The year is over; the collection is complete. We have amassed over poems on the subject of love and lust and relationships and drunken sex and heartbreak.
For the statisticians in the crowd, our final tally has poems from women poets, and from men for I love the notion of a Ladies Getting It On dossier.
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And now, poems later, our work is done. The poems are displayed chronologically, with the newest material at the top.
If you have been to this site before and are a completist, you will need only read down until you hit familiar territory. If you have not been here before and are a completist, find a comfortable chair; you will be here a while.
Disclaimer: this page is not intended for children, nor for those adults whose view of individual liberty and freedom of expression would best suit them for life in Massachusetts or modern-day Syria.
To the rest of you, we say Welcome. We also say that even the most broad-minded of you will probably find something here that makes you squirm, and not in a good way.
And this is where we remind our readers that there is a reason why we named the magazine as we did. Susan Solomon susansolomonpainter. One of her happiest art accomplishments was designing the winning Sogn Blush wine label, which will debut in summer at Cannon River Winery in Cannon Falls, Minnesota.
Roy J. Adams is an emerging poet with something over a dozen poems published or in the process including, most recently, those in Vallum Contemporary Poetry and in Feathertale.
Several of his poems have won awards and subsequently appeared in anthologies.
Succumbed to her dear Herr Mann, whom she favored over all. Retired, she finds herself dancing with words and pictures and is also involved in animal advocacy.
She has always loved rats.
Ask me one more time, darling, when ocean vast blooms birds of sea— for in your hands, the lightning storm spins miles through prodigal fingers.
So ask me one more time, darling, how lust and pride at briny depths that let us swim through tidal drags where blue suds foam and grey dawn breaks, would cup my ears to your cold shroud, teach me to sing my grief?
Lana resides in the US and the coastal town of Nha Trang, Vietnam, where she is a mom of two far-too-clever frolicsome imps. Nilanjana Bhowmick is an India-based poet and writer and a multi-award winning journalist.
Hats, if circumstance required, outlandish nods of colour in the pews.
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Ending up on car boots, all potholed domes and drooping sinamay flowers. Evening gloves and beaded bags, sequined scarves, peacock feather earrings — if I had known that none of these would help me meet the man of my dreams I would have spent the money on watercolours, books, a decent bra.
Maybe, maybe paid the rent on time. If I had not said till deathif we did not know each other like curves in familiar roads.
If I wore pearls more often, if I had not grown fat, if he had not grown so obtuse. There is no need, anymore, for pictures. You may rut against each other in the bin.
I will drop tea bags on your faces. The tepid wet will curdle your smiles. It is unfillable, as am I — we are matched, this blackest of Sabbaths and me.
You fucker — you fucker, you. My heart is a burst eyeball, a gooseberry underfoot. Sunday is a cradge and I burst over it — it cannot stop the wanting.
I am lapping, plate-edged like too much dinner gravy. Bib me with your tender mouth is what I want to say. Bib me, I am spilling. She also established the poetry site The Fat Damsel.
Wanted intercourse with the other AND his wife. But, Eleanor said no. Three years passed. ER advocated for the negro and Japanese American and modeled female self-determination.
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Yet, the Roosevelts lie together today sharing a gravestone. She loved me like a leg loves chiggers. She loved me like a bare foot loves splintered glass.
Buschmann is a freelance copy editor in Carmel, Indiana. The hoppy flavor of pale ale evokes a blue football jersey hanging loosely from your shoulders, your hips hidden beneath, unrestrained and inviting, you strut from the hallway to the couch, long calves smooth and tight.
A hint of cinnamon, and suddenly I am serving you French toast in bed, the morning after my first night in your apartment. After all it simply played the day you arranged my clothes into piles that fit neatly in plastic grocery bags.
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It was as if you read a shopping list. This will be the best for both of us, you appealed to my logic, but I loved you, so I pleaded my case, one last act of futility, as you busied yourself around the kitchen unable to hear my reason, you swatted my compromises as if each was an irritating green headed fly.
Broken, I packed my car as it began to pour, the cold autumn rain chilled my face and fingers, I shivered in the car, and waited, watched your sliding door for some sign that you still cared, just come to the window — come and say goodbye, but you never appeared, and I drove home listening to the Lumineers.
Though you never speak to me, and look at me as if I am unfamiliar to your eyes, like we never locked the door and ordered delivery all weekend, barricaded ourselves from the world and made love over and over and over again.
I can relive moments with you, though I do so cautiously, by playing a song, by adding whiskey to my steaming black coffee.
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They enjoy picnics, hiking, and family fun days. You watch rom-coms on TV, broken Baal, mourning after punished paupers. Mourning is not enough, nothing is enough til your memory is erased.
Women go to Baal to die but he never does the job fully. Baal is bored with her and the others, all kinds of muttering. He slams the door behind, goes to find men.
For ten full minutes after he leaves, she thinks, quiet, two thoughts, quiet, a loop.
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Then on again to whatever is required to continue. Then back to Baal to do his job, not fully. PART 2. She does not really belong here.
She was always just trying to find a place for her in it. Say goodbye to all the things, get ready to say goodbye.
25.02.2020 – I know you do. See more by Gareth here. She wraps me in these kingdoms, lays down the sea across my back. Usually has a high-cut leg line. I want to sip White Zin until poetry pours through us and you drink me in.
Baal makes her wonder at the grounding pain of a moment, it opens and opens in to even more moments. It is a sordid world you put yourself in, only for loathing, not only of self.
For other work, find him in our Volume Three, Issue 2 Jessica Gleason is a selfish writer, writing what suits her and not what mainstream poetry looks to publish.
If security stops me, what do I say? I have no permit, save membership on the Stream Garden Committee. Truth is, I am out to behead, to interfere with the reproduction process.
With this weapon I remove spent flower heads before they scatter seed. I knew a man who used sharp weapons often. His verbal barbs decapitated his love.
He did not understand, nor did his father before him. Some relationships are like that. Today the sun is strong.
Intentions give out quickly. My back is old now.
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I have half a bucket of dead heads. They prefer life as they are, productive, going to their end ragged and brown, but whole. I understand.
Patricia L.
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Goodman is a widowed mother and grandmother and a graduate of Wells College with a degree in Biology and membership in Phi Beta Kappa.
She spent her career raising, training and showing horses with her orthodontist husband, on their farm in Chadds Ford, Pennsylvania.
She now lives in northern Delaware, where she enjoys writing, singing, birding, gardening and spending time with her family. In she received her first Pushcart nomination.
Much of her inspiration comes from the natural world she loves.
These days, I prefer ailment to cure, compelled to huff the row of collars in my closet hoping for a residual hit of that citrus scent she wore.
The way every whiff of cigarette now brings a twinge like second-hand kiss.
The way the porch light from next door finds the exact spot on the mattress where her wrist slept when I awoke at 3 a.
Her presence as a river on this map before my trip to Ireland.
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