0 Comments
Gray and Gold
Gazing at the crossroads Endless gold, ominous gray Tornado on its way Cathy Bennett This poem was part of the 20 Poem Challenge. Cathy Bennett is a Toronto based writer and visual artist. Her background includes copywriting and editorial feature writing, primarily for travel and art publications. She writes short stories, poetry and is currently working on a memoir/art book about her life with the late artist John Molnar. She also loves to paint en plein air. Prelude
A room at the beach. A young man, shirtless, stands on the threshold, looking out. Everything is flat, unmodulated, even the ocean, lifeless, one limp wave coming in. His body posed in the doorway, is smooth as paper, no rough edges left to catch the world as it slides away. There is nothing in the empty room. Behind him, sharp angles and flat surfaces. Only one weighted object, a gun on the table, three dimensional, a solid complicated shape intricately realized ready for use. 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. She has had many publications in journals, including Earth's Daughters, Caketrain, and The Evening Street Review, among others. She has only recently discovered the vibrant poetry communities on the internet, where there is so much to explore and enjoy. Response to In Flanders Fields by Dirk Lemmens The world does not weep it is only rain falling the world does not bleed it is only a field of red poppies grown thick on wounded earth closed over the bones of young men Bones here so long they are clean all the squalor of torn flesh dissolved absorbed by organisms of decay and transmuted into new earth Under the rain and the living red the white bones rest absolved of all dissension empty and content to remember nothing 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. She has had many publications in journals, including Earth's Daughters, Caketrain, and The Evening Street Review, among others. She has only recently discovered the vibrant poetry communities on the internet, where there is so much to explore and enjoy. Girl Interrupted At Her Music
She demurred, for what it’s worth. Hounds outside the window tug & war putters in a ditch somewhere. The dogs wrench apart a muskrat carcass. Breath reeking of garbage & clove cigarettes, his kiss reminds her of the black attic spider which sunk its teeth into her hand until it swelled, hot & pink like the dusk dipping behind purple hills. Tonight, she’ll sneak quietly across the lawn to the ridge, burrs on the way will cling to her hem, honeysuckle, a warren to avoid, but she’ll press forward. To hear music you have to suck out the poisonous noise. Jim Davis This poem was written as part of the 20 Poem Challenge. JIM DAVIS is a student of Human Development and Psychology at Harvard University and has previously studied at Northwestern University and Knox College. He reads for TriQuarterly and his work has appeared in Bellevue Literary Review, The Harvard Crimson, Portland Review, Midwest Quarterly, and California Journal of Poetics, among others. In addition to writing and painting, Jim is an international semi-professional American football player. @JimDavisArt The Pink Studio
Old drapes torn from their pliant rods draped over a new canvas in patterns of low maintenance infatuation. On we go, looming over the textile factory, a cello buried in the workshop closet is enigmatic, so he stains it pink. Pink like children, crustacean pink, since repeating an idea is subtle masturbation. Bells toll, silhouettes are self-possessed though when the spider dies its web unravels. Repeat the past, paint it pink & sit there for eternity, stoic like a charm. Soon the lambs will enter, then the wolves dragging pray to stain the powdery snow. Jim Davis This poem was written for the 20 Poem Challenge. JIM DAVIS is a student of Human Development and Psychology at Harvard University and has previously studied at Northwestern University and Knox College. He reads for TriQuarterly and his work has appeared in Bellevue Literary Review, The Harvard Crimson, Portland Review, Midwest Quarterly, and California Journal of Poetics, among others. In addition to writing and painting, Jim is an international semi-professional American football player. @JimDavisArt Morning is a Sword
Slicing through roots of adages, the days are shorter & I count them. Lucky to be storm-chasing near the Pacific, eating fresh radishes. The farmer I once was can’t see the pirate I’ve become, darkness behind eyelids tied together by lashes in salty knots. Sharpened, this inglorious morning sprains into existence like the frayed hem on jeans turned into shorts or the Persian rug with pet stains or the fringes of day as it begins & always ends. Do I pull her stockings off the shower rack? They’re dry now, never wet. The ocean approaches like a sneeze. I fold napkins into weapons. Jim Davis This poem was written for the 20 Poem Challenge. JIM DAVIS is a student of Human Development and Psychology at Harvard University and has previously studied at Northwestern University and Knox College. He reads for TriQuarterly and his work has appeared in Bellevue Literary Review, The Harvard Crimson, Portland Review, Midwest Quarterly, and California Journal of Poetics, among others. In addition to writing and painting, Jim is an international semi-professional American football player. @JimDavisArt Specters of Doom War roars above ~ a hemisphere gone coal black, blasted with skin ~ned ash, soot ~scores the sky and rubble roils; blood can not travel on the wind. Lines cross, posts cross, peace cru~ cified. Food thought, wry humor displayed in fields of grain from sea to sea. Commun~ nication cut-off deafened by the omnipresent gale. Fenced in safety a jest. The gold~ en fuel, isolation will not save us. War roars above ~ a hemisphere gone coal black blasted with skin ~ned ash, soot scores the sky and rubble roils Blood can not travel the wind. 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. Black Canyon
The deep reds and blacks of exposed rock beckons visitors to the very edge – their eyes beyond. Downward drawn, over and into one thousand feet of striated schist cleaved by the giant axe we call the Guniston. swallows like boomerangs fly hot air building Joann Grisetti Joann Grisetti grew up in Sasebo Japan and eighteen other places. She now lives in Florida with her husband and two sons. Her poetry, photos and stories have appeared in a number of print and online journals. This poem was written for the 20 Poem Challenge. |
The Ekphrastic Review
COOKIES/PRIVACY
This site uses cookies to deliver your best navigation experience this time and next. Continuing here means you consent to cookies. Thank you. Join us on Facebook:
Tickled Pink Contest
April 2024
|