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Leigh Everhart Mar 2020
God scans through the texts of Tolstoy
For the secrets of the universe
While the archangels at the table
Dispute loudly, who is worse –
Was it Van Gogh, or Picasso?

“I was far worse than both of them!”
Says a self-righteous Mozart
While Beethoven starts spitting.
“Oh, don’t you two start!”

Warns a tipsy-stern Gabriel
From behind a tall lager
While Plato scrawls circles
Like a half-a-dime auger.

“Silence!” God booms,
Though his eyes are quivering
With unshed tears,
And Dickinson is shivering
With the draft of early evening.

St. Peter is resting,
Feet propped on a chair,
Before returning to his post,
And God lets them all stay there

By his side as he thumbs
Through War and Peace’s last pages
While the fire burns low
And the storm outside rages.

Wilde laughs uproariously
At the news while he cooks.
“How was it?” Michael asks
As God closes the book.
God takes a moment
Before his answer, confessing,
“It wasn’t too bad, I think,
But far too depressing.”
Sara Kellie Jan 2019
With our extremities entwined
two pairs of digits, stroke in kind.
One pair, painted.
The other, dirt.
One of us delicate.
The other, dirt.

A soft and fragrant anticipation
succumbs to an accrid and earthy
magnetic like hold. . .
Hold. . .
Hold. . .
Thankyou Sweetheart,
you were great.
I'm going,
are you *******?

Poetry by Kaydee.
Work, ***, supper, bed
My eyes are
burnt.
I don't pray
to those
few
high school gods.
I betray the
teachings of my mother.
I pull out of
my pocket
a pack of cigarettes.
my silence is
lost.
I talk like antibiotics,
but
tell me
can I still feast in an abnormal modesty?


-Samar Charulingah Godfrey
Jack L Martin Sep 2018
Cake
You can eat it too!
My frying pan
Is half empty

Hate me
Because I am good
No!
Because I am great!

Michelan Stars
Trips to Mars
Candy bars
Mason jars

Drunk I am
Said the can
To the packet
Of ketchup

Baker's square
I worked there
Line cook nook
Splatters shook!

The kitchen man
Burns the water
The ******* fan
Yearns for slaughter
Elaenor Aisling May 2018
From so far away
the fairground music fades
the carney's call echoes.
Were you sure you wanted to pay those pennies
for that stick of horehound candy?
String a song of sixpences together
And **** at them until they turn your mouth blood red
To hide your broken lips.

In the double wide that gapes into the evening
With its yawning broken windows.
The dingy feeling in your eyes
Refuses to fade with the dust
And the touch of sticky plastic stars on your bedroom ceiling
Keeps you company
In the bitter watches of the night

Jesus and John watch your father from the living room wall,
As the last flickers of a camel’s Pentecost flame
Are extinguished on your arm.  
Branded, you lie stained in sin
Your child eyes asking St. Peter
Why the gate is shut.
He breaks bread across the table
With your bones crushed to a fine flour,
Mixed with wine.
This is my body.
This is my blood.
Going for a Flannery O'Connor vibe.
waffles, waffles a real great treat.
I cook them for breakfast as their fun to eat.
Buttery and light, my taste buds take flight.
In fact, I just might eat them tonight!
Today I got a new waffle iron. I haven't made waffles in almost a year. My excitement burst forth in prose tonight as I was preparing some of the fluffiest, most delicious waffles ever.
Danielle Apr 2018
Half remembered clichés dance along the pier.
The divide between,
Sweet salty land and unending depths.
My talking dolphins sing a tune,
Unsettling and threatening.
Feed scraps from the dinner table
by my curly haired gambler.
I only see him at that old dollhouse,
Cracked and weathered by the Sea.
It insists on knocking on our red door
and staying for supper.
So it can beat us at throwing pennies in a cup
Plunk...plunk...plunk
Had a dream and it made me really happy so I wrote a poem about it. It was a pretty weird dream truth be told.
AP Vrdoljak Oct 2017
Breakfast for lunch,
Breakfast for supper.
Jam on toast,
I'll have another.
Steve Page Apr 2017
His words were leavened with love
as He shared His last mortal meal.

If you listened with care
His voice maybe cracked with grief
even while His hands were laced with grace
as He broke the crust
releasing the warmth into the chatter
He shared with His friends.

And if you watched closely
His hands perhaps shook a little
as He poured out His full bodied wine
intense in its dark flavour
infused with fragrance
as if ripe for an altared offering.

And if you looked into His face
you might have seen a sheen
in the firelight
over the determination
to see this through
to the last.
The Last Supper was tough.  Matt 26:17-30
JV Beaupre Jun 2016
After our loving,
drifting and dreaming;
the dog barks for supper,
and so it goes...life.
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