Category: Poetry (Page 1 of 8)

A Glass I Won’t Pick Up Again

By J. Jules

Why did I pick up that glass?
Wine doesn’t sit well on an empty stomach.
And I’m allergic to sulfites.

I could have avoided it all.
The nausea, the vomit,
the horrified look on her face.

No excuses. I did. And boy,
did it make a mess to clean up.

Of course, I apologized.
Got down on my knees
to wipe off her shoes.

But it didn’t prevent
her offended stomach
from lurching.

And ever since, my Twitter feed
has been covered in her puke.


 J.Jules is the author of three chapbooks. Her work has been published in over a hundred publications.

Three Parts

by: Kate scholl

This thing has three parts;
Three will be returned thrice more
One, two,

Three times…
There is the before time:
the boyhood, the uncertain masculinity, the obliviousness
The now time:
the girlhood, the transition, the finally finally figuring it out, the contentedness
And the then time:
the woman I will be, the knowing altogether who I am, the victory

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TCR Talks with Matthew Zapruder

By Martin Cossio

Matthew Zapruder is a poet, a teacher, an editor, a translator, and an accomplished guitar player. He is the co-translator of Romanian poet Eugen Jebeleanu’s last collection, Secret Weapon: Selected Late Poems, and editor-at-large of Wave Books (He edited Tyehimba Jess’s 2017 Pulitzer Prize winner, Olio). Zapruder is the author of five collections of poetry—the second of which, The Pajamaist, was selected by Tony Hoagland as the winner of the William Carlos Williams Award—and one book of prose on the art and craft of poetry. He is a professor in the MFA program at St. Mary’s College of California.

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Instincts

By Jared Pearce

The fledglings out the dining
window are full and flown;
two weeks it took their down

to fluff, their pinions stress,
their constant parents snatching
moths to stuff their needy maws.

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Lake Sagatagan Summer

By Denton Loving

After evensong at the abbey, we walk circles
in the woods, weaving through deerflies

in kamikaze flights. The cerulean warbler
mates among these trees, we’re told,

so we keep vigil for blue flickers in leaves.
So far, nothing. On half-submerged logs,

turtles perch like hard-shelled gods—
We canoe to the deepest part of the lake

before we can talk about who we were
before the other existed as witness.

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Crow Cento, Time Cento

By Jessica Goodfellow

Crow Cento

There was a broken jaw of light at dusk where the crows
pinned to each tree
the hammer’s shadow in the shadow of a hand.
Sound of a crow, pulling the one nail from its voice,
claim the far away in me—
a never air, the lens for being.
Every microcosm needs its crow,
and the crows are up to no good:
They invented the earth for people,
inventing pizzicato as they fled the horizon.

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Yearbook

BY: Leila Bilick

In the yeshiva, button-downed boys on one side,
girls in skirts that touch their ankles on the other,

the teenagers rock forward and forward, hopeful
young trees in a single-minded wind, singing:

Al tashlicheini milfanecha
Don’t cast me away from before you

Singing: desire us, consume us and be
consumed toward wholeness, belly of the whale

Faith is hunger feeding itself, a sea forever
filling emptying filling

Ruach kodshecha al tikach mimeni
Your holy spirit – don’t take it from within me

They were taught the neshama lives beyond the body but
here it is! enlivening groin, breastbone, back of the brain

Fists pound the prayer, spray of blood
from the pomegranate’s liberated fruit

They are deep inside begging
to go deeper still

In the gymnasium-turned-sanctuary
oneness seeking oneness

Years later –
make me a clean heart, renew my spirit

fingertip tracing photos like depressions
on a cave wall, I will understand desire

as arrival, the reward in the reaching
I don’t warn them

for if they know
they will already be on the other side of longing


Leila Bilick’s poetry has been published in Soundings East and The Merrimack Review. She has an MA in English from UMass Boston, and works as a grant writer. She hails from the East Coast but is slowly and surely making Los Angeles her home. She has two daughters.

They Cling

BY: Kimberly Ann Priest

Wingspan for shouldering witness,
things seen but

weighted with inflection—flicker
of light on wide teeth.  

Synonyms split like fireflies in glass—
surveyed, examined.

Moths collide
with all eyes open—too minuscule to see

the screen door’s wire cage. A pair
of scissors:

heavy are my hands.
Your mouth cut like a newspaper clipping—

brief confirmation of a face
humming like a dial tone, a very clear

connection; the way
he also hummed from ear lobe to artery

to waist—
to the pale skin circumferencing

my labia where the hair is shaved
and the follicles

have never seen the light. I see
the light licking at our roof beams,

its energy worn out
rehearsing re-entry, repeating

do this in remembrance of he. I do.
You wipe

your penis clean with the shirt, discarded,
at the end of our bed

as though the half-hard limb
in your hand is object, sharp, ready to

be sheathed.
And you face me as you do this,

taking in the whole scene:
My under-spread body pried open

enough, slightly.
Your flipped up finger

unblemished with afterthoughts of me,
lukewarm and leaving

the slaughter re-composing
the first time a pedophile carved up

my seams.
I lie in the heart of the afterglow, naked,

both men bisecting
this bomb-shelter night.


Kimberly Ann Priest is the author of White Goat Black Sheep (FLP) and her poetry has appeared in several literary journals including The 3288 Review, riverSedge, Borderlands: The Texas Poetry Review, The West Texas Literary Review, Welter, Ruminate, and The Berkeley Poetry Review. She holds an MFA from New England College. She is assistant professor at MSU, reviewer for NewPages, and editor for the Nimrod International Journal. Her work can be found at kimberlyannpriest.com or you can follow her at https://www.facebook.com/kimberlyann.author/ and https://www.instagram.com/kimberlyannpriest.poet/.

Scene from a Horror Movie

BY: Elizabeth Hazen

Her breasts heave, thrusting
cleavage into slants

of glowing blue, and through
her cotton nightgown

you see her nipples wink.
I watch the wash

of eerie light accentuate
the dark between her

girlish thighs. Someone
with leather gloves

reflected in a knife.
Her legs are long and slender;

each frame shortens
her nightie. Tension mounts;  

the killer strikes, and she grasps
at nothing, her face

warping like a rubber mask;
her body shudders.

A gasp like hard candy
catches in my throat.


Elizabeth Hazen is a poet and essayist whose work has appeared or will appear in Best American Poetry, American Literary Review, Shenandoah, Southwest Review, The Threepenny Review, The Normal School, and other journals. Her first book, Chaos Theories, was published in 2016. Her second book will be released in 2020.

Revolutionaries

BY: Craig Kurtz

Based on Middleton and Rowley’s play The Old Law

We’re going to obviate them all
’cause being old’s against the law;
we’ve legislation that now bans
all crones and coots and their bedpans.
We’re done with them and their bad backs,
their politics and their earwax;
they had their shot, they’ve had their say —
their blatherings are démodé.
Ah, yes, ‘it’s for your own damn good’ —
their fav’rite word, I’m sure, is ‘should’;
they give advice to everyone
except themselves, then it’s no fun;
for years, we’ve heard them sneer and scold —
if they’re so smart, how’d they get old?
They’ve hogged the spotlight and they’ve run
the country they think they begun;
well, now it’s time to step aside —
someone inform ’em that they died.
It’s time that we got rid of them
with their sagacity and phlegm;
we’ve had enough of their mistakes,
their speeches and their bellyaches.
What they have done for world affairs
deserves a good kick down the stairs;
when they’re removed, then things will be
utopian, and hassle-free;
we’ll have no wars when they are gone,
we’ll all look great with swimsuits on;
we won’t hear ‘hmph, I told you so’ —
inheriting won’t be so slow.
The world is for adventurers,
not fuddy-duddies with dentures;
we’re extirpating the old guard —
they really shouldn’t take it hard;
and when time’s up for you and me,
we’ll reconsider this decree.


Craig Kurtz is the author of Wortley Clutterbuck’s Practical Guide to Deplorable Personages, illustrated by Anni Wilson. Recent work published by Rattle, Perceptions and William & Mary Review. More content at https://kurtzandwilson.blogspot.com.

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