Tag Archives: Poetry

virgin

By Emma Geller

with violent lace
& bridal veil,
she made promises
no one else could keep.

unless one wished
to die on a bed,
all white & naked 
with remorse for him. 

with his ugly rage 
that coursed in river streams,
it raged all over her, 
she’s drowning

with his ugly rage 
that coursed in river streams,
it raged all over her, 
she’s drowning


Emma Geller is a poet, singer, and actress from Boston, MA. Her poetry has been featured in various publications, including Quillkeeper’s Press, Honeyfire Literary Magazine and Calliope’s Eyelash. You can find out more about Emma on Instagram at em_me_line.

OPENING MY WINDOW

By Lorraine Caputo

From my pocket with a hole
(that hole through which tarnished coins fall),
I pull a soiled tattered rag.
With wide strokes on the glass, I begin 
swiping away grime that built up since your death,
grime that had built up over the years of abuse …
I want, I need to scrub away that muck, 
wipe away that negativity that obscures my view.
I need clarity, brightness to see …
… I need to scrape away that dirt, 
flake away those too many lies that
bind this window stuck …
… throw this window open
to my future …


Lorraine Caputo is a documentary poet, translator and travel writer. Her works appear in over 250 journals on six continents; and 19 collections of poetry – including On Galápagos Shores (dancing girl press, 2019) and Escape to the Sea (Origami Poems Project, 2021). She also authors travel narratives, articles and guidebooks. Her writing has been honoured by the Parliamentary Poet Laureate of Canada (2011) and nominated for the Best of the Net. Caputo has done literary readings from Alaska to the Patagonia. She journeys through Latin America, listening to the voices of the pueblos and Earth. Follow her travels on Facebook or through her website.

CAPTURING THAT ELUSIVE PERFUME

By Lorraine Caputo

Through the cracks of my ill-fitting windows drifts the perfume of some night flower … a perfume that tendrils across rooftop tejas, down narrow cobblestone streets … remnants of the afternoon’s storm beads on that blossom’s ghostly petals gleaming in the new moon’s dark light … elusive … elusive as a deep dream dissipating in the pale dawn twilight … slipping away through cracks, into the darkness, into oblivion, forgotten memories, perhaps someday to arise in some moment least expected … cracks meshing across my mind like the golden city lights that cobweb across this valley, capturing that elusive perfume.


Lorraine Caputo is a documentary poet, translator and travel writer. Her works appear in over 250 journals on six continents; and 19 collections of poetry – including On Galápagos Shores (dancing girl press, 2019) and Escape to the Sea (Origami Poems Project, 2021). She also authors travel narratives, articles and guidebooks. Her writing has been honoured by the Parliamentary Poet Laureate of Canada (2011) and nominated for the Best of the Net. Caputo has done literary readings from Alaska to the Patagonia. She journeys through Latin America, listening to the voices of the pueblos and Earth. Follow her travels on Facebook or through her website.

Marie Curie in Easton

By Lara Dolphin

Whether the children were enjoying the space, she had little doubt.
Still, she felt a curious dread as she wandered the museum,
filled with posters, screens and virtual spaces. 
It all seemed so busy, so frivolous.

She recalled with fondness her humble shed, not a proper laboratory to be sure, 
hot in summer, drafty in winter, leaky when it rained, 
but suited to the tasks of a curious mind, 
quiet and full of possibility.

What she wouldn’t give to be back in the Warsaw of her childhood
at her beloved Flying University studying in secret 
simply for the love of learning. “If simplicity is the sign of truth,” 
she wondered looking around, “where had it flown?”

Out of the side of her eye she spied a show set in a picture frame 
hanging by itself in a corner playing to no one, the dulcet tones of a minister’s
voice explaining how crayons are made. She watched mesmerized as hot wax,
hardener and pigment popped up into handfuls of bright yellow sticks.

Could it be that it is the noise of the past that shames us;
the present requiring nothing more than our faith? This moment, 
she thought, rolling a crayon in her palm as she once rolled 
a slender cylinder of radium, is volatile, violable waiting to be discovered. 


Lara Dolphin is an attorney, nurse, wife and mom of four amazing kids; she is exhausted and elated most of the time.

Linus Pauling in Schnecksville

By Lara Dolphin

After a long day of toying with the quantum mechanics 
of chemical bonding, nothing hit the spot quite like 
fresh-made ice cream, so Linus put on his beret 
and set out for Crystal Spring dairy.

Past baseball fields and playgrounds
past the community college and the diner 
the elementary school, the fire hall, the post office, and the bank, 
past the bison grazing on game preserve lands

He did not call at the parsonage, though he knew 
the minister would be at home, nor at the Grange, 
the hardware store, or the IGA. He slowed as he passed 
the cemetery by the church but kept on going.

When he got to the farm, he ordered a cone, the perfect emulsion–
milk, cream and sugar overrun with air and whipped into a dense, cold foam 
that when consumed too quickly constricted then warmed the blood vessels, sending signals of pain along the trigeminal nerve.

As he stood by the fence looking at the wide open acres 
where wind would blow snow into wild, white dunes come winter,
he thought, “The best way to have a lot of ideas,” 
“was to give the mind plenty of space.”

Just then a Maltese cat jumped onto his shoulder 
snapping him out of his reverie. He was sure that vanilla 
was the best flavor but headed back inside to get a second cone 
this time a chocolate to account for subjective error.


Lara Dolphin is an attorney, nurse, wife and mom of four amazing kids; she is exhausted and elated most of the time.

History is a pocket watch

By Lotté Jean Elliott

i’m watching down from the tower
a drunken musician, a crying writer
an artisan with no muse, a frozen painter.
energy consumed, floating away as they reach their ends
passion dead, radiance long hidden.
is this the body of art, where we must be pushed to edges
to be revived
i’m watching from the tower, clinging to a saviour
a brain, refused
an act, does not fleet or freeze but needs reinvigorating.

i take a sleep on this, and wake to a new point
this art, that is buried in our lungs, our bloodstream.
it does not die nor does our muse
it is all around, waiting to be claimed.


Lotté Jean Elliott is a writer based in Northern England. She is the published author of a fiction novel, THE DAMNED SOCIETY, poetry collections LETTERS TO JUPITER and NIGHTS IN THE SNOW GARDEN and an upcoming screenwriter. She has works featured in Literary Mark, Brave Voices Magazine, Sledgehammerlit and BBC Newcastle.

Ing

By Lotté Jean Elliott

feelings like a lost cause
planets circulating around empty homes
faces hiding behind envy
skins leaving their true loves.

i’m wondering, lying, feeding, soothing
everything
is a thing, of purity and loveliness
till the branding, crumbles, withering, dying
i wonder of the escape from this
wandering
i want to learn to fly.


Lotté Jean Elliott is a writer based in Northern England. She is the published author of a fiction novel, THE DAMNED SOCIETY, poetry collections LETTERS TO JUPITER and NIGHTS IN THE SNOW GARDEN and an upcoming screenwriter. She has works featured in Literary Mark, Brave Voices Magazine, Sledgehammerlit and BBC Newcastle.

Brushing the Silver Lining

By Christina Hennemann

Sleepless for two years and a half,
912 days in the dark but wide awake,
Black circles under my eyes, the shock
Sitting right on top of my pallid forehead.

Blurry Sepia photographs drill into my skin
Like barbed wire, a fence keeping me away 
From a juicy sweet green meadow called peace – 
My scarred fingers cry tiny bloody tears of shame.

But still, the leather photo album smells so
Velvety and soothing, heavenly bittersweet – 
That my prefrontal cortex mourns past’s death.

I turn to look at you closely, examining: 
Is there that uncanny shadow of doom 
Flickering over your eyes as well, like 
A daunting massive cloud of rainfall?

Never can nor will I be dragged there again,
Into the shade of silvery twisted spook,
Where icy droplets burn my sore limbs
And keep me insomniac, accompanied by
Crooked ghosts of the past, overshadowing
My present and future: my nights are always

Haunted, even though I am safe now.

I long to fall for your smile, fall asleep, fall softly,
But my muscles are froze up and tense, while
My heart keeps pumping fear through my veins.

I close the photo album.
Inhale, exhale, just breathe.


Christina Hennemann is a writer and photographer based in the West of Ireland but originally from Germany. At the age of six, she began writing her first English songs and poems with the help of a German-English dictionary. Since then, her English skills have much improved, she hopes. Her most recent publications include orangepeel, Maythorn Mag and The Sunshine Review.

Heroine Wading Through Water

By Christina Hennemann

A grey heron was obstructing my path 
In the middle of the summerly 
Woods smelling of green and air 
I remember it was near a zoo,
A fugitive?

A misplaced augury perhaps –

The heron appeared a few steps in front of me
Out of the blue, 
On the soft organic narrow forest trail,
Immovable, like
A stone with
Watchful eyes.

It seemed giant and gloomy and alien 
In the waterless woody drought. 

Solely for you I managed to walk past it
In fear, shaking, trembling but
Victorious.

The heron didn’t move 
One bit – 
What became of it, 
I don’t know,
I didn’t attempt to take the auspices.

When I told you of my bravery, 
You were proud of me and
My heart was bubbling lava.

But now, creeping from the depth of my
Gut feeling,  
Just before I fall for a warm foggy dream,  
I feel like the heron has reappeared – 
It’s sitting in the dark for sure, 
I can’t see it but 
It’s there, 
Suddenly scary again.

A barrier, stone-grey and frightening 
Insuperable without bait.

An unfavourable omen? 
An obstacle, without question.


Christina Hennemann is a writer and photographer based in the West of Ireland but originally from Germany. At the age of six, she began writing her first English songs and poems with the help of a German-English dictionary. Since then, her English skills have much improved, she hopes. Her most recent publications include orangepeel, Maythorn Mag and The Sunshine Review.

NOTHING IS AS IT SEEMS

By Micki Findlay

Cold
hard
crunchy 
Robust, ruby gem 
dangling high on a serpentine limb 
Dancing with the autumn breeze 
enchanting 
enticing 
inviting
Hollow groans lurch from my belly
Reaching up on tiptoes
I gingerly twist the scarlet orb from its branch 
A gnarled leaf clings; lifeless
Careful. Don’t drop it. Never EVER drop it!
I know, only too well, you can’t always see the bruises
but they’re there
Running home, I pause before creeping in the kitchen door
I must be quiet. I must ALWAYS be quiet!
Staring at my contraband
I begin paring off the smooth, red veneer
It lays there dormant in a frenzied heap
But for how long? 
Its façade stripped away, there’s no more pretending 
I can feel it seething 
staring 
glaring 
The silence frightens me
I know what’s coming 
Trembling, I cut into the white flesh
It spits at me, stinging my eye
Mistakes are not allowed. Mistakes are NEVER EVER allowed!
My hands quiver as I cut faster, faster, faster 
before it spews its frothy disdain… again
Slice. Precision. Slice. CAREFUL! Slice. 
Something catches my eye. 
Terrified, I look down
A silent scream echoes in my head
BLOOD!
I should have known 
I dared to believe 
to hope, to challenge
Tasting bloodied tears, I glance at the pasty-white slices 
laying there motionless
small
exposed 
powerless
Today, I fought back
Did I win?
For now…


Micki Findlay is a contributing author for Chicken Soup for the Soul, Jazz House Publications, and a freelance columnist for Oasis Magazine, where she features local artists making a difference. She is also a songwriter, memoirist, poet, and digital artist. She feels very blessed to live on Vancouver Island, BC, Canada, amongst many talented and innovative creatives. You can find her website here.