Poetry

First Things First

Posted by J.B Hogan 01Feb

Leif Eriksson, Columbus, Prince Henry the Navigator,
Cabot, da Gama, Vespucci and deluded de Leon.
Magellan, Balboa, lucky Cortez,
Verrazano, Gomes, Cartier,
de Vaca, de Soto, Coronado, too.
Golden Cities of the Zuni, Fray Marcos in the fray,
John Hawkins, Martin Frobisher, Hendrik Hudson bowling away.

Poets: 

VALENTINE  CONUNDRUM

Posted by Richard Tornello 31Jan

Purple, black, dark, or red,

Across your bottom these colors spread.

Skimpy wimpy bits of cloth,

To see them on,  is to want them off.

Poets: 

Android Or Life, Lust and Love

Posted by Richard Tornello 31Jan

Your job sucks.

You’re low on bucks,

and your vehicle needs repair.

Warm wishes,

cold fishes,

and kisses in the air.

No affection.

Poets: 

Room To Let

Posted by Richard Tornello 24Jan

Halloween in the news room
Mendacity in the briefing room
Conspiracy in the back room
New laws written in the board room
Republic in the toilet.

Poets: 

Up Street Down Street K Street

Posted by Richard Tornello 24Jan

Up congress, down congress
Each hand out for cash
See inside congressmans house
Kissing lobbyist ass.

Poets: 

Birds of a Feather

Posted by Richard Tornello 24Jan

Birds of a feather will flock together.
So will pigs and swine.
Presidents and lackeys pick their choice,
and the republic dies on the vine.

Poets: 

Awescum

Posted by Richard Tornello 17Jan

The headline reads:

“Ten reasons we’re no longer the land of the free.”

The satellite radio station touts the importance,

an interview with a singer from the group YAZ.

Poets: 

Cherish the Nest of Love

Posted by Rose Lu 15Jan

Your song's the message of love,

The love message's brewed into honey,

The honey's produced a poem,

And flies out from the poem a bird of love.

Oh, the lovely bird, go build a nest in the heart of my lover;

Oh, my lovely lover, I hope you cherish the nest of love, forever and ever.

Poets: 

Pulps in Purgatory

Posted by Anna Sykora 09Jan

Pulpi in Purgatorio is a fine Italian dish:
That’s octopus in red-hot sauce, spicy as you wish.    

My Mario’s mama, superstitious, cooks it once a week,
"For garlic cleans the blood," she says; "it keeps you strong and sleek,

And sopratutto it drives any vampiro back to the grave.
They can’t bear the reek of it more than a sharp stave.”

“Mama I love you but that's absurd,” Mario laughing said,
“Nobody believes in Dracula anymore, or the living dead.”

His bean-sized mother drew herself up (she's the stubborn one):

Poets: 

Just

Posted by Anna Sykora 09Jan

Ribcage empty as a sigh,
Feet a clutter of dry bone,

Brittle hands like broken tools,
Skeleton endures alone.

Hid in his private ancient hill,
The jovial rictus of his skull;

One may no longer die or kill.
Now the green earth shall eat her fill.

Poets: 

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