Tag: American Poetry

Rebecca Schumejda: “Lotus Flower”

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Lotus Flower
- For Jason Martinez

Most people would laugh at the notion
that I loved you long before we met.

They wouldn’t understand how your
deceased partner sent me to you

or how on our first date, you talked to
my late husband in the Starbuck’s bathroom

and promised him you would take care of me–
most people would have run, not walked, run.

But I knew, the explanation was in how
we were both able to rise up from muddy water

and bloom despite our struggles. Most people
would not be able to trace her angelic face

memoralized on your arm or her name
tattooed above your heart while making love.

They wouldn’t be able to admire the half-finished
painting of her, sitting on an easel in your living room.

Most people would not appreciate the constellations
you discovered on my thigh, how I watched you

point out the Big Dipper, Orion’s Belt, and saw
what you saw, and saw you. Most people

wouldn’t understand how after you pushed into me
for the first time I went to my house, and put

a picture of my late husband back up, not because
I wanted him back, because I do, I always will,

but because you turned that door knob, a lotus flower,
pushed in through and past the murky waters,

held me tightly as I let out a deep sigh of relief
after this long journey to you, and welcomed me home.

About the Author: Rebecca Schumejda is the author of several full-length collections including Falling Forward (sunnyoutside press), Cadillac Men (NYQ Books), Waiting at the Dead End Diner (Bottom Dog Press), Our One-Way Street (NYQ Books) Something Like Forgiveness, a single epic poem accompanied by collage art by Hosho McCreesh (Stubborn Mule Press) and her new collection Sentenced (NYQ Books). She is the co-editor at Trailer Park Quarterly. She received her MA in Poetics from San Francisco State University and her BA from SUNY New Paltz. She lives in New York’s Hudson Valley with her family. You can find her online at: rebecca-schumejda.com

Image Credit: Image originally from Flore des serres et des jardins de l’Europe. A Gand: chez Louis van Houtte, eÌditeur,1845-1880. Image courtesy of the Biodiversity Heritage Library

Royal Rhodes: “Books”

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BOOKS

They line the walls on sagging lumber
    beyond the five-foot shelf of classics.
Dog-eared paperbacks, debris
    depicting what the demi-monde
contains within their shop-worn boards,
    tomes we saved from e-Bay culls
that could have paid the urgent rent.
    They stand like towers from a city
tinted in Morocco red,
    a mystical mandala with
a text to read for souls in flames.
    A row of narrow townhouses
lining the banks of a Dutch canal.
    Beside them stacks of common fiction,
whose words would not improve on silence.
    Here a history of life the sea
surrendered smells like tidal pools,
    its pages soft and curled in waves.
In some we think a firewall
    divides the character and author;
in some the writer is transformed.
    A few of even those we love
were books that someone closely read
    before they called authorities,
reporting on their hunted neighbors
    for crimes against conformity.

Other volumes, spare and slim,
    help to lip-read what my heart
is saying. Everyone it seems
    knows the standard temperature
at which the printed paper burns.
    But what about the low degree
that makes such standard pages freeze?
    For there are books I have not sold
or tossed that press me down to death.
    They stand and watch me from the shelf.
In those you gave as gifts a hundred
    paper cuts await my blood.

About the Author: Royal Rhodes, who was trained in the Classics, is a retired educator who taught classes in global religions and Death & Dying for almost forty years. His poems have appeared in: Ekstasis Poetry, Snakeskin Poetry, The Montreal Review, The Cafe Review, and other places. His poetry/art collaborations have been published with The Catbird [on the Yadkin] Press in North Carolina.

Image Credit: John Frederick Peto “Still Life with Books, Inkpot, and Candlestick” Public domain image courtesy of Artvee.

Cheryl A. Rice: “Crow Will Never Carry A Star Across the Sky”

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Crow Will Never Carry A Star Across the Sky
                            -for MJ

“It’s not my job to carry a
self-sufficient body from dawn to dawn.
I’ve got enough on my mind,
what with gathering foodstuffs to tide me over,
making a nest sturdy enough to withstand
kith and kin, raw eggs, new babies.
Stars live lives beyond all that,
provide the only possible light 
in that seamless backdrop.

It’s not a matter of choice, no choice about it at all.
Check with Blue Jay, busy bullying inbred Sparrows,
or Cardinal, flitting like a match head from bush to bush,
playing the family man so well you can almost see a
station wagon full of chicks behind him.
Goldfinch, Red-Headed Stranger,
elusive Bluebird of Happiness—
maybe one of them has time
to cart a star around there like some aged queen.

I’ve got my own agenda,
make my own rounds without help
from a creature subject to laws of gravity.
Leave me be. I’ve got a Douglass fir to investigate.
Something is shining on that uppermost branch that calls to me,
seems to be spelling my name in semaphoric signs.”

About the Author: Twice a Best of the Net nominee, Cheryl A. Rice’s books include Dressing for the Unbearable (Flying Monkey Press), Until the Words Came (Post Traumatic Press), and Love’s Compass (Kung Fu Treachery Press). Her monthly column, The Flying Monkey, can be found at https://hvwg.org/, while her occasional blog, Flying Monkey Productions, is at http://flyingmonkeyprods.blogspot.com. Rice can be reached at dorothyy62@yahoo.com.

Image Credit: Kazimierz Stabrowski “Crows- Council of Seniors” (1923) Public domain image courtesy of Artvee

Jason Baldinger: “the last vestige of tiki”

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the last vestige of tiki

camped on a helipad 
after small town carnivore lights
I could spend my night at rural king
or listening to I-70 lights roar
across this nowhere june tundra
instead I crawl into a corona

carla limes them salts bottleneck
professional bartender gauntlet
she's been at this for centuries
I count the hayseeds
think about nicotine
time stamped into the grass skirts
that may be the last vestige of tiki
left in this motel lounge

she left this town for philly
as soon as she grew wings
bounced around holiday inns
with private dancer as soundtrack
acquired all the merit badges
service time affords
she's been rubies and diamonds 
she's been gold club

but the city will wear on a heart 
the service industry takes what it will
so she left it and a no good man
to come back home
bought in on unincorporated land 
dark skies and nowhere
far enough from the ghost of her memories

she keeps company
with a man from another small town
somewhere dusty like oklahoma 
where they only drink
tomato juice and budwiser
sometimes both if the devil
found his way for a visit recently

tonight it's everyone's birthday
off kilter and out of key
if it were friday or saturday
a band of shitkickers
might stir it up
nothing personal just frustration

kentucky comes next
dipsy doodle foothills
dots of towns wade forgotten
more inventories of years ravaged
years of appalachia left for dead

I cash out after I hit my limit
tip amounts to the check
carla and I wish each other luck

back to the helipad
roar of interstate in my hair
I’ll sleep deeply tonight
wrapped in the red of wildflower smoke

About the Author: Jason Baldinger is a poet and photographer from Pittsburgh, PA. He is the co-editor of Trailer Park Quarterly and co-runs The Odd-Month Reading Series. He’s penned fifteen books of poetry the newest of which include: A History of Backroads Misplaced: Selected Poems 2010-2020 (Kung Fu Treachery), American Aorta (OAC Books) and This Still Life (Kung Fu Treachery) with James Benger. His first book of photography, Lazarus, was just released. He has two ekphrastic collaborations (with poets Rebecca Schumejda and Robert Dean) forthcoming. His work has appeared across a wide variety of online sites and print journals. You can hear him read from various books on Bandcamp and on lps by The Gotobeds and Theremonster.

Image Credit: Carol M. Highsmith “A rather sublime-looking tiki head stands outside the gift shop of the old Ranchero Motel in the tiny settlement of Anteres, Arizona, in Mohave County along U.S. Highway 66” (2018)

Leslie M. Rupracht: “Winter Solstice 2023”

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Winter Solstice 2023

           In Memory of Mike James

on this shortest day of the year 
my grief is long

just four days since you transitioned 
from this world to realm of sweet angels 
& revered poets passed 

now more than ever

i picture you as marlena in pink

no longer needing to maintain

the burly john wayne façade

to appease employer & bigots alike 

you were my brother-sister-confidante

you’d say there’s your TMI for the day 
i’d insist there’s no such thing

& treasure your confidence

it was a privilege being your ally

a pleasure your chosen family 

there’s a seat for you now at the table 
of your cherished ghosts—
marlene dietrich

robert lowell

james dickey

ezra pound

hemingway

warhol

haring

rocky
brando

& wayne
as great as they were

your legacy is secure 

most magnificent

is the hopeful certainty you’re with 
your dearest grandmother again— 
first ally 
first cheerleader

first force for good 
the first to really see you for you

About the Author: Leslie M. Rupracht has poems in Asheville Poetry Review, As It Ought To Be Magazine, Aeolian Harp, Chiron Review, K’in, The Ekphrastic Review, Gargoyle, Anti-Heroin Chic, Kakalak, a chapbook, Splintered Memories (Main Street Rag), and elsewhere. She completed her first full-length poetry manuscript in 2023 and hopes to find it a good home. An editor, poet, writer, visual artist, and rescued pit bull mama, Leslie is co-founder and host of the monthly reading series, Waterbean Poetry Night at the Mic, in Huntersville, North Carolina.

Image Credit: Chase Dimock “Solstice Rose” (2024)

Jason Visconti: “After The Drought”

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After The Drought

The clouds just join till rain’s a melody,
I hear the words pitched in every drop,
something’s in the song the lyricist should steal,
the vocals are tense as strings of harps,
the flood just a concert unconcealed.

About the Author: Jason Visconti has attended both group and private poetry workshops. His work has appeared in various journals, including “Blazevox”, “Valley Voices”, and “The American Journal of Poetry”. He especially enjoys the poetry of Pablo Neruda and Billy Collins.

Image Credit: Chase Dimock “Rain Clouds at Night” (2021)

Rebecca Schumejda: “Goodnight, Saint Peregrine”

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Goodnight, Saint Peregrine 

Braindead, all the doctors agreed,
throughout the day each asked me if I was ready. 
Brahms lullaby played a half-dozen times 
while I waited for a sign.  
Both keeping you alive and letting you go
seemed somehow selfish. 
On another floor, in another unit, 
new mothers cradled lifetimes of possibilities. 

After I agreed to extubation and 
all of the machines were wheeled away, 
I could have run my fingers 
along your cracked lips or leaned in 
to feel your breath against my cheek 
but instead I anxiously hovered over you, 
my Saint Peregrine pendant, swinging above 
that frail body of impossibility. 

When our oldest called to see when 
I was coming home, I asked 
both of our daughters to say goodnight. 
I put the phone on speaker and held it close. 
Our six-year-old shouted, Daddy, sleep 
for a long time, see you tomorrow! 
as I twirled your last breath and my 
waning faith around a silver chain.

About the Author: Rebecca Schumejda is the author of several full-length collections including Falling Forward (sunnyoutside press), Cadillac Men (NYQ Books), Waiting at the Dead End Diner (Bottom Dog Press), Our One-Way Street (NYQ Books) Something Like Forgiveness, a single epic poem accompanied by collage art by Hosho McCreesh (Stubborn Mule Press) and her new collection Sentenced (NYQ Books). She is the co-editor at Trailer Park Quarterly. She received her MA in Poetics from San Francisco State University and her BA from SUNY New Paltz. She lives in New York’s Hudson Valley with her family. You can find her online at: rebecca-schumejda.com

Image Credit: Giacomo Zampa “San Pellegrino” Public domain image courtesy of Wikimedia

Geraldine Cannon: “April Fools’ Day – In All Good Fun”

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David de Coninck Two Rabbits
“Rabbit, Rabbit!  Pinch Punch! First of the month. White Rabbit, No Return.”
					--for Good Luck, said on the first day each month.


April Fools’ Day – In All Good Fun 

You can’t believe a thing you read today, 
at least not entirely. There may be a grain 
of truth, but you’ll have to sift it out yourself. 
A friend reminded me of an old date night spoof
to take an ugly girl out to dance—a one-night stand.
She was that girl for some but now she has become 
swan to duck as compared to them—a silk purse 
to their ear of pig. Another friend met the fellow 
of her dreams out on a date on this day years ago. 
They’ve been married ever since and every single 
year she says she’d do it all again. I never could’ve, 
though. I joked once that I was pregnant, then vowed 
never to again, because so many wanted me to be. 
My neighbor was born on this day, and there are those 
whose work I know, born today that I’ve never met.
Take Anne McCaffrey, for example: the first woman 
for a lot of things science fiction and fantasy, in real life 
won a Hugo. Still, reports say she struggled to be taken 
seriously. Often asked how she found time to write,
like a boss, she would say: “You’ve got that wrong—
how do I find time for housework with all my writing!” 
I know some Aprils who were born in May or June. 
Go figure. Yes, and it’s the month to celebrate poems. 
Regarding lines, you have given me one or two. 
If mine are worth stealing, that sounds like a boon 
for us both. I say, “Good luck, my friend!” I do mean it.

About the Author: Geraldine Cannon is a poet, scholar, and editor, also working as a Professor of English and Creative Writing at the University of Maine at Fort Kent, under her married name–Becker. She has been published in various journals and anthologies. She published Glad Wilderness (Plain View Press, 2008).. She has been helping others publish, and had stopped sending her own material out, but she was encouraged to do so again, and most recently has a new poem in the Winter issue, Gate of Dawn (Monroe House Press, 2024).

Image Credit: David de Coninck “Two Rabbits” Public domain image courtesy of Artvee.

James Croal Jackson: “Floods and Fires”

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Floods and Fires

We don’t have that much land
and we forget the vastness

of the ocean, but it does not
forget us, angry and sacred,

swirling our waste in a rage
and hurling it back. Earth

wants to reclaim the Earth.
We burn it for fuel;

soon we will be fuel.
We are fools, dinosaurs–

but they die by a star,
and we, by our fire.

About the Author: James Croal Jackson is a Filipino-American poet who works in film production. His latest chapbooks are A God You Believed In (Pinhole Poetry, 2023) and Count Seeds With Me (Ethel Zine & Micro-Press, 2022). Recent poems are in Beltway Poetry Quarterly, Little Patuxent Review, and The Round. He edits The Mantle Poetry from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. (jamescroaljackson.com)

Image Credit: Marcus Larson “Steamer in Flames” Public domain image courtesy of Artvee.

Agnes Vojta: “Waking up in India to the News that Mike is Dead”

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Waking up in India to the News that Mike is Dead

                       “I will bathe in memory and in loss.”
                      - Mike James

In the tropical night, I wake, fiddle with my phone, see the news.
You knew it was coming. My last submission. I did not expect it so soon.

I sit under a Banyan tree and study its aerial roots. I cannot remember
what you wrote about trees.

On my laptop, I re-read our chats. I want to download and save them.
As if that could keep you here.

At a deserted playground, monkeys scamper up and down the slide.
They know nothing of poetry.

I copied lines from your poems, carried them as a talisman,
taped them above my desk.

I wonder what you would have packed if you could have taken a suitcase.
I hear the list in your voice.

It sounds as if you are reading one of your prose poems.

About the Author: Agnes Vojta grew up in Germany and now lives in Rolla, Missouri where she teaches physics at Missouri S&T and hikes the Ozarks. She is the author of Porous Land, The Eden of Perhaps, and A Coracle for Dreams, all published by Spartan Press. Together with eight other poets she collaborated on the book Wild Muse: Ozarks Nature Poetry (Cornerpost Press, 2022.) Her poems have appeared in a variety of magazines; you can read some of them on her website agnesvojta.com.

Image Credit: Carol M. Highsmith “Fort Myers, a small city on Florida’s southwest coast along the Gulf of Mexico calls itself the Palm City but its most iconic leafy specimens are the immense banyan trees downtown” Public domain image courtesy of the Library of Congress