Tag: Poetry

Anna Saunders: “A New Skin”

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A New Skin

She likes the room where they learn Biology, 
it is how she imagines the moon to look
up close – the clear white surfaces, the spectral light.

In the morning lesson she learns 
how the body rebuilds itself  
every 7 years or so, how old cells die 
and are replaced by new. A little like leaves, 
her teacher says, the old ones falling, 
fresh buds breaking out in spring. 

She loves the way they study the body in class, 
learn its rules, and possibilities.

School is a Safe Place 
and she likes the company of her peers, 
but even better she likes to be alone,
lying in bed, watching the moon, 
nothing, except her sheets touching her. 

To take her mind from memories of the men,
she thinks of what she learnt earlier – 
how the body sloughs off dead cells, and hair,
recreates itself. 

One day she thinks,
she will have a whole new body, 
one those men have never touched. 

The moon has tried to teach her this already,
Watch this, it says and each night 
goes into the darkness 
then comes out dazzling white again, as if reborn.

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About the Author: Anna Saunders has been described as ‘a poet who surely can do anything’ by The North, ‘a modern myth maker’ by Paul Stephenson, and Tears in the Fence said of her ‘Anna Saunders’ poetry is reminiscent of Plath – with all its alpha achievement and radiance’.

She is the author of Communion, (Wild Conversations Press), Struck, (Pindrop Press) Kissing the She Bear, (Wild Conversations Press), Burne Jones and the Fox (Indigo Dreams), and Ghosting for Beginners, (Indigo Dreams).

Anna’s new book is Feverfew. (Indigo Dreams). The collection has been described as ‘rich with obsession, sensuousness and potency’ by Ben Ray, and as ‘a  beautiful and necessary collection’ by  Penny Shuttle.  Anna is currently working on The Prohibition of Touch – due out Summer 2022 with Indigo Dreams.

She is also the Executive Director of Cheltenham Poetry Festival and works as a creative writing tutor and mentor, communications specialist,  journalist, broadcaster and  copywriter/editor.

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Image Credit: Ann Rosener “Johns Hopkins Hospital, Baltimore, Maryland. Student nurses learning anatomy” (1943) Library of Congress, Public Domain

Rick Christiansen: “Anarchists in the Kitchen”

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Anarchists in the Kitchen

We searched for the can opener in all the usual places.

His rueful stare, when I unearthed a small Flintstone’s jelly glass, 
half full of expired lime-flavored Alka-Seltzer  tablets—
and the way he stitched his breath—when
he was thinking—alerted me to attend and wait
for his next thought
before opening the next drawer.

I noticed that the Flintstone glass was a rare one, with a faded and flaking image of Dino on it.
“Dino always freaked me out!”, he said, 
“I felt that having a dinosaur as a pet would be a crushing responsibility.”

I nodded and kept looking through drawers.

He watched me search as he plucked absently at the hair on his cheek.
I was running out of drawers and still no can opener.

He had the look of a visiting shaman,
who knows that 
he must serve as a reluctant muse.

“We are going to have to rethink this.”
He said.

I knew he had a gift for climbing inside of things and pushing outward.

I waited.

He held up a wonderful old corroded French chef’s knife triumphantly.
I remembered that it had belonged to my aunt.
Who had gotten it from her brother, salvaged from the ashes
of an old hotel kitchen fire.

“We will open the cans with this”, he said.

He popped the point of the knife 
into the first can, and began to saw and pry his way around the rim.

“See…we are anarchists”, he said.
I pointed out that this was an old Boy Scout camping trick.

And he responded, 
“Exactly.”

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About the Author: Rick Christiansen has been a stand-up comic, an actor, director, and a corporate executive.  His work can be found in the archives of Oddball Magazine, Muddy River Poetry Review, The Raven’s Perch, The Rye Whiskey Review, Stone Poetry Journal, WINK Magazine and many other publications and anthologies. His poem “Killing Bob Dylan” is in the Fall 2021 Pop Culture anthology by Alien Buddha Press. He is a member of the St. Louis Writers Guild. Rick lives in Missouri near his eight grandchildren and with his basset hound Annie.

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Image Credit: John Vachon “Dog sleeping under kitchen table in farm kitchen. Cavalier County, North Dakota” (1940) The Library of Congress, Public Domain

Susan Cossette: “The Persistence of Memory”

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The Persistence of Memory

If novelists die before they finish their stories
whole worlds evaporate.
Snowy trees at grey solstice sunset,
bare branches twisted with awful secrets.
Sad lines of cars inch home,
tiny ants high over the I-394 overpass.
Each with its own self-contained history.

Twenty or so mourners, some in person, 
others on webcam, gather for a pandemic-age wake.
Families open Christmas presents
in front of the TV Yule log instead of a fireplace.
Everyone stops existing.

I am not afraid 
because I write poetry 
and once I finish a poem it is done.
The next one is a zygote in my mental ovaries
that hasn’t found a sperm cell to coax it to life.

Left behind like overripe cheese,
or ice cream melting in the sun.

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About the Author: Susan Cossette lives and writes in Minneapolis, Minnesota. The Author of Peggy Sue Messed Up, she is a recipient of the University of Connecticut’s Wallace Stevens Poetry Prize. A two-time Pushcart Prize nominee, her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Rust and Moth, Vita Brevis, ONE ART, As it Ought to Be,Anti-Heroin Chic, The Amethyst Review, Crow & Cross Keys, Loch Raven Review, and in the anthologies Fast Fallen Women (Woodhall Press) Tuesdays at Curley’s (Yuganta Press),and After the Equinox.

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More by Susan Cossette:

She Waits Behind the Drapes

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Image Credit: Marjory Collins “Washington, D.C. Salvage drive, Victory Program. Books and old lantern stored in District wholesale junk company warehouse” (1942) The Library of Congress. Public Domain

Jason Baldinger: “i remember the royal river”

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I remember the royal river

I remember the royal river
a bleached skeleton, bones
calloused and raw
these forever miles
the only skin left attached
vermont rain soaked halos 
glow dry in cold july sunshine 

I remember the royal river
mile long rutted driveways
a peninsula that breaks
into islands, black flies 
tall grass and hippie 
mansions lost to the grid
I shake rain tent flaps
drying out in turrets
as backgammon days 
passed picking ticks
off golden retrievers 

I remember the royal river
the maine granite coast
lone trees clawing
to hold the rocks along
the atlantic, ice cold showers
this gaunt face in a tide pool 

I remember the royal river
tequila on the docks
fortification for a last days boogie
gather these atoms south 
with notions of sacco and vanzetti 

I remember the royal river
as a skeleton 
with a compass
left in place 
of memory

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About the Author: Jason Baldinger was recently told he looks like a cross between a lumberjack and a genie. He’s also been told he’s not from Pittsburgh, but actually is the physical manifestation of Pittsburgh. Although unsure of either, he does love wandering the country writing poems.  His newest books include: A Threadbare Universe (Kung Fu Treachery Press), The Afterlife is a Hangover (Stubborn Mule Press) and A History of Backroads Misplaced: Selected Poems 2010-2020 (Kung Fu Treachery). He also has a forthcoming book with James Benger called This Still Life. His work has been widely across print journals and online. You can hear him read his work on Bandcamp and on lp’s by The Gotobeds and Theremonster.

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More Poetry by Jason Baldinger:

This Ghostly Ambiance

It was a Golden Time

Beauty is a Rare Thing

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Image Credit: Detroit Publishing Co. “Picnic rocks, Kennebunk River, Kennebunkport, Maine” (1890) The Library of Congress Public Domain.

Emily Martin: “For Terrestrial Bodies”

Posted on by Chase Dimock

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For Terrestrial Bodies 

So you never went back to the time you left yourself
on the tall grass beneath the dull black night 

where you counted stars and satellites; 
you listened as the planets hummed. 

Because you had forgotten that like this, 
even the pull of earth couldn’t move you. 

Because you were still tv static and telephone wires,
barking dogs and the trembling streetlight, 

you decided if life should exist out there, 
it would be made of light and air, color and sound. 

When you blinked and lost your body, the sky flashed,
you named the moons trapped in each planet’s gravity 

and you only looked back once to find her there–
body on the tall grass, not terrestrial, but full of stars

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About the Author:  Emily Martin is a writer from New York City. She holds a B.A. in English Literature and Creative Writing from Hunter College and is currently working towards an M.A. in Media Studies.

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Image Credit: Chase Dimock “Tall Grass, Landers” (2021)

Cord Moreski: “Space Shuffle”

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Space Shuffle

I wonder what music
the one percent will be playing
on their voyage through space
after leaving this warm planet behind
like some kid’s father never returning
after going out for a pack of smokes

maybe it’ll be disco
where they’ll wear roller skates
that glitter like the stars outside
their space shuttle windows
and dance the funky chicken
or the hustle as they get their boogie on

or maybe it’ll be
more of a nu-metal experience
where they’ll sport backward baseball caps
and break stuff like Fred Durst
while Earth in the rearview mirror
turns into a sad puddle of mud

for what it’s worth
I bet it’ll be elevator music
or Muzak for the aficionados
where they’ll tap their champagne flutes
to the beats of soft sounds
waiting to get off on the next floor.

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About the Author: Cord Moreski is a poet from the Jersey Shore. Moreski is the author of The News Around Town (Maverick Duck Press, 2020), Shaking Hands with Time (Indigent Press, 2018), and Stay Afloat Inside (Indigent Press, 2016). He was the host of the New Jersey poetry series Words on Main and the virtual poetry series The Couch Poets Collective. When he is not writing, Cord waits tables for a living and teaches middle school children that poetry is awesome. He is currently working on several new projects for 2022.

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More By Cord Moreski:

Aubrie

Someday

Understudy

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Image Credit: Earth Rise Over The Moon (Public Domain)

Laura Grace Weldon: “Butternut Ridge Cemetery”

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Butternut Ridge Cemetery 

From the back seat my six-year-old asks
about the grandfather who died
when she was four months in the womb.
She wants to know about his favorite color
and what he likes to eat, correcting herself
to say “liked” to eat. She wants to know
what being dead means, for real.

I know children ask full force till
they get what they need, like the time
my oldest asked why people have skin
darker than his, and seconds into
my big-wattage answer
interrupted to ask
why faucets turn “this way”
twisting his hand, “to make it hot.”

But she doesn’t stop asking
and since we’re driving past
the cemetery that minute, I pull in.
She skips around his gravestone
as if in a park, touching dusty
pebbles and leggy buttercups, before
announcing to air and ground
and everything between,
“I’m sorry you’re dead Grandpa.
You would have loved me.”

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About the Author:  Laura Grace Weldon has published three poetry collections: Portals (Middle Creek 2021), Blackbird (Grayson 2019), and Tending (Aldrich 2013). She was named 2019 Ohio Poet of the Year. Laura works as a book editor, teaches writing, and maxes out her library card each week.  lauragraceweldon.com

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Image Credit: Chase Dimock “Small Sunflower” (2021)

John Dorsey: “Paul & the Trailer Park Tornado”

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Sign for the old Dreamland mobile-home park in Phoenix, Arizona.
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Paul & the Trailer Park Tornado

the door of our trailer flapping
my heart wide open
my mother says
not to stand
by the window
where my fingers
touched everything
for the first time

while a plastic pinwheel
in the shape of a rooster
takes flight
over our roof.

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About the Author: John Dorsey lived for several years in Toledo, Ohio. He is the author of several collections of poetry, including Teaching the Dead to Sing: The Outlaw’s Prayer (Rose of Sharon Press, 2006), Sodomy is a City in New Jersey (American Mettle Books, 2010), Tombstone Factory, (Epic Rites Press, 2013), Appalachian Frankenstein (GTK Press, 2015) Being the Fire (Tangerine Press, 2016) and Shoot the Messenger (Red Flag Poetry, 2017),Your Daughter’s Country (Blue Horse Press, 2019), and Which Way to the River: Selected Poems 2016-2020 (OAC Books, 2020). His work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, and the Stanley Hanks Memorial Poetry Prize. He was the winner of the 2019 Terri Award given out at the Poetry Rendezvous. He may be reached at archerevans@yahoo.com.

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More By John Dorsey:

Anthony Bourdain Crosses the River of the Dead

Punk Rock at 45

Perpetual Motion

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Image Credit: Carol M. Highsmith “Sign for the old Dreamland mobile-home park in Phoenix, Arizona.” (2008) The Library of Congress

Tohm Bakelas: “the end is near”

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the end is near

she maintained communication
by way of phone
sometimes she would write letters,
but she was best at the phone.
there were times she’d stop calling
and it seemed as if she disappeared,
but she never did
she was always there.
and then one day all the letters
and all the calls stopped,
everything stopped.
all her bills were paid through the next month,
she was always good at that
always ahead of the game
she never gave anyone a reason to
come looking for her,
but when the letters and the calls stopped
that’s when they went looking for her.
when they got to her house
the grass looked like a jungle
the mailbox was stuffed full of letters
all the curtains were pulled closed
and the front door was locked
but they found the key
inside a rusted out bucket.
when they went inside
they turned on the lights
the electricity worked
and the house was mostly clean
there were unopened medication bottles
neatly lined on kitchen countertops
the bills organized and stacked
checks undelivered addressed and signed
the calendar was stuck on last month
and the phone was off the hook.
when they reached the living room
that’s where they found her
sitting in her favorite rocking chair
facing a broken glass tv screen
containing four words written in dust:
“the end is near”

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About the Author: Tohm Bakelas is a social worker in a psychiatric hospital. He was born in New Jersey, resides there, and will die there. His poems have appeared in numerous journals, zines, and online publications. He has published 13 chapbooks. He runs Between Shadows Press.

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Image Credit: The Library of Congress: ” Historic American Buildings Survey, Stanley P. Mixon, Photographer, March 28, 1940 INTERIOR DETAIL, MIDDLE ROOM, MANTEL AND DOORS, WEST SIDE, FIRST FLOOR, OLD HOUSE. – Samuel Phillips House, Tower Hill Road (U.S. Route 1), Belleville, Washington County, RI”

Agnes Vojta: “I don’t usually pray”

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I don’t usually pray


My father is still alive
when I switch off the phone
to board the plane.
My mother pleads
with him: hang on, wait,
just one more night.

I ask for a glass of wine.
I don’t usually drink.
Today I hope it dulls
the edge of grief,
lulls me to forget
where I travel.

Over the Atlantic,
I dissolve in weeping.
I don’t usually cry.
The flight attendant asks
if she can do anything.
Make the plane fly faster.

I keep checking the flight status.
I will search my sister’s face
when she picks me up.
I don’t usually pray.
Today I pray.
To be in time.

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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 (Spartan Press, 2019) and The Eden of Perhaps (Spartan Press, 2020), and her poems have appeared in a variety of magazines.

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More By Agnes Vojta:

Legend

Sisyphus Calls It Quits

Flotsam

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Image Credit: Chase Dimock “Airplane over the Beach” (2021)