poetry magazine, poetry book collage, free verse

  General Poetry Page     with Suzanne Robinson 

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The Dog Across The Street is Dying

I know this by the sound of her bay.

A once deep courageous hunt

Has turned to a soft sound of searching still.

Relentless tracking, 

Even at the end of things.

The mysterious trails 

Into and out

Of this world.

Rebecca Villineau

Wild swimming

The first time I swam in the wild

We went to a lake in the moors.

Tadpoles skimmed the water’s edge,

Lapping up the last of the sun’s warmth.

You waded in, laughing,

Feet sprinkling us as they went

“Come on in!”

“But the tadpoles…”

 

In the end I followed your lead:

Dodged around the little black blobs,

Sucked up the chill with hot flesh.

 

“The fish are tickling my toes!”

We soon ran out of words.

The sunset paled

A pink and orange ending

As we shivered, huddled in a blanket

Reluctant to move again.

Zion Lights

 

 

          Dancing In The Kitchen

          (sixty years together still...)

They dance in the kitchen

like movie stars from 1939

With her eyes closed,

she imagines herself to be this man's siren

all heady scents, fiery hair, and throaty whispers

she could be a star of the silver screen

alabaster  wrists and swan neck

flashing emeralds and rubies

the whisper of her caresses

delivered by hands in long satin gloves

With his eyes shut

he could be the UPS man

twenty five years old

in summer shorts

flashing a devil of a smile

his lips deliver a commanding brush 

of sea-deep kisses

that rock her from

her toes to her cerebellum

and back again...

There is music

 a solo saxophone 

drifting in through the open windows

soul-stirring on a cool and scented breeze

Icy cocktails are produced

as smooth as slipping skin

he removes her gloves

allowing her fingers to

graze the rim of her frosted glass

pluck a briny glistening olive

and

place it between his teeth...

It's a shabby room

scuffed up floors

a patched screen door and

counter-tops in avocado green

He washes... she dries

that's the way it's always been

sweet tea and ice cold beer

to toast another perfect sunset

as if, he had arranged it all

just for her pleasure

his face crinkles 

with that funny lopsided smile

 she knows so well

He fiddles with an old black radio

slow, sweet jazz fills the kitchen

spilling into every corner

crossing  the room

he takes her hand

Sixty years of Saturday nights

still dancing in the kitchen

Jill Sharon Kimmelman

Where Home is Still

Our family

home

where we reside

where our hearts beat

where our blood melds

flowing inward

always

collective

together

The kindred ties that bind

some ties eventually loosen

our blood flows outward

onward

pooling beyond a great wall

miles long

decades wide

a chasm

apart

Time

occasionally an ally

erodes the great wall

a day long coming

familial blood flows

inward, again

where our hearts beat

where our hearts are

where home is, still

Rob Spina

Two short movie reviews

 

On The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie

Drug dealers and warlord-emissaries,
With a gardener-priest thrown in,
Turn round about on the line of the empty horizon

On Gilliam's Brazil

From the necrophilia
of seductive non-identity
to the search for papers
flowing round Tuttle's head like a mummy's wrappings

Ken Hay hopes  these poems might inspire other people to do their own ‘poetic reviews’ of movies and the like.

Half a cup of coffee

I fill a half cup of coffee up with water -

Realizing I am diluting it;

Into the microwave - heated soon - for quick consumption -

The same with life as you get older:

Substance or quantity?

With quickly passing radiated days...

The orbit of your heart

I always felt that your heart was surrounded by a circumstellar disc of

pain;

and if only I could navigate (safely) through the torus of

disappointment

 

the hypotrochoid of loves roulette could be won with the

 

coplanarity

 

of my heart.

Jon Nakapalau