Tag Archives: Prose poetry

Goodbye

By Yuu Ikeda

‘Goodbye’
Summer echoes.

Although my hands
are never able to
give up the heat,
summer is about to
shrink back from my sight.

Dawn cries for summer,
I write for summer,
and
fallen leaves ring a bell
of separation
for summer.

‘Goodbye’
Summer echoes.
I whisper.


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.

The Garden of Poetry

By Yuu Ikeda

In front of me,
many flowers of words
are swaying,
emitting seasonal fragrances.

Every morning,
I breathe in these sweet
sometimes bitter scent,
every evening,
I fill my notebook
waiting for
silhouettes of words,
then,
every night,
I fall asleep
with memories of
the garden of poetry.


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.

MOONLIGHT SERENADE

By Lorraine Caputo

In the late-hour hours
I am awakened
by the song
of the full moon shimmering
upon the rising tide

A golden halo surrounds her
in that cloud-hazed sky
bright pewter-blue like
the sea lapping against
the shell & rock-splinter shore


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.

Iris

By Susan Miller

It all started with
the lines. One pale,
one rock solid,
staring from a 
tiny pool of pink.

Clanking glasses of 
cheap Korbel, soggy
pita, day-old tahini.
Their after-midnight, 
quick-fridge feast.

Painting Pooh by
peek-a-boo bunnies
on lemon walls.
Plush quilts that 
lined pastel dreams.

It all ended with 
the blood. Splattered
terrycloth, choked womb.
Fists pounding the 
cold linoleum floor.

They all say there
will be others. One
pale, one rock solid.

She says she would 
have called her Iris.


Susan Miller is an editor/reporter for USA TODAY newspaper who enjoys creative writing as a hobby. Her poetry has appeared in several publications, including Whimsical Poet, The Dillydoun Review, Gemini Magazine, Common Ground Review, Months to Years, Under the Bridges of America, Sandy Paws and the Arlington Anthology. She had a short story published in Beach Life.

The Little Things

By Susan Miller

These were the things he missed,
the ones that were suppose
to stay silent, shoved down deep.
What with all the carnage spilling
all over his morning paper for
weeks, then months, a year.
The little things. The ones that
filled empty spaces, connected
his dots, fueled his day.

The gurgle of his grandson,
a sniff of her lavender shampoo.
Beer with his poker buddies,
sticky doughnuts after Mass.
The kind library lady, the 
sidewalk smiles of strangers.
Her crimson lips, the way
she asked him to dance.

Her touch. Any touch.


Susan Miller is an editor/reporter for USA TODAY newspaper who enjoys creative writing as a hobby. Her poetry has appeared in several publications, including Whimsical Poet, The Dillydoun Review, Gemini Magazine, Common Ground Review, Months to Years, Under the Bridges of America, Sandy Paws and the Arlington Anthology. She had a short story published in Beach Life.

DESERT RAINS

By Lorraine Caputo

I.

During day’s predawn
darkness, the desert night mist
is heavier, a
thin rain gliding off these parched
tin roofs & sear dreams

II.

In the midnight hour
a distant patter upon
the eaves disrupted
my meditation

Out to the terrace
I walked, to bathe in the light
rain falling upon
this desert city

III.

3:30 a.m.
a rain begins to splatter
this other night … then

its rhythm rises
into a constant clatter
on the roof as I

begin to lay my
anger in blood ink upon
leaf after sear leaf


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.

Eyes holding storms.

By Lotté Jean Elliott

beautiful ravens
pillage this profanity, the venom in my arteries
bleeding out like soundtracks to soulless villains
scars on the organs, wounded openings
an open port, a haven of injury ready for careless remarks
i’m in a tender spot

i feel the acid radiating away the pained thoughts
but i’m nothing but a thought in the air
please, when will i heal
i want to feel secure, a safe haven
when will my body become my own again
not powered by broken beings.


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.

Jules

By Susan Miller

 Jules was sinking
and no one really got that.
They’d say hey, how goes it,
what’s up, catch you soon.
She took the 38B in the a.m.;
you could set your watch on that.
You’d see her at the bus stop
in rainbow-colored rain boots,
pink slicker, flowered skirt.
Ear buds dangling between
stringy locks, smudged eyeliner
hiding slits that stared
at ants on the ground.

 You didn’t see scab-pocked
arms where a razor dug in deep
the night before. Or fingernails
that gripped the green lunch bucket,
nibbled into broken skin.
You didn’t hear the rattle
in her head on the dark days
or pay attention when she
crossed the street seven times.

Jules was just always there
standing near the weeds
waiting, waiting for the 38B.
She was always going somewhere,
the girl who was going nowhere.


Susan Miller is an editor/reporter for USA TODAY newspaper who enjoys creative writing as a hobby. Her poetry has appeared in several publications, including Whimsical Poet, The Dillydoun Review, Gemini Magazine, Common Ground Review, Months to Years, Under the Bridges of America, Sandy Paws and the Arlington Anthology. She had a short story published in Beach Life.

cough drop

By Catie Wiley

i hold fear under my tongue like a lozenge.
that sharp cherry taste lingers, tingles
all menthol and memory.

it sweats. coating my throat
and coloring my pharynx 
with permanent marker.

every inhale reminds me,
every exhale reminds me,
of something
i don’t want to remember.


Catie Wiley is a lesbian writer from Maryland. She’s a contributing editor for Story Magazine and a poetry reader for the winnow magazine. Her work appears in Stone of Madness Press, Wrongdoing Magazine, and warning lines magazine, among others. Find her on Twitter or at catiewiley.wordpress.com.

applesauce

By Catie Wiley

when you say you love me, 
my ears are full 
of applesauce. 
i hear the sounds but 
never 
the meaning behind them.

every day, i try 
to shake the applesauce 
out.
i try and i try and i try, 
but it’s no use. 
i can’t use a q-tip. 
no spoons allowed. 
a fork would never work, 
too much risk, 
and i’ve never wanted an ear piercing 
anyway.

you say you love me and i want to ask you 
to write it down. in pen, not pencil. 
hell, a sharpie would be better. 
write it down so I know 
i’m not imagining it. 
write it down so 
i can hold it in my hands.
write it down. 
the muffle will linger.


Catie Wiley is a lesbian writer from Maryland. She’s a contributing editor for Story Magazine and a poetry reader for the winnow magazine. Her work appears in Stone of Madness Press, Wrongdoing Magazine, and warning lines magazine, among others. Find her on Twitter or at catiewiley.wordpress.com.