Category Archives: Poetry

Who Knew That Man Could Stop Bullets? by Ryan Summers

Superhero.

Panties. Pantyhose. Capes. Good hair. All-American. The champions
all come from Olympus, or the good side
of the urban sprawl (across the tracks), or a space station, and fight
the darkness devouring the world (it’s too brown, chocolate brown),
the demons (Michael Brown), the Dr. Doom
and gloom and

Superhero.

I wanted to be a superhero, one above all, but I couldn’t fly
and couldn’t play sidekick after my side was kicked
in a beating on the curb lining the avenue
of Martin Luther King. Who knew that man
could stop bullets, like he was a

Superhero?

He stopped a bullet. A bullet stopped him.
Krypton is dead. Chris Kyle is dead. Why’d they have to
pluck the petals from my rose is dead and Sharon
is no
Superhero.

I could see the fire in his eyes
and the stake I am tied to, tied down, magnetic
attraction to Diana of Themascira made up
but that Amazon, she was cut down to make room
for a real

Superhero.
_________________________

ryan

Ryan Summers is a poet, blogger and e-book author who has discovered a profound love for the written word. He has written poetry from various genres and through various formats, pulling inspiration from the seemingly inconsequential to the historically significant. To date, Ryan has written over two thousand poems and is currently writing pieces for his upcoming collection, “The Devil Wears a Hoodie.”

Tagged ,

Figure Eight by Laurie Kolp

My son learned how to use knives
in cub scouts carving soap.
One day he borrowed a bar
of Ivory and whittled
away while whistling
(because he knew how
& his older siblings did not).
When his work was complete, he
walked up to me and showed me
what looked like a figure eight, his smile
wider than mine. It could have been
a cloud, a snowman or white polar bear
an off-color peanut or wavy gray hair.
Maybe a slip knot or the obvious—
his age. I love it, I said, explain it to me.
Can’t you see, Mommy, it’s infinity
our love for one another
that will never die
like Grandma did.
__________________________
L. Kolp
Laurie Kolp, author of Upon the Blue Couch (Winter Goose Publishing, 2014) and Hello, It’s Your Mother (Finishing Line Press, upcoming) serves as president of Texas Gulf Coast Writers and belongs to the Poetry Society of Texas. Laurie’s poems have appeared in more than four dozen publications including the 2015 Poet’s Market, The Crafty Poet, Scissors & Spackle, Blue Fifth Review, Pirene’s Fountain. An avid runner and lover of nature, Laurie lives in Southeast Texas with her husband, three children and two dogs.
Tagged

Pry Into The Blood by Scott Thomas Outlar [Ekphrastic Challenge Winner]

er

You promised that this would only hurt
for a split second,
but your pinpoint precision
with the needle
always seems to cut to the quick,
to the bone,
to the marrow, to my core,
and now a simple Band-Aid
is not enough by a long shot
to heal the ancient wounds
that have been reopened.

I swore I’d never be here again
in your medical industrial complex of doom,
but now that you have me
on the table
go ahead and rip into my flesh…
pry apart the layers of healthy skin
I had built up as protection
against the snake-oil that you push
so sleazily and easily
with that shit smug grin upon your lips.

One dose and I am glowing
with a neon amber translucence
that resonates outward from the blood.
My mind is on fire,
pulsing with electric transmissions
that tap into alien frequencies from the other side.
E.T. phone home…I don’t think so…
there is no saving grace
once the examination has begun in earnest.
___________________________________________
scott

Scott Thomas Outlar survived the chaos of both the fire and the flood…barely. Now he spends the hours flowing and fluxing with the ever changing tide of life’s existential nature. His words have appeared in various journals, magazines, and blogs over the past year. Links to his published work can be found at 17numa.wordpress.com.

A Drink With a Drunk – by Nancy P. Davenport

there is something

uncomfortable

about drinking with a drunk
you either

chugalug to catch up
and end up          wasted

or you                  slow              down

to be
an
example

either way

if a drunk has a drink                   in their hand
this is      what      they
are thinking
about                                            (this                                                        and the next one)

try changing a pickle
back to a cucumber

a mummy back                to life

try changing history

making the sand in
an hourglass                     go up
_____________________________________
nancy

Nancy Davenport’s poems have appeared in Burning Grape, Bicycle Review, Haight-Ashbury Literary Journal, Lilliput Review, Blue Fifth Review, Poetry Quarterly, and Red Fez. She’s had poems in anthologies, UNDER COVER, SPARRING WITH BEATNIK GHOSTS, and the upcoming feminist anthology, RETURN TO MAGO. Nancy’s chapbook, LA BRIZNA, was published in May, 2014.

Voices – by Donna J Snyder

Someone said Anne Sexton wrote poetry so Kurt Vonnegut could conquer fear

coerced confessions never the most reliable
you want truth then look at Botero’s art
stick my head in a latrine and call me Rover
leash me beat me send photos to your friends
I’ll tell you every truth that never existed
shackle my hands to the dungeon wall
fetter my ankles and dress me in a red bra
be sure to match the panties painted on me
show my hairy arm pits my hairy knees
my face and belly and disgusting arms
what you want me to be what you’re afraid I am
soon I’ll confess both my sin and your own
I am a spy who bears incendiary thought
the hand of an angry god ready for retribution
put a collar on my throat sing cantatas of jeers

I call Lowell mama and Plath was my daddy
Sexton became my lover on the asylum path
I got no poppa and momma doesn’t want me
I’m not a normal woman I have needs
she breathed into my ear I want it all the time
at least I did before these new little pills
Dear Abby got it all wrong at least about me
she says women think about sex only rarely
while she claims men do every other minute

she’s wrong or I’m not natural the votes are in
It’s not that I see people as walking dicks or cunts
I’m no kvetching Portnoy either I don’t complain
it’s not like I’m even very good anymore I fear

the way they all leave I must have lost my touch
but still I have my needs my needs my needs

I hear your rhythms in words inside my head
put your hands around my neck inhale my breath

she confessed my madness in lie after naked lie
she chronicled my strife in every precise detail
torturous connections described everyone’s fear
her breath in my ear made me want to be her poppa
hold her in my arms and carry her to a sturdy bed
listen to her prayers and lick her throat with kisses
hide my excitement behind a mask of care
but I knew exactly how it would all turn out
standing on the path behind a cold stone wall
she’d forget me as soon as she found another
that’s if she’s ever able to forget me at all

she was running for the streets when she found me
I was running from the streets when I moved in
she told me stories about family but nothing real
she sang Jim Carroll lullabies throughout the night
a song about people he knew who died so young
she let me sleep by day against the doctor’s order
she didn’t like how wet I get didn’t like my smell
I left her to be Edward Hopper’s waiting redhead
and now live on the always lonely side of the pain
condensation on glass my paper and flesh my pen
blood for ink scrawled across a threatening wall
a rhyme on my lips I’ll jump into my own grave
and I shall die sullen no one knowing my name
split me in threes with your spite part poppa part
meat-hook part the me that lurks in sordid glass
since I’ve already been to Brooklyn as she said
there’s nothing more to expect from this life
but it’s not her I want now that she’s left me
it was the thrill of meeting her on that path

I gaze into the mirror like a Botero beauty
I always hear her rhythms inside my head
I’ll forget about her as soon as I find another
that is if I’m ever able to forget her at all
I don’t think about her now except sometimes
those random dark hours when I call her name

__________________________________________

unnamed

Donna J Snyder coordinates weekly workshops for the Tumblewords Project, which she founded in 1995.  In 2014, Chimbarazu Press published her collection Poemas ante el Catafalco:  Grief and Renewal and Virgogray Press reissued I Am South.  NeoPoiesis Press will release The Tongue and Its Secrets in 2015.