Poetry

#finalpoems / [?]

Someday

the point is never to wait to say what’s true
whilst knowing and honoring the pace of things
     .       (which is never my pace of things)
never knowing what time we have,
     .       what’s true

i’d like to tell you how i’ve felt sans risking what we’ve had,
which will happen, always happens
     .       once you know

you promote truth but
don’t know mine or
what’s coming or
that you’re it    .  that
i’m chronically in love
and

i see more than ever why this can’t    .  and shouldn’t    .  be and
     .       that we are impeccable as is   .  but

it’s just you have this spectacular brain
which prohibits consideration of    .   my love for you
     .       which is prohibited      .       which

creates a chronic, crazed kinship with the forbidden

  .       you don’t see

you’re my ideal world but not of it    .  you’ve made quite sure of that

so,    .   but

i still find i’m right in the end
whilst heart throbs with wrongness

     .       do you fear me like the others

     .       now you see

secrets have been, always
the only way my
life keeps going
holding all these secrets
i can never say
hoping to someday, maybe,
   .       say them
dreaming of what’d happen if you knew
maybe everything would be different
  .       maybe nothing
maybe you’ve always known anyway and i’m just here
.       having wondered away life
.       praying you’ll find me soon

Paige Frisone is a body-based writing coach, writer and poet stationed in Boulder, Colorado. Originally from Chicago, her writing pursuits began at Butler University, finishing school at Naropa University with an integrated contemplative psychology focus. Her work has been featured in Rebelle Society, Elephant Journal, Rogue Agent and elsewhere. Learn more about her psychosomatic inquiries at: www.paigefrisone.com.

#finalpoems / [?]

For The Ones Yet to Die

death is nothing

you only move to a parallel dimension

and become less obvious

so in my departure

call me by my name

remember me for who I am

be not remorseful for I dwell

somewhere waiting for you

life is just the place to wait for something

              .           and

death is the place to stay for nothing

so cherish these brief moments you call living

because – you become nothing when the wait is over

remember

life comes with its own curse

to be born is to die eventually

life itself is the act of waiting

then

you come to the reality that there is

no such thing as immortality

we are born(e) to die

so remain with your shadow even in death

he would become your soul and live forever.

mortality is in immortality

Semilore Kilaso is a Nigerian writer who loves to collect photographs of humans, architecture, wildlife and landscape. She believes intelligence is relative and every individual should be responsible for the consequences of their actions. When she’s not reading books, she’s reading lines from architectural drawings. Some of her works appear in international magazines; culturalweekly and litvalley and in the anthology “A Country of Broken Boys.”

#finalpoems / [?]

– Out of the Sinkhole –

Like an August Floridian thunderstorm,
I can see the clouds turn darker
than the circles beneath my eyes;
I can hear the clouds collide louder
than the ringing in my ears;
I can feel the wind begin to flap
my sweat stained clothes;
and yet, when raindrops the size of my dilated pupils
fall with fury as boomers quake the ground beneath my feet,
I’m always caught
unprepared.

I even do what I’ve been taught:
I tense every muscle, clench my teeth, squeeze my eyes shut,
let the warmth of the rain flow down my soul.
But my eyes don’t relax like I’ve been told they would,
my teeth don’t release like I’ve been told they would,
my muscles don’t melt like I’ve been told they would.
Instead, the soil saturates and the supporting pressure
sinks and sends me sliding beneath the surface.
Water floods the sinkhole, lightning strikes surround,
water moccasins and gators swim smiling around me,
and I–
I am the weakest motherfucker dying.

And that’s what I’ve learned about depression:
I go to counseling, I deep breath, I exercise, I love,
I write, I read, I visualize, I practice, I give, I thank,
I take 40 mgs in the morning, I take 50 mgs at night.
But I’ve also banged my head against a freezer door
until black spots dotted my vision. I’ve raced my car
to 100 m.p.h. on a lonely road at 3 in the morning
with the intent of ramming that shit into the giant trunk
of an Oregon White Oak. I’ve told a coach I need to quit my
scholarship because this depression makes me a bad
teammate. I’ve left my poetry slam team the night before
competition for the same reason. I’ve taken so many Ativan
at once I slurred through a set list, stumbled off stage and startled
awake with no recollection of driving to an ex-girlfriend’s
place. I’ve stayed in bed for the majority of a three-year cycle
and let myself disappear from all the spaces I claim to love
with a note ready that says I don’t understand it, but it’s all my fault.
See, that August Floridian thunderstorm is always in the forecast,
and I’ll always be unprepared,
and I’ll always slide into another sinkhole.

But I’ve also learned about depression:
When I’m the weakest motherfucker dying,
the lightning will miss me, the rain’s fury will subside,
the wind will slow, the clouds will separate,
the water moccasins and gators will not give a fuck
about biting me because they’re just trying to survive too;
and when somehow I crawl out of the sinkhole,
I will be the strongest motherfucker alive.

And I’ll see all the other strongest motherfuckers alive
somehow crawling out of their sinkholes too. And we
will understand that those who didn’t make it out
of their sinkholes are strongest motherfuckers too.
And we will look at that forecast, and we will be caught
unprepared
together.

And we will slide into our sinkholes,
and we will do whatever we can to be
the strongest motherfuckers alive
after every
Storm.

Ty.Brack is a poet, Hip hop artist, teacher, and youth organizer from Tigard, OR. His poetry has been published in Northwest Passage and will be featured in WritersResist and Eve Poetry Magazine, and his music is available on all major digital streaming platforms. Additionally, he can be seen competing and performing in poetry slams in Portland. Believing that poetry and the spoken word is vital for social and emotional growth, Ty.Brack also organizes youth poetry jams in his community, providing young poets the opportunity to perform, workshop, and network.

#finalpoems / [?]

My Photograph

You are beautiful.
Three words, a simple statement on a common magnet.
Yet, so much kindness with this gesture.

Framed by the fresh feeling of being me, but
with the freedom to be someone else.
My chance for raw expression in the exposure of your lens.

Is it strange that that vintage camera gave me the most comfort?
Its character and quality used to capture
so many previous faces, bodies, and moments.

This camera that has seen so much,
now angled to capture me
in this moment.

Spine resting against
the cool leather chair,
as my head tilts towards you

Legs stretched out in their length,
with slight bend at the knee.
Feet resting on ruby heels.

The outside tree creates a tango of shadows
on the hardwood and across the deerskin rug
as the evening light pours through the window frame.

Cars can be heard passing by three stories below.
But they are in their own separate world,
missing this moment that is mine.

Rachel Michael is a physician based in Toledo, Ohio. Her love for arts and literature have inspired her to begin writing. She writes poetry and fictional short stories, and is looking forward to sharing her words in future publications.

#finalpoems / [?]

thickness

Because the fever hasn’t let up.

And I used to mesmerize myself by the way you walked, the pendulum of feet pattering one after the other, the sway of the hips and your laugh exploding from the crackled timber of your tongue. You used to simmer in the kitchen, lock your fingers together, push your glasses farther up your nose, lift your hips to the counter and dangle your legs like little wind chimes, and I opened my mouth and blew breezes at you just to hear your ankles jingle. Remember the time I watched you in the mirror and mimicked the way you spread your lips apart and tongued the air, and we almost kissed like that, but there was a void between the gums? Remember the smoke and the bread crusts flicked down over the fire? Remember the ineffable heat and how the sweat that poured down our noses formed puddles where our scents welded together? It was the first time we touched.

The last time we walked together, there was a violent presence in the air—in the squeak of your chair wheels, the cold concrete, the grimace on your face where the pain filtered through the fleshy layers of your mask. In wanting to feel closer, I bent down and mimicked your open lips, growled with you, said I, too, knew pain because it was in you.

But you shook your head—

I wish I was your body, so I could once again comfort you, crochet your skin anew, take ruined palms and sand them soft, take breasts and massage the pulp from them, take your pain and squeeze it from your flesh, wring you out and run your fever dry.

I wish I was your body so I too could feel the shatter you felt, so my empathy was not just another churlish phantasm of our love.

You left residue all over my body and it is hot to the touch—

Mira Glasser is an artist, writer, and bookseller living in Portland, Oregon. She is studying at Lewis & Clark College, where she won the 2019 Dorothy Berkson Gender Studies Writing Award. She has been a featured reader at Survival of the Feminist and Grief Rites Readers Series, and has a stack of unpublished chapbooks in her fridge, where they stay good and fresh.

#finalpoems / [?]

Her Zest

Her list of accomplishments was long, long, long.
Her work, her love, her song – – – now gone.

The measure of one life lived,
the purpose of what we give.

Was it fate that gifted her with it all?
Her zest left the rest of us to fall –

ow behind her tremendous lead,
left us planting the seed

of inspiration she gave,
with one small wave

that provided our moral scope
and allowed us some small hope

that life will go on and on and on
even now, that she is so, so, long gone.

Annette Gagliardi has poetry published in Genre: Urban Arts No. 8- Print, Southwest Journal, Summer & fall 2019, Dreamers Creative Writing Online and in their Year 1 Anthology Down in the Dirt Online Magazine, Trouble Among the Stars, Issue#2, Poetry Quarterly, the Poetic Bond VIII & IX. She has work in the League of Minnesota Moccasin, the South Dakota State Poetry society Pasque Petals and in Arizona State Poetry Society’s Sandpiper. Annette is a contributor and one of two editors for the anthology, Upon Waking: 58 Voices Speaking Out From The Shadow of Abuse.

#finalpoems / [?]

Late September 2001 Rorschach Test

in memory of Farhad

The daily morning paper dares,
who do you see here? Newsprint’s
blotches of black and grey form a face

no more terrorist than the turbaned man
who enters this E train at 3rd and Lex,

such assumptions another cause for terror
for the Sikh man who decorated his taxi
like it’s the 4th of July to ward off the ignorance
from skin white like mine. I asked him to deliver us

to Queens Memorial, please. I cradled Philip, fevered
with sickled cells. He’ll recover in a bed next to Farhad,
who’d learn he is dying of cancer, who’d feed us, two weeks later,
when we’d visit, dried white mulberries from Iran and bid us

to take care of each other. I rode home on the E train that once
ended at the World Trade Center through tunnels
linking English to Spanish, Hindi to Yiddish
like the cupped palms of girls make telephones
that carry misconceived messages around a slumber party.

Like Priya’s terror broke through my phone that night:
                         .                     .     A man shouted, ‘I’ll burn you Arab girl.’
Tamil, not Arab, she was walking home
on Avenue A, in New York winter

when it is never truly day or night
and everyone’s skin fades to a washed out
version of the self. In the morning, these faces unite

in their need for coffee as they create a line
of silhouettes, a fresh Rorschach test.
The bagel cart owner knows what each prefers:
black or sweet and light. Saeed saved me

the last poppy seed muffin that morning,
like many mornings, my arrival always near his workday’s end —
he’ll start a round of golf on Long Island while I start
a day of editing and dubbing in windowless rooms.

As he prepped my coffee – scooped the sugar,
flipped the spigot in one move – I searched for
my wallet, missing. “I think I left it …” He handed me
the brown paper bag with my breakfast
and some cash, “here, something to buy lunch.”

Lisa Eve Cheby, a librarian, poet, and daughter of immigrants, holds an MFA from Antioch University and an MLIS from SJSU. Her poems, essays, and reviews have appeared in various journals and anthologies. Her chapbook, Love Lessons from Buffy the Vampire Slayer, is available from Dancing Girl Press. http://lisacheby.wordpress.com

#finalpoems / [?]

“From a Crumpled Note in the Back Pocket of the World”

Come home.

Clothes off.

Coffee on.

Tip back

Tropic of Cancer.

Commit felony

To memory.

Mug down.

Turn it off.

Bathe half naked

And relinquish soul.

Bring the ghosts

Out and

Drink fireball

In the shower.

Balancing act.

Keep forward.

No refunds.

No end.

No win.

Sit by the ocean

In your mind

In the cheap motel room

And try to save your

Self.

Allison Ursa is a painter and writer residing in northern Alabama and currently makes work that lies somewhere in between. She is unsure of but inspired by the endless possibilities of what color the light at the end of the tunnel is.

#finalpoems / [?]

The Laugh with the Lilt
Dr. Jannette Goddard-Finegold, 1948 – 2019

Fifty years
since we spoke
since we laughed together

We planned to meet again.
I read her poetry
She read mine
She died last Sunday.

My parents are gone,
a sister, a wife

those others
I guarded with my skill
but could not save

and Denise
her brilliance, her quickness
her kindness

and that delighted laugh
at her own work
The Day the Audience Walked Out on Me,
and Why.

1973 Reading — Denise Levertov

Audio Reading

Don Krieger is a biomedical researcher living in Pittsburgh, PA. His poetry has appeared online in Uppagus Magazine, Entropy, Tuck, Vox Populi Sphere, and others, in print in Hanging Loose (1972) and Neurology, and in several print anthologies including in both English and Farsi in Soodabeh Saeidnia’s Persian Sugar in English Tea, Volumes I and III.

#finalpoems / [?]

Solace

Raise them,
Hold them foremost.

Your hands, your wands, your pens.

Be it whatever may.
Show solace.

Shadow the hypocrites.
Show them the least of pity-I plead you.

The sun has vanished long before.
The light we hold now, be not the aura of god.

We are all children of the devil now.
Trapped in a game of reality and fiction.

Fools who do not comply, are fools.

Only to the many, for they are the few.
It is their hands that are raised.
Their tears that matter. Their hearts – for they are still pure.

Unbridled with guilt, greed and blood and power.
Release your prayers for them.
Join them as they mourn the death of humanity, the death of nature and the death of god.

For I too am no longer with the living or the dead.
I remain forever, with the fools.

Saqif Maqsud is an admirer of words that twists and bends the subconscious. Devoted to Tagore from an early age, he is an avid fan of literature that reserves multiple interpretations. Occasionally, Saqif tends to dive into the world beyond, only to dabble in dark literature momentarily. He also prefers vinyl over digital music.

#finalpoems / [?]

Rain’s End

The rain poured
the day you walked away from me.

I was sick and shy.
I wanted to hold you.
I didn’t want to say goodbye.

The rain poured
and the hallway was so tiny,

Paint peeling, wood moldy.
A door on either side
created a box we couldn’t get out of.

The rain poured
and the sound was like a thousand drums

trying to get our attention
beating a divine message –
now now now now now

We closed our ears,
and the water washed you away.

Now 14 years later I sit, pen in hand,
surrounded by family and friends,
yet completely alone

breathing in the sweet essence of
the hundred purple flowers you promised to send,
still

waiting

For your hand on my shoulder
your whisper in my ear, waiting
for you.

LM Neal is a Queer writer working to transcend binaries and borders. She hails from the ocean shores but lives now between city and woods with partner, child, and pets. She has been published in a range of journals and anthologies, and is happy to be participating now with a #Finalpoem as we perch at the edge of ending.

#finalpoems / [?]

Dorian

To prepare for a storm
is to build a longer table and invite the neighbors.
Make your favorite meals, fill up the glasses with wine
and watch it overflow. Capture a child’s face light up in
a quiet explosion while playing on a swing.
Remember their laughter, the innocence of the moment.
To prepare for a storm is to celebrate the calm.
To walk inside a room knowing you’re sheltered,
counting every wall a blessing.
When a howling wind breaks into your home,
you’re naked, or just waking up or lifting up
your child from their crib
You say a prayer, a cry for help
It’s fast, inaudible, a thread of trembling words.
It is surrender at the start of a war you haven’t
fought but know how it ends.
When the ground begins to shake and
things start falling off the walls,
you scream names in an empty house.
Fear will do anything to bite loneliness in the neck.
You’re running around your own home and
suddenly it’s a maze you’ve never seen before.
If only you could get out of the door and into-
the mouth of the wind?
What is a refuge if not anywhere but where you stand?
You run from fire and walk into a door of flames.
No one thinks they’ll burn to death if only they keep going.
There must be water on the other side.
Buildings are already collapsing.
There’s not one house standing.
The trees, they seem to suck themselves
out of the earth
A hurricane feels like drawing stillness into a room
that prefers to dance. The music goes on forever.
You hear a cry and look around-
It’s your baby. Clutched so tightly in your arms it
is almost a part of you, not separated but one with your body.
A mother will do anything for their children.
You don’t see when the pole starts to fall
from behind you
You’re running towards nothing.
Dead bodies line the street.
On this day, fear is a language we all speak.
Your eyes wide open- searching.
It hits you hard, the back of your head
splitting in half.
Your whole body trapped in death,
Eyes wide open- a new shock forming.
Blood trickles down your broken neck
and a last image flashes before your eyes-
the breaking of bread in the church.
They pass it round the table and you don’t take.
Your hands are already too full.

Tryphena Yeboah is a Ghanaian writer with a background in Journalism. She is currently an MFA candidate at Chapman University, studying Creative Writing.

#finalpoems / [?]

It’s Over

Soon the blinds will be shut
and the sun
will complete
burning my skin.

Blackout curtains
and an inhalation
will transform blinking
into a nightlight carousel
of ponies and stars.

Just floating in space
as I have been
after the cord
from the mothership
was severed
& my ship’s captain
was too lazy
uninterested
to pull me back in.

They wanted me to float away
after I repaired their ship.

It’s about time
because I’m about done
trying to repair the damage
from the supramarginal gaps.

There’s only so much pink icing
pink blush
and peach jam
to spread over the craters.

No more making shopping lists
no more shopping
no more patching
or decorating
no more trash.

Thank you
lovelist Apocalypse
for it’s what we all deserve.

I die knowing I tried my best
within this mess
with some regrets
and confess
if my cells
could regress:
I’d whisper to the one
covered in pink
to try harder to link
to those who sewed buttons
on your torn up shirts
to those with sprinkles in their eyes.

Gina Tron is the author of three books, including ‘You’re Fine.’ She has been published in literary journals including Green Mountains Review, Hunger Mountain, Tupelo Press, Junto Magazine and CatheXis Northwest Press and has contributed to publications like the Washington Post, VICE, Daily Beast and Politico. With an MFA in Writing and Publishing from the Vermont College of Fine Arts, she writes daily crime content for Oxygen.

#finalpoems / [?]

There will be no poets

in the future

the last words will be nouns
that burst into flames

in scorched weedless fields
where there was corn
soy beans

there will be millions
of climate change refuges

no matter how beautiful
and shinny the steel
the fence on the southern border

if there is a fence
will keep no one out
and no one in
the rich believe

money

protects them
and perhaps they’ll be
the last to die

and still banks
will sell you an annuity
and a plan
for your financial future

even my husband believes
we’ll muddle through

if there are 160 active breeders
left at the end
in some small part of the earth
that’s habitable
it may be possible
to restart the human race

and new poets will find words

Bonnie Billet wrote until she was 38 and was published in several journals including POETRY. Bonnie started writing again a few years after retirement and has been published in Yes Poetry, So To Speak and accepted for publication in Rhino and Anatolios Magazine. I spent the intervening years working as a landscape contractor working in NYC.

#finalpoems / [?]

Metro

When this neighborhood is in ruins
And the pools reduced to concrete depressions
Missing their giant pestles
The patios will emerge under
The archaeologists’ brushes
Along with glistening pebbled glass from sliding window doors
That we kept open on summer mornings.
Rat droppings will ossify into fossilized beads
That people will pay great money for
And wear in stud earrings and fine necklaces
There will be ancient cherry forests from the seeds we spit on summer evenings
They kept chickens and grew organic figs in the urban center,
The professor will say.
And we don’t know what they called themselves
When they went home for dinner.

Maureen O’Leary is a poet and author living in Sacramento, and earning her MFA at Ashland University on Ohio.

#finalpoems / [?]

MotherLove

It’s not stylish to love your mother.

I have found this out.

In chat rooms.

On Facebook.

It’s almost obscene.

Joyful parenting experiences

And mothering experiences

Are not welcome.

But when I look back

On our forty years together

I have nothing but love.

Arguments erupt.

Then fade away.

Love is left.

Even if it isn’t

Stylish. 

Ruth Marner lives in St. Louis. She is the author of “The Bike Ride,” which is in Sinister Wisdom’s July edition (#113). She enjoys bicycling and has a BA in Literature from Grinnell College.

#finalpoems / [?]

contours

only words

always sounds like an excuse 

an evasion

the lowering of the bar which gives people worth

the weakening of bonds that make individuals possible

but a closer look reminds us that compassion is a verb

infinitively existential as is to be 

and to be sure 

not emanating from the place where

hate derives

misbegotten 

lonely as indignity

or the end of everything

the time traveler

stopped somewhere

nowhere for miles

cries tears from a distant heartache

feigning as memory

when in fact

it will be as phantom as a lost love

no meaning in accidents

if there are truly accidents

once the axe falls

talking begins

spurting fictions

from sad grotesque baskets

of finite art

made by unfolding fingers

working swiftly nimbly

as if stopping brings notice

and another name for the list

marking locations on a map

turning every which way

no side is up

in the permanence of each location

abandon hope and any plan of return

or alternate realities aside

the joke is on another page

begin as if again

Steve Piazza is a writer and poet living in Athens, GA, where he served as an educator for many years. His writing draws upon the richness of society’s diversity, compassion, and shared optimism, focusing on the inspirations behind how vital it is to cultivate and preserve the best in people.