I see your face at night, angelic in its simplicity and unaware of life’s turmoil. I hear you voice, language unknown so no words can hurt you. I feel your touch, soft and unblemished, devoid of the calluses your parents wear. I love you deeply and so unbound. The universe weeps at how small it feels. By Larry Ratliff, ©2022See Larry’s website here Return to Poetry Gallery

If You Write It They Will Come

Come read the words that flow from my heart Observe my humble start. Come take a peek at the pieces of my mind The thoughts that escape it from inside. Come forth to hear the song of my soul Notes ranging—from high to low. By Eleanor Lorene Lowe, ©2021See more of Eleanor’s Poetry here. RETURN TO POETRY GALLERY

Hopscotch Annie

Annie resides to the right, below the last rib,a carefully crafted forttucked under my diaphragm, gall bladder just beneath.   She peeks between the foldsglimpsing toward thefleshy foundation that keeps herfrom tumbling into the organelle abyss.  Annie’s always afraid, molding nervy clumps fromher tangled fears, then lobs them hightoward the gray sky, her worried masses land squarelywithin my neuron weave – and she celebrates.   She will be heard today. Without a tantrum-tesseract elevatoredto the misconstrued mainframe or rocks ricocheted off my aortic valve.  I say, “I’m here, what do you want to say, Annie?” Annie sits crisscross applesauce onmy pelvic floor, etching her initials into pubic bone.  She picks at a scab, and whispers, “I’m nervous.”  I say, “I promise, I know what I am doing, and I thank you for being cautious.You help me.”  A string appears, tied to her finger, a bobbing balloon aboveinflated and lofty with compassion.  Annie stops engraving;hopscotches across my iliac crest, realizing it’s high time to find a new

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Sometimes, What we knowMay not be so. What we wantMay not be good for us. What happensMay not be what we expected We may believeOur blessings are being blocked When really the blockCould be the blessing We’re seeking We must learnTo bend like the trees. By Edmund Black, ©2021See more of Edmund Black’s Poetry here Return to Poetry Gallery

Pandemic Poems

    mid-july, 2020covid journal entry i live in the comfort and confinement         of my childhood bedroom        and i don’t know what age i am     i open my laptop,        click ‘Zoom’        and i am at work,            at school     i cling to my family        as we fight over quiet spaces            over bandwidth     i sanitize every box of crackers i bring home from the grocery store        like my life depends on this     i have nowhere to go         but i put on my brightest clothes,             and call a friend                to reclaim some life     mornings are quiet,        there is always a small dog        nestled in the covers at my side August 22, 2020isa posner gave me hope(text message transcript) “…How are you doing?” “…Well. School started up and Im cranking it!keeping my spirits up…” “Glad to hear…I’ve been up and down,trying to process

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Home is Wherever

I’ve livedmy entire lifebelieving thatHome is buildingA place where youget creative with allyour fancy decorationsyour fancy candle chandelier lightingsA place where I can cookall my fancy gourmet mealsWhile watching my big fancy televisionA place with my fancy four car garageswhere I can park my fancy toysEnter , live and lock my fancy twelve foot doorsAs I spent all my fancy earningsThen with a snap of my fingersone morning I got wised upI realized I was wrong the entire timeThose fancy things aren’t whattruly makes a home at allI was wrongI was broke wrongHome is the space in betweenyour heartHome is wherever I’m with youHome is wherever loveresides , memories are createdlike Instagram photos filling up your heartAnd where laughter never ends. By Edmund Black, ©2020See more of Edmund Black’s Poetry here Return to Poetry Gallery

The Last Hour in Town

Night storm was in townTenderness in eye and wandering in thoughtA cup of coffee in a shaky handLooked out the window;The clouds covered the bright starsDark trees were swaying in the windCreated humans’ faces in the pastWhile the rainwater slid slowly on its glassDrawing past places inside its frameLike a scattered picture of the road to south;A hazy road in the summer dayA few minutes remained to goThe dawn was waited in a placeOld books and souvenirs left on the groundSome I remember and others noSmall bag in a hand, no for more By Khalid Alshamrani, ©2020 Return to Poetry Gallery

Rivers Run

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


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

Story of a Resident Surgeon

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

Why I Always Carry Tissues

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

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what is mine?

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

A Winged Thing

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

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Things the Dead Leave

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

Fire In Her Eyes

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