Poetry Friends

Poem by Linda Leedy Schneider

2010-09-18T18:10:00.000-07:00

My Hands Speak After 25 Years Paris was served on a fresh platewith honey on the side,and I took its hand.My left hand says this is true.I call my right, the one that thoughtwe should have married the doctor.It touches my hair as the phone rings.“Why haven’t you called?”my husband of twenty-five years asks.My right hand cups my right breast,the one that always tightens first.The one my husband

Poem by Phoebe Kate Foster

2010-08-18T22:20:00.000-07:00

NO GERMS!SNEEZE INTO ARM OR TISSUEIt is I whose nameshould be on their listhere where wall signswarn to wash hands andwear masks, where weakand worn-out specimenswait to have their heartstranslated into blips and bloops,peaks and valleys, jagged linesindicating infernal internalseismic disruption.It should be me waitingfor the gloomy newsin this place where tablesdon’t provide popular magazines

Poem by Elizabeth Kate Switaj

2010-08-05T17:44:00.000-07:00

Sea Mother’s Love.I will take this babyyou broke in me to make.and let barnacles growon her soft skin.I’ll braid seaweed in her hairNever teach her how to parther long silver tail..and walk on fins until they turn......callused & six-toed..You’ll only see herleaping breakers.I’ll never you let you love herShe’ll never have to sewbroken legs into scales .and pull herself on elbowsdown sand

Poem by Sumana Roy

2010-07-16T20:29:00.000-07:00

SadnessSadness is a white crane on a white cow.Only one can bear the weight of another.Sadness is white sand on a river bank.It is white even when wet.Sadness is white hibiscus resting on a fence.It has a white bud and a white corpse.Sadness is a snow-covered tree, eyelashes of white.Its branches droop with its own weight.Sadness is a wild elephant’s tusk, sharp, a deposition of years.It has

Poem by John Grey

2010-06-15T19:11:00.000-07:00

Bless Bless the morning.Coffee-wise, sun-sensible,we can agree on whywe disagreed last night.The hour accedes to the rhythmof me unfolding the newspaper,you pouring milk into a glass.Of all the peace, I prefer the humblest,pajamas, bathrobe, buttered toast,and a day that has no rear-view mirror.Open the window.Soak in bird song.Not a note in there on howthe eagle took their young.John Grey is an

Poem by Donal Mahoney

2010-06-11T12:51:00.000-07:00

Meg’s New WallsSue phones the hotel around midnight.Two weeks earlier, at her request,I took a room there.Three bags,half packed in the corner,are ready to go back.“There’s been a fire,”Sue says. I ask“Is everyone all right?”They are. “How did it start?”“My matches,” Sue says,“and one of the kids.”Weeks later, I visit the kidsat the house and findthe workmen have finished.From the top stair, Meg

Poem by Linda Leedy Schneider

2010-05-06T20:03:00.000-07:00

Conversations: Emergency roomWhere does it hurt?I have a pain in my chest that goes up into my left jaw. I have never felt a pain like this before.Where does it hurt?To the ends of each hair, through my bones,the space that held my uterus, but mostly to my heart.What medications do you take?Cenestin, a natural hormone replacement, Trazadone for sleep.What medications do you take?I drank mother’s

Poem by Divya Rajan

2010-05-05T18:12:00.000-07:00

fluctuosityif ever existedstring of sumptuous syllableslaid on a chili forsaken, crumpled sheet underneath sun's maple rayshung out to dry on a nylon clothesline with clips resembling crisscross daisiesnecked bead to bead yet light as on icehumming memory- tinged tunesbasking baskingsilhouette sweetly nestledcocooned inside a coconut- y tough exteriorhard to crack as nourishment restssoft

Poem by Bob Bradshaw

2010-04-16T18:28:00.000-07:00

MaybeI had never known anyonewho kept fresh oranges and bananaslounging in their smudge-free bowls.I was used to fruit sulking.Not that she couldn't be bitchy.She played tennisin white skirts and a blouse trimmedblue like her china.You know the type.But there's something to be saidfor an apartment emphasizing stripes:love seat, towels, spider plants and evenbright fish who drift for

Poem by Chris Crittenden

2010-04-09T21:51:00.000-07:00

Rain In the Streetseverywherestripped-down gargoyles.a thirsty cubismof the grotesque.the carnage polishingthe apathy of tar.buffing a phalanxof windshield frowns.the sizzle denseas circles writhe away,boulevards of tanglesingested by iron.people shrivel to fretin a brick-laden algebra,afraid of the shapelessfreedom from the sky,reminded of their squelched pulseand the storms in