poem, writing, poetry, drabble
By Seth Lewis
I take this breath
As an act of rebellion
I load my lungs
Like a gun
I take this breath
As an act of defiance
Against the dark
Despair
I take this step
Toward broken humanity
Broken myself,
I repair
I take this breath
As an act of war
I raise the flag
Of love
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“Writing is how I think.” – the writer
The dunes are mostly gone now.
Remember how we played fetch
with my dog and you took a piece
of driftwood, etched “I love you” in sand?
We made love up in the dunes, the sun
on your back, a fire through me, lust
sprinkling down like a warm sea mist.
Once I watched as you swam, sleek as
a dolphin, body-surfed with new friends.
I called out, but you didn’t hear.
The dunes are mostly gone now …
washed away by time and tide.
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“I write to capture indelible moments in time.” – the writer
By Amy Van Duzer
Dusk on an autumn afternoon
Leaves tumble from frail limbs
Winter forms in a crimson womb
September
ebbs and flows
but winter ‘s hand
cuts the day much too soon
As morning comes with jagged teeth
Sucking from the sullen boughs
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“I write because of what I feel when I read another moving piece of work. I would love to have this impact on someone else. I feel there needs to be more profound moments through poetry.” – the writer
The ball is in your court
Deflated and crusted with dirt
You’re in your room
Scrolling in search of greener grass;
A better catch
The ball is in your court
Once bulbous and ripe
An erotic suggestion
Now sagging and has lost its bounce
The ball is in your court
A relic; petrified
To be stored away for kicks and giggles
But you just leave it there hanging
The ball is in your court
It wants to be played with and caressed
But it only remembers being kicked and thrown
Maybe it’s within its nature
To be trampled upon
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“Writing is a wonderful release and a crystallization of one’s experiences through the written word.” – the writer
By Lynn White
Don’t be sad.
I remember that
once you were golden.
Now the gold has darkened to sepia
but sometimes still the light shines through
in flashes of the old gold
when you remember.
Don’t be sad.
I still remember
the gold
and nothing lasts for ever
not even memories.
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“I write to let the words escape.” – the writer
By Kelsey
God of love,
God of truth,
God of health,
God of wisdom.
(but fuck all of them. My prayers have gone unanswered.)
Instead, I find myself praying at the alter for
God of good teeth,
God of skincare,
God of consistent, joyful movement.
God to relax my patience,
God to bring mental clarity,
God of productivity.
God of budget sense,
God of good HR benefits,
God to free me of cooking and cleaning.
Dear God: heal me and send
God to believe in me when nobody else can.
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“I write because I don’t know who I’d be if I didn’t.” – the writer
By Michael Mintrom
There she is, caught in a photograph
taken on Cape Breton Island
as we drove along the Cabot Trail.
Neither of us had been there before.
We visited potters, stopped for lunch.
Time passed. It didn’t matter.
Our destination was Prince Edward Island,
the Anne of Green Gables Museum.
But looking back, the trip was a device,
two lives entwined, a chance to talk.
I remember how she chuckled at place names,
checked histories, sent postcards home.
It’s eerie, her standing beside the road.
Behind her, a harbor, a boat shed,
sharp-edged hills pressed by the sky.
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Michael Mintrom is a professor and poet who writes because, as C.D. Wright said, “Poetry is a necessity of life.”
By Mark Tulin
I keep running along a trail,
down a narrow path,
up a steep hill,
around a high school track,
jogging and sprinting,
I need to run fast,
counting my hours, minutes,
and seconds on a stopwatch.
Don’t want to creep along,
crawling like an infant
in a loose-fitting diaper,
who doesn’t know the difference
from a 10K and a 100-meter.
I run to elude old age,
keep my body slim and toned,
to be a super-flash extraordinaire
that nobody’s going to catch
Like a lightning bolt from the sky,
I move through a slow-paced world,
across the final finish line.
“I write to document the stories in my head.” – the writer
By Lynn White
I wondered what they were thinking,
all those grinning people
standing around him
taking their selfies.
I wondered what he was thinking
but I don’t think they cared
or even noticed
that he looked strained
as if he had a problem,
looked uncomfortable
as if perched on the edge of a toilet
straining with effort.
Perhaps that was his problem,
ideas don’t come when you strain,
they float into your head dreamlike
glowing gold
as you stretch out your arms into infinity
dreamlike,
glowing gold,
with no one around
to take selfies.
“I write to let the words escape.” – the writer
By Anne Silva
If you love me,
don’t leave a note,
don’t leave a reason why.
If you love me,
don’t close your eyes,
don’t even say goodbye.
If you love me,
you would wait,
through hell and water.
If you love me,
stay.
“I write because there is no other way to express all the messed up feelings I feel.” – the writer
