Posts for 2025 (page 3)

Category

Poem

Getting buzzed

alarm blares
bleary-eyed, up and at ’em
Saturday be damned
I’ll feed and walk the dog
while you sleep off last night’s whiskey
so that you can enjoy your day off
and I can go to work
yet again

it wears on me
like fingernails on a chalkboard
like the droning of nature’s car alarm
you know, the one that only goes off every 17 years
but apparently lasts for 6 weeks without end
and the only buzz I have this morning
is from the dying flying red-eyed tree-rats

N. D

Category

Poem

6/8/25

Swell

Behind your eyes I see a storm brewing

Turning dark with need, an endless ocean swelling with thunderous waves

Threatening to pull me under

And when the mercury ultimately plummets

I brace for the impact

of your body,

crashing into mine

Mike Wilson

Category

Poem

6/8/25

Our Age

Walking, holding hands,
on the shore of dementia.
Not there yet, but we’ve
started releasing balloons.

People think letting go
of the world is tragedy
but the sweeter rose blooms
as the sun goes down

Gaby Bedetti

Category

Poem

6/8/25

Neighborhood Walk

I know where the full moon drops,
where swallows chirp in the brush,
in whose yard the first snowdrops grow,
on which roof robins warm their toes,
where they bathe in spring,
where crows bury their scraps.

EDL

Category

Poem

6/8/25

Lofoten

My heartbeat slows down, when I smell the ocean surrounding my home island.
I adore the view of the beach, and the mountains framing my old house.
The newly built orange house I left behind when I moved to the city, against my will.
I smile when I notice the little cracks, in the roads we drive our cars on.
At least on the few roads that aren’t made out of gravel.

I cannot go home.
Our guests dig holes in our lawns, and shits in them.

I fucking hate tourists.

Linda Bryant

Category

Poem

6/8/25

Fruit of the Tree

Coleman hauls industrial-sized buckets

full of acorns from towering white oaks

that bestew the woodland acreage

that sprawls up our small mountain home.

Smooth & dull yellow, their elliptical caps

rattle as he clutches the wire handles.

We are on the late-side of the pandemic,

thank goodness, but our neighbor John

died quarantined & Joe, our good friend,

was one coughing fit away from the grave.

Recalling Coleman’s diligence, I want to recite

his name along with others, surviving & dead.

He leaches the acorns, changes the murky

water five times a day. At first it is like dark wine

then it starts to resemble weak tea & after four days

it as clear as moonshine. Using a push-down

grinder he mills the nutmeat into a coarse flour
& spoons the pancake batter on a sizzling griddle.

Lav

Category

Poem

6/8/25

I barely have time for myself

my poetry;
cleaning tidying organizing streamlining decorating fluffing and comforting my den, my castle, my haven;
sleep;
rest (while awake);
my to do list is a
a jumble of rice
falling off a plate
trembling atop a rolling ball.

instead of asking others “please don’t ask any more from me,”
I will ask my mouth to protect my time.
(Ready?)
“I can’t right now, sorry.”