Poetry by Chrissy Schreiber in the style of William Butler Yeats:
Summer
They flicker in the dark,
Each wandering just so.
The moon’s children, lightning bugs
Brightly illume with spark
Over streams with swift flow
Where the catfish tips and tugs.
A Pining Song
Love comes in on the tongue
And lust comes in on the hip;
These are the thoughts of the young
Who have naught but gum and lip.
Though love is far from the tongue,
Their hands all but grasp and grip.
The Nomad
Standing on a craggy ledge of rock
Unsteady and wary of the grounds,
A teetering pause and you take stock:
Above, a vulture screeches and sounds
All you see is become black and rad
While dry heat cracks your lips and skin,
Which are bloody from bitter words bled,
And you are hollow, empty, broken.
Poetry by Jacquie Burckley in the style of Billy Collins:
Cigarette
Universally desired, globally found.
find one on the terrace of a villa in Spain
between the fingers of a tall, dark silhouette
or between the blistered lips of a man
donning blue jeans and a hard hat.
you can find some used, dead, dry
on a foggy porch table or find them
sleeping, unbothered under their silver blanket.
half of one is on the street and the
other half is circling, circling, circling
on the inside, expiring the life you hold,
if only for just one more.
Untitled
I walk the path along the river
by that tree,
looking back at the canvas of us.
I spot the moment –
pinpoint the point of pain
where we unraveled.
Like threaded footsteps I look back
and see where I’ve been
and what I’ve done.
I could have taken the straighter path,
but now I have a story
stitched in the color of you.
Remembering Duchess
Back at home and down in my basement –
well it isn’t really a basement, but I call
it a basement – the second step from the bottom groaned.
We would sit on the floral couch, tattered with love.
It was adjacent from the Ludwig Classic
three piece drum set and in front of the cassettes
and CDs stacked taller than you, my mother
swearing I would want them but I never did.
Down the hallway with three portraits on the wall
painted by unknown men, the Other Couch waits
for its next sleeper, but we rotate each night
because it’s only fair and tomorrow is my turn.
John Coltrane plays as if he’s there live and I have to yell
for you to hear me, but the drywall is thick and from the main
floor it sounds like a muffled, seventh grade band practice.
An occasional appearance by the upstairs guests preceded
burgers, fries, milkshakes, and home videos to remember
last year’s trip and to plan for next year’s.
After the yellow sun disappears and the white moon
is the only light source through the purple curtains,
we talk and laugh and scream with zero regard for the time.
(Read) Between the Vines 