detroit sketch #1 (for m.l.) – A Poem by Brian Gilmore

Poetry Breakfast

detroit sketch #1 (for m.l.)

looking closely i now see the chevys fords chryslers
lining these streets like paupers standing in soup lines
years ago everyone really did still believe in this.
they bought the cars. they embraced history. they sacrificed.
they were devoted followers. not a cult but invested,
so they thought. learning love is not always reciprocal
& adam smith is not around to explain anything.
there are no invisible hands seen around here anymore
that is except for hands that once pulled levers.

in detroit my korean import does not get keyed
this is the dead folklore; david halberstam writer prophetic.
as i look again at these chevys fords chryslers
lining these streets like paupers standing in soup lines
i finally make sense of this love gone bad
we are the 21st century; the epoch of wi-fi.
assembly lines are now full of phones, pads, robots

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various placements – A Poem by Crystal Snoddon

Poetry Breakfast

various placements

They say there’s no real excuse for philandering, but a truism persists that after three years a man must spread his seed, leave his weaned offspring to toddle after their tired mother – it is nature, expected, metronomic monotony.

My clock chimes reminders of fallibility wound into my aging carcass. Notice how my meanderings have been tightly circuitous, repeated revolutions in creation, fornication, self-confined to familiar surroundings. But this is where I live, and every four years another man was chosen to minister to this land I inhabit but am not native to, regardless of whether my placental cord grew thickly, was severed, here.

Perhaps I am philandering with a home never given, never truly chosen, spreading weeds into fields never mine.

About the Poet:
Crystal Snoddon finds inspiration in the Canadian wilderness. Her poetry has appeared in SickLit Magazine, Waking Dawn, a Canadian anthology, and various flash…

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When Summer Left – A Poem by Mishel McCumber

Poetry Breakfast

When Summer Left

I remember
being rocked to sleep
on my grandmother’s lap,
her apron stained
with flour and berries,
the brush of her hand
on my bare feet in summer,
lemonade in a turquoise pitcher.

Her world—my world,
wolves in the purple of night,
fly paper swirling from pitted beams,
flies frozen in flight.

It was sweat and firewood,
wet feet creeping:
snails on the sidewalk
when trees became skeletons
and silence dredged the shadows
and frail as winter’s autumn leaf
summer left her eyes.

About the Poet:
Mishel McCumber is a Canadian-born writer and US resident whose non-fiction has been published internationally and translated into German and Spanish. She is currently finishing her Master’s Degree in English and is newly emerging as a poet.

Poetry Breakfast accepts submissions of poetry and poetry related creative non-fiction year-round.  See our Submission Guidelines page for details on submitting your work.


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Poems by Deepa Chandran Ram



Poems by Deepa Chandran Ram





Awaken in the twilight…

to that stupendous journey

of a caterpillar to a butterfly..

the joy of just being..

Its muddle headed musings

stoical and intrepid

flambeau in the rain shadow

of a trapeze rachilla….

The twit in its trench mouth

unseats an ebullient waul

The deleterious pansophy

unwary and weedy

capitulates to a waterhole..

The humble bees

on enervated, raw Sienne flowers

mumble to the caterpillar’s ears

in hush resonance..

“Resplendent is your masquerade

sterling, lustrous,

sovereignly gracious,

argentate to aurate..

But your inner beauty,

audacious by desire

on countless glory

and on whom paragon awaits,

is for the earth’s eye

beyond all reverence…


trumpet forth,

your blue melancholy

from this transoceanic camouflage..

Emerge as a Protean

with a Sphinx smile,

with wisdom, umpteen

and mind, mercurial..

Too succinct is your life,

to reach effulgent distances

through labyrinthine…

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North of Tombstone, 3 am – A Poem by Doug Stanfield

Poetry Breakfast

North of Tombstone, 3 am

Shadows and silhouettes, backed by a waning moon,
Slide past like California’s fading promises,
Distant and confusing.
Off to the south, somewhere over the sand and arroyos and cacti

Is Old Mexico.
A few miles, no more.

A small town slips into view,
Safeway. Ace Hardware. The usual.
A Benson Fuel glares at a Shell station on the other corner.

Ten-thousand tons glide to a stop so softly it would not wake a baby with colic.
An old woman with a bonnet lifts a travel bag over the curb,
Joining our travels. Where can she be going before dawn, alone? El Paso?
Chemo, hoping it works this time?
Or just to visit their daughter and the new grand-baby?

Her husband watches as she climbs on board,
His hands shoved in jeans pockets, looking dried out like the land…

When the train accepts her he turns…

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