Remnants In the Kitchen After You Leave for Work – A Poem by Roy Beckemeyer

Poetry Breakfast

Remnants In the Kitchen After You Leave for Work

A perfect circle of milk
that glistens white
and translucent
on the table – a memento,
or perhaps an echo
of your porcelain cereal bowl.

The melange
of coffee and dark toast
aromas, drifting
across the slanting
morning sunlight,
sending me
searching the shelves
for ambergris or musk
to fix the base note
of our morning.

The splash of sun
that gilds the edges
of the morning paper,
burnishing yesterday’s news
into a rare folio edition
of an ordinary day.

– “Remnants…” first appeared in Music I Once Could Dance To (2014, Coal City Press). (https://coalcitypress.com/from-coal-city-press/music-i-could-once-dance-to/)

 
About the Poet:
Roy Beckemeyer, from Wichita, Kansas, has had poems published in The Midwest Quarterly, Kansas City Voices, The North Dakota Review, Dappled Things, and I-70 Review. His debut collection of poetry, Music I Once Could Dance To, (2014, Coal…

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Broken Tulips by Karen Barton

I am not a silent poet

A found poem for those massacred in the Ataturk Airport Attack.

Tulips

Red streaked, with faint violet hue

Planted deeper, in Ottoman soil,

a visionary poem of mixed populations,

mosaic colourings, diversity.

Small flowered symbol of paradise,

hybrid of complex origin.

Fragrant form and symbol of

beauty in a formerly

temperate world

between East and West

a declaration of love.

Two lips

Red streaked, with faint violet hue

amongst cut flowers

delicately feathered where they fall

a still-life painting of death,

stem by stem, chamber by chamber,

a blight with black center,

by pathogens of darker empires

burned by passion

a form of currency

in a tissue culture.

Source: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tulip

Tulips are called lale in Turkish (from Persian: ‘lale ‘ When written in Arabic letters, ‘lale’ has the same letters as Allah, which is why the flower became a holy symbol.

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Step on a Crack by Debra Webb Roberts

I am not a silent poet

Mother has a crooked neck
a crown of royal pains
too heavy for her head

She’s ravaged every closet,
every shore around the world
Built castles to ensure her clutch
but grip has lost is shine and strength

The peers and piers and moorings loosed
the hunt long done, the goose
is fully feathered and deboned

Island in the sea, afloat
and target for the desperate lot
whose hunger fans the flames of want
each drifting towards that greener shore

No pity found, no coinage left
for desecrated millions rolled,
who sought out refuge in the feathered nest
whose purse strings drawn so tight that all
within its reach shall starve

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A Modern Struggle by Yasin Shah

I am not a silent poet

Emaciated, skin taut, rib bones protruding.

Glamorous, well known, fame pursuing.

Not tens or hundreds, rather millions.

A rare occurrence, 1 in a billion.

A “lowly” existence from cradle to grave.

Unknown before, yet globally welcomed through fame.

Sustained by crumbs littering the floor.

Banqueting daily, in three courses or four.

Living life as a struggle day by day.

Spending unnecessarily in countless ways.

Accepting and pleased with how they are born.

Changing with scalpel and plastic, under self scorn.

Poor and destitute, yet still holding pride.

Shameless and faithless,sleeping with any man,woman,beast or child.

Trekking countless miles for impure water.

Consuming a beverage brought for a quarter.

Conflicted by countless years of drought and famine.

Complaining about rain, sun, thunder and lightning.

When fallen ill, they lay there, death all they await.

A sniffle or cough, the private doctor notes the customers state.

Six feet deep, a stick marks…

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Beautiful Destruction – A Poem by Meghan O’Hern

Poetry Breakfast

Beautiful Destruction

She blows perfect rings of smoke
from her plum painted lips
I never learned to make dying beautiful
I have swallowed enough liquor
to confuse my body for an ocean
I do mad things for happiness
hoping to find beauty
in black coffee
and empty dinner plates

About the Poet:
Meghan O’Hern is a senior English and Creative Writing major at Bradley University. Her work centers on themes of mental health, feminism, and identity. She is thankful to Writehouse Ink for reading these poems before they were ready.

Photo by Floede.

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Foreign by John William Brown

I am not a silent poet

We all are migrants. We are all refugees.
Departure is both a welcome and a goodbye.
It later breaks the heart with memories.
It burdens one with nostalgia for the new;
the new that seems, to never quite arrive.
We hold to passing things as if they’re ours:
this transient space, our place within the queue,
our precious time with all its hurried hours.

We claim our rights, by how long we have been here;
the time that passed since our ancestors arrived:
the blur of memory, reformed, recalled quite clear.
The world may remain borderless, yet we claim we
have been here longer than any other kind;
and though there never was a place called home,
we make up sacred law books to decree
that God, not Might, gave us the right to own.

We kill and maim and then we desecrate
this temple Earth that’s merely here on…

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