May - Poem 17

At the Setting of the Sun  / Desirae Chacon

At the Setting of the Sun
we meet at the Grand Road
Bring (Divinity) الألوهية
your beloved
Akhal-Teke

And we’ll go to where you were wanting
all along 
i knew
you weren’t waiting in vain

In all the waiting 
were fabrications 
of your wishes
your dreams
your desires

Your humble heart
was remembered 
in your forlorn
purposed in your expectancy

Starry Starry Night   / Heather Frankland

I feel I should write
about the stars again—
they are beautiful—
I must remind myself.
I’d miss them
if I were no longer
in a place where I could
see them so clearly.
I’d lament not noticing,
call myself a bad poet—
someone who didn’t
take advantage of what
she had when she had it—
give myself some
mental punishment.
And now the stars
are no longer the stars
but mental failings,
flaws—they seem
heavy in that night sky,
no wonder I avoid them
when I walk outside. 

The Middle Man / John Hanright

This fencepost is very comfortable
Placed squarely and firmly against my rear
I’ll get to politics when I’m able

You ask me: “Am I mentally stable?”
Yes, of course! I am a centrist, my dear
The world is complex; I’m comfortable

“When will I put my cards on the table?”
You ask me frankly. Have no doubts or fear
I’ll take a stand someday, when I’m able

My views? Oh, well I don’t like to label
I tend to lean wherever the wind steers
And I like to leave folks comfortable

Why do you allege that I enable
Reactionaries to take over here?
I’ll quit this fence and fight when I’m able

Help! Help! I’m stuck in terrible trouble!
The government’s got me; that much is clear
Truly, this isn’t comfortable
Won’t someone help me, when they are able?

Surprise / Jillian Humphrey

You ask for a snake.
I give you a fish.

Suffer a demon — 
I send you some pigs.

Get sick and I wait.
Surprise, you die twice.

If you want to be
friends, this is the price.

Wrkaholic  / Shane Moran

> when i found u
4 all that you were
u’d already bn here 4 so long
in my <3. i knew that if i cld j show u pretty music
gemstones
an island
nd thoughtfulness
you’d luv me forever.

>> how thoughtless i’d bn
that i cld think my way into ur <3
that’d bn pumping like gd life-support 4 a grasping narcissistic flea
since i kicked u out of my sour </3 the first time. 

>>> it has been nice to c you again
yk
i used to wander in my own mind nd find those memories of u behind the due essays nd wonder if i may ever gt another one to distract me.

>>>> i’ve plenty reasons y i’m still here
nd so many reasons y i’m thanking u
so many that i’ve found myself willing to pretend i was ok with it— that somehow
i allowed it
welcomed it even 
that prolly i facilitated the whole thing
nd that i am responsible
but then i remember it was ur mouth on his mouth nd his neck nd his body. 

>>>>> nd it was my mfing eyes cryin to Hazza singin truth to me thru my own gd intuition that u were lying nd laying w/ your bloodsucker. 

>>>>>> nd yt i wait up all nite 4 u
j to hug u hello– c! 
i am responsible
look at the dirt left behind on my shoes nd the pain in my back
i’ve bn @ wrk making sure u always feel my Love. 

The Painting Of The Flower With No Name  / Christina Vagenius

I knew you would find me,
eventually — between the mess
of the pages, the unfinished
stacks stuck together. Your fingers,
foraging the bread crumb tracks
between brushstrokes, my silver
and gold, never could tell
the difference — between
what shined, what surveilled,
the pause and the fealty
she loved the most
when she looked at you.
See where her shore went soft,
dissolved before letting go.
The weight of her hand
subsumed by the chariot
of motherhood, the dried,
torn corners of gouache
I’d do anything to hold you again 
just add water.

Siren / Sonya Wohletz

My beach. The riptides recognize each other.
They swallow the sky. They swallow all that lives on the sky.
My beach. Algae pulsates like a sick harp.
It opens the shell of the song. It opens the shell of what eats the song.
My beach. Dark rocks erupt through the swollen sand.
They alone are language. They alone have promised the birds.
My beach. The seas have returned to me as driftwood.
They are the bones of sailors. They are the bones of all whom the sailors loved.