By Yesenia Montilla
& I immediately think of Cheryl, her Malik, his beloved
obsession with the team’s orange & blue, a sunset…
obsession with the team’s orange & blue, a sunset…
Explore Poems: Activities
Showing 1-20 of 2,987 poems
- By Josh BellKung-Fu, a couch, and I might reach
emptiness tonight, stuck on that Midwest
hoo-doo, counting cemetery… - By Michael PalmerI know a silent movie star named Jane.
She speaks without moving her lips.
She once starred in a film … - By Robert HaydenAt Dunbar, Castle or Arcade
we rode with the exotic sheik
through deserts of erotic flowers;
held in the… - By Leah Naomi GreenTake all summer,
your ember from the sun,
its walking meditation. Store it in small
vaults of light to … - By Rita Dovelate, in aqua and ermine, gardenias
scaling her left sleeve in a spasm of scent,
her gloves white, her… - By William Butler YeatsI
I walk through the long schoolroom questioning;
A kind old nun in a white hood replies;
The children learn to cipher and to sing,
To study reading-books and history,
To cut and sew, be neat in everything
In the best modern way—the children's eyes
In momentary... - By William Butler YeatsI
That is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees,
—Those dying generations—at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music... - By Jorie GrahamThe blades like irises turning very fast to see you completely—steel-blue then red where the cut occurs…
- By Ada LimónIs it okay to begin with the obvious? I am full of stones—
is it okay not to look out this window, but to look out another?
A mentor once said, You can't start a poem... - By Cornelius EadyI’m here
to tell you
an old story.
This
Appears to be
my work.
I live
in the world,
Walk
the streets… - By Kinsale DrakeI feel god in this Taco Bell tonight:
Cheese, beans, rice, the witching hour
of missing someone. My mother
liked to cook with the worst kind of flour.
My father snuck sips of sweating drinks
clutched in my sister’s little fingers. This
is the spot to... - By CAConrad“this is your
captain” Frank says from the cockpit
“all passengers wishing to bail out
any time during our flight
it
is
too
late
I have shredded the parachutes to confetti
in celebration of our arrival” - By Frank X. Walker...walk into a bar in America.
Butterworth says, I’m being repackaged.
Ben says, I’m being rebranded.
Jemima says, I remember
when they branded my mama on her back.
The bartender says, I could stand in the middle
of Main Street and kill somebody
and I wouldn’t... - By Sarah RuhlSome say: to do the necessary task is greatness;
I say: do the least necessary thing first.
I don't want a frozen living room,
a room where nothing happens.
I don’t want my labors tied in string,
a prelate hovering over, declaiming.
I want a treasure... - By Mike DoughtyHe was jailed for cruelty to insects, and his agent wasn’t answering the phone, so he stayed awake in the cell all night, pictures jumping around his head of the cops and the blowdryer they took as evidence. He used...
- By David RoderickI wear a flower in my lapel.
I like the sweetness of its lie in my nose.
A carnation, the fool’s flower,
its heart a wilting empire.
In late-night editing sessions,
I imagine I’m planting flowers
in the sockets of eyes. Whatever helps
me reach our rigor... - By Richard BlancoQue será, el café of this holy, incorporated place,
the wild steam of scorched espresso cakes rising
like mirages from the aromatic waste, waving
over the coffee-glossed lips of these faces
assembled for a standing breakfast of nostalgia,
of tastes that swirl with the delicacy... - By Holly Mitchell1.
After the beginning of the gallop, there are counts when the horse is in the air, her
legs withdrawn, a diamond shape.
This is called suspension.
2.
Her name is Sallie Gardner.
She’s by Vandal, out of Charlotte Thompson, Kentucky bred, of Irish pedigree, a
Birdcatcher.
Now... - By Lynn EmanuelLove is boring and passé, all that old baggage,
the bloody bric-a-brac, the bad, the gothic,
retrograde, obscurantist hum and drum of it
needs to be swept away. So, night after night,
we sit in the dark of the Roxy beside grandmothers
with their shanks...