Submitted by Michael Mayhew on November 2, 2013
on the Day of the Dead
white dudes have few traditions
to fall back upon,
so I
Re-light last night's
grinning pumpkins,
now withered
and mold-specked
Sip a glass of young wine,
crisp like apples,
and sweet as summer,
Start a poem
And contemplate
the cycle of
things
Submitted by Clayton Medeiros on November 1, 2013
The precious
The precious winter light
The precious winter light
Reaches the face of the beloved
The beloved
The beloved’ s face
The face of the beloved
Reaches the precious winter light
Submitted by Benjamin Gorman on October 27, 2013
Fall glides in
like an old lover remembered,
imbued with the peculiar sagacity
of the one that got away,
the one against whom you measure all others,
the avatar who lives in a secret antechamber of the heart
and appears at certain times—
when you’re off guard,
your eyes captivated by a sparkle of old light.
She has that omniscience regarding your heart
that paradoxically relaxes
because pretense is moot
under eyes that see clean through you
like October sunlight
through bare branches.
She is the ebb tide
revealing what was hidden, not buried—
burial means decomposition, dissolution
but fall exhumes no graves,
seeks only final resting places
for what must be released.
Fall arrives and remembers for us
or we remember ourselves
or we remember fall
or, falling, we remember
or we remember falling—
leaves from trees
the inevitable
letting go
the descent to a common ground.
Submitted by joshua mertz on October 25, 2013
The way the light falls across skin
And the trees
Black against the bright darkness
of the night sky
Time as a perception of breath
Limits and infinities one and the same
Then the moment passes
And the magic collapses
And all that is left
Is TV and the bills
Submitted by Clayton Medeiros on October 24, 2013
As British detectives say to suspects
And potential witnesses, “We need to
sort it out.” It sounds simple until
Confusion and conflicts erupt in a
Cacophony of desire and doubt.
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