The Furious Gazelle

Literary as hell.

Category: Poetry (page 2 of 13)

“Spelling,” a poem by T.K. Lee

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Poetry by Darren C. Demaree

EMILY AS WE SCARE THE BIRDS

 

We are the un-

knowability of the wind.

Our song terrorizes

 

the possibility of simple

love in simple trees

with simple nests.

 

This is why

our children can’t fly.

They’re lovely,

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Poetry by Brittany Zedalis

Pursuing Chaos

ink from my pen

flows through my veins

just beneath the skin

 

snaking its way

towards the source

of its maddening chaos

 

it stains the bones

of my rib cage

seeping into the marrow

 

it searches

ever yearning

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“Bigger Isn’t Better,” a poem by Marissa Glover

People always say that size matters.

But these days, it’s hard to know what’s true.
So I studied the subject for myself—to see
if the reports I’d heard were just fake news.

Science says Frenchmen have the largest members.
Monsieur Bedel indeed insisted
his was best and that I kiss it! kiss it!
A frog with frantic aim, he lashed about:

a series of this and that—quick in, quicker out.

As if to whip a fly from my cervix,
he jerked his darting la queue faster than a blink.

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“The Falcon Cannot Hear the Falconer, but I Can Hear the Falcon (I Think),” a poem by Julia Brown

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Poetry by Allison Grayhurst

 

Naked Side

 

I’ve seen the destruction

of visions, the penetration

of a good cause, seen souls

anesthetized by sadness.

 

The only constant is endurance,

is the thing that jumps out from

the void then reverses back

into its indifferent swallow.

 

One change, then the moment

slips into a new glimpse of understanding.

 

One small desire fulfilled and all pain

is humbled.

 

Dark Prophets

 

 

They hold the ghost feather.

They cry by cause of extreme imaginations.

Paranoia on pillows,

the stench of shoes and month-old towels

under fingernails.

Liberty in sleeping pills & mirrors

that have no shine.

 

This they have, spirits stabbed

with hunger, doubt & arrogance

raging equally by their bedsides.

Encyclopedias divulged in dead languages

& hoards of filthy critics teasing with

axe and indifference

their true-goal flower.

 

They crack their heads on insecurity.

They do not believe in this world.

 

From balconies, from strait-jackets,

from honeymoon apartments, they expose

the human guilt, delicate visions

that seduce the blind with wonder.

 

The Loyal Unknown

 

I would like to hide

from the mountains, sleep

as a thief

in the assaulted night.

How do I compare my

 

enemies? They all smell

of slain desires,

itching like mealworms

in a bird’s thin crop.

Among the widowed faces

there is

a gateway

into the unfathomable, happy

past: Wolves eyes, I see

confronting with unaware darkness.

The hypocrites play

their tune so beautifully stagnant, making me stumble

into oblivion.

One day when I was walking

on Arizona ground in a dry summer,

I caught a glimpse of

icy love: It came

convulsing

from the sun

to avenge my perfect day. It was an apparition,

reconciling

the whole world

to the paradoxical

cross.

 

Sometimes smiles

are as irretrievable

as murder.

Someone is watching me

from corridors.

Today, it is chaos.

Tomorrow – a child

will be born.

 

 

Mother Chimp

 

Gentle Flo of the

great apes,

does not sing

nor look for

comfort from the sky.

Mother of patience and playful

as moonlight upon a wave. Face

like a roadmap of a sad

primeval journey. Sad

like the first thoughts

of wasted love. Sad

like the night jungle in all its

apparent peace.

 

Cry for the terrible loss

in the midday rains. Cry for the African

trees, rotting from the weight of

a human-made world.

 

    Shaggy arms embrace

to receive your large-heart’s manna.

The lonely climate

surrounds you

with child, near a river that carries

the many deaths of those before

your wild and doubtless

existence.

 

Giving Roses And Bread

 

I turned.

I will not turn again

from her sad space & ruin.

 

No wand, no crocodile

tongue will shut

me out.

 

The hour is blood, is

boiling, is locked

in her iron skull. Her back is straight

for the first time in months, and

her fingers tap the table one by one.

 

I saw her climb

the ladder & crash.

I saw the marrow leak from her bones.

 

I turned.

I will not turn again.

My smile will be her shelter,

 

and with my chains & circle,

I will build for her a garden

where the crows will dance

 

to drown her madness,

helpless

then gone.

 


Allison Grayhurst is a member of the League of Canadian Poets. Three times nominated for Sundress Publications “Best of the Net”, she has over 1125 poems published in over 450 international journals. She has sixteen published books of poetry, seven collections and nine chapbooks. She lives in Toronto with her family. She is a vegan. She also sculpts, working with clay. www.allisongrayhurst.com

Poetry by Thomas Piekarski

Watermark

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Poetry by Natalie Crick

Like Smoke

November curled itself around my

Spine like cigarette smoke,

Seeping into me.

December froze in her grey web.

I want to wake from the dark,

Sleep naked in moon-cooled dirt,

Deep in the night where graves

Spread like black pollen.

I am where the wind

Snuffs out candles,

Can touch a curtain like a ghost,

Like a bell.

Like the dead I escort

Sap to want.

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Poetry by Brandon Hansen

Dear Larry,

The crank of your wrist,
the flex-action of your tendons
pries the brakes from my Chevrolet Prizm,
rains rust on your face
and when you punch the tire
to knock it loose
I won’t take it personally.

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Selections from “Walking,” a poetry collection by Patrick Hurley

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