Rivers runWinding through willow grovesCasting light on the setting sunTears of dying lightSettle on horizon’s nightOceans comeAs comets runTails of bliss to kiss the sunOf glory’s dayHow simple it has becomeGo down where the river runsBathe yourself in tears of those goneBits of light grace your eyesA cycle of timeThrough you it all comes to life. By Jena Tapia, ©2020See more of Jena Tapia’s Poetry here. Return to Poetry Gallery
What does the flowersay to me? It says,open yourselfto the lightunconditionally.Grow your rootsmost trustinglyinto the warm,receiving earth.The deeper,the stronger.
Mounding mustard faith.A tiny start; bigger end.A bloom, drops, becomes.
visions of birdsin colorsof elementaryparachutespectrum time and all itsperceivedvariablesevaporateinto man-madememory
Do not fear the music stoppingFor life is an eternal orchestraThe greatest musicianAnd when you close your eyesIt is the pauseBefore the next masterpiece By Sol, ©2020 Return to Poetry Gallery
A woman named foreversat on the porchwatching her children play. Each one was more beautiful than the last. Friend was water,the majesty of seasons,sheafs of wheat,stomachs bound with truth. Lover was gold beneath the abyss,eye of newt in clouds,flattened rage, and shiverin a single thunderbolt. Child, and her depth,her boundless hour,had no name. Forever felt a pang of regret.All threeso much like their father,destined to run. But on this dayno more than the sound oftires in the driveway,and the childrenran inside to greet him. The heart of foreverstill swoonedinto thelightthe herothe soulthe nothingnessthe god of god of god. By Bracelet, ©2020See more of Bracelet’s Poetry here. Return to Poetry Gallery
He has been on his feetsince the purple of dawnAn artist hunched over thecanvases of open bodies,employing his scalpels and retractorslike paintbrushes and chisels He is an organic visionarywho dreams of pastel bones, of clay fleshHe is mercifully dedicatedto the soulful monumentswho set themselves at his handsand sleep until their murals are complete When the lights of his studio dim,he removes the smock smeared with scarletHe washes off pallets of tissue and skinand exits the Operating Room suite,already musing about the human monumentshe has yet to be inspired by By Fae Kay, ©2020See more of Fae Kay’s Poetry here. Return to Poetry Gallery
younger than mesweeter than I could ever be what is more lonesomethan the youththat drags its own wings through the dirt?what else would I have done? I’ve watched hope springtime and time againcling its moist rootsto arid land somehow as infertile a wild;some auspice offeredto skin softer than mine what I’d lostbefore they’d begun to gainbucks buried in the halogenof the world ahead and what small sorrow it crows for yetlike a father’s shaking handsbefore I knew what trembling was or what such a shaken man begets or life along the highway lineanother cry carried on the airthreatened like road-wandering swinea frightened feral what is more uncaringthan childhood fancy –what is more forgetful of me? how abrupt has it beenand then to end in collisionflame spiraling, firing off its hot spittle –the youngest of the few never quite young enough By toukakouka, ©2020See more of toukakouka’s Poetry here. Return to Poetry Gallery
To My Children: I’m laughing at myself,As I am prone to do becauseWhy I Always Carry TissuesIs the title of a poemI write for you. There is a story here,Of parenting, and responsibiltiesThat transcends yourself, defines me,Vis-a-vis you,then and there, and maybe now. When you were small,I took you by the hand,The cement canyons, trails & riversof West Eighty Six Street,Together, we would ford. Periodically, as Fathers are prone to do,Your hand, from my hand,I would releaseSo you could fall down,All on your own. It bemused me that I could seeThree or four paces ahead of theeExactly which crack,Upon which you would trip,And come crying back to me. Back-to-me.That was then.And now,Yes, no more,Back-to-me. But I always had tissuesto dry your eyesAnd no surprise,I still do,Always will. These days, they,more likely used to dry mine,As I have forded that Styxy river,When crossed, you spend more of the day,Liking Back more,Then looking ahead. No matter, by right and tradition,It is still
what is mine?my name–a collection of soundsborn from someoneelse’s mouth,vocal manipulation–how is it mine? hands like clouds–forms of vapor,visibleandintangible–are they mine? this flesh bagof organs and bone–born from someoneelse’s cells,its cells willdie, it will die,and the i that i thinki am–the mind madefrom memories–will also die, and the soundthat i thinki amcalled by willnever be uttered–is it mine? By Bina Perino, ©2020See Bina Perino’s Instagram, here. Return to Poetry Gallery
Be with mein all of my intricacies.A stripped,bare bones woman.Standing, shivering.Moaning as deepas the windas it sings its eternal,howling song.Living humblyon and onas the ancientworld goes round.It is difficult to keephuman feet on the ground.Goes against instinctto ascend, release. Freedom is some sortof winged thing.Some sort of untamed,urge-driven beastthat never even thinksto see itself.It cannot conceptualizeanything else,but the momentthat lies out before it.It knows no torment.No tortureof seconds and hours —iron hands that ticktheir meaningless powerupon even the mostmeaningful of lives.Limiting and frighteningour physical mindsinto rejectingtheir very own flesh. In the past, I wretchedupon such fears at night.Turned to the solaceof other realmsthat I beheldbehind my eyes.So desperately,endlesslydid I consciously tryto keep both feethere upon the earth —feeling the rough dustdeep within my lungsas I learned to cherishthe human hurts.I tried to ignorethe seductive, siren callof those ageless,tenacious depthsthat would ultimatelyprove falsemy mortal pretendingthat there truly isa death. Yet I will alwaysfeel and sensethat limitless,winged thing —gliding utterly freein all
Two fishing poles, a feather,a leather jacket with holeson both elbows, forty-fourdollars and change inan envelope, some dope,a pair of worn out cowboy boots,a clay flute shaped like a birdthat can’t whistle a tune worth a lick,an unused bus ticket, a pictureof two kids laughing pretendingto fly; an eyelash in my eye. By Rick R. Richardson, M.A., RPA, ©2020To Read Rick R. Richardson’s Interview on Arts of Thought, Click Here. Return to Poetry Gallery
An old man in blue suspendersgazed down at his wifewho had just slipped awayin this hospital Her last breath was takenat 2152, documented by doc’s writingwhat started with chest painended in this dimly lit room The old man looked up at megravity pulled a tear to his shoeI blinked, the room began to spin The old manin blue suspendersthen calmly said, “As I look down at her wrinkled faceand thin lips,I can vividly remember the dayour friendship began Her eyes were full of lifeher red lips plump,her smile made my heartbrew emotions that wouldn’t pass We talked about these thingsthat made life seem so right She was my best friend. Now here lies her peaceful facewashed away and paledeath has finally taken heras it will me But those moments,those moments of lifethe bliss and her youthlive on immortally she’s still there in my mindthat young girl,with fire in her eyes.” By IrieSide, ©2020 Return to Poetry Gallery