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The Knockout There was this woman at the fight. You can’t see her in photographs or in that famous painting of Dempsey falling through the ring either -- but she was there. It wasn’t his wife. She wore a little fox stole that he’d bought her and a pink cloche hat over her white blonde hair, what a knockout. When he fell, she played it real cool, didn’t cry out or gasp or anything Just murmured Jack, Jack in her low sweet voice. Yes, he was a brute -- but she loved him anyway. 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. No Bird Flies in a Storm
Try to hold still in a downpour, to stop shoulders and sternum from scrunching into your spine. The pelting spittle of cold anger gets to make everyone shorter, smaller. Never asks for permission. Each drop an icy NO over and over until blued skin screams its own shivering retreat. Birds are smart; birds know to fly for cover, they hide in meshed tree limbs, under eaves and leaves. They’ve the sense to listen to their little brains and hunker down, await the storm’s passage. Avoid the rain. How I wish for the sense of a bird. Perhaps I’d not be here again in emerge, waiting for the x-rays of my bruised and battered face, deflecting the kind nurse who sighs while slipping a hand around my back, asking ‘How did it happen?’, while I shrink and complain how steep my stairs, how Tony found me, brought me in. He waits, perched in the car. He’ll drive home quickly, not saying a word, and I’ll watch, listening for the next storm to roll in. Crystal Snoddon Crystal Snoddon is addicted to words, and enjoys both reading and writing to make some sense of the world. Previous and forthcoming publications of poetry can be found at SickLit Magazine, Rat's Ass Review, The Quarterday Review, Poetry Breakfast among others. Girl
Once a girl, barely more. Upon finding that boys like her better when she kisses them, she loans out her lips. A museum of photos, mostly of herself, wither on her mirror. Time to lock the door. Maddison Scott Maddison Scott lives on a big island and is the author of numerous unwritten novels. Her work has appeared in The Molotov Cocktail, Subterranean Quarterly, SpeckLit and Eunoia Review. You can find more of her writing at: https://maddisonscott.wordpress.com/ Untitled
the metal scent of sweat and blood spot lights blind the smack of glove to jaw rope burns the bell rings as the last blow lands groans of loss Deborah Guzzi This poem was written as part of the 20 Poem Challenge. Deborah Guzzi is a healing facilitator specializing in Shiatsu and Reiki. She writes for Massage and Aromatherapy publications. She travels the world seeking writing inspiration. She has walked the Great Wall of China and visited Nepal (during the civil war), Japan, Egypt (two weeks before “The Arab Spring”), Peru, and France (during December’s terrorist attacks). Her poetry appears in Magazines: here/there: poetry in the UK, Existere - Journal of Arts and Literature in Canada, Tincture in Australia, Cha: Asian Literary Review, Hong Kong, China, Eunoia in Singapore, Latchkey Tales in New Zealand, Vine Leaves Literary Journal in Greece, mgv2>publishing in France, RedLeaf Poetry, India and Travel by the Book, Ribbons: Tanka Society of America Journal, Sounding Review, Kyso Flash, The Aurorean, Crack the Spine Literary Magazine, Liquid Imagination, Poetry Quarterly, Page & Spine and others in the USA. Her new book The Hurricane is available now through Prolific Press. Ernst Neuschul : Messiah 1919
The war is over I am one who lived to tell Trapped in time In the continuity of tradition To have felt the finality of no more On our collective skeletal flesh Back to the beginning We are resigned But with the imprint in our sleeping and our waking I jump up aware in the darkness Gasping for air Of an evil imp on my chest I am mad with guilt and memories I was so afraid to be afraid My eyes are wild I come from nothing And go back to nowhere I have been stripped of my pride All has changed in one dark long night I wrap my ragged uniform around me Put my feet on the path The sun’s rays illuminate the day And my way The iron mountains rise in the distance I am one man Survivor of all that Now I can only trudge onward and endure Miriam Gampel Miriam Gampel writes from Toronto, Ontario. Glove Model
The photo shows the kind of hand a film star might have draped across the chaise, garbed in its splendid sheath of skin, taupe to the tips of ten unvarnished nails. Sinuous and shapely, no glove adorns it, only a ring and golden cuff set just above the wrist, a cigarette in its long holder burning low, about to loose an avalanche of ash. Robbi Nester This poem was written for the 20 Poem Challenge. Robbi Nester is the author of an ekphrastic chapbook titled Balance (White Violet, 2012) and other poetry collections. Her work has been published widely in journals and anthologies, including Cimarron Review, Broadsided, Silver Birch Press, Poemeleon, and Inlandia. Truth Be Told
I am Venus, the goddess most desired and bold. Without shame, men seek my likeness in flesh not stone. There is no truth in any myth which shows me cold. What storm, what wood or evil would not lose control when into Terra’s sight my light has overshown? I am Venus, the goddess most desired and bold. Deny the slick of oil upon brittle board, behold, my hair, rays of the sun, my child, I’d not bemoan; There is no truth in any myth which shows me cold. Hired, paid to paint, this artist who the crown extolled fought with his faith, paints me sinful Eve, skin and bone. I am Venus, the goddess most desired and bold. Many lovers I have had, Gods get left my folds, Goddess of creation, I rose from sea fathers foam. There is no truth in any myth which shows me cold. Of man’s heart and hand, of his mortal frightened soul this one paints, his own fears, he fears to be alone. I am Venus, the goddess most desired and bold. There is no truth in any myth which shows me cold. Deborah Guzzi This poem was written as part of the 20 Poem Challenge. Deborah Guzzi is a healing facilitator specializing in Shiatsu and Reiki. She writes for Massage and Aromatherapy publications. She travels the world seeking writing inspiration. She has walked the Great Wall of China and visited Nepal (during the civil war), Japan, Egypt (two weeks before “The Arab Spring”), Peru, and France (during December’s terrorist attacks). Her poetry appears in Magazines: here/there: poetry in the UK, Existere - Journal of Arts and Literature in Canada, Tincture in Australia, Cha: Asian Literary Review, Hong Kong, China, Eunoia in Singapore, Latchkey Tales in New Zealand, Vine Leaves Literary Journal in Greece, mgv2>publishing in France, RedLeaf Poetry, India and Travel by the Book, Ribbons: Tanka Society of America Journal, Sounding Review, Kyso Flash, The Aurorean, Crack the Spine Literary Magazine, Liquid Imagination, Poetry Quarterly, Page & Spine and others in the USA. Her new book The Hurricane is available now through Prolific Press. |
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