Poetry, Prosetry

iambic pentameter & my fingers – Iman Messado

i have dirty fingernails,
you noticed. what can i do but assume
that you love me? and if you say you don’t
then you’re a liar. because who takes care
to look so hard at the nail beds of hands
they don’t love?
Advertisements
Standard
Poetry, Prose, Prosetry, Uncategorized

Things That Are Grey – Ally Ameel

I’m not sure if it’s grey or gray, but in the end it doesn’t really matter

 

everything is blurry

 

it’s like my ears stopped working

and I can’t see very well

like I’m looking through water

and everyone is swimming

 

which I guess I am

 

I don’t know where the crying began

and when I stopped

 

but now i found myself sitting

in silence

 

I could smell cleaning products

and the walls were so white

it was almost blinding

but the light bulbs

washed everything away

 

I stared at the wall

and sometimes

people passed

in blurs of white

blending with the walls

and occasionally blue

 

I must have sat for hours

without thinking at all

 

mom came later

and did her mom thing

with the hugging and the worrying

and trying to figure out

just what I’m feeling

dad just sort of stood there

with his hands in his pockets

saying I’m sorry a lot

he doesn’t deal with sadness

too well

 

they waited

but then we had to go

and I had to say goodbye

 

I’m used to goodbyes

but they never get easier

no matter how many times

 

I stood up

and walked to the window

next to the door

the blinds cut my vision

into thin strips

but my brain put the image together

like a puzzle

and I saw her lying there

with her chest moving

up and down

I breathed with her for a while

 

I walked inside

and stood near the window

to the outside

 

I remember when

she taught me to play chess

even though I already knew how

and she broke all the rules

and wouldn’t let me take any of her pieces

not even the little pawns

 

she had cats too

but only two

so not quite crazy

like I said before

she snuck them pieces of her dinner

while we sat around the table

playing cards

when she got sick of chess

she cheated at that too

 

and she even made me watch

black and white romance films

while I sat on the green couch

with cracks in the leather

and she sobbed

into a box of tissues

 

she believed in

true love

and all that stuff

 

I looked outside

the sky was grey

it seemed to know

that something sad was happening

i was still crying

 

she finally spoke

her voice crackling

like a radio stuck between stations

 

“henry stop crying”

 

I turned around

and there she was

mrs laverne

she still wore

those silly green glasses

her skin was worn

and she looked tired

 

“henry get over here. I’m dying, didn’t you hear?”

 

I stumbled over, awkwardly

 

“hi” I muttered

 

“wow your social skills have really improved”

 

I didn’t laugh

 

“you know henry, you’re a good guy.”

 

“oh thanks.”

 

“and life sucks, but it will get better”

 

I thought

about when mrs laverne

bailed me out of jail

 

she asked me what I knew

about love

 

I always thought love was stupid

and cheesy

I thought

it was supposed to make you happy

but all I felt was grey

like the sky

 

but then I thought about

when mrs laverne

made me chicken noodle soup

when I got pneumonia

for two weeks

 

and when she fixed my car

after I drove into a tree

and she didn’t even tell my parents

 

I thought

about how she dazed off

and stared

at the photograph

of her son and husband

siting on the mahogany table

in her living room

 

and I sort of knew why now

 

“thanks” I finally said

 

she reached her hand out to mine

her nails were still painted red

I almost smiled

 

“I’ll miss you henry”

 

“do you really believe in love?”

 

“doesn’t everybody? it’s the only reason I’m still alive”

 

she closed her eyes

and smiled back at me

 

“goodbye”

 

“I’ll miss you too mrs laverne. you weren’t so bad”

 

I walked away

without turning back

in the back of my mind

I wanted to say

see you tomorrow

but I knew it wasn’t coming

   

Standard
Prosetry

Heat Wave – Iman Messado

the heavy days of summer are over
the pregnant rain
and the ripening leaves
and the lazy breeze
embrace your still sleeping form
lying in the emerald grass
the heavy days of summer are over
sticky globs of strawberry jam
on thick cut meaty bread
gallons and gallons of too sweet iced tea
bumps and mounds on children’s legs
young blood running freely from cuts and scrapes
the heavy days of summer are over
sleepy eyes – inky, deepest black, almost celestial
i wonder
if i stare long enough
can i reach in
and pull the universe out?
i want this heavy, heavy summer to last for an eternity
and i see it in your eyes
Standard
Poetry, Prosetry

Floral Denizens – Richa Gupta

With angles jagged, bits of ceramic protrusionsstarkly contrasting with the linoleum floor,

its remnants scattered confusedly about,

mingled with shards of shining glass

that reflect the sunlight as it glares

down, its golden force enough

to unsettle an immovable 

object, for isn’t the sun

an irresistible force?

Having settled on

the mantelpiece,

for years on end,

housing the flowers

that had woefully keeled

due to the harsh sun that refused

to reduce the passion with which it burned,

due to the sorry paucity of sustenance, of respite

from stifling days whose ardor never cooled, due to an 

unfathomable weakness that had never existed before, did

the flowers drop from the pride of an incomparable beauty, to

the misery of loneliness, whose only comfort was the lone ceramic

vase whose cracks widened with each elapsing hour, courtesy of the

overwhelming heat, whose ardor never deigned to cool, whose rays

forced grace to stoop to inelegance, which compelled the formerly

vibrant stalks to yellow and crumble, also obliging the once purple

petals to wither, to droop sadly to the side, upsetting the precious, 

the delicate balance of the plants, letting the vase tip one day, 

precariously, to the right, sending it hurtling, streaking to the

linoleum floor, ending in a deafening shatter of ceramic

against the unyielding, beige flooring, then creating

absolute chaos from tranquility, unsightliness

from past beauty, violent pink fragments

from a united piece of ceramic craft,

whose denizens lay dispersed

amid the wreck of skill,

which was provoked

by the glowing sun

Standard
Prosetry

The Evening News – Alexandra Mayer

Black bodies seep through our T.V. screens and into the living room.We don’t notice at first. 

We’re outside, watching the heat from the Barbeque quiver.

 

But the gunfire from the screen drifts to the patio,

over the Azalea’s—a fleshy pink like my sister’s cheeks after too much Sangria—

and lingers by my mother.
“Turn that crap off.”

Then nothing.

But the clink of Pellegrino and polite laughter.

 

“How many acts of genocide does it take to make genocide?”

We don’t think about it.

But there is a man who does.

 

He’s a father,

the kind who feels like rusty button downs and lose jowls—maybe a couple smile lines—

But he leaves his son,

and he leaves his wife,

and he leaves his Barbeque

 

to aid the forgotten ones

to save bodies nobody cares about –

disposable and black, like the clip on earrings Grandma wore to Grandpa’s funeral twelve years ago.

 

And he wraps a string around his heart

and seeps it in their pain

drinks atrocity like tea

and fills up on rage.

 

“WHY DOESN’T ANYBODY CARE

HOW COULD YOU LOOK AWAY”

 

He’s seen crimson swallow streets

and war swallow bodies

and machetes take ladies for lovers.

 

He’s a doctor,

the kind who reeks of impartial and feigned condolences—maybe a stern handshake—

But when he saw designs carved into her body and cum slathered on her face

He felt something,

Perhaps despair, but not so deep he could crumble.

He never once lowered his chin,

but had to repeat, let the phrase squirm under his skin:

“I’m a human.

I’m a human.

I’m a human”

 

So he convinces himself he can turn rage into productivity

so he rages into the next mission and speaks out on the T.V. screen

the camera zooms close to his face,

 

But we don’t see him,

despite his ivory skin,

and we’re not listening.
There’s nothing but the clink of Pellegrino and polite laughter.

 

If we did slip away from the patio to turn on our eyes,

our lips would quiver like the heat from the Barbeque

and wonder,

“What could drive a mad man to reality?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What could drive a madman to reality?

Standard
Poetry, Prosetry

Random Musings – Brooke Safferman

Why is there a cotton ball in the Advil jar?

Did you tell him a secret that he couldn’t keep?

Did you tell him that you would always love him, before you threw him away?

And why, oh why, would you think that it would be any different this time?

I hope there’s peanut butter still left in the jar in the pantry

I can’t remember what happened last night but I do know that peanut butter was involved

So involved, why do we do this to ourselves?

Humans, trembling and vulnerable, yet we bring this cruelty into our own lives by our very own doings

Telling each other lies because the truth is awfully boring to bear and

Why do my fingers keep typing when all my mind wants to do is SCREAM!

This is not right, this is not right!

And let these words ring out, free and unadulterated (much unlike you and I)

And let them echo out into the vortex that is the nighttime

When you are alone and isolated

And a teenager.

Standard
Flash Fiction, Poetry, Prose, Prosetry

Isn’t It Funny? – Poppy Lam

Isn’t it funny how fire destroys everything that allows it’s soaring embers thrive?
The things that keep it alive?
kinda like us.
You suck the life out of me so you can glow even brighter,
 leaving me to cough up the ashes,
 Your crippling flames leave my fingertips blistered and burnt from the mere thought of you,
 but soon I will no longer be a source of fuel,
I was just a Serendipity as you were racing through the silhouettes of land.
Standard