Tag Archives: Poetry

poetry

For Dayleon

I do not want a plain box,

Carrying bouquet, and handkerchief, and gloves,

I want to be looking at them when they come,

My childhood was only a menacing shower,

Cut now and then by hours of brilliant heat,

I see them already the pale, star distance faces,

They will wonder if I was important,

Above, below me, only depths and shoal, 

The silence,

And the lords right arm traces his nightmare,

Truceless, multi form,

A few more breaths, and it will reflect nothing at all.

The flowers and the faces whiten to a sheet.

Sometimes I see alone,

The river of dark purple,

It arrives among all that sound,

Comes and knocks, using a ring with no stone in it,

No finger in it,

I cuddle the insensible blank air,

And dear to sleep as one fears a great hole.

Which of these hearts beat for the smile you gave?

The charms of horror please none but the brave,

Or do you hope when sing the violins,

And the pale candle flame lights up your sins,

They will roll me up in bandages, they will store my heart,

Under my feet in a nice parcel,

When horror comes the way that beauty went,

The angel’s sinister trumpet raised on high,

Comes and shouts with no mouth, no tongue, with no throat.

Nevertheless it’s steps can be heard

And it’s clothing makes a hushed sound, like a tree.

I shall hardly know myself. It will be dark, 

And the shine of these things small things sweeter than the face of Ishtar.

 

Written by poet and fiction writer Gabriel Barrio, visit his Facebook and Twitter.

A Sip of the Dead Boy’s Beer

He played drums and we found one of his 9 packs

hidden in the azaleas outside his window.

Mom said, he died of being a druggie.

First Lady Reagan said that too, but dad let me

take a sip of the dead boy’s beer It was hot

and when I swallowed, it felt like bats

nibbling at my edges. I went back to raking pine straw.

The late-morning sun stung the back of my head.

I hadn’t tried acid yet, or pot, or sex.

How light I felt, having so little to lie about.

 

 

 

Tim Staley was born in Montgomery, Alabama, in 1975. His debut collection, Lost On My Own Street, was released by Pski’s Porch Publishing in 2016. His most recent chapbook, The Most Honest Syllable is Shhh, was released by NightBallet Press in 2017. He founded Grandma Moses Press in 1992 and continues to serve as editor. He lives in the American stretch of the Chihuahuan Desert. For tour dates and more visit PoetStaley.com. Visit his Facebook and Instagram!

 

Addressing the Impaired

Addressing the Impaired

Delusions on the home front:

the boob tube adjusting sound

levels, this canned laughter

we’re schooled in while, about

town, riots flair.

 

Yet the electric

hearth stays us, places back alacrity’s

presumption:  these neat potted palms,

Cyclamen knitted across bricks,

the functionless poker leaning

in the network of such holy herbage….

 

Here is a country cottage, a garden estate,

enclosed in itself as the globe

by your fish tank is now

a reflection superimposed over

our two stalwart figures, one

wheelchair-bound seeing everything

as is, & the other, a relic:

 

(torched BMW, white bystander outline

on a surface after the bombing),

 

still refusing to witness, grasp, believe

this has become our reality.

 

Stephen Mead, a resident of NY is a published artist, writer, maker of short-collage films and sound-collage downloads. His latest P.O.D. amazon release is an art-text hybrid, “According to the Order of Nature (We too are Cosmos Made)”, a work which takes to task the words which have been used against LGBT folks from time immemorial. In 2014 he began a webpage to gather links of his poetry being published in such zines as Great Works, Unlikely Stories, Quill & Parchment, etc., in one place: Poetry on the Line, Stephen Mead.

In This Landscape

In This Landscape

The morning always comes, brings

with it necessity:  miles traveled, bodies

carried, belongings lessened to nothing

more than cloth.

 

On nominal days this life of

the indispensable drags…

Across the horizon some shanty town burns.

The sky is glazed, brown Vaseline, seems

audible.

 

Hear the cries of someone wearing

a tire set afire?

 

Dryness blisters.  The wireless crackles,

drowning out sound, converting voices to flies.

They drone in the eyes of children.

Light gloats, an oven sucking, its heat

depleting flesh, leather musculature,

the tired, the twig-like

caricaturized by gross irony

into bloated stomachs.

 

Famine festers, breathes.

Around the corner from the Missions,

imported tins, munitions get stocked.

They keep these locked up, soldiers,

government hired, cocking the usual guns…

 

Here is Eden:

Sabotaged, undermined,

this, another land, apolitical as sand

where the water which once flowed

flies blind as wind to sting, to sting…

 

To the bones not a thing but that adheres.

 

Stephen Mead, a resident of NY is a published artist, writer, maker of short-collage films and sound-collage downloads. His latest P.O.D. amazon release is an art-text hybrid, “According to the Order of Nature (We too are Cosmos Made)”, a work which takes to task the words which have been used against LGBT folks from time immemorial. In 2014 he began a webpage to gather links of his poetry being published in such zines as Great Works, Unlikely Stories, Quill & Parchment, etc., in one place: Poetry on the Line, Stephen Mead.

Input, Output

Input, Output

Play it by hand and by heart—–

Through static, censored radio, some tambourine

jangles, interprets a crayon illustration

one child scrawled after his village

was wiped out.

The tanks, the shattered slats,

they are all re-assembled here where

this crayon, this simple tambourine

designates the origins of no particular

culture.  That’s why the child sticks with us:

eyes, shiny olives hardly suggesting deeper torment.

 

Instead, cocoa skin goes running wearing imported

light cotton, a stained glass window array—–

Pinks which gesticulate, buttery yellow, startling

purple and Indian turquoise, dispatched as wings

across this barbed wire play yard.

 

Yes, where such breathing frequents,

little cymbals begin tinkling, rings for passing

palm unto palm ‘til the crayon, the child

pulses brush fire amid jingles for soda.

 

Listen eavesdropper, hear what undercurrent trembles?

It’s cause ‘n effect strumming in and out of each other,

a million tambourines whispering, a million crayons

squeaking, scratching mere paper to resurrect life

across the power, the power

 

falling like his city.

 

Stephen Mead, a resident of NY is a published artist, writer, maker of short-collage films and sound-collage downloads. His latest P.O.D. amazon release is an art-text hybrid, “According to the Order of Nature (We too are Cosmos Made)”, a work which takes to task the words which have been used against LGBT folks from time immemorial. In 2014 he began a webpage to gather links of his poetry being published in such zines as Great Works, Unlikely Stories, Quill & Parchment, etc., in one place: Poetry on the Line, Stephen Mead.