Posts tagged ‘2016’

Friday, 30 December 2022

Lucky Day Still by David Rivard

Lucky day still spent wrestling the private problems
and obsessions encountered first in your youth
but played out now within the spectacle of public aging
(tho, strangely, as you age you feel less & less seen
by the young, a citizen active in frequencies of light waves
increasingly invisible—not even boring to 15-year-olds).
Of course, some problems you once had really have
vanished—you can sense that as your daughter lays out
the tactics crucial to “pre-gaming,” her teen friends
setting out to get toasted or stoned before house parties,
parties at which they’ve been warned not to drug or drink—
no longer a worry for you (except as relates, of course,
to your daughter)—you can drink & drug somewhat
“it would seem” to your heart’s content. Not your style,
you say? Not any longer? Still, the urge to lift or get
lifted from self-conscious woes hasn’t gone away totally,
has it? Wanting to be free of your self has always
been a mission big in your church—evangelically so!
You got in a way (the wrong way) your wish—
your skin certainly got looser on you—baggy, rounder,
wrinkled—prescriptions for departure—the rigging’s
untuned, & no milk bath full of rose hips can compensate
(so your friend likes to say), no fish oil omega-3
in gel capsules manufactured by entrepreneurial ex-hippies
no wifely fruit smoothies or mod boots will cure
jowls now or allow for glamour without the costume.

From: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/91487/lucky-day-still

Date: 2016

By: David Rivard (1953- )

Monday, 28 November 2022

Our Sad Little Man by Robert Nazarene

Just 4 years old he wandered from nightlight
to nightlight to nightlight back & forth &
back & forth & back & forth from his bed-
room to the bathroom to the kitchen for 3
days and nights (and counting) doing exactly
what Mommy told him to do: You just wait
‘til your father gets home! until she would slip
beneath the waves again into her sadbed
and if a little boy digs his fingernails into
his neck over & over & over until his blood
weeps & falls into that old snot-caked
onesy does it mean he gets to die soon does
it mean Christmas is coming early this year?

From: http://www.theamericanjournalofpoetry.com/v1-nazarene.html

Date: 2016

By: Robert Nazarene (19??- )

Wednesday, 5 October 2022

The Grief Woman by Wendy Noonan

We drove to the hospital and got his ashes from a woman
who talked to us in a conference room,
the box of him by her elbow.
We were forced to listen
to her spiel—moth-eaten words
about loss she had no business saying.
The woman sat too close. She smelled like talcum in an old cupboard.
When it was over, the brown box got pushed
to our side of the table.
For weeks, I wondered obsessively what the grief woman wanted back
when she offered us the gift of his ashes.
If I ever find her asleep, I will cut off her head and stuff it full of garlic.

From: https://www.muzzlemagazine.com/wendy-noonan.html

Date: 2016

By: Wendy Noonan (19??- )

Monday, 5 September 2022

Chatter by Kate Partridge

After winter, quiet except for logs settling
in the fire, the men begin to pick their way

up the ice roads, now mud, now earth again.
Occasionally with money, but usually

with need—the next closest fish
camp at least two days’ walk, although

that family claims the edge of the world.
Siduri has thought of a sign—something to carve

your name in—but settles for allowing travelers
to wedge coins between the planks of the ceiling,

a memento before their crossings.
Glinting, one man asks: How much

do you think is up there? Not enough
to get me to hell and back, she replies.

From: https://blackbird.vcu.edu/v15n1/poetry/partridge_k/chatter_page.shtml

Date: 2016

By: Kate Partridge (19??- )

Thursday, 16 June 2022

What Was Told by David Ishaya Osu

was triangle &
the sayings of an
apple full

of iodine. what
was told before the
kiss. has a toad

swollen at
a word
of divorce? elegy

no cry again
for the coming
coming nights, no

no, no, quickly
quickly as a rain
rinsing a

dress made
from ash
—the second coming

of judas—how are
you, mr. xylophone? have
you got some

new mallets
for this old
b

old
body?

From: https://www.cleavermagazine.com/what-was-told-by-david-ishaya-osu/

Date: 2016

By: David Ishaya Osu (1991- )

Saturday, 12 March 2022

Rat’s Nest by Monica Rico

My mother said, my hair was like a rat’s nest, a rat’s nest
plucked by a black capped chickadee for another nest or the start of
the tiniest scarf because on occasion my hair is too much like leaves it sticks
to every one, every sweater I hug, sometimes it even smells pretty like
leaves deciding it rather be a whole tree that wants to grow
like fog by the river that spreads out and over like dandelion fuzz
captured on every surface like a sparkle, a reflection, a promise to remain
myself with this hair which is a staircase, antennae pointed out into the world
stretched like gladioli, something so wondrous your fingers get caught in this hair
that causes the very teeth of combs to break and bow.

From: http://sotospeakjournal.org/rats-nest/

Date: 2016

By: Monica Rico (19??- )

Monday, 21 February 2022

I Loved Him by Lang Leav

I loved how his eyes danced merrily,
and the gentle way he spoke;
the way he filled my aimless days,
with bitterness and hope.

I loved him as I fell to sleep,
and each morning as I woke;
I loved him with all my wayward heart—
until the day it broke.

From: https://www.theodysseyonline.com/11-lang-leav-poems-that-will-make-you-want-to-call-your-ex

Date: 2016

By: Lang Leav (1980- )

Sunday, 20 February 2022

Proximity by Michael Faudet

We joined the dots
from A to B,
the line we drew
from you to me,
traced empty shores
across the sea,
over mountain top,
past forest tree,
along the roads
and walking tracks,
all bridges burned,
no looking back,
for the love
we have,
no gate can stop,
no barking dog
or bolted lock,
for what is real
is meant to be,
when two hearts
beat—
in proximity.

From: https://humanists.uk/ceremonies/weddings/blog/six-modern-love-poems-and-readings-for-a-wedding-vow-renewal-ceremony/

Date: 2016

By: Michael Faudet (19??- )

Friday, 11 February 2022

The Age of Forgetting by Amber Flora Thomas

This happens with the rapture too.
Leaving your Birkenstocks and
brown sweater waiting at the chair
with a cold cup of coffee. A gift
of peacock feathers nodding in
a mason jar by the window. Served up

by science as brain atrophy. Shrapnel
misting cranial stars. Arias in oblivion
sending you into a remote outback
of lippy frostings and creams smeared
on spoons. Tripping until you tripped
into the white rabbit’s downy belly fluff.

The rooms sucked away like cellophane
caramels and fizzy root beer pop. At first,
great-great grandmother Wickliffe and
our Cherokee in Tennessee appeared
as snapshots. Your newspaper route
in 1955. The stories you had to deny

undressed by a cloud front. Your
disappearance like motion trapped
in a marble; the finite air bubbles
cruising that cosmos probably
breath. Little god raising your drunk,
smoked-out white flag at my entire life.

From: https://www.connotationpress.com/hoppenthaler-s-congeries/2845-amber-flora-thomas-poetry

Date: 2016

By: Amber Flora Thomas (19??- )

Monday, 31 January 2022

Her Own by Jane Clarke

My mother said she knew, just knew
I was going to be a girl,

two boys before and two boys after –
fodder for a hungry farm,

but I was hers.
She taught me her tricks of the trade;

it’ll look like dinner is nearly ready
if the table is set when he comes in,

bread and butter will fill them up,
add three drops of vinegar to water

so your mirrors and windows will gleam,
cool your fingers before rubbing lard into flour

for pastry, a handful of ground almonds
will keep your fruit cake moist,

darn a few socks every night
and never leave the ironing for more than a week,

don’t cut off rhubarb stalks with a knife,
just twist them clean from the crown,

and always hold onto the children’s allowance;
a woman must have something of her own.

From: https://andotherpoems.com/2016/01/12/two-poems-by-jane-clarke/

Date: 2016

By: Jane Clarke (1961- )