Posts for June 28, 2020 (page 8)

Shaun Turner

Category

Poem

6/28/20

Fireworks

A scattering series of pops

in the middle of our small town

for an entire month of sound.

Call them peony, crysanthemum,
willow, palm. Call them diadem,
horsetail, ring.

A distant relative used to host a potluck

with his own explosive light show.
Us kids sat in the garage, played

Dick Tracy on the Nintendo.
The adults played with fire.

Call them Black Cat,
Phantom, Brock’s Burning Bush.
Golden Shower Fountain.

The old man at Kroger says,
if folks want to burn up

a couple hundred dollars, they could
just give it to me instead.

Carole Johnston

Category

Poem

6/28/20

Vision

girl with bright green
…aura
dancing in a crowd of
…children
innocent
red ribbon
…brown skin
green is for healers and
…angels
I remember you

M. Wells

Category

Poem

6/28/20

River stone

And in the dim
cool
empty of the morning
I can sit
by myself
and feel like the stone
in the river,
worn down by
the tumult of water
above me,
softened,
heavy,
dull,
buried.

K. Bruce Florence

Category

Poem

6/28/20

Pine Mountain Cemetery XXVIII Tom

Pine Mountain Cemetery XXVII
Tom

Once not too long ago, right here on
This very mountain, there was one
Brought up the path we’ll ne’er forget.

The trumpets rang a clarion song,
A new call to the post, an eternal
Ride through curtained mists ahead.

Laughing, stomping, pounding,
Hot walker to the end. You lived,
Kentucky Hard Boot, to the core.

Red hair, blue eyes and Irish
Temper a foil for your hidden
Giving heart, not such a secret.

You rode through life a rousing
Wind tousled hair, glee bubbled
From heart, middle and head.

Down, up, and back again.
Never neutral, always reaching.
Your like, rare, seldom matched.

St. Peter will smile at the gate
To see you running apace
On his jewel encrusted track.

Hard Boots left below will hear
Echoes of your laugh when once
Again the trumpet calls to post.

Yet never gone, you’re always just
Beyond the finish line calling us
To finish strong, life’s best wager.

Gregory D. Welch

Category

Poem

6/28/20

Every Bird Sings a Conspiracy

Every bird sings a conspiracy
fresh potential rising in the sky
a promise of something new
the day is an ember catching fire

Fresh promises like fresh dew
the morning, a stained glass window
flakes of golden Sol
sparks of Promethian fire

The morning breaks into the day
stars folded, tucked away
streaks of Sol-fire shatter the night
what matches the morning dawn ignite

Star splashed sky gives way
the promise of a new day draws open the curtain
as the eastern sky catches fire
each bird sings a conspiracy against the night

Katrin Flores

Category

Poem

6/28/20

on pleading

They tell us to memorize it

write it under rolled sleeves

or elsewhere cops won’t search

a bail hotline in case we get arrested

then they lead us in singing

The Garner Family Protest Song

while the sharpie dries on

our forearms

Day two is spiritual

like the whole city is attending revival

At one point the hum of a drone

waltzes over us

and we

all at once

raise cardboard signs over faces

middle fingers to the sky

But the city’s brought out the cops in riot gear

shiny new toys lined like

strings of barbed wire outside

the police department downtown

to remind us this is no county fair

no friendly gathering on courthouse grounds

So we get on our knees

Hands up

Don’t shoot

begging them

Kneel with us

I find a young cop in the front row

just five feet away

and pray that he will look at me

just one look
just look at me

We are born of nearly the same fabric of time

Maybe he will hear this if it is me

but maybe it’s because I have a mask on

and the front line shuffles to the back

a changing of shifts

He never looks me in the eyes

gaze always a degree off

Maybe it is relief

when he takes a deep breath and rolls his shoulders back

For some reason I know it is not

a deadweight urgency

pressing into his bones

Mani

Category

Poem

6/28/20

How is my date going?

I’m embarrassed to say.
I spilled Dom Pérignon
all over the front of him.
I lapped it up with my
flat, sandpaper tongue.
I might have to go dip
into the cooking wine
if my glass runs dry again.

His teeth are yellow which,
personally, is a turn on.
His hair is stringy and limp.
His parents are both dead.
I tasted starch on his shirt
when I lapped up my mess.
Starching your shirts is sexy?
I think? I’m new to all of this.