By C.S. Bhagya “Nevertheless it will be said that if the body is not a thing, it is a situation” – Simone de Beauvoir, The Second Sex 1. The leg, hirsute, always in the aspect of departure— twitches and bobs restlessly. Your legs, they want out, be somewhere you will not need to denote it, the body —what …
By Saronik Bosu Silliest among reasons why his death was my first unmaking, was that my grandfather was a gathered man. A man of sure things – his love: an arabesque on the tip of a nib he’d just cut for me a fresh cut nib in an everscreened world can pull that world to a stop, if only for …
By Matt Dischner Red breast, brown coat, pecking through the ground like an autumn leaf, covered in dirt, till startled flight — a loud tourist walks by a million lives pass through the corner of my eye
By Matt Dischner I can feel a frozen brine forming on my beard, windborne residue of salt and ice carried off the Hudson and coating my skin in Winter’s hoary ashes.
By Matt Dischner The birch, though stripped of bark, stands strong, its white trunk a testament to seasonal perseverance, a bright sentinel, stoic against cold, calamity, and schoolchildren who can’t resist the innate satisfaction of peeling paper off a tree.
By Saronik Bosu This was a different poem once It was longer, for one. And then it lost its first stanza on 2nd Ave, somewhere near that thrift shop with the gold coat that no one buys. The verbs were a bother And in this grid city where land is perpendicular to itself verbs disappear at corners …
Matt reaches back in time and pulls the pre human past into the verdant Virginia present.
By Benjamin Philips We speak of trees as stationary, but perhaps they move quite slowly. For too long, I have seen the world separated by a piece of glass.
By Benjamin Philips Hear the birds in the canopy, singing their songs of what is below. Under the murky depths, I see the figures of the catfish kingdom. Oh wind! I wonder Did you feel me as well when you breezed past just now?
By Benjamin Phillips Who is the sun, that flowers should follow its arc across the heavens? The lantern oil burns, attracting moths to watch the flames abiding waltz. Hearing streams babble on and on; no wonder the rocks never speak up. Photo credit: s268.photobucket.com /user/annieshreeve/media/purple-sun-flowers-sky.jpg.html#
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