Tag Archives: Poetry

Season’s End

By Matt Comito

What is the new moon’s yield? Slender,
Quaint as a quill in its curves the dusty
Old thing just leaning there against our
Pull. All summer I watched the swings hold
Against the centrifuge on the old carnival
Ride, waiting bored for the likely carnage.
They should have shut that thing down long ago.
That is part of its appeal I guess. Picking up in
One town and making for the next before the law
Gets wise. A carny’s life for me it is.
Seasonal work though, you need to horde
Your seed and lay up for the bone cold
Months. In spring you step down from the
Rusted runner of your truck into some vacant
Lot and maybe a friendly face greets you
And beckons with a flask. And maybe
There is work enough.


Matt Comito is a bookseller who lives in Los Angeles. He has had a lot of time on his hands the last couple of years. Right now, he is curious as to why there is a mysterious noise coming from his walk-in closet. He hopes it is one of his cats.

Shorn

By Matt Comito

I have allowed, for far too long,
my beard and hair to grow without tempering
or order. The dead parts of me have taken
over and my face disappears beneath the weight
of my indifference; my face an ancient ruin the
hungering jungle chooses finally, to reclaim. 

I’ll tell you a story that I’ve just made up: 

A farmer buys a tract of land, acre
By acre dredges and digs at it. He hauls out
Stones and stumps. He drains and shapes the contours
Of his land. One day I decide, ‘enough’,
Stare myself down in the mirror, ‘enough’.
I pick up my razor and I begin.


Matt Comito is a bookseller who lives in Los Angeles. He has had a lot of time on his hands the last couple of years. Right now, he is curious as to why there is a mysterious noise coming from his walk-in closet. He hopes it is one of his cats.

midwest america part one 

By Emma Geller

your hand 
on my thigh,
when we’re driving,
doesn’t feel like it used to

 & we don’t talk
at the gas station
when we stop 
for water & cigarettes

we keep driving down
highways, curving 
through states 
we don’t stop 
to take pictures

we keep moving
though there is nowhere to go.


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.

iris

By Emma Geller

between the shutters, i saw
the shadow of your body but

in our dreams we were kissing, 
in a meadow of ashes & iris.

your pretty lips, a tropical storm 
destroying me, so when you 

flew away, i wanted to chase you,
but i couldn’t move.


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.

shopping for oil in the anthropocene

By Kyrah Gomes

i.

i haven’t opened my eyes in days. 
a woman tells me talk to god, so

i send him a bedtime prayer 
when the sun is just past its peak.

never mind the sin. i am busy
making wine into water,

almosts into something golden.

ii.

apps fight for love and attention
in a frenzied flurry of notifications 
while i am standing in aisle seven,

trying to select a neutral cooking oil 
from corn and canola and peanut 
and safflower, weighing smoke points

against price per fluid ounce. what they 
don’t teach you in physics? viscosity 
is a pointless rebellion. no amount of

oleic acid or polyunsaturated fats can 
stop the inevitable evaporation into 
gold, the reduction to a mere flash

in the pan. what they don’t teach you 
is sometimes, the violence of the rapids
is a sweeter comfort than the aftermath

of broken glass. god,  you and i go way, 
way back. i keep finding gold shards in
the stream. tell me why i am blinded by it.


Kyrah Gomes (she/her) is a queer poet and fresh fruit aficionado from NYC, currently living in Tampa, fl. she writes to create something tangible and is as much of a poet as any other human being. Her poems have appeared in LEVITATE, The B’K, Paper Crane Journal, Superfroot, warning lines mag, and other publications. You can send her comments, hate mail, or playlists on Twitter or on Instagram.

The Last Message

By Yuu Ikeda

Every night,
she writes the last message
on her favorite notebook.

But the end never comes.
Only new dawn comes.
Only new wind waits for her.

Whenever she writes the last message,
she believes that
the end surely comes.
But it always betrays her.

When the end comes,
her favorite notebook may be blank.

When her relief comes,
her favorite notebook may be blank.


Yuu Ikeda is a Japan-based poet.
She loves writing, drawing,
and reading mystery novels.
She writes poetry on her website.
Her published poems can be found
in <Nymphs>,
<Selcouth Station Press>,
<Goat’s Milk Magazine>,
<Sad Girl Review>,
and more.
Her Twitter and Instagram.

Sam Cooke

By Benjamin Adair Murphy

He stepped in the water
He helped the fishes swim
When he left those fish were singing
So of course they killed him

The wrong kind of voice
The wrong kind of skin
His car was way too pretty
So of course they killed him

So of course they killed him
So of course they killed him

He was calm and patient
The stranger’s twin
He put his hands upon the sick
So of course they killed him

They didn’t know where to start
Or where to begin
They were scared and they were panicked
So of course they killed him

So of course they killed him
So of course they killed him

Well, some don’t get it
Some understand 
And some stand with the soldiers
Who cut off Victor Jara’s hands

So you can blame the timing 
You can blame the luck
But I swear a man can’t speak the truth 
Without his throat getting cut

So of course they killed him
So of course they killed him
So of course they killed him
So of course…

They killed him


Benjamin Adair Murphy writes blues and country songs. His last album, ‘Let’s Make a King,’ was named one of the best albums of 2020 by multiple publications. His poetry and lyrics have been published in Fevers of the Mind, Headline Poetry and Press, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Rabid Oak, Coven Poetry, and others. His plays have been performed in New York, Boston, and Chicago. He lives in Mexico City.

Hello August

By Sarah Robin

Hello August, 
My most productive month of the year
With lots of harvest and preserving to do.

The aroma of vinegar in the kitchen 
Signifies the start of pickling season
When gherkins are stuffed into jars

Then covered in ladel-fulls
Of homemade vinegar and infused
With fresh homegrown herbs and spices.

Weekly harvests of sun-kissed tomatoes
Need turning into sauces and salsa 
Before bottling up.

A summery palette of annual sunflowers 
And sweetpeas fill the plot with colour. 
Perennial flowers keep pollinators busy.

With such good harvests this month,
I know I’ll be grateful in the depths
Of winter when I can provide 

Splashes of summer from the packed 
Store cupboards and freezers,
Creating a sense of warmth and gratitude.


Sarah Robin is a new writer from Bolton, England, starting her writing journey during the coronavirus pandemic. Robin has had several pieces of work published in anthologies and online literary magazines, as well as being a competition winner for both short fiction and poetry. She is also a prose reader for Sepia Journal. Find her on Twitter.

Glass Wall

By Sarah Robin

A naked figure sits hunched over on the floor,
Their arms wrapped around their body.
Surrounded by a wall of thick glass;
Closed off from everyone and everything
But visible to all.

Muffled voices and banging fists
Attack the barrier, desperate to help
But unable to break through;
Unable to touch them or hold them close,
Or provide comfort and love.

Soft, calming voices of reason
Bounce off the glass, instantly rejected.
Ideas of solutions break down,
Unable to withstand the backlash,
Crumbling onto the floor.

The wall stands strong, unharmed,
No scratches, no cracks; unbreakable.
Those on the outside watch on helplessly
And the figure continues to suffer alone;
Willingly.

Outsiders sit by the glass
Unable to help but they stay.
Always there in good faith
That one day the figure may accept help
And take the wall away.


Sarah Robin is a new writer from Bolton, England, starting her writing journey during the coronavirus pandemic. Robin has had several pieces of work published in anthologies and online literary magazines, as well as being a competition winner for both short fiction and poetry. She is also a prose reader for Sepia Journal. Find her on Twitter.

October

By Sarah Robin

The crunch of leaves underfoot, 
Dew-damp grass in glowing light, 
A tang of woodsmoke and ripening compost
Tell us that the seasons have shifted.

This step into October 
Is every gardeners’ new year
As the natural cycle propels us forward.
Now is the time to turn dreams into reality.

The seasonal shift and dropping 
Temperatures herald a change of pace,
But our gardens remain hives of activity,
Though often underground and out of sight

As plants reset for the year ahead
And wildlife seeks out spaces for hibernation.
It’s a great excuse to get outside
And tune into the season unfurling before us.


Sarah Robin is a new writer from Bolton, England, starting her writing journey during the coronavirus pandemic. Robin has had several pieces of work published in anthologies and online literary magazines, as well as being a competition winner for both short fiction and poetry. She is also a prose reader for Sepia Journal. Find her on Twitter.