Today’s choice
Previous poems
Stephen C. Curro
calm river
again, his fishing line
caught on a tree
*
raindrops slide
down the window
death in the family
*
thick clouds
snowflakes dot
my dog’s fur
*
breaking clouds
flower petals pasted
to my windshield
*
Christmas dinner
with Mom’s new boyfriend
empty wine glass
*
scent of sage
desert clay disturbed
by footprints
Stephen C. Curro lives in Fort Collins, Colorado, USA, where he works as an educator. His fiction and poetry have appeared with Acorn, Scifaikuest, and Factor Four Magazine, among other venues. When he isn’t writing or working, he’s most likely reading a good book or watching bad monster movies. You can read more of his work at www.stephenccurro.com
Paul Stephenson
Goya was an octopus that smelt of funerals on Mondays.
Sundays, the scent of getting ready.
Jessica Mookherjee for International Women’s Day
The pain comes plucked from a field
in a garland of sunlight.
Jenny Pagdin for International Women’s Day
After many moons
I am perhaps readying to speak.
Kate Noakes for International Women’s Day
Each year in March, on the eighth day,
the one we’re allowed to call ours,
slowly, Jess reads our names . . .
Julia Webb for International Women’s Day
hoover witch mum / mum on the rocks / mum’s coach horses / all the king’s mums /
Sue Burge for International Women’s Day
speaks whale, speaks star
breathes in — tight as a tomb
breathes out — splintered crackle
Gill Connors for International Women’s Day
Rack and stretch her, loosen flesh
from bone. A jointed bird will not squawk.
Helen Ivory for International Women’s Day
A woman somewhere is typing on the internet
my heart wakes me up like clockwork.
Hélène Demetriades
At breakfast my man sticks a purple
magnolia bud in my soft boiled egg.
The flower opens, distilling to lilac.