper
from long before, when its focus
was so prone to taper.
The mind lost track and did wander
Its thoughts, they were scattered
It was busy scanning Tumblr;
Its right mission - shattered.
So say a prayer for the writer
of this piece so pallid
for The Procrastinator was
author of this ballad.
Poem submission by E.K.Merrick
That ache for the sound of the rain on a tin roof,
to be held tight during a summer’s storm,
or lie awake in each other’s sweat on a
humid Sydney night.
Familiar voices, horizons like the scars on my hands
and that soothing lick of a language.
That ache to drive north on the Pacific, speeding away from
the harbour and lights. And for an hour,
but the gums and the great expanse of the Hawkesbury.
And that ache to go back to those small coastal places
that define us more than we want to admit.
These places that we flee from, for fear that their rips
will drag us down and coerce us to stay in the sea,
a life lived as it always has been.
But it’s in these places to fall into the
arms of people loved forever,
despite our ever-shifting and contrasting landscapes.
And it’s these small coastal places that soothes this ache,
And it’s there to return home to, smiling.
Poem submission by life-between-words
Thoughtless, I wander,
aimlessly roam streets
on this spring evening
when I saw it.
Is it a dream –
in this big city
such a tranquil place
– I don’t know.
I find myself looking,
can’t quite define
what or who
I’m looking for.
Golden sunset bathes
small windows of serene
happy shiny people.
Somebody’s husband and child
so similar to my
husband and child
who I don’t have.
So I’m watching, guarding
in this floating world.
Breathe in, breath out, let go.
I bring myself to walk away
side by side with the future
I can’t hold on to.
Poem submission by Melissa Watt
Poem submission by samcrossman1981
How did you know what you were meant to be?
The Kingfisher said, to his friend in the tree,
I didn’t they said, I was born with this beak,
I can dive really well, for the fish that I seek,
I leap off this branch and with speed and with poise,
I fish for my fish, without making a noise,
The Kingfisher sighed and agreed it’s innate,
But confessed to his friend in the tree, that of late,
Whilst kingfishing, he’s wishing that he’s somewhere else,
Deciding what he wants in life, for himself,
It’s all well and all good, if his family and friends,
Spend their lives, doing just, what their body best lends,
But for him, he can see that although he is built,
as a fishing machine, there’s no feeling of guilt,
When next he wakes up, and he steps from his tree,
He will fly to the heavens, good heavens he’s free.
Poem submission by Cooper Callinan
dull the encounter of being,
tire the senses to a standstill,
maybe we can breathe.
dispose of the intellect,
trade imagination for currency,
maybe we can sleep.
oh, it is a terrible sun to evolve with,
shoes staggering achingly into years.
ah, it is some telling of the paper,
maimed honest to have filled its page.
and of what else, but to
find recovery in inspiration,
as to arm precision down to
its every squint,
when poetics are a best-burnt secret
and sex another sell-out drug.
what of the simmering
madness in silence?
what of its persistence
speak! such daring sun.
a scorch so quiet.
and a dare works: somewhere
warmth and cancer;
beauty and dehydration;
light unto blindness;
god into death.
tell me that bit about heaven
one more time.
tell me that bit with
I just can’t see with
these cataract eyes.
Poem submission by Megan Cordero
I curl my feet up
Bone by bone
Until I’ve risen
To my toes
Calves and thighs
Lift my chest
Arms curved up
To the sky
And I’m floating
Light as air
Port de bras
Floating through the clouds
And I’m in
Gliding through the atmosphere
And I’m spinning
Arms reach and pull
Back and forth
And I’m flying
I feel the sun
My hair whips round
My pulse grows quicker
Losing every minute
Throwing caution to the wind
Ripping through the stars
Further from the earth
And I’m gone
No one can touch me here.
The music stops
And I’m back on solid ground
My toes are bleeding
No tears or remorse
Stand up straight
And press play again.
Poem submission by chaos-industries
Sheathed in my chest,
Drunk from my blood.
Pain making me move,
Giving reasons to exist.
Gripping the bone hilt
I pull it free, applying
Crimson tip to paper,
Speaking neither love
Words flow free
Like blood and tears
Then the well runs dry,
I must dip my quill in ink.
The blade plunges.
Poem submission by Lynn Jago
Simon thought the ocean a puddle
He stepped in and found himself in trouble
All around strange wonderful creatures
Grotesque and joyful were their features
All seemed to play, fair and square
Nobody pointed, nobody stared
What a pleasant place! thought Simon
When I go back, I must remember where to find them!
The land felt so murky after that
He pondered on a rock as he sat
The air was in fact quite smelly, he amused
He felt like a filter being used and abused
I must find a way to join the creatures of the sea!
Maybe a mask and snorkel is all I need be
So he attached a long snorkel to his humanly head
And forever more in the sea he made his bed.
Poem submission by Kathy Short
I don’t know what I want to be when I grow up.
I don’t know what I wanna say or do.
I don’t even know what I want to be tomorrow,
But I know I want to be like you.
The way that you talk or the way that you walk
Aren’t that important to me.
It’s the kindness and love and strength that you bring
To everyone you meet.
If I am a doctor, a lawyer, a sailor,
A basketball player or vandal or tailor:
It wouldn’t matter to me, the things that I do,
As long as I did them like you.
If I have kids of my own, one day down the road,
I will teach them how to have fun.
They will run around, jump off of things,
Playing all day in the sun.
But when it is dark and clouds shield the light,
They will run inside to me,
And I will be like you, I will teach them
All the things my mom taught me.
Poem submission by John E. Becker
He put boats in my sky
And on that day I died
They floated to heaven
As I followed along
Playing sweet music together
Singing their song
The skies were green
And the seas were blue
Where to sail
Only St. Peter knew
My face reflected
In the waves of truth
The clouds broke free
And we fell through
Now we sailed
Past stars and suns
To a place of kindness
A land without guns
The souls were happy
Yet no faces they had
In a boat all alone
Were those who were sad
It was only their feelings of emotion that died
No subjects to speak
No knowledge to gain
We all knew all
And that way it would remain
Was it happiness that we found
In that place void of sound
Or was it an ending to all
The climax of heavens great call
Poem submission by feeltheillinoise
he hoarded towers,
the trembling mountains
the choked the valleys
of his floor.
in the fires, suffocating,
velvet theater seats are breaking,
and everything that seemed
doesn’t seem so anymore.
maybe it’s the fire’s light-
the need to be remembered
or remember what we were;
in lists and fists and movie scripts,
in everything we’ve got or shot-
or maybe it’s the human plea,
the “let me be” or “set me free.”
we all still live accordingly.
Poem submission by sutakimu
I’m trying to understand this suffering sky,
you painted black much of your time
Empathy, chemical reaction to my thoughts
Lightning, thunder to break my stare,
Explodes, ravishes a rainstorm,
your innermost spark belongs there
wonderful abyss, can’t be denied or washed away
Drops falling only on my face,
reflection of every single smile I make,
catching your words as soul’s flights,
sound of precious stones, intensity
when sunrises transfix my eyes
how can you estimate immensity?
Resilient roots, maybe gold but for now rusty and small.
Drops of soul through your fingers,
Pure water, infinite source,
sweetness and light.
I wrote a rebel emotion on my skin
The sunset with it’s rumble,
whispers of a starry sky,
warm wind,a striking rainbow,
fluffy clouds to admire,
it’s time for love
Poem submission by Elisabeth Watson
It was bread that survived.
Motives undisclosed and
Holy insofar as it was silent.
All other furniture was lost to the war:
Ligament and password, loves
uncataloged and cataloged, the universe
as it was before Copernicus–
innocent as we left it, sleeping on the hearth.
Should you find yourself
Homeless with a stove but not a language,
Salt the flour, salt the water, salt the blue flame and the yeast
Salt the ghosts of your table your chairs your pulpit
Salt the fields and the wells and never look back.
The bread of life
Is the bread your father gave you
When you asked him for a stone.
It is the bread that did not rise when you fled slavery in the night.
The bread that grew while you were sleeping, faithless even to yourself.
Who will come hungry to my table?
The mute heart’s oldest question
sits down, unanswered, to a feast.
What it tastes there, strangely, is God
making for safe harbor,
his whole horizon changed
when he finds himself
anchored beyond all famine
What you remember at the altar
is your body, not your name.