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Month: November 2021

John Grey’s Morning Toast: Two Poems

John Grey’s Morning Toast: Two Poems


Waiting for the toast to be done.
Pouring coffee into a cup.
Morning dew like angel’s spit.
The sun – a critic who loves everything
it lights upon.
Apron of blue jays.
Sparrows suddenly on song.

The breeze.
The orange on the sill.
A game of solitaire not yet started.
Red queen on black king
sings the voice in your head.
Open the window.
Artificial pine scent meets the real thing.

Fish in the bowl
fed by fingers.
Mourning dove takes a dip in the bird bath.
Dandelions open-faced,
glad to steal the grass’s thunder.

The mirror.
Not bad for…
how many years is it?
Mind awakening.
Slippers still asleep on your feet.

Some things it might interest you to know.
Others oblivious.
Bright hazy windows.… Click to Continue “John Grey’s Morning Toast: Two Poems”

Mitch Corber: Three Poems

Mitch Corber: Three Poems

Eclair of the Heart

a man overcome with emotion cannot gloam
     or gloom his way home …

a snail occupied by a whale cannot prove
     nor dispoverish a dish of sardines …

a sack on a madman’s head serves as a hat
     dashed by the drive of who’ll keep him alive …

a doom served up by a saucer of milk heals
     the welcome of wolves at his doubled
     doorway to stay the night heaved by the blitz
     of battleshod crumbs at the dumbwaiter’s
     beck and call …

a posse of weak-kneed jehosophats splats
     head-on with the long grin of one who
     knows the most is missing from his puzzled

“gotcha!” – get me closer to the gotten
     of godspeak as the freak pries back
     his laughing garb to lodge a complaint
     at the ain’t-been-there-yet …

no solvent nor kosher dill whistle will fill
     you up like an eclair of the heart …


Sauna of Soothing Blues

The drunken dice pursue their final tumble
in the first of many tosses

What’s left is a past a paste of former selves
in the groaning dog days of irrelevancy

These weeks of rewind sure stymie a spring-forward
doorway through the clues of an isolating loop-de-loop

The gift of a peapod knocks at the guarded gate
in a Sauna of Soothing Blues

Prosy rosettes pose a wetness a shrewd meander
a coy coriander dipped in the inner inkwell

Spontaneous nerves in a slow syrup – the gaining
of eclectic touch in the much that there is


Vodka Victims

Vodka victims avoid the ovary
melancholy of wallet-sized apologies

When seven rolls a tollgate of telltale felons
in a flash of uppity passion
I string the ring of pithy possibilities
in penniless squirts of action

Votive channels waver in the windy scheme
a thing of barely the brass knuckles
on his fingers

— by Mitch Corber

Copyright© 2021, by Mitch Corber.… Click to Continue “Mitch Corber: Three Poems”