Today’s choice

Previous poems

Brandon Arnold

by | Feb 6, 2025 | ,

 

 

 

Dusk Was Yesterday

Alone, I drive along the midnight, winter road. My left hand at the 12 o’clock position of the steering wheel. And I coast. I let out the day’s long breath, which started out today as a sigh. Somewhere off in the distance, I imagine rain hitting a living-room window, a crackling fireplace close at hand. It’s just as cozy here. By now I’m no longer driving along the road, but rather, the road comes to meet me. Every second of every minute, like microscopic, glacial waves, lapping one after another. Street lamps pass me by like stars seen from a rocket ship, and each illuminated pocket—a spotlight for a tired actor. Or rather, one that’d like to sit this one out, and let someone else bask in it for a while. The lights begin to blur, each flicker a whisper of a story kept secret, guiding me through the night’s gentle fold. I pass by stranger’s homes, hoping they’re resting their thoughtful heads on soft pillows, wondering what kind of lives they live. I wish I could see their faces when I tell them they’re beautiful. I bet they have kind eyes. As nice as it sounds to rest, I think I’ll keep driving for a while. A simple wheel and pedals can take me anywhere I want to go. It can also lead me in circles. But right now, I think I’m exactly where I want to be.

 

Brandon Arnold is not a fancy wordsmith or written word artisan. He keeps things simple. His home resides in an unremarkable town in the Midwest of the United States. Brandon also has work forthcoming in the Hooghly Review.

Jane Pearn

by | Sep 13, 2021 | ,

      Gone The tap is not dripping. I check the windows and leave. The doors are all locked. I sit on the bus and wait for a thought. Nothing comes. The tap is not dripping. I look out at the muddy fields and write a note to myself. The doors are all...

Chrissie Gittins

by | Sep 12, 2021 | ,

      Start With The Thing That Can Fly Away It was a goldfinch balancing on a teezle, she’d planted it for this very reason, and to see a tall hat of snow. The custard yellow flashes, the head dipped in red, the white apostrophes on black wings. But...

Jason Visconti

by | Sep 11, 2021 | ,

      Alley Cat The dark never knew such corridors, The evening gallant upon its fur.     Jason Visconti has attended both group and private poetry workshops. His work has appeared in various journals, including Literary Yard, Indigo Rising,...

Lara Frankena

by | Sep 10, 2021 | ,

      Bowled Over As I walk them home from school Sneaky Camouflage and Brave Barry train for The Big Fight, dangling from fence railings and fake-kicking brick walls in their black Mary Janes. They’re going to swap summer uniforms for shorts and...

Rituparna Sahoo

by | Sep 8, 2021 | ,

    Birding at dusk On the shores of Mangalajodi: one of Chilika’s few undiscovered corners, the boatman welcomed me with warmth in his eyes. As these wetlands happen to be the turf of these poachers turned naturalists who know it like the back of their...

D’or Seifer

by | Sep 7, 2021 | ,

      Visit Your building is an early 2000’s monstrosity. Mini palm trees and cultivated grass embedded in studded concrete, sweat stained balconies a spit away from the diamond exchange where night brings out prowlers in business suits and lambs paling...

Michael Estabrook

by | Sep 6, 2021 | ,

      because I’m a car mechanic’s son When Ed who’s a doctor’s son couldn’t start his car in the snow outside Salzburg after The Magic Flute, I got out to push saying “Pop the clutch Eddie after I get her rolling” which I knew how to do – * because you...

Helen Evans

by | Sep 5, 2021 | ,

      And sit with the dark In response to Stand in the Light by Elizabeth Rimmer And sit with the dark, when it comes. Smell the wax and the wick – watch its small orange tip glow brighter then fade into black. See the ghost of its flame on your...