Tag: Poetry

Perhaps fear was designed to protect you,
And if that’s the case, why haven't you allowed it to?
I already know what you're going to say- what's meant to be, will be
But if that’s the case, I will forever disagree.
Deep inside I know that you should’ve had more time,
However, the case is set, you have done your crime.

Why did you have to pick up the shovel?
It’s a simple question, no need to muddle.
“Oh darling, my darling,” our mother shrilled
All the while, you stood on that pedestal looking fulfilled.
I hardly recognize your vacant, empty tone.
Does that satisfy you, knowing you hit bone?

I remember it as though it were clear as day,
The sound of the screams, the sight of your dismay.
I understood you had your “moments” every now and then,
But facts stand taller than feelings- I was only ten.
I admit that I startled you, I understand, I see that now.
Please forgive me for what I have caused, some way, somehow.

But do me one quick favor, while I have your time.
Admit to me that you’re sorry for the trauma, guilt, and grime.
I’ve made mistakes myself, like scaring you late that night,
But even the judge agrees- nothing explains you putting up a fight.
This is why I believe fear failed to protect you,
Protect you from the physical, mental, and emotional pain you put me through.

—

Isabella is an undergraduate student who lives in Hagerstown, Maryland. Currently, she has no professional experience with writing. She is an emerging writer currently attending Hagerstown Community College.

As I was picking up my pen to write, there was a knock upon my door,
I slowly opened the wooden frame and saw a frog upon the floor.
Dusk was now upon the sky, as my little green guest decided to come in.
‘My name is Ribbit” my visitor said as he hopped upon the wooden table.
Next to him sat ready a fountain pen - ready, willing and able.

I slowly sat down on my pine-made chair, wondering why Ribbit came to visit.
An eloquent amphibious creature as he spoke with educated tone,
“Go over to your window” he said, “and tell me what you see”.
I walked over to the curtains and drew back the sash with childlike glee.

The frog replied “The pen upon the table has the ability to heal and words to tell.
The parchment you are using can bring to life a story from a wishing well.
Dreams are but a whisper in your ear, a journey from the start.
Remember, the power of the word brings an adventure from the heart.

The frog smiled as he ate a crumpet and sipped upon his tea,
We talked about the Faith of dreamers, miracles and laughter in clouds above,
As my pen moved upon the parchment accompanied by a winding breeze,
Dawn came up dancing with the morning sunshine for me to see.

I made a little bed for Ribbit out of a painted little box,
Forever to live with me as the bells of the village set another day’s clock.
Poems and written word are made of tales to be told from the heart,
Pen and parchment on a wooden table, dreams as we close our eyes,
May we always reach for the possibilities within the morning sky.

—

Dale Anne Fitzgerald dreamed of writing a book since childhood. The Author feels Blessed to have realized her dreams. Her books are: 'Love Built on the Rock' (all ages),  'The Bunny Berry Tales' (baby - 12),  'Vanessa's Garden - Inspired by God's Grace' (young adult - adult). Dale feels that dreams are stepping stones to possibilities. That Faith and dreams are part of the heart and soul created within all of us.

carpenter / priest / cowboy / mountain climber

my dream life at seven years old

then one night / rose an expanse of bright / shimmering water / out of which a thin / young / dead man walked

clinging to a cliff / i reached down / to touch his death-stiffened hair / on the beach / lay a washed-up skull

by then i was seventeen

next came dreams of twisting tunnels / elevators that rocked / plane crashes witnessed from within and from the ground

and lush / lyric dreams too / of a river / blue and warm / that tilted up on edge to face me / like a framed van gogh / and of running into farm fields where / in the ditches / wild fudge grew / and of my sweetheart and me / sitting under a swaying willow tree / crying with the tender conviction that if very / very / careful / we could live together for four hundred years

i try to imagine my dreams at four hundred

and cannot / but i can imagine / at four hundred / looking back / on the lush / lyric dreams / i’d tried to live in / with tender / if cliff-hanging / conviction

—

Mark Belair’s poems have appeared in numerous journals, including Alabama Literary Review, Harvard Review, and Michigan Quarterly Review. He is the author of seven collections of poems and two works of fiction: Stonehaven (Turning Point, 2020) and its sequel, Edgewood (Turning Point, 2022).  He has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize multiple times, as well as for a Best of the Net Award. Please visit www.markbelair.com

While I slept,
Death’s Choir
came to me and
told me that I will
soon leave this World
for
another one.
A bit frightened,
A tad humbled,
A wee trembling –
I
requested
a
song for
my
departure.
Death’s choir gleefully accepted,
and sang
Amazing Grace.

—

Peter MacQuarrie is an enigma. He lives in the Darkling Forest of Northern California.

There was a lot of cooking in this dream.
People knew each other, people whom
I did not know, peeling things, filling pots
with succulence, setting bowls and platters
upon an outdoor table, long and low.

Another night I visited this dream
to spy on them. They used no recipes.
Everyone knew everything and spooned piles
of nourishment, of morsels onto plates.
Large cooking pots emitted misty steam.

Again I tiptoe back into this dream.
People cluster, seated at the table.
One comes closer, sending me a tidbit.
Floating in the air, I cannot reach it.
I know another night we’ll try again.

—

Sandy White received her MFA in Creative Writing from Dominican University of California. Using Adelaide Crapsey’s short form called the American Cinquain, she writes:

Sandy
White loves to write.
Emersing herself in
story telling’s her favorite way
to play.

22 syllables, 2-4-6-8-2 syllables on 5 lines.

How many of us can recall our very first nightmare?
Now that would be a spectacular memory
to share with intimates and casual acquaintances alike.
Perhaps at a subdued dinner party, creeping along,
you mention that first nightmare
before you knew the word nightmare
or knew how to calculate fearfulness.
Sure as sin, as you attempt to salvage that first night terror
someone unruly, drink in hand,
interrupts with his nightmare
or what passes for a nightmare
then some smart-ass film buff
brings up A Nightmare on Elm Street
and a dozen other nightmarish films
the party picks up, the words louder
and suddenly you recall that first nightmare
not quite in its entirety but in horrifying fragments
and reveal it to the kindly stranger standing nearby
with the almost faded scars on her lovely wrists.

—

Canadian poet, fiction writer, and playwright J. J. Steinfeld lives on Prince Edward Island, where he is patiently waiting for Godot’s arrival and a phone call from Kafka. While waiting, he has published 24 books, including An Unauthorized Biography of Being (Stories, Ekstasis Editions, 2016), Absurdity, Woe Is Me, Glory Be (Poetry, Guernica Editions, 2017), A Visit to the Kafka Café (Poetry, Ekstasis Editions, 2018), Gregor Samsa Was Never in The Beatles (Stories, Ekstasis Editions, 2019), Morning Bafflement and Timeless Puzzlement (Poetry, Ekstasis Editions, 2020), Somewhat Absurd, Somehow Existential (Poetry, Guernica Editions, 2021), Acting on the Island (Stories, Pottersfield Press, 2022), and As You Continue to Wait (Poetry, Ekstasis Editions, 2022).

I close my eyes and the darkness awaits,
The abyss behind my eyelids stares back at me.
My eyelids quiver like eager leaves trying to jump from tree limbs,
But they stay closed.

My hands become clammy, my heart begins to race,
The abyss starts to sway,
Swaying like a lonely soul to a sad song.
Perhaps I should question why,
Use my mind to ask it’s purpose,

Instead, I am enamored by the swaying,
Enamored at how the concept of nothing is moving before me.  
I want to know its secrets,
How it functions,
Why it has chosen me,
So I dive nose-first into the pit.

Suddenly, I am swimming in a black sea of memories, 
Memories I have long forgotten,
Or ones I have long pushed out. 

The feeling of regret gradually constricts me with each stroke into the water,
Until I cannot swim any longer.

The water settles, and the silence becomes deafening.
I try to thrash, to break free.
But the only thing moving are the scenes replaying below me.

Below me, I see every mistake and every triumph I have made, 
Below me, I see my first day of kindergarten, 
Below me, I see my last moments in high school.
Below me, I see the truth.  

The truth swallows me, and the urge to swim regurgitates up,
An urge to push through the dark waters, and into the light.
This urge allows my feet to begin to kick,
And my arms start flailing after that,
Within seconds, I am swimming 
Swimming like a turtle's first time in the ocean. 

The fleeting forgotten memories flow past me as I swim vigorously,
The memories my conscious may have forgotten, 
But the memories my soul will never forget. 

And as I reach the shore of the future,
I am grateful for every experience, 
For every person who believed in me,
And even the ones who didn't,
Because my being is forever changed for the better, 
And suddenly, for the first time, my eyes are truly open. 

—

Willow Donaldson is a 20-year-old first-generation college student born in Martinsburg West Virginia, where she spent the first 10 years of her life. In 2014 she moved in with her Aunt and Uncle in Hagerstown Maryland where she now resides and pursues her passion for writing. She will graduate with an associates degree in English at Hagerstown Community College in the spring of 2024 and plans to continue her education at an accredited University for a degree in Journalism. 

Sorry, friends: time 
to turn back 
the sign “Days since 
injury:” — 0, 
as hammer slams thumb. 
Or there was a slip and fall. 
The door, 
in closing, made a bruise. 
Life’s injury report 
is a rainbow pattern in the flesh 
from ex-veinous blood. 
Stub a toe; reach for the high shelf, 
there goes the neck; 
we live and hurt ourselves. 
Hurt others. 
What the heck? 
Some injuries won’t be seen 
but, o!, are they felt. 
Sorry, friends, that’s life. 
You must 
watch yourself.  

—

Benjamin Harnett is a poet, fiction writer, historian, and digital engineer. His poetry has appeared recently in Poet Lore, Saranac Review, ENTROPY, and the Evansville Review. He is the author of the novel THE HAPPY VALLEY and the short story collection GIGANTIC. He lives in Cherry Valley, NY with his wife Toni and their collection of eccentric pets. He works for The New York Times.

the air
hung heavy
in there
a thick woolen coat
moth eaten
tear damp
and hung to dry
in a humid closet
made sickeningly sweet
with flowers
blossoms of regret
of sorrow, remorse
and guilt

and
centering the room
a vessel to the heavens
shiny boat
box of dreamless sleep
the last vehicle of
a permanent goodbye
and
why
all pondered

approaching with breath held
I looked at it
my heart
in double time
and saw him there
but
only his shell
like that of a
cicada
my friend, no
for he indeed
was gone
A
significant snowflake
melted and evaporated
in spring sunshine
gone
along with
his mother’s sanity
her plans and dreams
held dear

she cried out
his name
my name
once shared
and
I could barely
hear her
would not turn
to her face
amongst the blurred
crowded room
with its din of
murmuring whispers

sad questions
echoed
about the chamber
but
I would not
join in
instead I gently
touched him in
his cold eternal
slumber
said my greatest
prayer
and left
long before the
appointed procession

I could not
see him lowered
this friend of youth
of childhood folly
I wished no closure
but
kept instead
memories of
life
eternal smiles
in summer
and now
sometimes
in crowds
I think
I see him there
alive still
and grinning.

—

Matt Longerbeam is a literary enthusiast and artist hobbyist. He lives in Hagerstown, Maryland with his cat Saffron.

Death would remind us of the inevitable by biting at the backs of our knees, 
Small nudges of discomfort and pain - 
A long pause, a lost breath, a close call, an unexpected loss, 
Life’s tug o’ war with the living, tying the two worlds, 
Kissing vivacious experience with uncertainty, 
Exhilarating destiny & heavy darkness, heaving us into a wonderful frightening delirium, 
Born, bred, bone & blood, lost on ourselves. 
Tasked with self-discovery, the mysterious lessons of an evolving soul, 
Reaching for the bedside light, tucked in by romanced naivety and oblivion, 
Rose-colored glasses faintly cracked at the sides, carved pathways of truth & vision, 
Reading lessons of centuries and millennia, pages of those before and after, 
Pleading for the answer, all while life is the glorious story, 
And death, the unrelenting messenger.

—

Brittani Watkins is a Freelance Writer hailing from Williamsport, Maryland. She enjoys writing poetry, essays, and short stories within the subject realm of history, art, travel, politics & philosophy, including macabre themes of death, horror, and the supernatural, as well as societal topics of feminism, mental health, civil rights, social class & equity. When not writing, Brittani reads voraciously, attempts to paint landscapes & portraits, and daydreams of her ensuing travel adventures with her partner, Barry, and their canine companion, Cairo. Contact her on Instagram: @brittaniwrotethis or via email at [email protected]