Poetry, Uncategorized

Espero a mi vuelo – Carlina Green

 

“Espero a mi vuelo”

por Carlina Green

Espero a mi vuelo.

Argentina me llama

a dejar el suelo

que ha sido mi ama,

mi cárcel, mi tiruelo.

Quita las escamas

de los ojos en duelo;

así una lágrima derrama

y me da consuelo.

Translation:

I await my flight.

Argentina calls me

to leave the ground

that has been my master,

my prison, my little tyrant.

It will remove the scales

from my mourning eyes.

so that a tear spills

and brings me solace.

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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?
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Poetry

The Look of an Old Book – Iman Messed

I’m afraid of prying eyes
and I no longer wish to be coherent
but i’m not sure i have cause to worry
i think it all depends
on whether or not
my heart is made up of words
i checked
it’s not
sometimes i read so much
that my heart is as heavy as that tome of shakespeare
you have hidden under your bed
that my tears smell like musty libraries
and my tongue can’t reconcile anything
save plot holes
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Flash Fiction, Poetry

(untitled) – Karlee Saunders

I never knew just how much I would miss the glances we would give each other every now and then as we walked

nor did I expect my hands to feel empty with every move I made

I didn’t realize the things I was taking for granted before he left

but now his eyes are filled with infatuation for another

and I’m still here

ks

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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
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Poetry

Hey – Brooke Safferman

Hey, you say,

I just called to tell you that I love you.

Or do I? Do you? Oh, I don’t know. Maybe I shouldn’t have said that.

So I laugh, and hang up, and leave you hanging,

Like you always do to me.

This power dynamic,

It’s sick and it’s twisted and deliciously unbelievable

Like the kind of chemistry that they try to show in those old shitty movies

That you love so much,

You know, the ones that you always go on about

with all of your obscure references

that we all roll our Young and Fresh and Free eyes at

But your own freedom is something you crave

You’ve shown me how lost you’d be without it

Oh, but how you would find yourself if you gave it all away!

To someone you can trust,

To someone you could try to believe would never hurt you

But promises are dangerous things, I know.

Oh trust me, I know!

But I will never give up on showing you

What an amazing person I think you could be

If you would only let yourself become the guy you’ve always wanted

You were always too afraid to even try, you say,

Well, I’m here now.

So don’t you dare take my hand because that’s not the way we do romance.

What we have is dipped in arsenic, in benzene,

Like a shortbread cookie with the chocolate, oh,

The coating melts on my fingers, and my tongue melts in your mouth

It’s so damn easy to ignore the way anyone else has ever tasted inside of me

And I smile when I forget that you liked my friend

And you smile when I forget that I liked yours

And we come together, wrapped up in the salty smell of angst and adoration,

And we know that what we have is real, but that the movies tell us lies.

Hey, you say.

Hey.

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Poetry

Regalities of Plainness, pt. 3 – Bryn Bluth

His face is sandpaper, his hands a safe-house. he passes by and I fight the urge to put pen to paper then and there. Even if I did, his face shifts this way or the other, avoiding me, my gaze, unable to be captured by something so worldly as a ballpoint. He is a poem, his hands the second stanza- not the kind you’d hold so much as the kind you want on your shoulder, holding you back from harm and pushing you toward opportunity. He is a poem.

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