poetry
There are many kinds of poetry, and we want them all. Freeverse, iambic, haiku, sonnets, romantic, humorous, dark, send us your best!
Magic
His plastic Green Lantern ring
An official replica
No more official
Than the blue, red, orange, black, and white replicas
He kept in his closet
By Gene Lass
My boy
Perpetually dressed
In his brown loafers
Cargo pants
And soft jacket
Had pockets to spare
Loving them
Like his father
And great grandfather before him
In the breast pocket he carried
His magic superball
That helped him be brave
At the doctor’s office
Where he won the hearts of nurses
And flirted while on the scale
With the ball
Was his plastic Green Lantern ring
An official replica
No more official than
The blue, red, orange, black and white replicas
He kept in the closet
But only green was in his pocket
At all times
Only green was powerful
Because he knew it was real
Green Lantern was the hero
The good guy
And so was he
Brave to the end
To infinity and beyond
(for Shane)
Normies
Tell me what to think
Tell me what to say
Tell me what to wear today
By Gene Lass
Tell me what to think
Tell me what to say
Tell me what to wear today
Tell me what to watch
Tell me what to hear
Tell me if I should drink this brand of beer
I’m a normie
An empty vessel for you
I’m a normie
Tell me what to do
When I’m online
Tell me what to share
Tell me who to talk to
Tell me why I care
Help me pick my friends
The algorithm is plain to see
Tell me who should govern me
’Cause I’m a normie
I don’t want to read
I’m a normie
Your will fills all my needs
CARRION
In the sky above our parking lot
Buzzards circle
Riding on updrafts
Never flapping
Stacked in layers
One above the other
Like platters
By Gene Lass
In the sky above our parking lot
Buzzards circle
Riding on updrafts
Never flapping
Stacked in layers
One above the other
Like platters
I long thought they were hawks
Eagles
Something majestic
Until I spotted them on the ground
One or two
Hunched on power lines
A gang of them
By the stop sign on the corner
Ugly and black
Avian thugs
Now, they hover over me
As I walk to the car
I watch in wonder
Then curse them for their mockery
I’m 54
Newly unemployed
But goddammit
I’m not dead yet
The road again
On the concourse
All aboard
Pack the cattle in
By Gene Lass
On the concourse
All aboard
Pack the cattle in
Call us up
Row by row
Pack the cattle in
Screaming babies
All around
Pack the cattle in
Concourse agent
Can’t be heard
Pack the cattle in
The smell of sweet-sour chicken hits me
On our no-meal flight
Pack the cattle in
It’s the passenger ahead of me
Chomping teriyaki jerky
Like it’s his cud
Here the cattle are.