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M Norris

They say "walk a mile in their shoes"
so you can understand their blues.
But I have traveled all around,
hundreds of shoes upon the ground.

The fisherman in the shack by the sea
who, to a hurricane, lost his family.

The old soldier lying drunk in the gutter,
who saw three wars that still make him shudder.

I've worn hundreds of shoes, two for each mile.
and for every frown, I found a smile.

The young, bright-eyed child in the park,
whose puppy just caught a frisbee with a bark.

The young couple on the couch
tangled together,
knowing through anything they will be forever.

They say "walk a mile in their shoes,"
so you can understand their blues.
But if you "love a mile in their heart"
and you truly learn who they are.

People are like icebergs, there may be more to them than you guess.

I outsourced
my inner turmoil
to this medium,

all the conflict
of trying to fit
and not fit
maybe dangling
between two shits
that I can’t give.

Rhyming and non,
never posting anon
because even though
I know that
I don’t belong
when I am gone
I want someone
to know me.

My identity
is complex,
ideas that
are counter
to themselves.
So, I identify
as the poetry guy
dying to stay alive.


She'll fall asleep tonight
Hearing the thundering rain
Making love to the impractical skylight
And hating that she can't fall asleep
But rain will relent.

phil roberts

We come as we please
And we leave on the breeze

As an image of warm blue air
The hooch man denies seditious writhings
Coming in proud bursts of creation
Irrespective of soil or culture
Bursting thirsting creation
Heathen fertility
Haphazard geography
Lust of life beyond life

Screaming gadgetry can cowards make
Tight cages can our spirits break
But love is broad and clean
Fickle and immortal
The soil from whence we came
Without permit or permission
With honour and with relish
The hooch man denies nothing
Not one word at all

And on and on
The fairground moves on

                    By Phil Roberts


A moth on the wall
Moonlight peaking through the blinds
Both wings and eyes closed

Summer nights
Anna Banasiak

Don’t run away from me
I just want to talk
touch You tenderly
purring like a cat
on a tin roof
I will enslave You
to think as I do
about me and in me
though it is dangerous
open me to the world
because mine is closed
baby kitty
don’t try to fight
and so you are mine
shall we purr together
dancing on the roof?

Tark Wain

And typed them on a page
no filter just complete
sunken rage
no rhyme scheme anymore just lines
one after another
I'm scared I'll never satisfy a woman
not only sexually but intellectually
professionally, physically
I'm afraid I let the right person go
and now they won't come back
I'm scared that we only get one shot at life
and I'm blowing it by typing on a computer in my bed
I'm scared Ill die old
a corpse of unfulfilled potential
instead of a young body filled with it
I'm scared I'm the only that thinks about
these things and the only one
I can talk about these things with
is my therapist who doesn't want to hear
about them anyway
so I tell her that I am happy
I am scared because I don't always feel this way
some days weeks months go by where I don't think about writing
and I swear in that time I'm happier
so what is it about depression that bring my pen to the page
I'm scared that I use poetic metaphors to cloak actual feelings
I'm scared that someone whose opinion I value will read this and think less of me
I'm scared that one day down the road I'll come back to this
for the first time
but I'll close the tab before it opens
and go scroll through twitter or facebook
or instagram
because sometimes it's easier to just not feel for a little bit
I'm scared that I'm waiting for a moment that will never come
I'm scared to go to the gym so I've forced myself to be content with my body
which is fine but it isn't as good
as it could be
and that's all on me
I'm scared that I'm my greatest enemy
and also my greatest friend
and maybe both want me to fail
because sometimes it feels good to let yourself rest on your own shoulder

There. All out.

Pagan Paul

I stand here with thumb outstretched
as the years speed by like passing cars.
Trying to hitch a ride on Life's Road,
for all it cares, I may as well be on Mars.

Relentless, never seeming to slow down,
the years pass me by like pouring rain.
And here I rot, the forgotten wretch,
standing on the kerb of Life's Road again.

Shivering and soaking, I turn to walk,
and the years fly past like hot arrows.
My steps trace a line toward the horizon,
beyond the point Life's Road narrows.

For Death, she will claim me as hers,
when the years stop, no more to erode.
The raw relief, release, too turn away,
and leave the madness of Life's Road.

© Pagan Paul (2016/2017)

Pedro Batista

My eyes feel heavy and weak
Headaches fill my daily physique
Uncertain of what the cause, I try to sleep
But all my life sleeping has never been sleek

I imagine myself in world's, my fantasies
Stories of great honor and mystery
Fables contained in my head
Waiting to finally be read

But I'm too lazy to get the pen
And write all this from inside my head
I can feel this world's within me
But I can't expel them so easily

Maybe it's fear that keeps them inside
Retained forever in a state of mind
Fear of defeat and failure
It would take a toll on the self esteem of a savior

But maybe one day I will be able to comply
Make a pact with this dreaded state of mind
Tell the world about all my Fables
And maybe someone will be able to savor them

i'm terrible with titles :x

One day I'll write your name upon this anthology
but as I lay abandoned in the garden of grief  coughing out smoke signals and vomiting up words I'll burn every damn poem
This is who I am now, a weeping willow
I flooded the ocean trying to save myself
And can still hear the sirens song
Mutilated lullabies
I see you in tricks of light, and in a blink gone

Cheryl Ann Warner

I can now live my life
I' learned how to forgive
learning to trust again
yearning for you

I have faith in myself
you gave me hope
you should me how to cope

I can now live my life
I learned how to forgive
Open my heart Lord
Open my heart Lord

Forgive means to live
peace in your heart
Open my heart Lord
Open my heart Lord

Serenity at last
moving from the past
I' learned how to forgive
I can now live

Open my heart
Open my heart
Open my heart

Everyday is a fresh start
I open my heart to the Lord
I learned how to forgive
I can now live

King Panda

I stay awake—
ion and

your ghost strokes
my back, fingers
ski-jumping vertebrae
as my face steams into

your pith, soft and white:
our star in you—
rove to your low neckline in
fire humming comet.

space is blameless in
this limb of heartbreak.

Cynthia Henon

Quick! Call the poetic constabulary
I'm mincing words about my vocabulary
Help! I'm drowning in my thesaurus
evidence that i'm merely a brontosaurus

Listen up to my Greek chorus:
"Such silly word play should place her in poem prison
a ponderous place from which few have risen
Locked in the cell, losing her sense
consequence of writing with no poetic license"

Writing on with no reason or rhyme
just doing my poetic time
iambic meters bite me in the butt
trying to force me out of my sonnetic rut

stumbling on ideas most trite
all the pitfalls of making the choice to write

just having some fun
Francesca Parenti

your name on my tongue still burns in my chest
her voice rings my ears as i'm
counting the ways i can put a love like this to rest
i wonder
if i let you know
just how hard my mind has been working
to tell my heart  "no"
"let go"
would you stick around?  
i found having you here at all
is better than nowhere to be found

- things i wish i could tell you


Louden Holler

The first time I stole,
I was hungry.
Not starving yet but two days in,
And couldn't stop dreaming about
Peanut butter.

So I took a wallet left for a moment
On a store counter,
And I was small and eight years old,
So no one figured it was me.

There was 200 dollars in the wallet
All in twenties, so Mr. Bunch,
Must have visited his ATM,
Before his unplanned donation.

I wasn't brave enough to take the money,
And return the credit cards and driver's license,
Which I started to do later,
But this time I kept everything.

I learned quick that stealing,
Is not about a good plan,
It's about opportunity,
Seizing the moment kind of thing.

And so a purse forgotten on the seat,
Tips left too long under the side of a plate,
A man on a phone and an open brief case,
I kept my eyes open and mind focussed.

My biggest day is 9800 dollars.
3000 off a couple of tourists,
I almost quit for the day,
But a rich guy went to the washroom.

I have never been caught.
Guess it's cause I don't get greedy
And still live in the basement suite.
Life is a strange experience,yes-no?

Donna Jones

Dunking choc biscuit
into milky coffee..''tis
like day kissing night

Yums yums xxxx
Had choc biscuits n coffee for breakfast yesterday morn reminding me of this :)

it’s like i’m trapped inside of an oyster
hidden away from the world;
except i am not a precious pearl
waiting to be found

Daisy Rae

       you're beautiful.
                      but not in the way most
                             people see
                      in the way your eyes blend
                             from brown to green
                and the way your freckles scatter
                             along your face
             and how more beautiful can you be
                      when your eyes light up
                                your smile appears
                                        & laughter springs
                                            out of your chest
                                   what a beauty you are
                             special, like the stars

Two and thirty is the ploughman.
He's a man of gallant inches,
And his hair is close and curly,
And his beard;
But his face is wan and sunken,
And his eyes are large and brilliant,
And his shoulder-blades are sharp,
And his knees.

He is weak of wits, religious,
Full of sentiment and yearning,
Gentle, faded--with a cough
And a snore.
When his wife (who was a widow,
And is many years his elder)
Fails to write, and that is always,
He desponds.

Let his melancholy wander,
And he'll tell you pretty stories
Of the women that have wooed him
Long ago;
Or he'll sing of bonnie lasses
Keeping sheep among the heather,
With a crackling, hackling click
In his voice.


I fell inlove not knowing,
that our love would be like this
we fly with broken wings
and we always miss

I thought we could be together,
For a very very long time
but now how can we make it forever
when there's everything but time

I trusted you, and loved you
Do you love me as I do,
or has it changed into blue?
This is the letter from me to you


Don't tell a rose how to grow,
And The birds how to chirp
Don't tell your daughter to be soft
Don't tell your son how to hurt.

Don't tell the sky what color to bleed
And a person, the right way to grief
Don't try to tame your daughter's tongue,
Don't tell your son the manly ways to love.

Don't tell the wind which way to blow
Or the clouds how hard to rain
Don't teach your daughter how to soak in
Don't show your son how to easily reject.

Don't tell the sun to adjust its light
Or the truth how to show itself
Don't tell your daughter it's feminine to shy
Don't teach your son how to reign with fists held high

Don't tell a heart how to beat,
Or the mind how not to soar
Don't clip off your daughter wings,
To make them a foundation for your son to grow

Don't tell a rose how to grow,
Lest it decided to turn its petal into thorns
Don't tell the birds how to chirp
And have their voices turn into rebellious growls.

A Thomas Hawkins

Never fall in love with a poet
for their words are sometimes lies
on occasions they're a shield
on occasions a disguise

They will take you on a journey
upon which they bare their soul
in a bid to ease your burdens
in a bid to make you whole

But in every word they choose
for the stories that they tell
lies a little piece of heaven
and a little piece of hell

Tormented souls we poets are
sometimes quite broken and despaired
in search of lost expressions
missed by others who once cared

Never fall in love with a poet
unless you're prepared to share their pain
to hold them close on the darkest nights
over and again

Follow me on Twitter @athomashawkins

Plant me in your chest,
Sow my love into your skin.

Water me until I grow.

Love me with
Your eyes of emerald
And hair of gold.

Resting my eyes next to you,
Hearing you breathe beside me,
Eyelids fluttering,
Chest rising.

My darling,
How can I describe a love,
I'm not even sure of?

Leave my sanity at the door,
Leave my heart in your hands.

How can I not miss you at 4AM
When I'm drunk on whiskey
And all alone.

But darling,
I miss you the most at 5PM
When I'm eating dinner
In my apartment
All alone again.

I can't bear to be without you.

I can't bear to lose myself in you,


Took me forever to write this one, so hopefully it was worth it.

i am sick of writing poems
about skin color



bring back the child, his hair like cashmere. bring him back and we will mourn

ordinary dead things, dead like american pride for anyone who doesn't fly a confederate flag.

black things, things that are purer and more beautiful than we could ever imagine.

mourn the feeling his mother must of known. child. poof. gone.
he is no more.

just a shell on the floor, and the officer is given paid leave, hailed as a hero to the right wing, gun slinging, bible clinging majority that 

elected our president, and now will tear us apart
through protests, twenty two dead in manchester, stabbings on 

bombs, steering planes into the world trade

forty nine dead in orlando, four dead in ohio
and it just goes on and on

we come out, with signs and voices
someone shoots us down

i want war, not to defend honor
but to bring back the boy

bring back the boy who once stole
just to pass the time

and take away the officer who thought
petty crime

was worth a life
or two

bring back the boy, the boy who is all of us
bring him back for all the others

the others who saw the black tongue of the bullet
in their final moments

and cried
for we are too worthy for a city of ash.

A repost.

all day long the internet sells wisdom like
fruit in bins fronting the bodegas,
the one Spanish word every New Yorker speaks,
some ripe, some not and
some on the cusp of going home as mulch to the wet earth,
sooner than later

you can't squeeze the wisdoms proffered like a piece of fruit,
from the exterior, there rarely be a dashboard indicator saying
check engine light or this one is one worth picking

so gobsmack like Dylan croaking in an obvious in a way something obvious yet you thinking hey! that's interesting, read
earn good friends
something I ain't done so well and yet here I am,
passing it on like I know what the fruit-picking trick is,  
but on your fourth cup of joe and it's barely noon,
in your seventh decade you take the right to croak,
even if you aint got no expertise, that the emphisis
is on the earn part

you dont buy 'em in the store, no winning the lottery,
gotta use your eyes and no, lovers don't count neither,
guess you gotta stick out that hand, have somebody's back,
and being gracious when saying thanks,
but then again never had more than one or two,
but for fhem
I'd lay down my life for them to survive so not exactly clueless

earn good friends, that sounds bout right...that, the right way...

1:25pm 7/25/17
Joe Cottonwood

In the swash zone
a desperate crab somehow overturned,
belly-up. Dome-backed, helpless,
she twitches feet and claws
grasping only air
as seagulls gather, smacking lips.

Shall I intervene?
Who do I favor, crab or gull?
Frankly I have problems with both personalities.

Can’t ignore a creature in distress.
(Who programmed that?)
Wiggle my toes into damp sand beneath the beast.
With nary an acknowledgement, crab scuttles
sideways to a spot in the wave wash
where in a flutter of little legs she half-buries herself,
eyeballs above.
Seagulls scream curses.

What did I expect, a thank you?

First published in *Your Daily Poem*
Nat Lipstadt

For Eliot

a man possessed awakes and blessing pronounces that the world needs another poetry site even though nothing new under the sun nonetheless the secret passion is coded and the white swells grow into a hurricane crescendo, lighting thunders cymbals and the non believers quietly step forward from places you never heard of, no longer cowards,
invoking a blessing of:

"me too, I am a poet with something to announce new, and I've been sitting patiently in distress, looking for a place to say, see, I think I can, I think therefore,
I am, a named human.
no longer an asterisk."

6/22/17  2:40am nyc


I still get nervous when you walk in the room
I still get butterflies when I sit next to you
I'm in love with you

Sally A Bayan


Here, in this sacred space...
...where curtains and breeze
.....dance and tease,

...no words are uttered, i hear nothing
.........except my breathing
eyes roam, legs are crossed, as if to rule,
determined....as a stubborn mule

here in this sacred space, i have a regular
dialogue with my Creator....my Saviour,
thro­ugh His mysterious ways, He speaks to me
i am drawn to a quietude that flows from Him.
...........this noiseless space talks to me...
it's not the words...something else takes over
.....and enfolds me........especially,  when
fragmented moments start to stir my heart,
...i lose them all....when i hold my breath
when my mouth has ceased, my words on  a halt,
...........i am suspended.....far from the noise
.....................of the outside world...
here in this sacred space, i am with my loved one,
tho­ugh distant............the world is...ours,
we're in deep conversation that could last a day
we are ourselves, naked..wearing no false pretenses
...we are timeless...we are one...the two of us...
here, in this sacred space...rich with
......an imperturbable stillness
..........my mind is overwhelmed
...by a silence.....so eloquent.......


Copyright June 25, 2017
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan


at 4:14 am
im still wide awake
imagining your body on top of mine
captivating me,
your large hands running down my fragile, tiny body,
claiming everything you brush as "yours".
at 4:20 am im still awake,
imagining myself on all fours,
your hand grasping my hair,
pulling it into that tight ponytail i wear during the day,
while you're telling me about how you could never resist me,baby. your words alone leaving me drenched and ready for you.
it's 4:30 am, and texting you:
"are you awake?"

Tyler Matthew

to love a poet
is to admit the world
is tragic


She is both,
hellfire and holy water.
And the flavor you taste,
depends on how you,
treat her.



I count things in 5’s

one cat
two cat
three cat
hula hoop
tote bag

My notes are organized Cornell style
but it can’t fill the void you left.

Light switch
one slipper
two slippers

I’ve got my life organized down to the the minutes
but you aren’t in any of them.

Long distance.
We’ll see.

Ryan Holden

You were the rays of
Light, that shined through cracks in my
half open curtains.

phil roberts

This muse of mine
Remains silent and invisible
And is no less intense for that
I still write to her
Tell her of my dreams and my pain
And she is part of both of these

This muse of mine
May be no more than a ghost
But she is still my only truth
The one who loves me
For all my damned and damaged past
For all my pointless future

This muse of mine
May be unreal or gone
Yet still I hold on
And still there'll be no other
Because within my muse
Hopelessness and hope
Have me enthralled

                              By Phil Roberts


I write when my chest gets tight and it feels like I can’t breathe
And for (what feels like eternity) everything I’ve worked so hard to keep down comes


Imagine being in a wave pool, going deeper than you knew you should and getting knocked under,
and considering the possibility


that you might not come back up for air;
now imagine that feeling everytime you open your eyes.

Poetry about happiness?

I’m sorry, I can’t help you there.

I see you there
suspended for a time
between the shadow
and the light.

You look pale
but peaceful,
in a dream state.

I rest awhile,
a shallow sleep,

then I awake


without words
my mind whispers

it’s time

I gently wipe your lips,
brush a stray hair
from your forehead.
It’s all I know to do.

Then I sing
a cherished lullaby
hoping you hear me
hoping it wraps you in love
as my arms wrapped
around you
as a child.

I hold your hand,
kiss your forehead.
In that instant I see
and feel all you’ve been
all that is you

tiny wrinkled infant
delightful, smiling six-month old
curious toddler
proud school age
struggling teen
loving adult

we're losing all of these,
all that you've been
all that is you


I feel your spirit leave…

for that brief moment
I’m overcome with a calm
I can’t describe.

A gift rare and precious –

as I was there
when you entered the world
I was with you
when you left.

"The butterfly counts not months but moments and has time enough."  
Rabinadrath Tagore

We lost our son to a brain tumor. He fought bravely and determinedly for seven years, enduring two surgeries, radiation, Gamma knife "surgery", chemotherapy and clinical trials. He never lost his sunny smile or determination. He only let go when he knew it was time, slipping into unconsciousness shortly after his two brothers (his best friends) arrived to say goodbye. He remained in that suspended state for two days. On the third day the four of us gathered for dinner and shared thoughts about him and our life with him. We cried, we laughed, we shared memories. Later that night he let go. I will always believe, being the caring and generous person he was, that he heard us talking and knew that, as hard as it would be, we would be okay.
Kurt Philip Behm

I don’t bow to money,
  I don’t bow to fame

I kneel to that one thing,
  that time cannot change

I don’t speak for ‘right,’
  and won’t speak for ‘wrong’

My liege is the truth,
  all court jesters gone

I don’t hope to be knighted,
  my shield more concave

And rejecting all title,
  the past still enslaved

My will lay unbroken,
  my heart for a throne

A crown jeweled with memory,
—all scepters disowned

(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2017)


"I love you,"

I said.

He replied,

"Good night."

That night

I knew

what love was for me

was a dream to him

Keith Moody

Roses are red,
violets are NOT blue.
Who ever said they were is lying to you,
okay, maybe one can argue violets have a blue-ish hue,
but they are not all the way blue.
So stop saying violets are blue because that's not true.
Here's how it should go, so no more people are confused.

Roses are red,
Violets are purple.
[ Insert something romantic here ] Circle.

Bad Vibes

He asks me,

"What do you hate about yourself?"

Suddenly, I am silent.

What do I hate?

What don't I hate?

- t.s.


You can't see it, but I can.
You're growing so fast and it hurts to see the shine leave your eyes.
She used to talk about the strangest things, and now she doesn't talk.
I'll bet you fear the world now, when you used to dream of coming out here.
I'll bet she's losing hope.
I see them smiling less, I see them giving less, I see sadness everywhere.
Nobody talks anymore.
I'll never talk again.

I don't trust anybody who won't trust me.
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