Inspiration
Posted by Justin Reilly | Filed under Poetry, Print
I met a Queen once
she had a smile that reeked of
“i’ve been there before”
and “it’s been awhile since we’ve met”
so lets take a moment to get re-acquainted
The last time we cuddled like this
we were merely thoughts
muddled between heavy breathing and “i love you’s”
playing hopscotch in heaven
i remember letting you win
knowing it would come in handy 22 yrs later
the funny thing is
you grinned
like you already knew how to make me feel like a king
I was shy for 9 months
i have a feeling you never were
everything about your breath
reminds me of the bright side of my heart
that I always tend to forget too easily
like some drunken bartender who misplaces his keys
there’s a North Star in your fingertips
I was in a hole once
more like a crater
The deepest crevice this side of heartbreak
and you candle-wax blew me a safety net
even before you knew i was drowning
there’s something epic
in that lifeguard red soul of yours
something that deserves more than words
you deserve a sonnet
spit over a shooting star
a song so beautiful
only Queens were afforded the chance to listen
but we both know
you would find someway
to let everyone in on the secret
you are everything subtle
and everything grand
a bright light under bushel basket
who waits patiently
knowing one day the world will be ready enough to see her shine
there is more than just wonder in your spine
more than just swagger in your hips
there’s a universe in your ribcage
that I’m just learning exists
a world of relief under your skin
and
the
jukebox in my chest
playing songs i’ve never heard before
and making me feel nostalgic about places
I’ve never been
A few months ago
i would have never dreamt of being
in a Greek god fairytale
A Promethean fire of a cipher
an adoration battle
between your eyes and my soul
The way you always seem to win
there something to be said for the way you glow
and the transparency of my skin
when you smile
even remotely in my direction
i light up
like red white and blue
rocket pops
in the middle of july
God has blessed me with a modern day miracle
in the sanctity of your eyes
The Mount Olympus in your voice
reminds me of everything coveted
and everything beautiful about “free will” and choice
You are the woman i’ve written about for almost a decade
a sat-fire in the dusk
a prayer that i have been blessed enough to touch
Your a soft whisper in a mother’s bedtime story
the footnote to my heart beat, the breath on my breast
a queen in waiting
a temple surrounded by holy water in your chest
you are everything i have prayed for
and everything I didn’t know i could have
you are the punchline
the climax
in every poem
I have ever written
And I am forever grateful
that God blessed me with the chance
to meet
My inspiration
Years Old
Posted by Marion Smallwood | Filed under Poetry, Print
With change as steady as the way wallets empty and old cars pace,
I stop and pin constancy to a dorm room wall–
a dozen glossy paper mirrors.
I stare and I am again, who I’ve always been–
the narrator of a funny short story
the neon yellow laces in a black shoe
a first grade art project
a laugh that is so still in all it’s chaos it has no sound.
But I am no longer that much fun
and it doesn’t matter if I write poems with crayons.
The white walls of my room
with all it’s techni-color memories, and posters and glossy paper mirrors
just don’t seem like a giant coloring book anymore.
(simplifying two)
Posted by Cortney Charleston | Filed under Poetry
I always wanted to write you
A poem on glass.
Something beautiful.
Transparent.
The type of rare that’s inexpensive.
Break it. Give it to you.
Have you put the letters
Back together for me.
It’ll be a brilliant metaphor.
You won’t know it.
And I will
Thank you for returning
My feelings.
(one)
This Night Has Opened Her Eyes
Posted by Lauren Yates | Filed under Poetry, Print
“She could have been a poet or she could have been a fool,”
she sings to herself, quite aware that she’s both. It’s as natural to her as the runs
in her stockings. There’s no need to varnish the inevitable. She piles
her hair atop her head into acceptable disaster, choosing to ignore the black roots
growing from her scalp. She had dyed her hair burgundy. But it’s not as if anyone believed
it was natural, so she really has nothing to lose. She pulls on her geisha
T-shirt. The one where she leans over the turntables, arms covered in tattoos. The geisha,
that is, not the girl. Though she does want sleeve tattoos someday, the day she fools
herself into thinking she’s willing to spend that much money. I can’t believe
people pay to go through that much pain, she ponders. Random thoughts run through
her head of justice and her drama teacher’s kid sister. She wore overalls and had black roots
too, come to think of it. But she’s probably married now, dreams on hold, sorting through piles
of laundry. Maybe she thinks back to past relationships that didn’t involve compromise or piles
of clothes to hand-wash. Maybe she’ll find lipstick on her husband’s collar, deep red like a geisha’s.
Everything jerks. Our girl barely remembers how she got on this train or scrolled to The Roots
on her iPod. It’s full, both of songs and the cough syrup she knocked over on her nightstand. Foolish
of her not to stand it up once she noticed the bottle had fallen. But the iPod still works, and she runs
through songs on shuffle. Some remind her of him, none remind her of her, and it’s unbelievable
how many songs have swearing. In high school, she wrote a “This I Believe” essay
supporting edited music. Why pay more to buy something the way it’s marketed to you? People pile
onto the train and a woman steps into a puddle of spilled coffee. It runs
across the floor beneath the seats, milky, but no one’s crying. A man eyes the geisha
on her shirt, or rather, her breasts. The girl’s, that is. She folds her arms, wondering how this fool
thinks he can ogle her so shamelessly. He averts his eyes to the map of the train’s routes
mounted on the wall. Strange people take public transportation. Like the woman quoting Roots
who says she knows her Malcolm X, her eyes desperate with doubt, like she can’t believe
in sound advice because it goes against her principles. Like the boy who thought our girl had fooled
him. It was in Biology class. And she’d told him lobsters scream as they die before diners pile
butter sauce onto their tender flesh. He’d thought it was a lie and refused to fall for such a “gay”
lie. Words like “blatant” and “outright” are above his reading level. He writes in run-on
sentences and is the type to leave his windows up if in a car during a tornado. So she just ran with
it, too exhausted to protest and too naïve to be offended. Because she prefers root canals
to confrontation and prefers ideas to people, but she loves aesthetics the most and wants the geisha
to really exist. Whether she wants to look like her or be with her she’s not sure. But she believes
she’ll one day meet the person who’ll make her trust in love. She bumps into a stranger as she piles
off the train two stops too late. This is the third time this week. She doesn’t know who she’s fooling:
she’ll never be served runny eggs and turkey bacon in bed by a hip-hop loving geisha,
her foolish heart will never find the one—it will settle for the time being, only to grow like roots
firmly anchored into soil, and she’ll compile a list of ways to happy, but won’t believe enough to try.
