Yesterday’s Moth

A cloth thread
it was yellow; shinning
bright steel blue
cob webs; recyclability
drips design retractable
and Tuesday received
buckets freely
I see a moth
from yesterday poems on
a blank piece of paper
cloth; thoughtfully pinned
inside made
thoughtfully re-read intimately
exhaust/senescent
tube; in my heart
leering down
it’s sinful weakness

My ears are doing-that
windshield-wiper
thing-slowed-down
wiping out
hands off; buzzards; leftover
ground down white wrapped yarn
the bones of a coat; hung hanger
wreck debris aged
falling of the bone
in waves; falling off the bone
in waves; it just comes
nothing hurts
it’s supposed to

 

Poem By Heather Whitley Gibson

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“Peninsula” – Poem by Heather Whitley Gibson

Peninsula

Camera; seen

armed with needles so

sweet sounding; peninsula

soft & Foxed in insular

Mellisonant, a weeded field.

water torn; clear flight

a wonton wing; fortune cookies

proverbs sealed.

 Edges of mouths part; crusted

cracked, razing sun,

 edged.

vaulted words crunched.

scratched days.

Sweet Memento

rusted kisses; silver

A candied ending.

Where Love flows;

 winded

and whirling. A shot-gun

display closed.

 sold four

tribute money

then pictured; in a hard-bound book.

leaves dried and covered, lost..

left to left, sonorous;

in Gold.

still waiting at a willing well.

A dime-store summary.

The foundress of affairs.

Blessings and fortune falls.

behind a grateful glass view;

watching the sun nest,

winds and doves

 shillings. fly. stencilled.

 As scales shimmer, as

an aperture increasing;

Vows Quenched.

memoria Bound.

“Staircase Has No Legs” – Poem By: Heather Whitley Gibson

supper has it’s last dinner
the door has a foot
the window has a flowerbed
it’s frame has a curtain
staircase has no legs
vacuum cleaner has rollers
chair has arms
even beds have heads
the T.V. takes a stand
the light bulb has it’s own shade
the pillows have shams
like purses have strings
clothes have price tags
every dresser has drawers
keys have hooks
wires have outlets
clocks, chalkboards, mirrors have faces
the table has it’s dressings
staircase has no legs

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Hostage: Poem by johnnyduncan


HOSTAGE



               Being trapped in a place or situation That causes headaches, heart aches and frustration, By invisible forces that imprison the will, Coercing him or her to live the life she lives. Having to bite one’s tongue in order to speak, To keep from stepping on somebody’s feet. Jobs, expectations, laws and mores of society Are sources of this variety of anxiety!

Spend a majority of time in a working life, Traveling to and fro from so much strife, Uttering unheard curses, crying waterless tears, In order to retire in a few more years? Be a “fuehrer”, you know what this word means,* Refuse to be enslaved by life’s routines. Jobs, expectations, laws and mores of society Are sources of this variety of anxiety!

Auto, gas, phone, insurance, rent and food are but a few Which at the same time of the month come due. Robbing Peter to pay Paul takes maneuverability. Keeping the lights on is an exercise in fUTILITY “What can one do, how can one escape, When Mr. BILL is standing gun-at-the-gate?” Jobs, expectations, laws and mores of society Are sources of this variety of anxiety!

*Fuehrer means leader.
 johnnyduncan /poetry.poem

“Dont Tell Mama” – Poem By: The Wood For Trees

HE GRIPS TIGHT
A WANDER-LUST SUFFERER’S DELIGHT
PUSHES HARD – LIKE CHAINS CATCHING
GEARS GRINDING
THE PAIN HE GIVES HURTS RIGHT.
MY HIPS, MY LIPS…
I GLADLY LET HIM.
THE FREAK IN ME SHOCKS,
FROM SATAN TO CHERUBIM
BUT NO ONE WOULD BE MORE BLOWN AWAY
THAN MAMA – WHAT WOULD SHE SAY?
AT HOW I GIVE IN.

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Red Balloon Rising by Laurel Blossom

I tied it to your wrist
With a pretty pink bow, torn off
By the first little tug of wind.
I’m sorry.
I jumped to catch it, but not soon enough.
It darted away.
It still looked large and almost within reach.
Like a heart.
Watch, I said.
You squinted your little eyes.
The balloon looked happy, waving
Good-bye.
The sky is very high today, I said.
Red went black, a polka dot,
Then not. We watched it,
Even though we couldn’t
Spot it anymore at all.
Even after that.

American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org), publisher of Poetry magazine. Poem copyright ©2011 by Laurel Blossom, whose most recent book of poetry is Degrees of Latitude, Four Way Books, 2007. American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org), publisher of Poetry magazine. Poem copyright ©2011 by Laurel Blossom, whose most recent book of poetry is Degrees of Latitude, Four Way Books, 2007.

“WORKING WITH GHOSTS” – Poem By: Harry Horsman

Sometimes a whisper,
desperate to join the real world
calls out from the tower,
the cry of many memories trapped
within the egron of time.
Sometimes! Deafen by the silence
one hears the exhaust fans
out of balance, a simmering
smoke stack exhale,
rutunda roaster tumble,
seductive klaxon wail
spent bean silo rumble.
Alas! The same stars still shine,
the same moon reflects,
as one feels again, the innuendos
extracted out of the very shadows,
that linger within the walls that
surround this place. Profoundly
this void, this vacuum of personification
guides me as one follows one’s
inculcation through the labyrinth
of reasoning, where recollections
pass by in a moment of blithe,
an instant of reverberation
spray dried in a cascade of
fine blend, evaporated within a
classic symphony, harmonies of
years, sweat and tears grounded
out of an idea.
Yet spent! Like the rest of us.

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