Guest Poems
We love to read your poetry and, even though we receive over 1,000 poems per month, we always take time to read every single one.
A few of the poems we especially enjoyed and which were selected for publication in our Journal are reprinted below.
For more information, please see our Submissions page.
Guest Poems
Jodi Cadenhead
The Best is Yet to Come
Everyone agreed it was the polar caps,
that went first, followed by
the Colorado River and the birds – pretty much, all of them,
not to mention the pandas, the monarch butterflies
and the green sea turtles.
But what really got our attention,
were the damn ice cubes.
Except for half of Europe,
that claims to enjoy drinking
room temperature Coke,
it became impossible to go
to a ballgame anymore.
You try drinking warm beer.
Without any ice,
Martinis went the way of dinosaurs.
By then, vinyl records
had melted away, which meant
no more Frank Sinatra to tell us –
The best is yet to come.
Title ‘The Best is Yet to Come’ from Sinatra song, by Carolyn Leigh and Cy Coleman, ‘You think you’ve seen the sun, but you ain’t seen it shine. . .You ain’t seen nothin’ yet. The best is yet to come.’
Sam Cassels
Anvils
I have this dream
of anvils dropping
from a quiet sky.
A scene in a B-movie
from the Cold War era
in glorious black and white.
A heavenly protest
from the gods of war
as they lay down their tools.
A Dali painting
of shadows falling
on the face of the earth.
Or just a rain of violence
from the blacksmith hands
of my unmet grandfather.
More Guest Poems
J.S Watts
Monkey Night at the Circus Monkey see. Monkey do. Monkey gone. No longer my monkey. No longer my circus. Say goodbye to the red haired clowns, the tension, the drama, the spangled tears. No more balancing on an impossible wire, spinning dizzily up high with no way...
Elizabeth Barton
Absence In the quiet forest, nothing stirs. I hear no sigh of leaves, no woodlark’s song, only the moaning of the bracken. I see your boot prints in the sand, puddled with rain, the claws of a dog beside you. Your lips are silent as the pines encircling us. I follow...
Sandra Fulton
Sea-Roads I have come to talk to you Because the days draw in And because I can hear the sea – The distant, long sigh of it. I hear the gull-cry. But mostly, I hear the sea. And, farthest of all, the thunder The ominous deep dirge of it: A shape on the mind’s horizon,...
Vic Pickup
In Churchill’s The boy in the fish and chip shop once felt sad enough to slice the soft white skin on the inside of his wrist. He has a thick scar shining wide and purple like a fat worm sliding up his sleeve. You’ll see a flash of it as he deftly shovels and shakes...