poetry

There are many kinds of poetry, and we want them all. Freeverse, iambic, haiku, sonnets, romantic, humorous, dark, send us your best!

Gene Lass 12/21/25 Gene Lass 12/21/25

First World Problem

I have the inclination

to shut down my tablet

By Lance Jencks

I have the inclination

to shut down my tablet,

just as I realize

the tablet must be on

to turn off the air

conditioner.

About the author

Lance Jencks has been writing poetry for fifty years. In the 1970s he earned an MFA in Playwriting and a PhD in Contemporary Theatre. In the 1980s he published his verse-based roman á clef, "The Wisdom of Southern California," then toured that region with a one-man show of the same name. Lance has been an advertising copywriter, a stock-and-bond broker, and the guy who hooks your car to the chain at the car wash. He lives today in Newport Beach, California, where he was recently featured in the epic bodysurfing movie "Dirty Old Wedge" on Amazon.

Gene Lass 12/21/25 Gene Lass 12/21/25

Road to Big Sur

By Lance Jencks

For Lawrence Ferlinghetti

When I ate a croissant in bed,
flakes of brown crust
fell upon my pillow,
fell atop the sheets,
and made the white down comforter
resemble a speckled trout
whacked upside the head,
eyes akimbo,
ready for the pan.
Once it was me awaiting the pan,
grunting and spawning,
never alone.
Now I remember those days as buttered flakes
sprinkled about,
offsetting white:
waiting for hotel staff
to set things right.

About the author
Lance Jencks has been writing poetry for fifty years. In the 1970s he earned an MFA in Playwriting and a PhD in Contemporary Theatre. In the 1980s he published his verse-based roman á clef, "The Wisdom of Southern California," then toured that region with a one-man show of the same name. Lance has been an advertising copywriter, a stock-and-bond broker, and the guy who hooks your car to the chain at the car wash. He lives today in Newport Beach, California, where he was recently featured in the epic bodysurfing movie "Dirty Old Wedge" on Amazon.

Gene Lass 12/21/25 Gene Lass 12/21/25

Natural Events

Trees

on a high angled ridge,

anchor themselves against clouds.

Foreground contours of hills

disappear. Flying bugs swarm,

folks gather: quiet

rustling creatures

in the dark.

By Lance Jencks

Trees

on a high angled ridge,

anchor themselves against clouds.

Foreground contours of hills

disappear. Flying bugs swarm,

folks gather: quiet

rustling creatures

in the dark.

Mistakes

walk through his brain:

pigeon flown,

client gone.

loss after loss after loss.

Yet these are the finest fresh apricots

he's eaten; this is the rarest

of stones.

Gene Lass 12/21/25 Gene Lass 12/21/25

My Universe

The universe is not heartless:

millions of hearts reside within.

Not only cold, this universe,

but warmth by a fire.

By Lance Jencks

The universe is not heartless:

millions of hearts reside within.

Not only cold, this universe,

but warmth by a fire.

Tell me the universe does not think,

I point to a brain.

Tell me it doesn't care-

I say, some of us do.

O do not exclude what is part of the All

from its essence.

Don't see the lifeless

and say nothing lives.

You are part of the universe too:

you're one of its features.

About the author
Lance Jencks has been writing poetry for fifty years. In the 1970s he earned an MFA in Playwriting and a PhD in Contemporary Theatre. In the 1980s he published his verse-based roman á clef, "The Wisdom of Southern California," then toured that region with a one-man show of the same name. Lance has been an advertising copywriter, a stock-and-bond broker, and the guy who hooks your car to the chain at the car wash. He lives today in Newport Beach, California, where he was recently featured in the epic bodysurfing movie "Dirty Old Wedge" on Amazon.

Gene Lass 12/21/25 Gene Lass 12/21/25

Big Green Lizard

Scampers from his post

toward my outdoor coffee table

topped with glass.

By Lance Jencks

Scampers from his post

toward my outdoor coffee table

topped with glass.

I take another toke;

ask why he would do this

unless we had some certain

rapport. Maybe

he's my friend

after all.

Maybe he knows

I'm his.

About the author

Gene Lass 12/21/25 Gene Lass 12/21/25

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

Gene Lass 12/21/25 Gene Lass 12/21/25

untitled

I'm really not feeling it

The Veteran's Day arctic expedition

The unseasonable assault of

Nature offended

The Garden of Eden in

Full on revenge

Waiting for corporate cupidity to die for it's own sins

Instead of this hamster wheel of vicarious atonement

Braving the elements for a lousy fifty bucks

By Tamara Binsfeld

I'm really not feeling it

The Veteran's Day arctic expedition

The unseasonable assault of

Nature offended

The Garden of Eden in

Full on revenge

Waiting for corporate cupidity to die for it's own sins

Instead of this hamster wheel of vicarious atonement

Braving the elements for a lousy fifty bucks

This sucks

I'm not even sure

What's right anymore

Doing what they say when

They never do what I do

Not like I can't or won't or even shouldn't, for that matter

Just that I don't want to

And half a pot of coffee, a big bowl of oatmeal, and a modified version of Chloe Ting's ab workout have yet to fuel my resolve

Knowing my heels will be dug into half a foot of snow

Whether I go to work or not

But at least if I stay home, I can shovel at my leisure

Without being exhausted by achy old biddies

Sitting pretty in the assisted living facility I'll never be able to afford

Reciting the spoiled rotten croakery of a long expired generation

As I type out my very own death sentence

On bald tires and bad rotors

For a boss who insults me under their breath

For doing what they say

Not what they do

All while being the element they themselves are afraid to brave

A living, breathing parable

A mirror to how terrible they truly are

The lowest bar

The legislators of slave labor

Sharing the holiday meal with their families

Ignoring the famine afflicting their serfs

A lousy 50 bucks

And no fucks to give for it

Anyone want to join me?

I think I'm calling out after all

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.

Gene Lass 10/26/25 Gene Lass 10/26/25

My Neighbor’s Fruits

I noticed the apples on my neighbor’s tree

They stood there

No fences around them

Vulnerable to my imagination

By Colton Claye

I noticed the apples on my neighbor’s tree

They stood there

No fences around them

Vulnerable to my imagination

I felt the warmth of pies

Tasted cool ciders

They hung there

As the tree exhaled

Tempting me

Though not tracking followers

They didn’t aspire to write memoirs

Or symphonies

Or set a date for lunch

They didn’t answer to names

Like Gala

Or Granny Smith

Or Red Delicious

Or fill out forms with them

How fulfilled they looked

To my empty stomach

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

Gene Lass 10/26/25 Gene Lass 10/26/25

Notes From An Ethiopian Cafe

When we break bread together, our hands pulling it apart
and using it to scoop and consume communal stews
we are tearing apart the barriers of self

By colton Claye

When we break bread together, our hands pulling it apart
and using it to scoop and consume communal stews,
we are tearing apart the barriers of self.

When we rotate the plate
and take from the same lump of lentils,
we get confused
and we lose
the illusions of "you" and "me",
"yours" and "mine".

And just like this fermented teff,
which is baked
and becomes the bread we break and digest,
we too must build up and break down.

We are unbothered by that fact while we eat
and while this meal is all that sits between two people,
and we keep the injera turning together.
But once we pay the bill and walk away from the table,
we see ourselves separate once more
and the struggle to lose oneself begins again.

About the author

Gene Lass 8/27/25 Gene Lass 8/27/25

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.

Gene Lass 8/27/25 Gene Lass 8/27/25

ode to jerome davis

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

Gene Lass 8/27/25 Gene Lass 8/27/25

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

Gene Lass 8/27/25 Gene Lass 8/27/25

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.

Gene Lass 5/28/19 Gene Lass 5/28/19

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.

Gene Lass 5/28/19 Gene Lass 5/28/19

channeled message

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