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Scroll or Select From The List of Titles
Orange Velvet Armchair by Trent Alic Lonely Roads by Bill Crimi Please Accept Me by Valerie Loveless Beautiful Soul by Dawn-Marie Kontomichalis Big Sweet Blinking Eyes by Bill Crimi Into The Mist by Bill Crimi Making the Cut by Anon Welcome to Earth by Woo Ahn What Is It...? by Woo Ahn You Cry by Erica Sandlin Flickering Out by Bill Crimi OK I by Trent Alic Baby Kitten Dying by Bill Crimi No Regrets by Erica Sandlin Saddened to Silence by Bill Crimi Measuring Time by Karen Bashkirew Breath of the Hand by Bill Crimi Deep Within by Dawn-Marie Kontomichalos Destiny by Martha Kinsey Hand Fried Potatoes by Karen Bashkirew Dark Form by Daniel Madrid Blink of an Eye by Brittany Stout War and Tale of Tales and Warriors by Andrew Conforti A Taste of Sin by Andrew Conforti Liquid Mind by Bill Crimi Whispers by Joseph Roque Submit Your Poetry to RagMag RagMag's Poetry Archive Check Out RagMag's First Book of Poetry...The Lonely Road Poet
by Joseph Roque
So, this is what it's come to. Where you are. What you've become.
In one single, simple lifetime, you decide to prefer the company of graveyards, to gatherings of live humans.
What? I say again; what in your walks there, do you find that mankind does not offer you?
Peace of mind. Respect. Quiet time.
Harsh words there, are never more than whispers.
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WAR AND TALE OF TALES AND
WARRIORS
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by Brittany
Stout You
had me good. Knew just the right
words, that made me
believe you
were real, and
can trust you. But
with a blink of an eye, it
was like a knife to the heart. You
took off into the dark without a sense of
knowing if
you will be returning. Waitin to
see will determine if
we’ll ever be. You
can’t even come around, ashamed to see how I
will act, but
now you know. You
won’t even talk so,
in a blink of an eye I’m
saying good-bye.
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A TASTE OF
SIN
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by Bill Crimi
Flowing
through the hills of yesterday old
waves of troubles, ripple now tempered
by time that
which stormed above me falls
now as warm, gentle rain and
there is new birth in these old woods coming
back in forms I once neglected within
self-imposed hurt my
loneliness, anger and fear all
subside in the
rippling where
silent, worn ghosts rise looking
tired and bent unable
to haunt me anymore and I
smile…in recognition acknowledging me within
them all…it’s me I see oh this
calm, liquid mind flows…finally…gently.
by Dawn-Marie Kontomichalos From
deep within my soul,
My
heart is aching all the time body
tired and weak If only
I could free myself Allow
my heart to speak.
by Karen
Bashkirew
Daytime moon, drifting like a whispered secret in the bleached blue July sky, you carry me to the narrow house on Chestnut Street, to the kitchen where Nana stands, corseted and aproned, at high noon on the hottest day of the summer making hand-fried potatoes– my father, her first-born son, has a sudden taste for them. She peels plump potatoes, nicks out the eyes, slices translucent circles. She slips them, one by one, into a skillet of sizzling lard. Sweat beads on her forehead, dampens her gingham dress. Hot grease spits at her as she spears each slice and turns it over. I watch her flinch at the sting, wilt in the heat, beam in her son’s white light. I watch her folk each chip from the pan and pat the crisp moons dry. I watch as she salts and peppers and serves this communion she offers only to sons.
*for Auntie Mim
by
Martha Kinsey A shining star appeared one
night sent to earth to
glow it shone and sparkled
everywhere till winter buried it in
snow. That lovely star did
struggle to help itself be
free, but freedom was the only
thing that never was to
be. The snow began to
melt one day in early
spring that lovely star leaped up
again it’s heart began to
sing. “I’ve realized my
destiny” sang out the precious
one, “is to shine
forever, in the presence of the
son”
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by Bill Crimi Night falls as I loose my sun to the Western sea Tired feet...tired soul Empty, lonely road... Thinking not so much what lays ahead, but mostly...left behind seems I'm always traveling to the past to faces and places just over some hill. Lonely, lonely road....filled with ghosts.
by Daniel Madrid As the pigeon gray court
halts a divine debate. Selected sources side among storied states. Flatly time demands
our noble heart's berated. In determining of mind, between
man, all monsters are created.
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