General Poetry Page with Suzanne Robinson
Use links below to connect to other poetry sections
Suburban dusk obscures detail.
Joggers dimple the path around
the reservoir. They toughen
their faces to hide the empathy
that requires a friendly nod.
Being old and out-of-town,
I move too slowly to matter.
Unobserved, I catch the gloom
in my hands and knead it like clay,
knead and sculpt little objects
that I sprinkle in the grass
to hex the local arrogance.
Earlier in a room of strangers
I rose to speak and felt myself
detach in the shyest tones,
although I rendered myself
loud enough to hear in the back
where someone awoke with a start.
Later I accepted a cookie
and bottled water, rather
like a horse after losing a race.
Now as one famous distance
piles over another I slot
my hands in my pockets,
descend the steps by the pump house,
and slink away under the trees.
Too dark now for art to cling
to the soft part of the conscience.
The joggers swerve homeward,
having tired themselves enough
to avoid sex with their spouses.
The underground reservoir sighs
molten little sighs no sinner
can hear. The water supply’s safe
for now, but surely it’s plotting.
by William Doreski
EVERYTHING AFTER THE BODY
then they find the spiders behind my bed
they find the half hairbrush
they find the loose change
they find the candle
wax melt still wet
always goes lifeless
they find the tooth shaped container
holding all my baby teeth
they find the left sock
they find the photo paper
unknowingly expose it all to light
looking for a letter
the paper yellows
they find the match book
they find the notebook
(both contain fire)
they do not find the humor
they find the pink vibrator
they find the box with
all the inpatient wristbands
all the second place finishes
they find the perfume
they find that shirt with the tag still on
they find the funeral dress
or they don't know its the funeral dress
they do not find instructions
Jessica Nieberg is a poet and student living in Denver, CO. She is receiving her BA in neuroscience at the University of Colorado. She is a member of the 2017 Denver Mercury poetry slam team and was a finalist for the Denver Youth Poet Laureate. Her work is forthcoming in the Mutiny Info Reader.
Side by side
in the quiet and dark, raking
a short cut
through an empty lot I
(to stem the silence) pretended
was a park, we were hurrying
to something or somewhere (beyond that,
I don’t remember what). On
in the quiet and dark (others nowhere
near us to see us) when,
flushed with resolution, I veered
to make you stop
in the center of the empty lot
(that was never a park); managed
a “Hey” and then (no way of knowing
there’d be nothing in the end
to stem the void
left by love that never grew
from this) quickly,
filled your mouth
with a kiss.
First published in Verse-Virtual.
James Keane lives in northern New Jersey with his wife and son and a menagerie of merry pets. His poems have appeared most recently in the Indiana Voice Journal, Overwatch Press and the Tipton Poetry Journal. In 2013, his poetry chapbook, What Comes Next, was published by Finishing Line Press.
You are a poetic book of verse,
allow me to sink into your pages
and become lost in odes to grey hairs
lamenting age with rage,
raging against salt and pepper ascents,
the growing of the white.
Allow me to traverse chapters,
reading between the lines,
before editing and proofreads,
your free unaltered voice
beneath veil of self-consciousness
and fronted facades.
Let me feel the fidgeting suspense
when anticipating life changing results
with sympathetic supportive arms,
amid the anti-climax of heart breaks
and protagonist's conflict tug of wars;
the victories and the defeats.
Let me read your twilight eulogy,
the varicose arthritic strokes,
the doddering wondering thoughts,
and then when loneliness stares out,
I can stroke the page.
Jason Nicholas Smith
New tenants are moving into the house
Fine I was only borrowing that house
New pictures are being nailed upon the walls
Fine those are God’s walls
Those are borrowed nails
New lovers are tumbling under the sheets
Fine we were lovers once
We borrowed love
Those won’t be the last lovers under those sheets
New children are swaddled by our clothes
Fine my ghost was merely passing through those clothes
New songs will find their way to my throat
No one owns these songs
Nobody keeps this throat
"new pictures" was previously published in Bird’s Thumb.
Kiik Araki-Kawaguchi is currently at work on a collection of poems titled HOGG BOOK. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in iO, Washington Square, Action Yes and Okey-Panky.