General Poetry Page with Suzanne Robinson
Use links below to connect to other poetry sections
Inspiration comes in many forms
I take mine as a regular pill
It really depends on how your doctor feels about it.
I told mine that I had a chronic case of mundanity
and that was that
10 milligrams a day.
Most other doctors would expect a bit more than that.
They might make you take a test
on a scale from utterly boring to mildly uncreative.
They’ll ask you open ended questions and give you example answers
and if you use those answers as yours
well then, I’m sorry but
you might have to go in for some serious surgery
like Jennifer Krawetz from Accounting just last Thursday.
But most people, they get a prescription.
The doctors these days hand them out like lollipops.
You can take it as a gel pill like I do
Or a silicone implant in your knee
Or a gummy shaped like Vincent Van Gogh’s ear
The one he lost of course—
When I forget to take yesterday’s pill and make it up for today
I sometimes imagine he walked around looking for that ear
And after searching for hours,
He found it stuck firmly on his head
Just in a different place than usual.
You can take those hard pills, too.
But I don’t like those ones, they’re too bitter
But some people really enjoy the bitter
Truth is, I can’t imagine getting inspired that way.
Maybe if I just thought a bit more about it
Or went to the doctor.
Diane Huang is a high school senior in Minnesota. We are pleased to be her first publication, though she will surely be published many times in the future.
Relearning the Elements
My favorite is Beryllium or surprise.
I admire the noble gases
even though the formulas seem
a can-can with subservient
numbers peeking beneath frilly skirts.
Euclid's elements march in rows.
So circles are said to touch
one another which meet one another
but do not cut one another.
My circles end in shouting matches
and broken plates.
Strunk had style too much for me. I sulk
in subjective moods. Like today
while reading about the elements
in the Drosophila genome. A fly
buzzes between the lines. I transposed
its shape between pages 407 and 408.
Falling for the Invisible Woman
The obvious is what’s missing, cues,
shaved legs, make-up, the secret smile.
Her voice turns heads, like rosaries
across chapped lips. No, that’s not it.
But sometimes at night I think
I see her while I sleep.
Her friends, all men with special
powers, shun the one who can’t
do anything beyond a few
card tricks. Even their alter-egos –
rich playboys, business tycoons,
brilliant scientists – shadow me.
When I ask her to slow dance,
Plastic Man stretches an arm
between us; the Human Torch
fires nasty looks. In bed
between tangled sheets, she strokes
my scars and wants a story.
How many lies are new lovers allowed?
Come morning, I whisper
her name in every room.
Jim Zola has worked in a warehouse, a bookstore, as a security guard, a teacher for Deaf children, a toy designer for Fisher Price, and currently a children's librarian. Published widely, his publications include a chapbook - The One Hundred Bones of Weather (Blue Pitcher Press) - a poetry collection - What Glorious Possibilities (Aldrich Press). He currently lives in Greensboro, NC.
I find myself astounded
by the azure in your eyes--
sapphire streaks but darker.
Lapis-lazuli could be no
bluer than your swollen-ocean eyes.
Tears, like white-caps, threaten to roll,
undercurrents of your tidal heart, your
Mediterranean mind, your…
Pesky things—descriptors. How best
to say “cerulean,” best relate
the depth of sea and silver in your soul.
Rebeca Parrott, a writer and poet, works in a library in Richmond, Virginia.
Busted blood vessels, purpling black eyes
Gloria slouching indifferently
resigned to fate
touches swollen nose, grimaces in pain,
tongue plays with loose tooth
swollen lips, talking is hurtful
rouge cheeks smashed by fists
Counselor at reception desk
leans back, judgmental snarl
eyes small with cruelty
ego enlarged with power
You’re exiled from shelter
30 days clean and sober
Impossible, says homeless guy,
standing next to Gloria, coming to her defense
No one gets sober, on these mean streets
Should have thought
before she drank
blowing numbers, against rules
She was raped, beaten
homeless man’s voice tight
despair swamping his humanity
with stomach acid
thinking of his red ancestors, the curse of alcohol
tragedy of rape as a weapon
Maybe next time she’ll think
before she drinks, uses
Gloria turns, no big deal
streets her life
where I’ll die, says to self
Sooner than she knows
predators waiting, finish what they started.
CITY Of THE HILL
City on the hill
sparkles diamond bright
home to Masters of the Universe
sending spaceships to the stars
lording over nature
all is well…
Million points of light
campfires of the unwanted
City of the hill
siege by those in need
those without hope
How long does a siege last
before diamonds turn to coal,
before high walls
no longer hold,
till hearts become barbwire entangled
The hilltop people
lessons learned too late
a hill is not an island.
Ken Williams worked as a social worker for the homeless, primary the mentally ill. The late Paul Walker highlighted his work in the documentary, SHELTER which Paul produced. His writings have appeared in Columbia University’s: Columbia Journal, Cecile’s Magazine, the Huffington Post, The Criterion, The Fear of Monkeys, and others. He is a disabled combat Marine veteran of the Vietnam War. FRACTURED ANGEL is his most recent novel.