Morning of February 12, 2024

 

bot-to-bot transfer    my tea is cold

~Patrick Sweeney

at the end of the world is a bartender

all mortals must perish.

~Fhen M.

fulfilling my duties at the emergency exit

~Patrick Sweeney

strange tunnel

repeats my question

from a year ago

~Sharon Ferrante

plural marriage

in the name of god

and profit

~Jerome Berglund

she says if you quit poetry nobody will notice

~Patrick Sweeney

cross the waters of death

find the boatman on a mountain peak.

~Fhen M.

he held dear the tyranny of lineage & habit

~Patrick Sweeney

electoral politics

crawling under the house

to die

~Jerome Berglund

dark moon where bad dreams go

~Maria Quernel

howling moon my inner wolf

~Roberta Beach Jacobson

Noble Prow

 

My nose would make a good poem it’s punchy and pointed bumpy ride which offers a hero’s

journey worthy of Joseph Campbell fashionably nonlinear lots of twists and turns where it

sticks itself rarely fails to surprise.

 

making

a stock the

other tusk

~Jerome Berglund

warm but itchy…

wearing your gift

I think of you

~David Josephsohn

first red:  palm-cutting sprocket from the chassis of Danny's toy truck

~Patrick Sweeney

lab-grown diamonds rescheduling fall harvest

~Roberta Beach Jacobson

dark circles

eyes sipping suns

the earth burnt

crisp

~Vishal Prabhu

shattering her every dream a single act

~Roberta Beach Jacobson

their loss

more pâté

to go around

~Jerome Berglund

not a bad way to go, mesmerized by the algebra of conic sections

~Patrick Sweeney

Morning of February 8, 2024

eliminating

violets with chemical weapons

suburbia

~Joshua St. Claire

late stage capitalism

advertising the sturdiness 

of disposable plastic cups

~Joshua St. Claire

touching every

aspect of my life

cat hair

~Amber Winter

sometimes

my last-dreamed dream

wakes me

~Jennifer Gurney

come to our rescue / oh flying maker of new / you winged magician

~Charles A. Perrone

Right hand replaced with a pig's foot

flesh torn from his stomach

a thief of taxpayer’s money.

~Fhen M.

have your faith

just don't expect me

to swallow it.

~linda m. crate 

A poem started from climbing a mountain

ended in a Greek garden.

~Fhen M.

Saturday wardrobe

built entirely

on comfort

~Jennifer Gurney

february dawn

a haze…

coffee and ink

piano notes—

spilling wildly

into spring

spring frost

writing poems…

again

~Grace Moon

She

      smiles, kisses, hugs, believes

         out of ashes roses grow;

         out of madness sanity and peace come;

         from dark times a glittering, priceless diamond 

             will brighten the world.  

 

Who?

Her.

~Suzanne Austin-Hill

beloved tradition

fake-mustache photo booth–

fourth grade valentines

~Jennifer Gurney

ripped-apart Valentine heart

its pieces placed within

the body's chalk outline

~John J. Dunphy

 

Evening of February 6, 2024

 

epics written and abandoned, finely chopping garlic

~Patrick Sweeney

I've drastically underestimated my own fanaticism

~Patrick Sweeney

sentience poking at the tender spot

~Kelly Moyer

the widowhood of spiders at lunch

~Patrick Sweeney

pellets of sleet on the balding ex-manager's clean scalp

~Patrick Sweeney

fake and yet the shimmer of her death

~Kelly Moyer

cutting

deeper than we should

rusty knife

~Roberta Beach Jacobson

my pal digs deep

knows I deserve the full

six feet

~David C. Kopaska-Merkel

 

the sailor

returns unexpectedly

storm surge

~David C. Kopaska-Merkel

Grief may come

for some in waves.

Mine comes with a

baseball bat.

It hits my head

out of the park,

then runs for

home plate.

~Nolcha Fox

Poetica

If a poem falls

onto a page


and no one reads it,

 
does it make

a sound?

~Steven Bruce

the principles

we champion

hotel breakfast

~Kelly Moyer

downsizing my wardrobe

a mini skirt reminds me

I have up sized

~Wanda Amos

 

still wind, this chaos in my

memory stirs

the moonlight

~Debarati Sen

 

shooting for the stars

child points his new .22 at

the night sky

~John J. Dunphy

 

 

Midnight Verse XXI



Why fret existential thunders

when all we are is a fleeting dream

between two slumbers.

~Steven Bruce