Papas
Posted by Ivy Sole | Filed under Poetry, Print
I know you.
Pompous in exterior,
The extant,
Ex wrought iron armor.
Glistening like mornings dew.
About face,to
a mirror.
Droplets plummet,
Accompanied by slumber’s evidence.
Wide awake.
My Mr. Potatohead,
Dense, fibrous and rooted,
Key to amygdaloid compass.
Palms acquainted with sun, raised
Infinitely to greet her face.
My face.
I watch you in awe.
Curve of jaw, bone
Of nose ready to take flight.
Lifted in proud cognizance of
self.
Treading lightly on rest,
More apt to show power,
Motion in steering towards.
Drawing lines, uniting us.
Oh how you love me.
I won’t know it,
For it is not to be known.
The X factor, making my
Reflection over why I love axes,
And my exes weren’t it.
You are the sonnet to my starstruck map,
Leading to kneeling at altars,
Needing what can’t be altered,
Rocking bands, no games,
Play-doh and tiny socks.
I know you.
The one who won’t leave,
For sake of me and your seed.
Contrary to my own,
Is everything you will be.
Papa, food for the soul.
What Man Feels for Muse
Posted by Cortney Charleston | Filed under Poetry, Print
I am meta for
you. Change me for the better.
All of this must grow.
he, he, he – a giggle
Posted by Marion Smallwood | Filed under Poetry, Print
ceiling fan –
what a four winged liar
to make me think that’s his breath on my neck, his wind
his attitude about moving my hair
he takes things to a jar, leaves it
lidless – a load off my lungs
he won’t call it stealing but i know better
we discuss ‘we’
decide it’s just a drawbridge
and move slowly to where the other is coming from
i don’t look down, i love him
so i crawl into my phone
fit my drink and bed and toes
bring my suitcase full of little things
and give him handfuls
the space bursts
it will, i become millions
collect me like a paperclip
hold poems together with me
and promise nothing
Lost Boys
Posted by Hannah Van Sciver | Filed under Poetry, Print
Let’s have a party.
With no occasion besides the twilight makes our skin smile,
and we all hate to be alone.
Evening, like cookie dough, is best when shared
and there’s plenty to go around,
so don’t let me eat it all on my own.
Come on over.
Let’s strum the backyard into oblivion,
and drink to the inevitable explosion of the sun.
Let’s be young tonight.
I’ve got a fire burning in my stomach
and six gallons of ice cream in the freezer,
and it’s raining you and me like cats and dogs out there.
So let’s let our clothes fall off like outdated theories.
Skin is skin and naked is sacred in the moonlight,
so stripping is the obvious option.
It’s been too long since I last wrote a love song,
and it’s far too early to start again.
So let’s hang like leaves and surrender to the wind,
let’s let our stems snap and cherish the fall.
Let’s be candlesticks on the beach.
Let’s smile deeper than stomachs,
because smiles shouldn’t require occasions.
And the moon has got to be a cause for celebration these days.
Everyone’s invited.
Bring your bruises, bring your drums,
and bring your souls, no matter their condition.
Spare parts are welcome.
We’ll press them together like puzzle pieces that don’t quite fit,
because nothing’s worth anything unless it requires a little effort.
We’ll howl at the moon like it’s peter pan
imploring us to believe in fairies.
We’ll pretend the stars are fairies,
because the first step to healing is make-believing.
I believe our broken parts are instruments.
If we play them loud enough, you can’t tell the difference.
It’s been too long since I last wrote a love song,
but maybe this is better.
Maybe somewhere in the cacophony of souls,
Maybe somewhere between the cracks and the violin bows,
there’s something exquisite.
Maybe truth lives in the hollow of every empty promise,
and you just have to scrape bottom to find it.
And if the sun explodes in the morning
at least we were howling the night before.
And if the neighbors complain about the ruckus,
we’ll tell them we’re lost boys
looking for gold in the corners of the midnight.
We’ll tell them we’re stained glass mosaics,
hold us up to the light and our broken pieces become beautiful.
So come on over, please.
One’s a mess, and three’s a crowd, but everyone together
is greater than lonely.
And there’s plenty of evening to go around.
