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 Jul 2018 bob
Tanisha Jackland
You are sitting there
a split pea
rolling straight off the counter
like all the other
little diametrical peas
with no mind power
and no gumption
other than flying straight
into the dogs mouth
No denying
You will get eaten someday
Like me
but I'm going to be the
one that made it
to the soup.
 Jul 2018 bob
Benjamin
I was six, then—
six or seven—
on a swing set in
September, and
I’m beginning to
remember
how alone I was
that day:

the clouds were dull
eraser shavings,
the wind a hollow
“Hallelujah.”
I pumped my legs, and
at the apex,
I gained an angel-eye
perspective:

the jaws of autumn
clenched their teeth in-
to my sternum,
popped a hole and
stole the summer from
my bloodline,
left a chill inside
my soul;

I’m taking all of this
for granted.
I spell disaster
with my left hand,
I sign “Messiah” with
my right;

and in the arrogance of
twenties, I think
the loneliness has left me,
I think we all don’t
grow up empty,
I think the future
could be bright.
 Jul 2018 bob
n stiles carmona
it's funny the things you forget
when asked for an 'interesting fact' --

you sleep on them for days
and exhume them from the ground
because they matter! so deeply!!
there's no metaphor that does them justice!!
it's poetry because it isn't!!!

i don't know my siblings.
my parents sleep in my dead grandad's bed
and i received his cupboards:
yeah, we're pretty much begging to be haunted.
let's be positive, it'd be nice to see him again.

thanks to reinforced childhood superstition,
i still pick up pennies from the ground
(yup, even with my germ phobia).

i used to write to the tooth fairy!
she warned me about gum disease.
her name was tiffy, but it turned out to
just be mum writing with her left hand.

as an internet-addicted hermit,
little me hated going abroad
since the only friends i felt i had were online.
there's thus a list of places to someday re-visit -
rotterdam is one.

i'd like to be somebody's muse.
if my life plan fails,
i want to work in a funeral parlour:
it feels as though i'd do it justice.

watching the same film more than once
just isn't something i do -- except grease --
exceptions can be made when it's on TV.

i mean, c'mon, it's grease.
(feel free to leave some interesting tidbits of your own life in the comments. you all seem fun enough.)
you can't make metaphors out of this stuff if you bother to write about it: they're just facts that are true. so let's chuck them all into a draft and call it a list poem. or free verse. or an experiment. hey, if 'anything can be poetry', so can this!
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