poetry
There are many kinds of poetry, and we want them all. Freeverse, iambic, haiku, sonnets, romantic, humorous, dark, send us your best!
Colton Claye’s Variation on Kenneth Koch’s “Variation on a theme by William Carlos Williams”
This is just to say:
I have cleared
the forests
that were in
your country
And which
you were probably
saving
for their
ability to
return water vapor to the atmosphere
By Colton Claye
This is just to say:
I have cleared
the forests
that were in
your country
And which
you were probably
saving
for their
ability to
return water vapor to the atmosphere
and for
the beings
who made their home there
and for their
adeptness at
absorbing greenhouse gases
My bad.
Their pulp
and the monocrops growing in their place
were so instrumental in
providing me with
products that help me to
pass the time away
About the author
Colton Claye, a native of Milwaukee, WI, is an author, songwriter, visual artist and an advocate for all conscious creatures. His work has been featured in a wide variety of print and digital publications. His latest release, The Percussive Sun, is a collection of surrealist poetry. He sends you warm regards.
ode to jerome davis
The destructive force of war created you
Your voice, as silent as God, calling out to those you created in your image
They come hoping to see you delivering a new masterpiece
or picking up your junk mail
By Colton Claye
The destructive force of war created you
Your voice, as silent as God, calling out to those you created in your image
They come hoping to see you delivering a new masterpiece
or picking up your junk mail
They come seeking proof of their existence
Never matching your imagination
Or your memories of the chaos and quiet of the stalag
Where you take the perpetrator for your bride
Offering her the hand of the creator who puts as much beauty in what is left out as what is put in
About the author
Colton Claye, a native of Milwaukee, WI, is an author, songwriter, visual artist and an advocate for all conscious creatures. His work has been featured in a wide variety of print and digital publications. His latest release, The Percussive Sun, is a collection of surrealist poetry. He sends you warm regards.
another passion play
I've been chasing betrayal
all the way to your piercing gaze
and your invisible hands which lift me atop the calvary I carry inside
lowering the volume on the praise coming my way so I could hear their jeers
By Colton Claye
I've been chasing betrayal
all the way to your piercing gaze
and your invisible hands which lift me atop the calvary I carry inside
lowering the volume on the praise coming my way so I could hear their jeers
Once I was a poor scholar
decorating eggshells,
walking to find you straddling the lap of the rabbit on his throne
Now you've come to take this bread.
I raise my glass and make a toast
to the carpenter who built this barstool after he left the profession
so I could sit and drink Jello shots with the ghosts of the holy well
and tip my server
I see you in the peepshow
It isn't enough to be a voyeur anymore
I’m hoping you'll break my heart
my wounds are my way out
About the author
Colton Claye, a native of Milwaukee, WI, is an author, songwriter, visual artist and an advocate for all conscious creatures. His work has been featured in a wide variety of print and digital publications. His latest release, The Percussive Sun, is a collection of surrealist poetry. He sends you warm regards.
untitled
It’s a regular occurrence
Almost daily
Overtaken
Suddenly
I prostrate myself
Willingly
By Tamara Binsfeld
It’s a regular occurrence
Almost daily
Overtaken
Suddenly
I prostrate myself
Willingly
Swept away
Teased out
This meaningless
Dimension
The four legged specter who never left my side
She wants to snuggle
Stretch her neck
Press her head into
Whatever part is
Most accessible
Or show me things I should be abreast of
Like her loyalty in the afterlife
But mostly, remind me
She’s always here
Even if that means
Knocking me out and yanking my essence from
my third eye
It’s comforting to know
Her persistence is eternal
As she is
Her demands are welcome to continue to Inconvenience
How I cherish these
Astral encounters
Couldn’t care less what anyone thinks
They’ve probably never been
Rescued by a
Rescue Dog
About the author
As a writer, Tamara Binsfeld is a polyamorous whore, carelessly flinging her deepest thoughts against the wall for anyone to casually lick like a Blarney stone for the broken. But in the real world, she's made a name for herself telling the boss how much she hates her job, and dedicates her spare time to curling bars for the revolution, never ending fasting rituals, and perfecting the pose of chihuahua furniture.
I Looked and saw
Your eyes meeting mine brought back a hurt that I was confident was gone.
by dandy j. west
I looked into your eyes and saw memories.
Memories of few nights of passion and many nights longing alone.
Seeing that look in your eyes at my recognition was satisfying.
But, nothing can soothe the damage that was done.
Your eyes meeting mine brought back a hurt that I was confident was gone.
A hurt I never wanted to feel again caused by your lack of care.
Your eyes showed the lust you once had for me has flown.
You have eyes now for another.
Another who loves you unconditionally and faithfully.
Seeing your eyes meet mine, I know you've considered the situation carefully.
Here we are, our eyes locked in an unsuspecting embrace.
At one time this held so much meaning.
Now, as shocking as it is to look into those baby blues again, my heart still races.
I hate your eyes.
I don't want to look into them and see our short memories.
Memories of confusion. Memories of tears.
Memories of lies.
Look away as you don't deserve the love still in my eyes.
A love I ran from.
A love that wasn't real.
A love the eyes hate and the heart denies.
channeled message
There is no saying, though the hour, as always, is ominously nigh, the signs in the sky, crossbar of Aleph, apex at Kerrville, next stop, Makanda, Illinois, somewhere, the portal to hell sits conspicuously behind a Tim Horton's, maple glazed and graffiti sprayed, in the land of milk and honey
By Tamara Binsfeld
There is no saying, though the hour, as always, is ominously nigh, the signs in the sky, crossbar of Aleph, apex at Kerrville, next stop, Makanda, Illinois, somewhere, the portal to hell sits conspicuously behind a Tim Horton's, maple glazed and graffiti sprayed, in the land of milk and honey, where the Mammonites duke it out with the Mennonites, how I wish I could hit a spliff with Abraham’s hoodlums one last time, sublime in the Jubilee of the Age of Grace, race to the finish, a fetus factory in recycled PFAs, razed from the landscape in time for an Omega of a full corn moon, too soon, but somehow not soon enough, Magog could not be more obvious, or less oblivious, assaulting God’s children with TikTok videos, armor of disinformation, the nation is the demon seed, but nobody heeds the warning, where have all the good times gone, to worry is naught, the battle to be fought is rigged, but AI will claim a premature victory, stamping out the dissident tread, loaves of silicone, bred for your pleasure preinfected, a flesh devouring sexbot species, 3D printed nephilim beasties, when the hyperbaric Puritans spring from graves for the sole purpose finger wag, everything is ugly and barren and hot, the living are dead, vanity rot
About the author
As a writer, Tamara Binsfeld is a polyamorous whore, carelessly flinging her deepest thoughts against the wall for anyone to casually lick like a Blarney stone for the broken. But in the real world, she's made a name for herself telling the boss how much she hates her job, and dedicates her spare time to curling bars for the revolution, never ending fasting rituals, and perfecting the pose of chihuahua furniture.