Poems
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Fishing for Sleep
By Juliet A. PaineSleep eddies in this weather,
a difficult fish to catch.
A shoal of silver dreams swim past
but don't catch on anxious hooks. -
Mothers
By Juliana Doupedo to fill in the quiet,
where do I come from?
Mothers, like me,
in gestures and heart shaped faces and thinking -
Curvature
By Kate LockeNormal.
Nothing happening.
No curvature of sorts.
No curl of the lip or tongue. -
Nana died while I was tripping
By Kelly-Lee HickeyShe died alone in a wheelchair.
She was smoking herself to death.
In a world of few choices
She took one. -
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Sagacious Ramblings
By Gerard ElsonWhen the world was flat and Columbus sailed
I had baggy-pants rags and the man who they'd nailed
To the rotating bed rolled down the catwalk
And took blood from the goose out of 'Jack and the Beanstalk' -
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En Saga För örat
By Emilia JohanssonJag ligger och lyssnar på ett regn som inte slutar
Vad gråter himlen för idag?
Det domnar i mina öron
Det är inga droppar, allt blir bara en massa -
Journal Poem (Sad)
By Juliet A. PaineI drive to the sea.
Thinking of John Berryman,
Jeff Buckley, Virginia Woolf.
What is it about water? -
Three Photographs Of This Boy
By Andy DrewittPhoto One
This boy is small enough
to photograph and -
Rope Burn
By Ryan ScottAgain Captain Again!
Again Captain Again!
Sea foam, screaming, salt bubbles, salt washed -
I remember us
By Juliet A. PaineThis afternoon
the sunlight is hard and coarse
the clouds try desperately
to blot it out. -
The Me War
By Emilia JohanssonI want to be a soldier in my own struggling war
I wish to defeat the strong navy which is stationed in my heart
Every heartbeat sends out an army
Army "I don't know" and Army "fear and sorrow" -
Let us fly
By Tom KeilyLet us fly then you and I
Let us fly then you and I
Let us fly you and I across the distance of an old sky
across the cradle of a cold sky -
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Old Poet to Young Poet
By David Stavangeryou are immature and I am highly evolved
you should read more Judith Wright and stop writing about yourself
"I" and "we" should not be used as poems are illuminations not spotlights
young poet smokes for photos / old poet smokes -
The Night of the Bottle-tops
By Clint GreaganShe was sitting
there,
a little after midnight,
testing me -
Ghost boy
By David StavangerI knew this boy
a boy who never knew me
reflected in the cracked stained glass
of a city train full of morning corpses -
Night
By Lainie Cameronno-one seems to embrace you
your slick reserve and enigmatic shadows
blanketing love and lovers words, their
lips and hands and flower-stemmed fingers -
Schizophrenic dreaming
By Kate LockeShe sweeps through
the darkness, gliding like a black ghost, emerging here and there, only as
a shadow. Delicate hands, tiny waist. She is miniature, though tall and slender.
