Accepting Crumbs by Melissa Myers

Summer dusk
Shades of pink and amethyst
Beach grass
Edge of sand
Fire bed
Tinder catches
a thousand sparks
Floating from the flames
You write villanelles by the glow

 

About Melissa Myers

My name is Melissa Myers. I’m from Tennessee, and I live in New England. I love exploring the rich history of this region, and I jump at every opportunity to do so. Poetry holds a special place in my heart because of its ability to connect people on an emotional level. I often find inspiration in life, love, and nature. You can find me on Facebook, Instagram, and LinkedIn.

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Old Oak Bridge by Melissa Myers

Weathered oak planks graying and cracked
Rusted steel girders overgrown with twisted vines
The quiet rush of the river running underneath us
We sneak away and meet there
Scorching summer sun and cool autumn moon
Clasped hands out on the middle of the bridge
Legs dangling over the side
Wishing the train still came through
so two hobos could catch a ride
Making big plans to get out of a dying backwater town
before we’re choked and dragged down to rot
like this old bridge in its grave of weeds and briars

 

About Melissa Myers

My name is Melissa Myers. I’m from Tennessee, and I live in New England. I love exploring the rich history of this region, and I jump at every opportunity to do so. Poetry holds a special place in my heart because of its ability to connect people on an emotional level. I often find inspiration in life, love, and nature. You can find me on Facebook, Instagram, and LinkedIn.

Bed of Thorns by Melissa Myers

Whatever it is
I don’t want to
I’m busy
Staring at the ceiling
And feeling the sound of my breathing
Life revolves around resting
even if my bed is made of thorns
Holy philosophers say
it’s a sin to be so still
How is it possible to offend God
without ever moving?
Pondering the mysteries of my morality is exhausting
I need another nap

 

 

About Melissa Myers

My name is Melissa Myers. I’m from Tennessee, and I live in New England. I love exploring the rich history of this region, and I jump at every opportunity to do so. Poetry holds a special place in my heart because of its ability to connect people on an emotional level. I often find inspiration in life, love, and nature. You can find me on Facebook, Instagram, and LinkedIn.

National Poetry Month: Shel Silverstein

When I was in the third grade, my teacher, Mrs. Froriep, was insistent upon our class reading and writing in tandem. It was not enough to read the words and enjoy them in the way authors organized them, but also to use our imaginations and create our own writings, and to respond to the books we were reading. I attribute a lot of my joy in writing to this woman. But I also attribute that joy to the authors and books that she connected me to as well.

As I get older and engage with different books and writing styles I always look back on those times in her class when she would pull books out for us to read together. It was always followed by those quiet moments of reflection and digestion of the content we were currently ingesting. One of the first poetry books she introduced me to was Shel Silverstein, Falling Up. In honor of Poetry Month Ink Smith has decided to dedicate today to this childhood author. His work has, and continues to, grace the bookshelves of countless classrooms across the nation inspiring children to both read, and perhaps, to write.

 

“There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.”
Where the Sidewalk Ends, Shel Silverstein

 

What was your favorite Shel Silverstein piece? Share in the comments!

 

About Corinne

CA Bio Image

Corinne has her MFA in Writing from Lindenwood University and her MPS in Publishing from George Washington University. She has been an editor at Ink Smith Publishing and Native Ink Press since 2013, taking over the company in 2019. Since her first trip to the library when she was a toddler, Corinne has been collecting books, recommending her favorites, and providing commentary on the less-than-stellar. Her belief is that if you have a problem, it’s nothing that a good book can’t solve.

jazz is by Peter Carlos

jazz is
    (for Michael Castro)


a call out
and a response
jazz is
e-motional
jazz is
ex–pression
jazz is
exploration
jazz is
hot
and chill
and cool


jazz is

              Peter Carlos

 

 

About Peter Carlos

Peter Carlos has attended the Bread Loaf Writers Conference in Vermont in 1976 and 1979, where he studied under Mark Strand and Robert Pack. He graduated with a M.A. in Creative Writing from Middlebury’s Bread Loaf Graduate School of English. His poetry and photographs have appeared in American Poetry Review, Image, River Styx, The Oakland Review, The St. Louis Post-Dispatch, among other small literary journals. He is author of a chapbook, Praise the High Grass, and a book of poems, Dreamfish. He is the Program Chair of Cinema Arts at Lindenwood University.

Untitled by Jeremy Weeks Joyner

In a tall jeweled tower I ask questions of the stars
Late grows the hour
As Jupiter passes mars.
The heavens whisper secrets
My hourglass is flowing
Another night spent sleepless
The window of time unknowing
Hunt for hidden magic
Prayer for fading lights
Truth is always tragic
With failing absent might
Spells like lightning fly
Across stone cobbled floor
Goblins shrieking begin to pry
Upon immaterial door
High the price of sorcery
A trap long set has sprung
Demons made clever forgery
Now the final song is sung.

 

About Jeremy Weeks Joyner

Jeremy Weeks Joyner is a poet, philosopher and ordained minister. He lives in central North Carolina.

Plowshare by Jeremy Weeks Joyner

 

The war was over long ago.
Discarded, engine rusted.
There are flowers now, Where men fought.
Watered by the blood of brave men and fools.
My aim is true, no longer.
Barrel fallen and powerless.
I, forgotten sentry,
From a world that was once burning.
There are flowers now,
Where once was only mud.
Armor, melted by fire and steel
Hotter than the flight of Icarus.
The ridge ahead, marred, now green.
Grass covered and silent,
The cannons evaporated.
No tanks should tread among these flowers.
Silent Behemoth,
The world quaked at my roar.
But that was long ago.
There has been too much pain.
My final task,
To guard the flowers
That men may war no more.

 

About Jeremy Weeks Joyner
Jeremy Weeks Joyner is a poet, philosopher and ordained minister. He lives in central North Carolina.

Untitled by Jeremy Weeks Joyner

Through a glass, darkly
The necromancers stare
Seeking forbidden wisdom
Spells float on the air.
In this wretched palace
No kings upon the throne
Abandoned pestilent kingdom
Horror haunted halls of stone.
Dead crawl from their graves dancing to an unseen tune
Unaware of their thralldom
Preparing the timber hewn.
The evil sorcerers incantations
Summoning an undead gathering
Corpses pondering lost freedom
Whose call is it they’re answering?

 

About Jeremy Weeks Joyner

Jeremy Weeks Joyner is a poet, philosopher and ordained minister. He lives in central North Carolina.

Velvet by Will Collins

At work
The phone rings.
I have an ache in my head,
18 patients asking for pain pills
and solutions.
I’m only 25
What do you want?

“How’s William?”
she asks on the other end.
I’m fine,
But she doesn’t mean me.
It’s William down the
Hall room 124,
His heart is weakening, fingers and toes
Cold,
Breaths choppy and sometimes don’t come at all
With a gurgle in his chest
Of what end of life
Sounds like.

I tell her in fewer words
“No change in condition,”
I say,
“We are managing his pain,
His anxiety.”

The voice on the phone thanks me,
“He’s a very distinguished man,”
she says.

I pause,
What to say,
How to respond,
What does a textbook say about it?
Just comfort her?
But I want to know
What he did,
What he made with his life.

“I don’t know why I said that,”
she cuts in.
“Just wanted you to know”
We end the conversation.

Later,
I walk into 124.
He’s pale, lifeless.
You can tell he’s gone
“It’s expected they say,
It’s hospice.”

The supervisor
calls it at 1:38PM.
I put a glove on to close his eyes to sleep,
Use a stethoscope to hear what nothing sounds like
On the other side,
Remove the catheter,
Open his mouth to check for dentures to make note of.

He’s so cold.
Gums like ice.
No dentures,
Teeth straight, white, well kept,
No jagged edges or chips,
All his own.
“He was a distinguished man,”
I mutter to myself.

I wish I could have asked
The voice on the phone about him.
A stretcher takes William away
Under a red velvet blanket.

 

About Will Collins

Will Collins is currently a nurse in Toms River, NJ, living with his three dogs who are a handful.  He graduated Richard Stockton University of NJ before becoming a nurse with a major in Spanish language and culture and writing.  When not at work, he can be found writing, skateboarding, and hiking or bird watching. His poetry is currently not published, so he says this is an exclusive treat!

Corporate Yin Yang by Will Collins

I breathe like the spring time.

Inhale like a lion,
Exhale like a lamb.

I talk big of my dreams,
I act small from my cubicle.

So juxtaposed,

Like taking Ambien
With a gulp of espresso.

 

About Will Collins

Will Collins is currently a nurse in Toms River, NJ, living with his three dogs who are a handful.  He graduated Richard Stockton University of NJ before becoming a nurse with a major in Spanish language and culture and writing.  When not at work, he can be found writing, skateboarding, and hiking or bird watching. His poetry is currently not published, so he says this is an exclusive treat!