Poetry
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The poet can make a barren woman pregnant; can give her, known for her pretty smile, a pair of pirate eyes; yet cannot write in a land blighted by drought unless he puts his instrument down picks up the vase, places it square on his head, leaves his house and walks with the millions seeking…
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the winged thang built her dream palace amid the fine green eyes of a sheltering bough she did not know it was urban turf disguised as serenely delusional rural nor did she know the neighborhood was rife with slant-mawed felines and those long-taloned swoopers of prey, she was ignorant of the acidity & oil that…
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He is not the one and yet I love him inordinately. His virginity was mine and so is his oldest child. He is America and I vacillate between love and a frustration that wants to lodge in hate but can’t because I grew up in him. This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs…
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Poetically speaking, growing up is mediocrity – Ned Rorem Neither rosy nor prim not cousin to the cowslip nor the extravagant fuchsia- I doubt anyone has ever picked one for show, though the woods must be fringed with their lemony effusions. Sun blathers its baronial endorsement, but they refuse to join the ranks. Summer brings…
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She cried me a river which I populated with salmon. She then fished up my nose for coke fiend dreams to tell her unstoried friends but I was unpowdered like puff the magic dragon. This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
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Then after Eden, was there one surprise? O yes, the awe of Adam at the first bead of sweat. Thenceforth, all flesh had to be sown with salt, to feel the edge of seasons, fear and harvest joy that was difficult, but was, at least, his own. The snake? It would not trust on its…
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Then after Eden, was there one surprise? O yes, the awe of Adam at the first bead of sweat. Thenceforth, all flesh had to be sown with salt, to feel the edge of seasons, fear and harvest joy that was difficult, but was, at least, his own. The snake? It would not trust on its…
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The ONE poem I have, deliberately, withheld from publishing (in my books) because one day, I want to devote a whole book to the “concern” and donate all proceeds to an anti-rape organization yet to be determined. Sugar Blues My almost thirteen year old self was more overwhelmed by the endless mug shots of black…
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I read this beautiful poem by S.J. Mallory on Goodreads and requested his permission to post it here. If you agree with me on its beauty, please visit his website. Enjoy! Alphabet Orchestra The writer’s quest is to put into words the burnished wonderment of a violin. For his pencil to carve his lines on…
Tichaona Chinyelu 