Seeing No Tomorrow Dead wood hard and brittle that won’t take fire veins choked with dust heartwood black as the space between the stars strange as dark matter a grief invisible and wordless so deep the world moves back forever out of reach no welcome for you in that perfect light no absolution- you are the opposite of possibility a stopped watch a dead end a mouth without a tongue a bridge that ends abrupt in empty air Mary McCarthy This poem was written as part of the 20 Poem Challenge. Mary McCarthy has always been a writer, but spent most of her working life as a Registered Nurse. Her work has appeared in many online and print journals, including Earth's Daughters, Gnarled Oak, Third Wednesday and Three Elements Review. She is grateful for the wonderful online communities of writers and poets sharing their work and passion for writing, providing a rich world of inspiration, appreciation, and delight.
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Furious Answers
The answer is definitely NO! I don't want a hopeless sky layered with shades of dark grey diffusing to pale teal on the near horizon. I don't want my view squared off limited and restricted by blank, silent or unstretched canvas. I want hope I want light sunlight and nuances of shade. I want colour nature humanity. I want contesting contrasting startling arresting uplifting questioning visions. I want painters, photographers carvers and engravers, collagists and ceramicists weavers and wordsmiths with their delicious, curious, glorious, furious answers to burst from the frames set my mind on fire. Sue Dymoke This poem was written as part of the 20 Poem Challenge. Sue Dymoke is Reader in Education and National Teaching Fellow at the University of Leicester, UK. Her research focuses on poetry pedagogy (for example: Dymoke, Barrs, Lambirth and Wilson, Making Poetry Happen: transforming the poetry classroom, published by Bloomsbury in 2015). Her second full poetry collection is Moon at the Park and Ride (2012, Shoestring Press) and she is published widely in poetry magazines. Sue blogs occasionally at http://suedymokepoetry.com. .
Theory of Un-nest A bird in space is God’s prosthetic finger, gold as the flake in His eye, as the quick of His nail, as the phallic anti-gravity of His yearning. A bird in space is wings melted to breast, gold as alchemical steam, as a nail biting to clap one world to another. A bird in space—a theory of un-nest, gold-black, like when the sun charades a black hole, a nail turned crayon in morning ozone. Laura Page This poem was written as part of the 20 Poem Challenge. Laura Page is a graduate of Southern Oregon University where she studied English and Sociology and was the recipient of her program's Herman Schmeling Award for non-fiction writing. Her work has appeared in many literary publications, including Red Paint Hill, The Minola Review, Tinderbox Poetry Journal, and KIndred. Her chapbook, "Children, Apostates" is forthcoming from Dancing Girl Press The Allure of Self-Destruction We assume we’ll recognize Death rattling in his raven cloak, pointing a finger bone our way. What if he is sometimes a SHE who changes clothes faster than a model? Addicted to parties, Death nods at advances, reaches with sharpened claws for a light. Casts a spell with her wand of smoke – ashes to ashes, lust to lust. Before the crowd clears, she’ll lure someone to follow her home. Alarie Tennille This poem was written as part of the 20 Poem Challenge. Alarie Tennille was born and raised in Portsmouth, Virginia, and graduated from the University of Virginia in the first class admitting women. She became fascinated by fine art at an early age, even though she had to go to the World Book Encyclopedia to find it. Today she visits museums everywhere she travels and spends time at the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art in Kansas City, Missouri, where her husband is a volunteer guide. Alarie’s poetry book, Running Counterclockwise, contains many ekphrastic poems. Please visit her at alariepoet.com. The Starling Cut-out comic strips rainy afternoon squiggles smears of lipstick photos with marker-blackened faces stray feathers spilled paint-- I have given up these shreds and shards these puzzles pieces these fragments of finger pointing self-guided self-aimed missiles missives on my failures. Instead I will unite them quilt a bird with a humour-lined face a wingful of white-hot sun a body coloured with waterfall- curtained haikus and opal eyes whose lustre shifts between twilit forest midday ocean desert sky devoured by stars. The canvas opens to catch my starling fling it out to corners splash it in the centre its sheen flashing purpose. Taunja Thomson This poem was written for the 20 Poem Challenge. Taunja Thomson: "My poetry has most recently appeared in Anti-Heroin Chic and will be featured in the September 2016 issue of Halcyon Days. Two of my poems have been nominated for the Pushcart Award: “Seahorse and Moon” in 2005 and “I Walked Out in January” in 2016. I have co-authored a chapbook of ekphrastic poetry which has recently been accepted for publication and have a writer’s page at https://www.facebook.com/TaunjaThomsonWriter" The Prophet
The man in the hat points to the sky tells the lady it’s going to pour frogs better open her umbrella. Creatures don’t fall from the sky only rain I’m not worried she says haughty-like. That’s why I’ve got a crutch and no leg answers the man in the hat I paid no mind to warnings now look. Oh dear says the lady and hurries on. Tricia Marcella Cimera This poem was written as part of the 20 Poem Challenge. Tricia Marcella Cimera will forever be an obsessed reader and lover of words. Look for her work in these diverse places: Buddhist Poetry Review, The Ekphrastic Review, Foliate Oak, Fox Adoption, Hedgerow, I Am Not A Silent Poet, Mad Swirl, Silver Birch Press, Stepping Stones, Yellow Chair Review, and elsewhere. She has a micro collection of water-themed poems called THE SEA AND A RIVER on the Origami Poems Project website. Tricia believes there’s no place like her own backyard and has traveled the world (including Graceland). She lives with her husband and family of animals in Illinois / in a town called St. Charles / by a river named Fox. Thoughts During Taps
Our hearts are bereft, heavy with their absence. Why do we trumpet them off to war to consecrate them to the ground with bugles? They rally in the name of country and go down like moths in a storm of flames, heavy with the misfortune of violence. Though skin be black or white the same honour is leeched from the same milky bones. We stand subdued at this moment, each of us with a visage in mind as a sort of last rite. They remain ever valiant stars but we, in the interim, think our country downright bereft as we receive folded stripes from white-gloved hands in exchange for flesh and bone. Rebecca Weigold This poem was written as part of the 20 Poem Challenge. Rebecca Weigold's poems have appeared in Black River Review, Perceptions, Up Against the Wall, Mother, and other publications. In 1987, she founded/published The Cincinnati Poets' Collective, an annual poetry journal which featured the work of poets for a decade. An Incomplete Alphabet
W-E- A for ache, an acre, a field of oats N for new words in your mouth, N for now, for noise: grain in a digital world, the random optical texture of a photograph, over- enlarged, exposed a grainy image: round of cheek to round of breast a curtain of sleeve, blouse: the round of earth from space is the round of the baby’s earring, round of her ear Exposed on park bench, concealed under trees to enclose you, me: W-E: light passing between (For angle, for ache) above the breast, the heart: over-enlarged in nursing room art: Dar pecho, un regalo que dura toda una vida a pattern just like the original light source as with seed, Modotti scattered sun onto film Not giving, this morning: I hear your chair legs winnow the floor, reaching for spooned oats in your father’s hand W-E- (for grain, for give forgive me) & you reach for grain instead, for ache You cry my name Pure your gentle name, pure your fragile life Neruda wrote of Modotti when she died & gave her a garland of earthly things to soften her exile: a rosary of bees, shadows, fire Little seed, pepita, granar--we lift the leaves in your flip-flap book “Why do flowers die?” Because they are no longer needed In the photograph, the baby’s mouth blossoms over the mother’s breast round as earth from far away Melissa Reeser Poulin This poem was written as part of the 20 Poem Challenge. Melissa Reeser Poulin is a poet and writer in the Pacific Northwest. Her poems and essays appear in a variety of publications and can be viewed at melissareeserpoulin.com. Shadow Puppets
Behind the parchment screen and eye to eye Punch chided. Who are you? Who is she? He’d point it out. You’d see. No marionette with strings was he. Their paths collided; Judy stands and faces his animosity The play is writ by man and maid and staged to teach, the right and wrong of woman’s position, our place. Standing on two legs, she meets his gaze without speech. what shenanigan have brought on this crutched lambaste. Let us ponder Mr. Punchinell’s stance, his missing leg let his two-eyed profile tease, has Judy been upstaged? Stumped by the shadow lore, the punch, the audience begs for the stiff necked tirade to end her pick engaged. Speared by humour, we see two realities spar on with no means to run, the missing third prong’s a pun. Deborah Guzzi This poem was written for the 20 Poem Challenge. Deborah Guzzi, author of The Hurricane, writes full time. The Hurricane is available ataleezadelta@aol.com and through Prolific Press. Her poetry appears regularly in journals & literary reviews in the UK, Canada, Australia, Hong Kong, Singapore, New Zealand, Greece, Spain, France, India & dozens of others in the USA. http://www.the-hurricanedg.com/ Winter’s Rush
The road waxed cerulean stood divided in half-- it began with wild horses bucking their bounds gymnasts pirouetting between bars ricocheting between mat and sky hurtling themselves into the clean black of space their backs straight as summer scepters Later the road became a path waned dusky slate its pockmarks filled with splashes of grey burbling like exhausted lava littered with postage stamps from unwanted letters the same dog licking her wounds every mile patina’d poppies their heads on pavement listening for winter’s rush. Taunja Thomson This poem was written for the 20 Poem Challenge. Taunja Thomson: "My poetry has most recently appeared in Anti-Heroin Chic and will be featured in the September 2016 issue of Halcyon Days. Two of my poems have been nominated for the Pushcart Award: “Seahorse and Moon” in 2005 and “I Walked Out in January” in 2016. I have co-authored a chapbook of ekphrastic poetry which has recently been accepted for publication and have a writer’s page at https://www.facebook.com/TaunjaThomsonWriter" |
The Ekphrastic Review
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