It's just poetry, it won't bite


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Midwest Sunset by John Dorroh

Midwest Sunset by John Dorroh

By Sally Toner

“Mike said he was wrong,”
that lax mom texts me as
I finish bedtime prayers. “Your
Sara scored four goals, not
six.” I send back a winky
face. Who, me, a
The picture I remember came
after—two empty nets and
a field that shrank as
the clouds came

Burnt Out
By Lynn White

The sun is burning
about to fall to earth little by little
turning the lake to fire first.
The land will be next,
forest and field,
mountains and plains
all flaming.
It’s falling little by little
like blown glass
Even the clouds are on fire
the guardian angels
have already burned
and this final fire
will crash and burn
leaving nothing,
but darkness
when the fires go

Lost Futures
By Nick Hawkins

4am, once awake,
I can barely own my eyes,
as morning bursts through life’s window,
catching cool drops still rolling soft,
whilst little friends (birds) introduce this new day,
so delicately in their sweet melody of simple song.

Mother Nature’s stirring calmly,
as she’s waits in silence for me to cradle and appreciate her undeniable beauty,
uplifting my bare and stripped back soul.

I lay here comatose,
to wish of nothing more than all my half-wake smiles warring against the pains of grief,
to be acknowledged,
whilst searching for this missing voice I grieve,
as the sun’s inherent amber glow recalls the eternal weakness never hidden,
that reaches out from these chattering insecurities and whispering thoughts,
declaring that dwelling in these wells of forced absence,
will always be the outstretched hands and tears of our lost futures . . . 

brushstrokes of summer
By Sandy Patton

brushstrokes of summer
golden hues and turquoise blues
heaven’s canopy

Blazing Skies
By Laura Zucca-Scott

When the sky is blazing
With the rage of another day
Of battles lost and hard words
I pause at the familiar sight
of land and dirt roads
But my eyes look for the shadows
For what is hiding in the distance

Tomorrow will come
On a new landscape
of earth and humans
Who do not know each other
and seldom look at the sky
If not in a single moment
of desperate inspiration

Midwest Sunset
By John Dorroh

I wait for you, my darling sky.
I wait for you to pull out your palette,
inviting the world to stop breathing
just for a moment, to look up and out,
to breathe in the glory, the energy.

You hide your son so well, covering
his flesh with a shroud of color—lemon
yellow, orange, a shade of blue I’ve
never seen. Salmon, peach, names
not invented.

And you ask me from 475 miles away
why I choose to stay in this Midwest
wasteland, why I gave up bones and blood
for prairie lands and dangerous winds
that blow barns past the bedroom window.

This is it, my sky, my daily salvation,
my elixir, the way She takes me by the hand
and leads me into deep sleep and dreams.