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Ever feel lonely? |
Poets |
What kind of power does a poet hold in his hand? |
| www.FordModelsEurope.com  hat do our Poets think about each other?Poet Derek Adams says of Erica Loberg, "[Of all her writings], I like "THE RESTAURANT MANAGER" best." Now, how's that for the Espresso Bean calling the Mahogany chair beautiful? |
| Fashion Victims She struts down the cat walk. Thigh length boots, tights, frilly blouson and jerkin, the pantomime Dick Whittington look. At the end she turns, takes two steps, turns again. On her way back, passes the next model, tri corn hat, black mask and cape, who stops at the end of the stage, stands feet apart and delivers, with heavy handed metaphor, arms out stretched towards the audience pointing two fingers of each hand thumbs cocked. --Derek Adams All rights reserved BBC Wildlife Poet of the Year 2006 www.derek-adams.co.uk |
| SEND AN EMAIL HERE OR THERE Send an email To someone you loved And still want-- Wait for an email Check here Or there Once an hour Or day Every two days Then get a highlighted Name Popped out on the scene You respond As slow as possible After time spent Typing Deleting Saving as a draft. Or you take it In the time You get it And send whatever enters your mind At that time And place Here or there. Fear after sending A rash email Too late To delete That turns To fear To check your inbox And see if there was A response. The name hits highlighted On the screen And you want to fix fear The fear of reading it, ends with Opening it. Like holding your breath And then staring down That highlighted line Of new mail And after holding your air You can breathe long and deep And thankfully Have oxygen running through your mind When you open and read that email. Sometimes Not looking is a better feeling than looking. At least for now. --Erica Loberg All rights reserved |
| LovePoem What’s a love poem when you love alone? It’s glistening in your dreamful sun An accomplishment That he doesn’t Ask about. It’s a sad weird thing Deep inside You think He thinks Of you Sometimes. And you think of him all the time. What’s a love poem when you love alone? It’s thinking in between thoughts About someone A deep image In your head When you love alone You continue to be there With your thoughts As you think it is Or actually should be Doesn’t make it ours. What’s a love poem when you love alone? It’s a deep-seated passion For someone Beneath the unknown |
THE INCH OF THE ANKLE BONE --Erica Loberg |
| The Call There's a call going up somewhere near the Island of Sumatra and it waits like a bowl of sticky rice and homemade wine rises like a wave that carries away a grandmother's song There's a call going up and it winds like Cassava through soil pushes up like groundnut and coffee like this yellow moon in my two mournful hands There's a call going up and it follows this Ethiopian woman like a trail of wet jewels is heavy as a pound of gold in Nigerian soil There's a call going up and it shifts like a gun between borders Feels like a fist full of pills Shakes like a little girl raising her arms on a rooftop in New Orleans Vu Onyejuruwa All rights reserved |
The Life Force |
| If only you could (an excerpt) If only you could If there was someone or something out there to keep Then would you tell? Maybe what's done is done All the things you've wanted to say--
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| HAVE YOU EVER BEEN TO TARGET ON A SUNDAY? Have you ever been to target on a Sunday? Do you ever see anyone with a basket? People and their carts Just sit there In the aisle “Can I get by?” There is so much Stuffed in their carts Their kids can’t hang over the side Please move your kid already Before I bulldoze him down Better yet leave your cart there And block the aisle like everyone else While you run to another section To grab something You forgot On your crumbled up list. Have you ever been to Target on a Saturday? You have a list A mission But wait Diet Sunkist It’s on sale Price cuts Today! Better get it now Cause the savings end tomorrow I don’t even drink soda But I’ll take that truck of aspartame. Have you ever been to Target on a Monday? The parking lot is like bumper cars Fighting for a space Speed bumps? What speed bumps? I see a spot Take your time loading your car No problem I’ll hold up the line I refuse to go down to level two. Have you ever been to Target on a Tuesday? It’s the greatest layout for impulse shoppers No one knows where the dressing rooms are “Where are you gonna try it on?” She asked her mother “I’m not. I’m gonna try it on at home.” Clothes get tosses in carts Like much needed rolls of toilet paper Women scan the shoe section Like it’s their last walk on earth You decide you don’t want that shoe Twenty minutes later Just drop if off Shove it anywhere On a shelf In electronics. Where are the blank CD’s? You ask someone In a red shirt “I don’t work here.” Must look for the walkie talkies Not the red dot. Have you ever been to Target on a Wednesday? You made it to the checkout line The woman in front decides “Hold on, I’ll be right back.” As she scurries down the aisle Disappearing into the bedding section And you wait And wait And have one hour of free parking… Am I gonna make it? You look for another line Run your wheels forward Ready to go “Sorry I’m closed.” Have you ever been to Target on a Thursday? Active wear Gardening Bath mats Cat litter Spiderman notebooks Does anyone really buy the milk? Have you ever been to Target on a Friday? They’re open till 10. Expect more Pay less. --Erica Loberg All rights reserved |
Just like a shadow
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What you don't know So many times now and before
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| Ashes The fireplace was eager to put a full stop, in the sentence where the road of my dreams stuck— the word of happiness wet logs I collected from the inside of me that I dared to turn to ashes
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Breathe --Apryl Skies All rights reserved |
| THE RESTAURANT MANAGER
That he didn't have to flex it. His hair was Tight shaved Against his head With a tiny Mohawk Like a dinosaur bump on his brain. He was a cross between a peacock And tweedy bird And he fluttered around the restaurant With a thin tie—tight-- Bounced Across the hard wood floors In pre-dinner Meetings. He clapped his hands Like a school teacher In a fifth grade classroom To go over What he had gone over 474 times in his head In his sleep When he downed coffee Because he’s never touched The free bread. Seems flawless With absolute Effort And some people are like that And don't have to do squats. And have hair That was cut and teased And gazed at By Empty eyes In the early morning --Erica Loberg All rights reserved |
Estimated Time of Arrival We are careful with each other and I enjoy it.
A pair of 4th graders sneaking notes into each other's lockers.
I want to ask him to be my Valentine, to take me to the school dance.
I'm afraid he'll say no, then change his mind.
I'll have already run home crying.
We meet at night, perhaps believing darkness and over-priced white wine will conceal the neon warning signs blinking on our foreheads.
Sitting across from each other in dim cafes I notice
The hazy fog I squinted through with so many others is startlingly absent.
I find myself holding my breath, as if not to disturb the magnificence we are courting.
There is the unmistakable request
(hope)
That we will both give each other complete honesty
The scent of fear is overwhelming.
We tap dance on the notion that the world will move us towards each other
I am impatient.
I want to put my mouth on his collarbone
Kiss his neck, work my lips down his spine
His eyes find me and we comb over desire
Avoid shattering what is not yet ours.
I imagine him as an island
I am a sailor on an aluminum tugboat
Rough waters
No lighthouse
From a mile out I watch him
Wonder how many people have trekked across his fields
Wonder what it would be like to collect seashells on his beaches.
When night falls I watch the stars illuminate his rocky shores
The quiet lapping of the tide
I gaze upward
If he'll let me come ashore
We will change our names
We are different people in the place we are going.
--Stephanie Burton
All rights reserved
Stephanie Burton has lived all over the world, including
Sydney, Australia and London, England. Her poetry has been published in Farmhouse Magazine, The Verse Marauder and Bareback Magazine. She currently resides in New York City. You can read more about the sagas of Stephanie's life at Spread Eagle in NYC.
Dear Daddy (an excerpt)
Daddy sometimes i cry at night cause i wonder when the time would come
that we would be a family again
and daddy i just hate myself sometimes cause i feel there was something i could have done--Rhyley Knights
All rights reserved
My Heart/Your Heart Look at it, yet please do not stare.
For anyone can turn into a thief
As you turn to leave, please don’t look back
or you will surely lust again for the impossible
