The flock of fifteen
or so, blue birds, Jays
across the field
and that of my vision.
In twos and threes
and struggling singles
making their way
to winter over
James Brown road way.
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…of Happiness
Author: Jared A. Conti
Prayers for the Order to Our Houses
After the living room shake-up
the pleading fight
to watch
“just one more show.”
The brushing of the teeth
lasted less than I care for
gummies and two Batman phonics readers
the long I and U
sounding suspiciously
like a Bugs Bunny cartoon.
Say it with me now.
After the bedroom shake-up
the pleading fight
to read
“just one more story.”
The gnashing of the teeth
lasted longer than I care for.
After the noodle song
which was first composed
from the front seat
during the witching hour
(expertly timed to the latest breakdown)
a tune, incorporating
long vowels of its own,
yet never mentions noodles.
Say it with me now.
Nah, we’ll not go into that nonsense.
Then come the prayers,
say them with me now:
We pray for Harrison
We pray for Mommy
We pray for Daddy
And we pray for baby Ida Mae
We pray for all of Harrison’s friends
all of Mommy and Daddy’s friends
and all of Ida Mae’s friends
We pray for Grammy and Bop-Bob’s house
Poppy and Julie’s house
Gumpy and NiNi’s house
And we pray for our house at North Hall
Last comes the freestyles:
Heavenly Father, thank You for this day.
We especially pray for Mommy
for NiNi…
…and Gumpy.
Yes, Harrison, Gumpy, too.
…and the 3Ds
…and George
…and GiGi.
Call for Submissions: “Fazed”
Think I”ve got just the poem!
EPIGRAPH PRESS is currently hosting an open call for submissions for our first issue, “Fazed.”
Submissions close Monday, October 1st at midnight (PST) with a projected release date in October 2018.
Faze: (v.) disturb or disconcert (someone).
What fazes you? We’re looking your darkest and most eclectic imagery, whether it’s Sharp Objects-esque or related to our current political state, in the forms of:
- Poetry
- Short Stories
- Artwork
- Photographs
- Essays or Articles
We are interested in submissions that are multidimensional and subvert the horror genre while humanizing our deepest fears.
We encourage:
- surrealism, science fiction, mystery, thriller, and satire.
- Creative submissions and artistic interpretations
- Works that combine and play with language (English works that intertwine other languages are encouraged).
DEADLINE TO SUBMIT: Send submissions for “Fazed” to epigraphpress@gmail.com by no later than midnight on Monday, October 1. We will respond to your submissions via email.
SUBMISSION GUIDELINES:
For poetry, please submit 1 – 3…
View original post 270 more words
Illinois, by India LaPlace
This is some good stuff here.
Illinois
by India LaPlace
We drove through Illinois once.
Actually, we were driving home to Utah,
From Huntsville, Alabama.
You were leaving me.
Not leaving me, really.
That wasn’t fair.
You were being deployed to South Korea.
I had to wait it out until the army said that I could come too.
I told everybody how sad I was,
How much I would miss you.
My heart was aching,
It had never felt so heavy
And I wanted to tear it out of my chest.
But it was aching because I knew I wasn’t in love
And I didn’t know how to leave.
This was real.
Legal.
And I had made a mistake when I signed those papers.
I was nearly four in the morning when we finally stopped.
The hotel was shitty,
But we were exhausted.
You always talked about how you could drive for hours on a road…
View original post 502 more words
Endurance
My end
shall not be
determined
by their finish.
Photos or not
bodies thrown
prone
spread out before you now
all within an arm’s reach
length, step
gingerly
aside, footsie, footing
for the best purchase
until these rugged
places become plains.
It’s all fluff, nutter.
Bananas,
sandwiched in
aren’t ever
going to make this healthy
no matter how palatable
the lie you tell yourself.
Keeping the pace
of your own race
struck
down
again
and again
(and again?)
pavement
sending shocks
through the system
algorithmic
malfunction chip
pry it loose
as it gnaws at you
try your best but you don’t succeed
or
pull yourself up by your trail shoes
because it’s not
place, PR, age category
but about time,
the shining glory
of your participation trophy
isn’t coming from it.
How the Hummingbird Got Its Sound
The glassy red feeder is dry, but I fill it up
with my words, ink drying as quickly as liquid sugar
as it permeates upon this page, sticky,
with the sensation of saccharine and empty calories.
There is a corona about my hands as my characters waltz airlessly
through the story, their auras attaining a rose-colored hue
memories of you and I. Even bad times
shade every sentence.
Hummingbirds, zumming across the porch
to sample its sweetness, spanning
galaxies, singing space operas
with the force of their dancing wings.
Overburden
My heart is heavy.
I marvel at this
rock of ages, eternity even
strip mined
for what’s stuck beneath
the surface.
All this runoff
just so I could,
baring it all
and laying it to waste
water, tears a by-product
of a cold coal
carbon-copy
of once-living
matter
stratified plants,
and these dinosaur’s bones
as layer
upon stinking layer,
the fecal fecundity
of fickle feelings
fossilized:
compacted
impacted
though it seems
as if it doesn’t
matter,
and we may not see
the error of our ways
for years to come.
The hardness,
burning hot and dirty
so close to beauty
can’t see
for buried too deep.
Time and pressure,
like Superman,
taken in his hands
to make a diamond
out of me.
Hillsong
They’ve given the business
to my mother’s favorite hill,
just off Little Plum Run Road.
Once:
a cascading glade,
the kind you’d see
in those old movies
couples, bounding
in slow motion
abounding
in endless love.
Banners agitate
waving the crests of
Science
and
Progress
white knights
mounting
their noble steeds
in the name of domestic independence.
These star-crossed
lovers of yore
(or at the very least a stanza before)
lost, the flames from the rigs
blotting out the night,
targets of this endless
economic war.
Taken up arms
taking aim
the birds and the bees
hooded robins
unsure anymore
of when to sing in spring
our faltering flags
the white fields of surrender
choked
with the soot
of a cleaner,
more “natural” gas.
Enjoying the view
from your ivory towers
thousands of feet above
while our view nine hundred feet below
as they dug
our fracking graves
one well at a time
beneath the surface,
much too far for our protests
to be heard
let alone do any harm.
(T)rain in the Distance
April showers
twice now this month
and we’re only three days in
–not to mention
the onion snow
guaranteed
to make you cry.
Thunder
shoulders the heavy
lifting, furniture
looks better against
the far wall
upright
bass as the raindrops
plink against
the air conditioner,
grill, I’m itching to use.
And the train
bellows at the crossings
peals of its whistle
announcing its arrival
snow-capped gondolas
boxcars
I’m itching to use.
Finding flowers
along those Western routes.
