Free Verse
cordless
lately I’ve been dreaming of a quieter life. a curled up kind of life / a cordless kind of life. my calendar overflowing, my phone buzz-buzzing. I am haunted, but mostly by unanswered emails. no, your email has not found me well; it has found me foaming at the mouth, clawing at my skin for a way out. a cordless kind of life . unplugged. let me never touch another keyboard. let me write letters to the moon and lay in a bed of moss and mushrooms and swim in a mountain stream. let my to-do list say: do whatever you want today. whatever warms your heart.
By katherine j zumpanoabout a month ago in Poets
Come Wednesday. Top Story - October 2026. Content Warning.
Come Wednesday, might this window view be brighter Nor'easter turbulence Dumps another round of rain Nature's unsettled womb; it's personal Forehead to pane Whipping wind pulls my chest tighter Tears Midstream drought Raw, irritated, swollen, moisture-stripped eyes Awkward silence Oriel reflection; side view Less than a bump Side-eyed empty cradle Waiting for the arrival of grace Recalling when hope didn't deliver Fear: am I unable Coastal collision colors corneas clay Come Wednesday, might this window view be clearer Weather satellite; comma-shaped storm Counterclockwise If I could go back Would I heed the forecast Connect one thing to the next Outline probabilities Foretell context Empty clothesline flaps in the wind Lawn chair flips across the yard Off-season treason Body overthrows heart Head to pane Matrix mindful— pear-shaped lies Come Wednesday, might this window view be forgiven Sun's reclamation Will Gaia apologize to the garden Or ask her to act as if nothing ever happened Eroded Goldenrod Corroded potted Chrysanthemums Bruising outlook Landscape stamp on my heart Open screen; hand out Fertility prayers Mother-wuthered seeds palm mitted Heart's black and blue Nature's embryotic reassignment Personal Anemochory; biological memory Oh, when will yellow and purple finally make green Come Wednesday, might this window view look brighter Terra, don't clap back to my thunder I've seen it earlier Same date, different year Kindly Precipitation prelude positive prognosis May open heavens bless me So I am not repulsed by the gods Because I've been here before Riding Climate carousel Exit retrospect Function missing extra pulse Heartbeat hymns Short window; today is Sunday Appointment. Anniversary Birth-death-one breath Window view blues Erratic forecast Three days and waiting What will happen come Wednesday
By Marilyn Gloverabout a month ago in Poets
Be Otherwhere
Take the shape of water for instance giving my body what it wanted, and most days it was the sun, I’d share it but you couldn’t be touched— that was when I was young, moving with a lot of purpose. My voice in a crowd, nothings the same as my voice in the trees voice in the sea voice in a cloud. Words land in a wallet —that someday condom tucked between credit score and privilege be otherwhere, the night owl nightingales sing some mornings be water.
By Gerry Thibeaultabout a month ago in Poets
Today Was Fine
I hung the laundry today. All in one go, No chasing socks around. I drank my coffee slowly. Mug resting by the table's edge, Warm until the last sip. I ate my breakfast whole. Each bite of bread unchallenged, The plate unmoved. I deep-cleaned the bathroom. Soaked and scrubbed the sink, Chemicals cabinet wide open. I sat down to draft a story. Plugged the laptop into the socket, The cable hung untugged. The sound of my breath Echoed against the windows Filling the still walls. Books sat on their low shelves. The sandy outline of tiny soles: A hug-shaped hole in my arms.
By Sasha Desideriabout a month ago in Poets
A Journey Through October’s Cyclonic Interior
Welcome to October. Step across the threshold where the troposphere gathers, drawing the season into itself. October is a high-altitude station, a severe place built entirely of fluid dynamics and plunging atmospheric pressure. Your lungs register a steep descent, an absolute vacuum zone. Your internal altimeter recalibrates to the sudden negation of the sun.
By Tim Carmichaelabout a month ago in Poets
