Free Verse  with Vera Ignatowitsch

Mourning

 

Yet deep within this dire stirring,

I still curl near you, on a

worn velvet couch, pull

piles of pillows below our feet

next to my limp beige bra,

your torn suede slippers, the floor

littered

pink vials, violet pills, pots of vomit,

pools of vaseline

in lids.

 

I rub jelly into bed sores

cover you, tuck our soft afghan,

stripes of apricot and tomato,

under your skin, sweep

sweats of silver hair

from your forehead

and fall asleep, a dog

by your feet until

morning.

Stacey Z Lawrence teaches Poetry and Creative Writing in Maplewood, NJ. Her work can be seen in Chaleur, Dream Noir, Vita Brevis, and others. She was short-listed for the Fish Poetry Prize 2019.

Trans-Formation

 

After kindergarten you gave up wearing girly things

played with Star Wars figures, action heroes and Legos

with a lightsaber dangling from your belt.

You were thought of as a tomboy

often regarded as a boy in restaurants

and kicked out of the girls’ restroom at school several times.

 

You wore skater shoes and Tony Hawk clothes in middle school.

Your hoodie covered your face when you received “Best in Shop”

and I was embarrassed by your style.

Then in high school when you got soccer MVP and had a girlfriend,

I just thought you were gay —

but in college when you bought men’s shoes and went to a barber

it hadn’t quite hit me that you were becoming your true self;

I didn’t realize how badly you’d wanted to be a boy for so long.

 

Now at 21 you have a new name and use the men’s room

you give yourself the shots and wait for top surgery

you seem so happy, and I admire your classy style.

 

I rejoice seeing your maleness and applaud your bravery

the deepest You is fully emerging

Welcome to the world my son!

 

 

Kalila Volkov is the author of Hiking Trail, Treasure Land, and Fishing for Equilibrium: The Power of a Diary. She delights in choral singing and cooking up poems.

My Blizzard Man is Gone

 

no longer will he come—

snow covered hat, boots he forgot to wear

leaving his feet chilled in sneakers

and knee-high snow

there will no longer be that persistent

banging at my door

cursing to let him in before he freezes

 

nor will he slip into floppy slippers

or sit upon the couch in black hoodie

wrapped like a mummy in a furry afghan

. . . still not warm enough

 

no longer will my arms stretch around

his big belly, my legs rest across his lap

as he snores through the movie, wakes

and asks what he’s missed

 

no longer will his fingers

‘tickle the ivories’

or his raspy voice sing out

in jazzy down ‘n’ dirty blues

 

no longer will he complain the food

is too cold, the coffee not strong enough

everything needs more spice

 

my blizzard man is gone

eighty-four was all the breath he had

 

I will sit at the window, watch snow

mounting on the lawn and where

his old grey Toyota once sat . . . a driveway

covered in drifts

 

 

Gloria g. Murray has been published in literary journals including The Paterson Review, Poet Lore, CQ Quarterly, The Bridge, The Pittsburgh Quarterly, Limestone Circle, The Long Island Quarterly, Lynx Eye, Xandau, and others.

Illusion

 

Behind the smiles

skulls

beneath the alabaster

white skin

blood, vessels, tissue,

organs.

The skeleton stands erect

walks forward.

There is movement of muscle

and bone

we see as flesh

and conveniently forget

the entrails, the guts

inside the young supermodel

same as the old derelict.

This complex human body

so strong and yet so fragile

built for procreation

and extinction.

 

 

Lynne D. Soulagnet has had poems published in the Paumanok Review, Long Island.

September Streetcorner

 

I saw a suicide today...

at the corner of Woodhouse and sleep,

where the stoplight never made exceptions for us.

 

The same spot where your weary head dropped to my swollen shoulders,

when your eyes met the twin comets coasting September skies,

and heard the whispers of affirmation from their silver tails.

I was your one.

 

In the glass heat and sable air of the night,

I saw the boy join his most zealous dreams.

He grabbed your hand and closed his eyes.

Ben Pello is a student currently enrolled at Siena College. He loves writing in general and the art of language, but mostly sticks to writing poetry.

Archive of Free Verse Poetry with Suzanne Robinson by issue:

    July 2019       May 2019      March 2019      January 2019     November 2018     September 2018     July 2018     June 2018   

 May 2018    April 2018      March 2018     February 2018     January 2018     December 2017     November 2017     October 2017

    September 2017     August 2017     July 2017     June 2017     May 2017     April 2017     March 2017     February 2017    

   January 2017      December 2016     November 2016     October 2016     September 2016     August 2016     June 2016     May 2016

Archive of Free Verse Poetry with Vera Ignatowitsch by issue:

     July 2019     May 2019

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