Poetry

Call Me An Intellectual Tease
By Becky Brinkerhoff

I want to caress
your mind
and suck
your solitude.
You can penetrate
my thoughts
and insert
your intellect.
Let’s rip off
our defenses
and grind
each other’s gears.
I’m going to howl
my opinions
and tickle your ear
with my arguments.

Sometimes
By Becky Brinkerhoff

Sometimes, life shows you
something so slippery sweet
that you stupidly smack your lips
and tramp after some off-beat hero
(or possible undercover devil)
through an undiscovered maze,
curiosity carrying the lantern,
slipping in your naïve haze
tripping over that silk smile
(damn that silk smile)

Whatever Happened (to my morals)
By Becky Brinkerhoff

I spring up, wondering
what the hell happened
last night
and what happened to me.
I hazily stare, glazed eyes
still caked with last night’s
make-up
red lips still stained and smeared.
Who the fuck is that
why is she so familiar
to me
though, I swear, I’ve never looked like that.
I am still dressed in that little
black number and epitomize
the phrase
“the morning after”.
How do I know this girl
I’ve never been like this–
I promised
myself I’d never be like this.

“confluence”
By Denise Landreth

We watch, droplets percolate
Through taughtsheen skin, rivulets, leaf-paths
Silver threads weave through heartwood

Bequeath me, gift of stones, I’d take any throbbing above
Mal intent, greying newspapers, unused eyeglasses

Until blinking fumes from lashes
Sinks silent into membranes

The night before I left you, drunk and dozing, on the toilet
You shamed me, and my memory, and the untainted smile, those whisks of smoke, perfidious
fingers

In shadow leaves flames effusing, dancing above skin
The paint stains I refused to wash off, droplets of grey-blue and mud-green, below your
unglancing eye, drain slowly under our feet… your laugh closed your eyes.

Whorls of her fingerprints deepen
Small junctures under my knuckles and tongue—his accusatory gaze, color of uncolor, I lost the
taste of those eyes : In the pyre, white with bones and tears, searing a city’s anguish
A spear gentle as a whisper carves
These staircase ribs knobbed with cavern-flesh
We are not the same anymore, we never were
One, or even whole, in a moment of clarity I forget your name and remember a poem, In a
moment of anger I write of our tender kisses,
Warm mouths behind silver falls
This. rain. ignites
m y
body

do you remember the recipe we made together, the one with almost too much salt, or was that
the steak we had once for lunch? even though we forgot the reddish onions, not “scallions”…the
onions that aren’t really onions, in the back refrigerator wrapped in a plastic bag somewhere…?

after the—

springs tender, translucent bark
Ancient as thine furnace

“familiar”
By Denise Landreth

A polite shifting seized upon by cicadas, whose wings made of cedar and pitch thrashed at the
suggestion—the smell—of wasted breath. Ankles hesitate over grained concrete, fog shadows
alluding to endless black columns, hallway of dreamt glances. Are we all lost in this same haze?
Souls filtered and re-filtered through time, remnants of a forgotten echo? You couldn’t care;
the poisonous caterpillar on your arm has more potency than these husks. As she moves above
the faded wood, she pays those ghosts no mind. While my flesh pulsates, splits, gateways of
thorned cells redoubling I muse above mint fuzz, our spider skin meshed together, a secret you
understand before our eyes meet, before our names ripen. He drank those stars long ago, before
those nebulas formed new worlds. He knew their course; he said it was written in the fractured
skin along my fingers. Could we have known these gardens more intimately? Searing heart,
candle stub, each I pull slowly from my throat, all frogs rotted black. I light each on fire, nascent
babes I could not birth. Poetic fragments, what could be more disgusting? What matters is this
obstinate fly against a closed window, the hum of an idling car, the smoke that would retch, the
smoke I would retch if I could breathe that day once more, the shiver of your skin on my once
long and shorn happiness. Were our smiles designated for these scratchy clothes? In repeated
motion our scars lengthen, wrinkles settling—a clay water-vein trickles around the marsh pools of
your eyes, beyond the rotted logs and mossy ridges, past the dawn fog. My lids flutter under my
own anesthesia.


“…rightfully”
By Denise Landreth

And even after all of this,
I am sick of every lie and deceit.
I cannot bear the thought of shouted words
My stomach burns with acid for men that are not me—
Children that care not to return my smile.
In solitude, I wait for quiet doves
Their wings flutter about my eyelids
And I sing them sweet melodies…
That there are no doves, no effervescent dawn,
No quietude of hearts, no splayed fingers or whispering strings
No, not this slowly creeping cat, neither his amber-lamp eyes
Not even these twists of static, their brethren, or even the thought
No: I—am—alone.

This water, my lungs
This lake, my sorrow
This lack of empathy, my slow smile
How is it that I am not who I was?
When could I return to the times of sweltering air laden with dust, blue fissures of paint over
wood…a subtle purple vein glancing flirtatiously, toxic lips, mud footprints…
The thought that there are colors.
My body yearns for that dance of a thousand memories
All forgotten, all belied—lie—laid to rest—in a tomb of waves
Where—then, my lover?
Why now? These, broken, lips,
Weary eyes, worn stones, pendulant—

In this clash of hearth and dagger,
I have condemned myself

“and”
By Denise Landreth

what of these days
how long have we lasted
past those red stars and festering mouth-sores
these hours bleed cyclically
the sun is ashen
mighty blows we have exchanged
beneath the terror moon and dust shores
she knows her script too well
a dance in flame
we know we are both too trivial for words

“…”
By Denise Landreth

The dead erect their own monuments to shade us
Hallowed ground lifts itself to the sky
What reason then, should we leave their bones to silence?

It’s important that you realize nature did not drive you to write

It was the scatter-song of leaves, autumn rains
How to spell the neon sign when one letter is dark
The car drives in the bike path, but slowly
The graves, black teeth of the earth
Their song is silence, as the empty bench in the storm
No one picks up the fallen fence
The storm will come,
and blow it over again

You and Your Squandered Potential
By Becky Brinkerhoff

You’re breaking my heart

with the way your head so sharply 

stares away from the page,
the one that your pen 

refuses to touch.

Do you not realize

that you could use that pen

to start the next best seller?
That pen could bleed brilliance.
That pen, the one that you “forgot”,
could make someone 
remember to feel.

That pen that dangles so

haplessly in your fingers,
the one that rolls off the table

at the same speed of your eyes.

That pen that you refuse to use,
and I hope, for your sake, 

(though you swear I don’t care)
that the potential in you

won’t dry up like that damn pen.

Wings

By Kiera Johnson

 

If I had wings I’d spread them wide

Fearlessly leap into the open and glide

Upon the winds of all my dreams

My hopes, my thoughts, that always seem

To drive me mad with untamed desire

As I forever ponder things I aspire.

 

If I had wings I’d fly so high

I’d reach past the limits of the sky

I’d soar far above the clouds

Leave behind my fears and doubts

So long as I escape the mess

That has me feeling trapped and helpless.

 

If I had wings I’d be free

Break away from those who grounded me

No one could stop the air

The dreams that take me everywhere

I’d do whatever, go wherever

With wings I’d fly forever.

 

If I had wings I’d fly to you

Wrap you in my arms and tell you it’s true

That I’ll never let the passion fade

Or the love and lust slip away

Now that I’m here safe and sound

Forever to you I’m always bound.

 

But I have no wings, just the ache

Of a heart I gave for you to take

And the hollow that will only be filled

When the longing will be stilled

So when you are in my arms once more

The need for wings will be no more.

 

‘Twas The Night Before Christmas

By Kiera Johnson

 

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;

My sister and I tread about with care,

In hopes that my father won’t hear us there.

I lay wide-eyed all snug in my bed,

While fear of the future flew through my head;

And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap,

Could really use a long winter's nap!

When suddenly Dad throws up with a clatter,

I long for the day when the cancer gets better.

Away to the window I’d fly like a flash,

To escape this life, get out fast!

But instead I look out at the new-fallen snow

And its pure delicate beauty let me know,

Live this moment, don’t think of the fear,

Make beauty of the life that you have here,

So I learned independence pretty quick,

For life was different with Dad so sick.

Can openers, I learned, aren’t so hard to use,

Especially when they contain your source of food!

“Considerate” is a good word choice

To describe my belting songs in a softer voice.

The Christmas tree was tiny, but it didn’t matter

For I realized the convenience of not needing a ladder!

I gave up playing Christmas songs all day

And realized they’re annoying anyway.

Dad needed quiet to be a fighter

And through sudden silence I became a writer.

Words were my solace, it calmed my mind

As I found self-expression within each line.

I wrote poems of love and of beautiful things

I wrote of confusion and hope, escape and of wings.

Writing took me away, and when I came back

I no longer felt my life under attack.

With a clear head, I found I could

Still enjoy life the way a teenager should.

Dad’s eyes -- how they twinkled! When he saw me smile

Hope made everything seem okay for a while.

I was afraid of change, but now I know

 

Change only happens so you can grow.

Life is cruel, it’ll push you down

The question is how you get off the ground.

So with newfound strength, I think I just might

Have a Happy Christmas for all, and for all a good night.

Shallow Sweet
By Kiera Johnson

Let us drink tonight
For tonight I’m drinking you
Because tonight I think we want to think
About what more I can do
I lick my tongue, it’s tasting sweet
Though my throat now fondles fire
But if it burns or comforts, I cannot tell
Cuz shallow sweet is my desire.
Lips that drip, sharp fingertips
Pour it in, I swallow eyes
You’re mine to keep, your shallow sweet
For power is my demise


Moon
By Kiera Johnson

Though I seek attention you are my fame
Under sun, moon, stars, rain
You spark my smile and stay the night
And the notes I sing with you sound right
So leave me now but I’ll see you soon
For who could forget the sight of the moon?

To Kristen


 

By Willie Burnley

Cascades of white light illuminated in the darkness of my windowpane
A girl sits before it all, mysterious even though I know her name
Even though she knows my shame, the confusion of a lonely soul
Who wanders out of rooms hoping for someone that can make him whole
Or at least feel it; she looks for trust to heal with
But the distance between them is too much, despite not being more than a knife's steel width
Each of them like pressed palms being divided by glass
Hoping the connection will last, but knowing the impressions won't pass
As long as they don't break through it
A few touches will do it
Even the Mona Lisa would be marred by fingertips that feel lips
So he stays away from masterpieces and decides not to bet his chips?
On art heist trips that can land him in solitary confinement
He guesses the stars aren't in alignment
Because he's been down this road before and he knows where it goes
She just wants him to speak his mind, but Lord only knows
What he's thinking, what he's feeling, and if it's real
Or just the reflection of the life that he'd kill
For; because more of the same is just more than he can take
And sometimes she just makes him feel good for goodness sake
But is more worth breaking glass with bare hands
When he knows its wrong and he understands where fair stands
The truth is these delusions come with his confusion
And she just sits there, waiting for him to see if what he sees is an illusion


Conflagration
By Willie Burnley

And if I could
Burn it all down
I would
Use your ignorance as my wood
To start a worldwide conflagration
With my congregation, repeating conversations
About how you said we never should
Have gotten anything, although you took everything
Our home, our religion, our Malcolm, our Martin
The feeling of Leonidas with 299 Spartans
In a circle, just dead around
Now take those feelings and compound
It with Jim Crowe, projects, and broken schools
And you sit there and wonder why we don't follow rules
Passed down by some clown who speaks Eurocentric views
To kids with darker hues that look up to Langston Hughes
And then infuse the thought being held down your life?
And how you don't know strife until you've had a knife
Put in your face when some kid wants to fight
The thoughts of the Civil Rights and why did they tell those dogs to bite
I don't know, is it the same reason I hear applause
From red state voters when they pass voter ID laws
That stop my people from voting, should I have referred
To what happens to us after our dreams are deferred
More fuel for the fire, more fuel for the rage
Now I'm taking a page from the African sage
By keeping it nonviolent and sticking to words
But I'm a wolf in black sheep's clothing that does not follow herds
So, you can best believe in the fire that's to come
I'll be marching in the streets, chanting to a thousand drums
That sound the demise, rebirth, and the change
Of a world that I find fit for flames


A Virgin Murder Recipe
By Diana Fernandez

Begin with a sensual letter written in wrong.
A word’s shadow, a dark phrase, a black song.
An unconscious meeting in a villainous cellar, shut
But loosely locked. Lawlessly there is his touch.
A bird and a snake, a venomous kiss,
A delicate beak to a poisonous lip.
A diseased, demented vein, or a single sick thought,
From his singed leather skull, a temple lightning struck.
It always ends with a creak and a snap,
A distorted scream, a wooden bat.
One confession, the other left white,
Buried under cold in the spherical light.



Ink
By Diana Fernandez

"Romantic words, you’ve always been,
At the end of other pens.
I guess that’s just the way it ends,
The heart won’t always win. "


Close Enough
By Diana Fernandez

"We may not have time on our hands,
But my wrist-watch is close enough for me.
So let the critics go, soak your toes in the sand,
And let the passion free. "


Separation
By Nikki Grossfeld


the walls are closing in
crashing down
all around
until the only essence left
is loneliness

no supports
no beams
no groups or teams

the doors closed
locked you in
to fend for yourself
to make the most
or to destroy the best
until it all ends

nothing feels safe
no one – no place

and all you can do
is shut down


Change
By Nikki Grossfeld

The hues change
and the shape reflects
all the while
onlooking
at what crosses before it

The center of meaning
and the meaning
of life
remains masked
behind it

They change with the
light
but the message stays the
same

and the only one
who will be able to read it
is the one
who knows exactly
what they're looking for


Solitude
By Nikki Grossfeld

sometimes i just need my past
to not feel
like the past

I just want to relive
some of what I was
forced
to leave behind

I want to know it still
exists
and hasn't been forgotten

I want to know
it had some meaning
to someone else but me

I need to know
that you remember
because I don't know if I can
alone