Today’s choice
Previous poems
David Sapp
Aimless
Aimless between
Dropping out
Of art school
And absolutely no
Friggin’ money
For Kenyon
I moved in with
Television and doting
Grandma in flowered
Wallpapered rooms
Sat on her porch
Back and forth
On the glider
That Grandpa and I
Hauled home
From the auction
And for hours
Watched a robin’s trip
From yard to nest
Feeding her chicks
Delicious worms
And that was enough
Until ambition
Set in again
David Sapp, writer and artist, lives along the southern shore of Lake Erie in North America. A Pushcart nominee, he was awarded Ohio Arts Council Individual Excellence Grants for poetry and art. His poetry and prose appear widely in the United States, Canada, the United Kingdom, and Asia. His publications include articles in the Journal of Creative Behavior; chapbooks Solitary Nature, Cardboard Pleasure and Two Buddha; a novel, Flying Over Erie; a book of poems and drawings, Drawing Nirvana; and two books of poetry and prose, Acquaintances and a memoir titled The Origin of Affection, winner of the Violet Reed Haas Poetry Award.
Jim Ferguson
we can travel anywhere
she winks, but let’s rest here
in amongst these words
a moment can take a while
Gabrielle Meadows
I am tearing the peel from an orange gently and somewhere
Far away a tree falls in a forest and we
don’t hear it but the ground does and the birds do
Hongwei Bao
Every five minutes it does its job,
hoovers every inch of her memory,
declutters all pains and sorrows.
Gary Day
And once the father frowned
As the boy struggled to fasten
The drawbridge on his fort.
‘He’ll never be any good
With his hands’ he declared,
As if the boy wasn’t there.
Royal Rhodes
Perhaps the friends of Lazarus, who died
and slipped his shroud, on seeing him might swoon
or rush to hear the tales of that beyond
they hoped and feared to face.
Dmitry Blizniuk for World Poetry Day
God in his worn, greasy jeans like a car mechanic
is lighting a new life from an old one.
Jeff Skinner
It takes ages. Tell me what it is you’re after
she says, when finally I get through.
Annabelle Markwick-Staff
I devoured the Olympics, filled my mouth
and scrapbook with sticky ephemera.
Charles G. Lauder
beneath night’s skin he unearths raw stones
serrated encrusted enigmatic cold