Sentimental Poetry edited by Anthony Watkins
Rose Tinted Binoculars
A time ago when I would run the grass would barely bend
The laws of physics and myself were not considered friends
I would fly along at such a pace my shadow would surrender
Before a letter was even sent I could return to sender
I could jump from any crazy height and land without a mark
I could tumble down most any hill, make a fire from a spark
My hands would very rarely rest upon my handlebars
The road was but a playground for weaving through the cars
From our secret lair we could watch the world and never once be seen
If dirt was steel I was a magnet with not an inch left clean
Ghost stories made the short walk home last a thousand years
A multitude of hidden things to fertilise my fears
I made a fairly decent dent into the sugar mountain
And quenched my never-ending thirst with a sticky fizzy fountain
Trees were climbed and blood was spilled and bees were caught in jars
And our hearts came tumbling from our mouths as we lay and watched the stars
David Hayes is a writer, researcher, psychotherapist, and psychoanalyst in-training. His writings include poetry, essays, articles, and theoretical research, and have appeared in journals, newspapers, and magazines.
Children delight in creating flying horses, castles,
pirates, and so many other things till clouds separate
into trains headed to exotic lands.
Before long, we conclude clouds were just moisture:
evaporation, currents, dew points, and so many other
facts learned at school.
THE BAD PICK-UP LINES OF OEDIPUS
“O, where have you been all my lonely life?”
He states, assured, and with a kingly sway.
She shows her wedding band, “I am a wife,”
She says with rolling eyes and turns away.
This legacy has cursed the Cadmus line
Since great-granddad incurred Athena’s wrath—
The curse to see malignant as benign
In married ladies whose possession hath
In riddles lain. But then he tries again—
“You’re pretty, like my mom, when she was young”—
To draw on female sympathy. Yet when
she struts away, he does not bite his tongue.
He scopes the bar and spots another prize
With blinding premonition in his eyes.
Mauricio Rosales is a native of El Salvador, though raised in the US. His poems have appeared in The Bilingual Review/La Revista Bilingüe, Exit 13, and The Lyric. His translations have appeared in Mundus Artium and Borges and I(Univ. of Arkansas Press).
That Mountain Tree
Alone now I must bid farewell
I've done a dirty deed,
I leave behind my family
an outcast of the breed.
I strangled all his ties of heart
and left him lifeless there,
I'll hide up in this mountain top,
let nature clear the air.
And when we come up missing long
they'll search and find him dead,
and knowing that I had been there
they'll realize why I fled.
I don't know why I did the thing
I snapped and lost my cool
and killed us both because I’ve now
replaced me with this fool.
The ones I love, my wife and kids,
I'll never see them grow;
I took away our neighbor's dad
they'll hate me when they know.
I cannot live and face myself,
such a vile waste of breath,
perhaps I'll fertilize a tree
in sorrow and in death.
And if that tree grows up to bear
some song birds and their young,
I hope to God my debt is paid
in all they will have sung.
DE Navarro founder of NavWorks Press, is an award winning poet and author who lives in the Los Angeles area. See his books and read more here.
Sum of Her Parts
Is it the tilt of her head when she's looking ‘just so’
Or the line of her form from her head to her toes
Or the breadth of her breast and coquettish ways
The measures of how a woman's worth is appraised?
While makeup and fashion are how she's defined
Her intelligence and depth have been undermined
Why not highlight a woman’s inner beauty instead?
You'll find the world blossoms when her soul has been fed
No spiked heels nor glitter and surely no pumps
Will define her strength -- they simply highlight her lumps
And while she is soft and her tears easily fall
It's the glint of her mettle that defines her, that's all
Please make no mistake, though she wears boots and jeans
and the tread of her shoes might not ever be clean —
Pay attention to her and let's get something clear
'the weaker sex' be damned! We're all nasty women here
tip of the hat to Nina Donovan