Posts tagged ‘2016’

Thursday, 5 March 2020

There Came by Amanda Lovelace

there came
a time
showed me
how to
the demand of blood.

– my most loyal lover.

From: Lovelace, Amanda, The Princess Saves Herself in This One, 2016, CreateSpace: California, p. 32.

Date: 2016

By: Amanda Lovelace (19??- )

Sunday, 2 February 2020

Money is the Thing With Feathers by Susan Firer

I wake to money, and take my money slow
I watched for money, lights turned low

One must have a mind of money . . .
Money that is not there and the money that is

The art of money isn’t hard to master
. . . The money surrounds us . . .

Sweet sweet sweet sweet sweet money
Money on a wet, black bough

Do not go gentle into that good money
The pure products of money go crazy

Money sweeping out from us to disappear
Oh Money! My Money! our fearful trip is done

I myself will die without money
Money, Money, you bastard, I’m through.


Date: 2016

By: Susan Firer (1948- )

Tuesday, 14 January 2020

Blue Tongue by Fran Graham

Day brings shadow leaf to life
Sky filters in from the road
Water splash swells on the wind
Love slides belly low, warm love
Wind brushes scale-sheen like water
Road noise echoes to the sky
Life and lizard crawl, slow day.


Date: 2016

By: Fran Graham (19??- )

Wednesday, 1 January 2020

Poem for a New Year by Matt Goodfellow

Something’s moving in,
I hear the weather in the wind,
sense the tension of the sheep-field
and the pilgrimage of fins.

Something’s not the same,
I taste the sap and feel the grain,
hear the rolling of the rowan
ringing, singing in a change.

Something’s set to start,
there’s meadow-music in the dark
and the clouds that shroud the mountain
slowly, softly start to part.


Date: 2016

By: Matt Goodfellow (19??- )

Sunday, 15 December 2019

Winter Itself by Garth von Buchholz

The trembling frost
Breathes stillness on the meadow it loves;

Winter itself is lonely.

From: von Buchholz, Garth, Mad Shadows: Dark Poetry, 2016, Pacific Gothic Press: Canada, p. 9.

Date: 2016

By: Garth von Buchholz (19??- )

Saturday, 23 November 2019

What the Gun Eats #85 by Darren C. Demaree

The quiet,
the accompanied
& the champion
of the barrel,
you selfless
you’re going
to need all
of your friends
if you’re aiming
at my hands.

From: Demaree, Darren C., “What the Gun Eats #85” in Sand: Berlin’s English Literary Journal, Issue 13, May 2016, p. 9.

Date: 2016

By: Darren C. Demaree (19??- )

Sunday, 13 October 2019

Sound and Fury by Claudia Rankine

Dispossessed despair, depression, despondent
dejection, the doom is the off-white of white. But wait,
white can’t know what white feels. Where’s the life in that?
Where’s the right in that? Where’s the white in that?

At the bone of bone white breathes the fear of seeing,
the frustration of being unequal to white. White-male portraits
on white walls were intended to mean ownership of all,
the privilege of all, even as white walls white in.

And this is understandable, yes,
understandable because the culture claims white
owns everything—the wealth
of no one anyone knows. Still the equation holds—
jobs and health and schools and better than
before and different from now and enough
and always and eventually mine.

This is what it means to wear a color and believe
the embrace of its touch. What white long expected
was to work its way into an upwardly mobile fit.
In the old days white included a life, even without luck
or chance of birth. The scaffolding had rungs
and legacy and the myth of meritocracy fixed in white.

Now white can’t hold itself distant from the day’s touch—
even as the touch holds so little white would own—
foreclosure vanished pensions school systems
in disrepair free trade rising unemployment unpaid
medical bills school debt car debt debt debt.

White is living its brick-and-mortar loss,
staving off more loss, exhaustion, aggrieved
exposure, a pale heart even as in daylight
white hardens its features. Eyes, which hold all
the light, harden. Jaws, which close down on nothing,
harden. Hands, which assembled, and packaged,
and built, harden into a fury that cannot call

power to account though it’s not untrue jobs were
outsourced and it’s not untrue an economic base
was cut out from under. It’s not untrue.

If people could just come clean about their pain,
the being at a loss when just being white
is not working. Who said there is no hierarchy
inside white walls? Who implied white owns
everything even as it owns nothing? But white
can’t strike its own structure. White can’t oust
its own system. All the loss is nothing
next to any other who can be thrown out.
In daylight this right to righteous rage doubles
down the supremacy of white in this way.


Date: 2016

By: Claudia Rankine (1963- )

Sunday, 15 September 2019

She Came Late to Writing by Davi Walders

She came late, her wheelchair hooked
to a Critikon, her smile still slightly there,
a bright red bandana tight around her head.
She wanted to talk about poems and poets.
She did not wish to talk about her family
in Africa, about her sweats, or being ill.

Maya Angelou she wanted to read, so we read.
Marge Piercy she wanted to read, so we read.
We did not talk about her family in Africa,
her sweats, or her illness. She wanted
to hear sounds of savannahs, rhythms
of rivers, and to write like the poets she loved.

So she wrote, shaping a world far away
from her twenty-one years, words welling
up from desire and deprivation,
from other poets who whispered to her
through the night. We did not talk about
her family in Africa, her sweats, or illness.

The last time I saw her, she was surrounded
by her family from Africa, her poems
on her cool blanket and bedside table,
smiling that broad smile, as though she had
just heard a favorite line of a favorite poem
and was in deep conversation with poets she loved.


Date: 2016

By: Davi Walders (19??- )

Monday, 12 August 2019

Elegy for the Bully by Bruce Snider

You have always been nosebleed
and nail-bite, the spit-shined halls
where you harvested us with your tribal
clang. Too long we saw your face
in every shadow, felt the whole forest
await your arrival like a nagging frost.
We hid from you in toilet stalls,
quit band to avoid the music
room where you waited near your
locker. Back then, there was nothing
we could say. In death we greet you
now as brothers, your dark
silence wailing from those glittering
trumpets we never learned to play.


Date: 2016

By: Bruce Snider (19??- )

Thursday, 1 August 2019

Intrigue in the Trees by John Brehm

Often I wonder:
Is the earth trying to get
rid of us, shake us off,
drown us, scorch us
to nothingness?
To save itself and all other
creatures slated for extinction?
The trees around here
seem friendly enough —
stoic, philosophically inclined
toward nonjudgmental
awareness and giving
in their branchings
perfect examples
of one thing becoming two
and remaining one —
but who knows
what they really feel?

Just last night I was walking
to my favorite cafe,
the Laughing Goat,
when I saw a flock of crows
circling raincloudy sky,
arguing, speaking strangely,
suddenly alight on
a maple tree, dozens of them
closing down their wings
like arrogant, ill-tempered
magistrates. Some kind
of consultation
was happening there,
some plan unfolding
(animals think we’re crazy
for thinking they can’t think),
and everybody was looking up,
looking up and watching.


Date: 2016

By: John Brehm (1960- )