Free Verse Poetry Page with Suzanne Robinson
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Web of life
caught dead rotted
waiting to be consumed
never eaten by the architect
god is dead
follow the thread
the beast is nearing
not so near
the web is electric
DNA mind afflicted
Not quite 2 am.
I dreamed, I was dreaming again
the man in the window waved at me
the cat jumped in my lap
we shared a bowl of cereal
following nocturnal peppermint mists
she doesn’t make me feel dead like the rest
wandering through minefield catacombs
throwing away trivial childhood treasures
where haunted memories can no longer grasp
but only rage in the horror
a loss of control
it’s like I woke up
started to live again
for the first time
Mike Zone resides beyond the pines . . . the author of Void Beneath the Skin and A Farewell to Big Ideas, his work has been featured in Horror Sleaze Trash, Cajun Mutt Press, Outlaw Poetry, Piker Press, and Synchronized Chaos.
God is bent over
A little transistor radio
With a red RECORD button.
He wears coke-bottle glasses with thick black rims
And his fingers are stiff and bent
God is trying to tune in.
It’s been so long, so far away,
And the signal is jammed.
God scrolls through white noise
And space junk, broken bits of satellites,
Spinning the dial back and forth
Through the loud, excessively violent sounds of Creation.
It was always a long shot — and we knew it.
With our expectations and demands,
Our constant discontent, the questioning . . .
Where do rivers flow?
Where do they begin?
Who owns them?
Why are there stars?
Are we alone?
Who owns us?
It’s no wonder God is scrolling
Through the sounds of space
And cannot find his children anymore.
His hearing is poor.
His hands shake a little.
He is an old God.
Camelia Gendreau lives in San Francisco with her young son and still marvels at the beauty of fog rolling in, even after a decade of watching it. She was born in Communist Romania and is an award-winning poet in her native language.
Politically correct and hella serious.
everyone is delirious.
A red square painted on a black piece of paper sold for a
million dollars and called aesthetic?
I would rather get an IV of anesthetic.
Talk your shit,
lemme get lit.
The world can be too heavy to bear,
like the smoke in the lungs of a boar;
Even the starkest get put on a stick and eaten,
but not before looking plated and picturesque.
Trophy the body count;
Head on a wall,
head on a sequel.
What is the difference between a shirt that makes you suck it
in and a skirt that makes you cross your legs?
Might as well wear nothing when you are failing to effortlessly
look society’s definition of hot.
might as well wear a mop;
It is what they do in Milan after the models eat carbs and
would die to cry excess lard.
Fuck duck fat;
It tastes like scoring the hottest guys in the frat,
but it makes you crap your pants.
Is lard even duck or did the school system fail at teaching me
how to make toast?
Toast sounds self explanatory until you make the French
version and get salmonella from the undercooked egg.
My stomach is bombed more than Iran,
I probably have an internal tan.
I should probably get that checked,
but I will just save time and wait until climbing gets me decked
and skiing gets me wrecked.
I will just chill,
watch the world take pills of thrill.
One day at a time.
Writing verses with rhyme.
Dachel Fohne is a philosophical poet in 10th grade. In over two years
of sticking to her current niche, she has over three hundred pieces written. Common themes within her works include philosophy, psychology, and sociology.
When he spoke to her
Vowels became music
Stroked her hair and brow
Nouns and pronouns were one
And stopped time somehow
When she spoke to him
Words were from
An ancient dialect
And the images were painted
Alive in between them
All of this is so
But then the silence
She breathed him in
To a place within her
And when she exhaled
He was different somehow
She was different somehow
Paula Walker is interested in psychological development and altered states, and her poetry reflects these interests. She has published several poems in the UCLA literary journal, The UCLA Beat.
The crescent moon —
a hipbone splitting my bottom lip open —
says take off your Come to the Dark Side shirt.
Says come on take it off —
there’s no one outside to see
your torso with its heavy breasts as you
light up that cylinder of
your wish to cheat death
or maybe your wish to call it closer.
Which is it —
I do not know.
In the name of the hearts of the concrete walls,
in the name of my grandmother’s ghost
that sometimes comes as a black fullness
to freeze my hand reaching for the nightlight,
I swear I do not know.
Anca Rotar lives in Bucharest, Romania, and writes poetry. Her work has been published in several online magazines. You can find her on Instagram at ancarotar5.
Lost in a glass labyrinth each
echo a variant, a slight variant,
slightly variant, somewhere
an exit, opposite an entrance
somewhere just out just out where
just somewhere out of reach
Jean-Marie Romana is an accursed poet whose first poem was published when she was eight years old. She has a website at RomanaPoetry.com where she posts poems weekly. She lives in San Diego, California.
The Tulips Smell Like Week Old Meat
The tulips smell like week old meat.
The goats graze on ash and sycamore twigs,
Dousing rods for the dead,
Seeking out the empty parts,
The black hole fixed at the center of all things.
They huddle in the freezing cold,
The traitors of our hearts.
They ate the best of us
And now all that remains are
Struggling to fly.
One by one, we snip their wings.
No one will escape this frozen wasteland.
The tulips have decayed.
The sky leaks, slipping between cracks in reality,
Revealing chrome and glass.
I knew I’d been duped.
Lied to from the womb to the grave.
I look into the bottle;
20 pills left.
20 keys to abandoned bliss
And the land of smoke and mirrors.
Welcome to the Truth, baby.
Meet my big brother,
Take our hands and walk the
Halls of this mighty fortress.
The Kingdom of lost names.
“Who am I?”
I don’t know, but,
The tulips sure sing softly when
Sitting in the right light.
Cry for me.
Let me taste your tears,
Sweet like lemon drops and soma.
The truth lies at the bottom.
The truth lies at the bottom.
Nothing holy here,
Just naked reality and broken hearts
Reflected in the eyes of newborns,
Tulip in each hand.
Smelling of week old meat.
Vanessa MacLellan writes short stories. Her first novel, Three Great Lies (2015), was published by Hadley Rille Books. She is a member of SFWA and Codex and 2016 graduate of the Viable Paradise workshop.
It’s cold in our converted garage
when sunlight goes behind the hill.
The cold gets in my bones
and not coffee,
not tea or a heating pad
will warm me—
Only the wrap of my lover’s arms
drives the chill out
and I look forward to the return
of his soft belly in my back,
strong arms around my chest
and warm breath in my ear.
it’s what he doesn’t say
as we stand at the sink looking out
at raised planter beds
in shades of green, a double
white impatiens, hanging fuchsia,
hot pink azalea.
We sway together
like tall pines bending
in the onslaught of life,
as we try to twinkle,
as pine needles do and
try to survive living together
raising our children,
paying bills, swaying,
as we struggle
with the choices we make.
Sarah Ferris is published in Rattle, Ol’ Chanty, and the upcoming Lummox9. Her chapbook, Snakes That Dance Like Daffodils, was published in April, 2019. A novel is in the works. Sarah lives in Los Angeles with her family.
Miss Coffee Festival Queen 2020
My acupuncturist says
to give up coffee
she costs me sleep
and drains my lifeblood
at a time
my first thought
is her creamy brown skin
followed by the taste
of her fingers
in my mouth
I have no delusions
I know what she did
to those subsistence farmers
but she is my
when the world outside
is gray and hopeless
Scott Waters lives in Oakland, California, with his wife and son. He has published previously in Loch Raven Review, The Adelaide Review, A New Ulster, The Pangolin Review, Amethyst Review, Ink in Thirds, Praxis, Santa Clara Review, and many other journals.
Floor Cleaner, United Hospital
Your machine so cumbersome,
so intrusive, how is it that you sail
past, virtually unnoticed?
Head lowered, slightly solemn,
you pass by families who nervously clutch
their Styrofoam cups, watching
and not watching the silent images
splashed across TV screens.
The low hum of your engine
is another kind of breathing here,
as welcome as any. Past the cardiac ward,
past the sleeping newborns
you glide, rounding the corners
with the grace of the well-rehearsed.
For you, the doors open without touch,
without obstruction to your path,
as the faces of those in elder care smile
their private smiles, from the distance
of a dozen lifetimes. Soon there will be
lunch, soon the daily gathering of
smokers in scrubs and pajamas
outside the loading docks.
Soon the afternoon will fold into itself.
For you, the workday goes on.
For there is always one more stretch of
floor to be covered, always
that which needs polishing once
more until it shines.
Greg Watson's work has appeared in various literary journals and anthologies. His latest collection is All the World at Once: New and Selected Poems. He is also co-editor with Richard Broderick of The Road by Heart: Poems of Fatherhood, published by Nodin Press.
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