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