#wednesdaypoem

[olgagonzalezlatapipoeta]

Sydney

when

 we call to the curious we send     dis-

posable words of           blue

           into the dirt of multitudes    they

 shook me into

 talking                                eyes following me

  into satis-

faction

into  rooms of

   trees of

 sy-

camore      in states in dryness in burn-

ing

check the behind of the

 picture because I do not mind for

 my eyes to dry

 to burn into the lie when

 the host of things

    the sur-

veillance  of

 came-

ras

       creates           for red and cardinals to arrive

[cjb2014universe]

#wednesdaypoem From a poetry book Titled The Best Loved Poems of the American People. #instantlibrary #indiepoetryplease #redbookswexford #supportyourindependentbookstore #storybudweb #poetryforalldays #poetrybook #poetsofinstagram #poems #poetryisnotdead #doglovers #dogpoetry (at Blackwater, Wexford, Ireland) https://www.instagram.com/purpleandgoldpoetry/p/CZMDujBgNWe/?utm_medium=tumblr

[sianalex]

Nerve

Look at when it happened! Right when you got off the - Nothing to do with it I said As you ran from the phone And radiated down my leg Slipped disc Electric stress I’ve displaced your unhappiness

[filoseef]

Poetry on

[fourwaybooks]

Cave

Mark Levine

I took my boy to hear an echo. He wanted to hear one. I wanted him to. We wended through a half-formed unintelligible brushy wood to a place I knew called “cave.” It had openings at both ends and could be seen through, not into. Nor was it a tunnel, strictly, though it passed through the ground, though it went somewhere. It was like stepping into a telescope unseen, into the dark distorted center. The walls were arched and laid with glazed tiles, orange, aqua, muddy green and so streaked with nervous lines where water had run down, where water must have trellised down still. It was not clean. It smelled of piss. Chicken bones, empties, old rubbers, mold. Echo, I called. So did my boy. But his voice was small—birdscratch—it got all lost inside the echo my voice made; pale echo, barely one. That was when I had a boy. I’m quite sure I did. I wanted one, back then, when I had something to offer, when I wasn’t in this place, where light passes through me, when I wasn’t like this, which is what, when I wanted one, as he, poor boy, wanted me. "Cave" from Travels of Marco (c) 2016 by Mark Levine. Appears with permission of Four Way Books. All rights reserved.

[fourwaybooks]

For your Wednesday, a poem from C. Dale Young on growing wings.

In flagrante delicto

An itch, and then that prickly heat, the pointed tips at the wings’ terminus tenting the skin between my shoulder blades. I was so young then—pain, that ripping sensation and that sound as those points compromised the muscle, as they tore through my skin. The wings erupted. My wings spewed from my back. I expected blood to splatter, but in the mirror the tiled floor behind me remained clean. And as my wings extended, I saw that the greyish feathers were clean. No one can recreate the panic of the first time. Some would say I am crazy, that this was just a dream. But it was no dream. Over a lifetime, I have become a Master of concealment. I have learned to tuck my wings, learned to wear two shirts until the wings blacken, wither, and fall off. I don’t even know why I am telling you this. I shouldn’t be telling you this. But there are times like this one where, standing naked, I try to deploy them, anxious to show the very things that used to terrify me. I open my shoulders. I lean forward. I wait. Go ahead. Put your arms around me. Press your warm fingers into my back. There. Right there. "In flagrante delicto" from The Halo (c) 2016 by C. Dale Young. Appears with permission of Four Way Books. All rights reserved.