Today’s choice
Previous poems
James Benger
Out of the Ash
We tore it all down
just to watch it burn,
standing in that alley
of forgotten refuse.
No one wanted it,
no one needed it,
so boombox and cigarettes,
bottles and pipes,
we ran riot with the fire,
unrestrained screams and smoke
rising higher than
our collective ambition.
And it was a forgotten place,
so the only light
came from us,
and we lit up the world
as though we were saving it
instead of destroying that little chunk.
But maybe in our wanton annihilation,
we were creating something new,
something intangible,
something infinite.
Flames burned down,
and we exhaustedly flopped
onto moldy abandoned couches,
recounting the glory that was us,
and never once to our own ears
did any of it sound hollow.
James Benger is the author of several books of poetry and prose. He serves on the Board of Directors of the Writers Place, and on the Riverfront Readings Committee, and is the founder of the 365 Poems in 365 Days online workshop. He lives in Kansas City with his wife and children.
Cindy Botha
what shows up at dusk
moths of course, pale parings―
filmy, restless
dark swarf of birds homeflitting
to perch-trees
sometimes a hedgehog
nosing leaflitter
an owl wooing from the pines
Vic Pickup
Operation Alphaman
It took a great effort and I had to bite hard on the stick
to push the subcostal muscles aside.
The skin had parted easily under my knife,
though keeping the blood at bay with no one to swab the wound
was difficult. This was remedied with a vacuum cleaner
Julian Brasington
When one has lived a long time alone
and not alone your time become
someone’s history and you have grown
tired of yet another war and the world
has it in for you simply for being
Jason Conway
I heard a rumour that Pandora moonlights
She wears sunglasses in the lounge
knives flexed and ready for battle
Rachael Clyne
Torn
On one side– my heritage
on the other side– their heritage
on both sides– carnage
everywhere– endless grief.
Nick Browne
Woman in the water
I’m no Ophelia, that’s for sure crazy stuff is not my style,
no garland weeds around my head it’s spindrift foam not daisies.
Sally Michaelson
The Ledger
In the left hand column
she writes
He’s married
Rizwan Akhtar
In the evening trees become sad
I climbed on them like a metaphor
Alexandra Corrin
Six weeks after diagnosis
I stayed away out of respect for your daughters.
You followed the hearse with your father and the girls.
He couldn’t stay within the boundaries of himself.