Tag / poem

by Peter Wyn Mosey

Musical Beach Grass – Joni Caggiano

Shy and shielding the sun through cotton candy clouds musically smell my skin. Beholding heaven, I remember how trembling we explored our wedding ground in this land of arctic terns. Childlike, I embrace stolen moments of youth I never had. Briny mist captivated my racing heart as I lay with you and licked the salt off your chest. Standing firm, sun and sand are bleaching your face like a white knight—wood groaning like a weathered garden glove with worn rawhide. Our bodies, one – yellow beach grass lashes near us in woolen blankets, creating an endless wave that shimmers as the sun dips low in the horizon, like an old friend.

Joni’s blog is Rum and Robots, where she has published poetry, photography, and short stories. Take a look at Joni’s work in Spillwords Press NYC, Vita Brevis Press, The Finest Example, The Tiny Seed Literary Journal, I Write Her – The Short of it, and MasticadoresUSA. Joni’s work was included in the following anthologies: The Sound of Brilliance (The Short of It Publishing, Volume 1 2020), Inner Eye (Poets Choice, 2021), and It’s Not Easy (Poets Choice 2021). Her blog is an effort to give back – she is a surviving Adult Child of Alcoholics. Joni is a retired nurse and paralegal.

Looking to submit to us? We’re accepting Poetry, Fiction, Articles and Art! Please get in touch.

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by finestexamplecontributor

A Path of Breadcrumbs

A Path of Breadcrumbs by Joni Caggiano

steam rises from the path which elicits moments

tasting of honey, trickling over my body, as I roam alone

hot pavement releases her heat through steam,

like sultry, smoke cascading upwards toward the heavens

morning rain, still fresh with summer kisses mixing with pollen

tiny is the child with training wheels on her bike

innocent her smile as she glides on air in new shoes

our feet once walked beside one another, exchanging thoughts

you saved lonely earthworms from the heat of the sun

my eyes swell with stale tears, as I leave you breadcrumbs

wildflowers bursting with fragrance, clothe me in their robe

remembering you like a chocolate cake that has no end

Image -Pexels

by finestexamplecontributor

A Week in a Day in a Lockdown Life

A Week in a Day in a Lockdown Life

by Anisha Minocha

On Sunday, wilted blue, in some broken way

sit tired, dried eyes

which stay up till four-

waking, a dawning hope 

of becoming something more.

On Tuesday, the same she lay,

with lullabies of slumbered ideas

to alarm clocks yawning-

cocooned beneath

a damp, canvased awning.

Harsh upon rain soaked glass,

Friday’s mardy moon

left light

when it dipped too soon- 

the outside just too bright. 

At nine, or somewhere around that time,

teeth are brushed: thorough and thrice.

Followed swift by breakfast-

injected ink of paper weight pages

and sooted shards of downcast

timetable edges.

At the desk, everything had been said

originality erodes in it’s tomb:

cold, dusty,

dead.

With a half- heart, poised pen apart,

gripped between

failed words and sanity,

at home, feeling so far

from reality.

Weeks marked by times crumbled apart,

melting into the cold fever

of distorted calendars,

watch, as they fall

like a house of cards.

But think of the beauty in it all.

Static, enviable, yet achromatic

screens are watched.

Ethereal illumination,

frozen, shelves clean, pristine-

suspended from another world.

Wait. Darkness looms, a soulless slate,

Like Friday, unmoved in shadowed clouds, 

Suffocating skin that feels no wind.

Restless eyes, half closed on Keats

On this unmade bed of blank sheets.

Leaves waltz in the showered breeze,

open window. Untouched air.

Oh, to not drown in dust, sinking, 

heavy as raindrops. To float in streets,

where nature walks free.

Anisha a 17 year old writer from Manchester, passionate about poetry and the power of words. As a climate activist, I have performed spoken word poetry at the Royal Exchange Theatre in ‘Letters to the Earth’. I have also written articles on religion, social media and events in a local newspaper, as well as blogging for students and libraries.Follow my blog for regular poetry and articles: https://ajmwritesonline.wordpress.com/  Twitter: @Anisha_Jaya

Looking to submit to us? We’re accepting Poetry, Fiction, Articles and Art! Please get in touch.

by finestexamplecontributor

Silver Grey

My wine glass is suddenly heavy.

I know, surely,

That I would still die for you.

You are silver grey now,

And my body is wider.

We are older,

But, I fear, not wiser.

You still smell the same, 

And it slays me,

As it always did. 

Stops me in my tracks,

Makes my knees buckle.

And yet, 

I don’t look back when you walk away,

And nor do you. 

Photo by Valeriia Miller from Pexels

Hannah is a freelance writer and blogger, who shares fiction, poetry and other ramblings at Secret Scribbles in London. She is currently in the very early stages of writing a novel. Hannah lives in South East London with a marauding toddler, an occasionally-marauding husband and a rescue cat, known as The Fluffbeast, who believes he has a very tragic life.

Looking to submit to us? We’re accepting Poetry, Fiction, Articles and Art! Please get in touch.

by finestexamplecontributor

Mourning Siren

Mourning Siren by Joni Caggiano 

Was she hatched in smoky vapors of opium from a mystical brazen beast

She saunters like dated brown molasses dripping gentle, tuneful notes

Her parasol held skyward hollowed out, but its sturdy frame holds at least

Thick and tall the fedora upon her head, amid dwindled tapestry pale blue

Glorious her face such splendor only aroused by daring dreams of sailors

Her elongated body would float through the village where subtle sounds flew

Never a word uttered disappearing into the shadows of battles won and lost

Comprised of secrets shared in village corners amongst murky moments gone

Stateliness intact though armless she was the heartfelt spirit of the painful cost

Strolling for centuries where silence fell on stone buildings as she kissed the night

Salty tears fell gently stinging scars where rubble once lay waste on bodies raw

Her songs soared penetrating boundaries and sadness bringing forth moonlight

Mist draped low upon the river bank which echoed in the silence once found

Mildew skulking about like Spanish moss adorning trees with long brown hair

Withdrawing for decades, villagers summoned her, knowing she will come around

Prompting the old of days prior where loss and war filled graves of distant kin

She fancied the beast where she dwelt, for, with humans, no one seemed to win

Photo courtesy of the author

Joni Caggiano is a self-published author of the book, “The Path Toward the Light.”  Her blog is the-inner-child.com, where she has published many poems, photography, and short stories. Her blog is an effort to give back as a survivor as an Adult Child of Alcoholics and to also write about things she feels matter in this world we live in today.  She started writing songs and poetry at the age of thirteen and have been writing ever since.  

Looking to submit to us? We’re accepting Poetry, Fiction, Articles and Art! Please get in touch.

by Peter Wyn Mosey

Overthinking

Overthinking, By Peter Wyn Mosey

Overthinking.
It's that sinking
feeling, shrinking
windows of opportunity 
commitment becomes a scarcity
my motivation in mutiny
there is no sense
I'll be sat on the fence
can't think in present-tense
because I overthink.

Peter Wyn Mosey is a freelance writer living in  South Wales.  He has written and performed comedy at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival and has featured on Queen Mobs Tea House, Little Old Lady Comedy, Robot Butt,  The Finest Example, and posts most days at peterwynmosey.com  

Looking to submit to us? We’re accepting Poetry, Fiction, Articles and Art! Please get in touch.

by finestexamplecontributor

Bad Company

Image by Jason Yearick

Bad Company, By Jason Yearick

Words are
falling,
tumbling, to
the ground
enjambments
spilling down
railways
without
a sound-
poets, are
whimpering,
writers,
simpering,
readers
wrestling
words
roughly,
regretting
this word
squall
realizing-
this poet,
has
abused
them
all.

Jason loves people and writes to inspire by speaking life through poetry, articles and Christian devotional pieces. Knowing how easily it is to allow the doldrums of life seep into one’s spirit, he reminds his readers that we’re all human and it’s our humanity that allows us to help one another.  He also enjoys scenic photography.

Visit Jason online at  http://fourcalendarcafe.com/

Looking to submit to us? We’re accepting Poetry, Fiction, Articles and Art! Please get in touch.

by finestexamplecontributor

A Siege On Sleep

A Siege On Sleep, By Kim Smyth

The nightly turmoil I’ve so come to dread                                                        

At times I think I’d be better off dead                                 

Than lie awake here while all else are sleeping                 

It makes me want sometimes to start weeping 

From my hyperacusis to hubby’s loud snore 

To my long-nailed doggies clicking the floor 

Who scratch and lick to get out the door 

Although it is partially open. 

Tossing and turning, trying to go under 

Finally succumbing only to awaken from slumber  

By snoring, or coughing, or some other fit 

He makes me uncomfortable just a wee bit 

Oh, who am I kidding, I’m mad as a wet hen 

Once more I try laying my head down again 

The snoring begins and I cover my ears 

Yet nothing is working, I’m almost in tears 

I’ve tried everything from plugs to fine oils 

Headphones, pillows, it’s taking a toll 

Nothing it seems can stop the icepick pain 

My eardrum feels like it might explode again 

I’ve left them before sleeping sound in the bed 

To seek solace elsewhere, to the guestroom I head 

Then just as I feel myself starting to drift 

I wake to the sound of some sort of rift 

The cat is now fighting the enemy in the yard 

I shut my eyes tight, I try really hard 

Now the doggies are wanting to get in THIS room 

I curse as I get up, sensing the doom 

Of another night robbed of the sleep I so need 

When from this nightmare will I ever be freed? 

I get up and go to the couch to try there 

Arranging my blankets, pillow, and chair 

Reading until I grow sleepy once more 

I move all my things and lay down on the floor 

What’s that now? Some jingle I’ve heard 

Running round in my head and I think, “How absurd! 

Get out stupid song, so I can just sleep!” 

When finally, I feel myself sinking down deep 

I curse the alarm as it suddenly starts beeping 

So fricking mad that I’m close to just weeping 

I hear him get up, as the shower starts to splatter 

He enters the room later saying, “What’s the matter?” 

I give him a look that says, “Can’t you just guess?” 

Then drag myself up and go start to get dressed. 

My night is now over, this battle I’ve lost 

I really need sleep now, no matter the cost 

Maybe I’ll nap sometime later today 

Oh, who am I kidding, I know there’s no way 

No one can help me I’m starting to think 

This war on no sleep will drive me to drink 

Maybe tonight with a fine glass of wine, 

I’ll find myself dreaming of something divine 

Until then I try to get on with my day 

I sit down at my computer, start plugging away 

While dreaming of stories I shut my eyes tight 

The next thing you know, I’m out like a light! 

Photo by Pixabay from Pexels

Kim Smyth is a freelance blogger, a writer from the DFW Metroplex who lives at home with her hubby Dave and their three furbabies. She runs two blogs, contributes to different publications on Medium and has been published in Therapeutic Thymes and VitaBella magazines. 

Find her at https://kimmy1563.com

Looking to submit to us? We’re accepting Poetry, Fiction, Articles and Art! Please get in touch.

by finestexamplecontributor

The Fabric of Time

The Fabric Of Time, By Stephanie Musarra

The Fabric of Time

Clock ticks at random increments

Time jumbles

And distorts

For the time of the immortals

Knows no bounds

And holds no stitch to

The fabrics of time

Stephanie Musarra is a college student majoring in computer science who likes writing poetry and short stories in her spare time. You can visit her website here, or follow her on twitter.

by finestexamplecontributor

Can I Keep You?

Can I Keep You, By Jenny Guilford

Meeting new friends can be overwhelming. 

I know it hasn’t really been that long, 

But now that we have met, I want to ask 

A simple question, even if it’s strange. 

Can I keep you? 

I know that you’re a person, not a pet, 

I know you’re not a creature I can keep. 

You’re more than that, I know, I understand. 

But I still need to ask 

.… 

Can I keep you? 

Can I keep you as my friend 

Can I keep you as a buddy. 

Can I keep you when I need you 

And even more when I don’t. 

The only thing that I had hoped to say 

Is that I think that you are worth… keeping. 

Because to me it seems that you are great. 

If you aren’t sure, don’t answer straightaway. 

Just think on it, and maybe let me know. 

Because if I was brave enough to say 

The whole truth 

If I was brave enough to ask 

The real question 

I would say 

.… 

Will you keep me? 

Jenny Guilford – 2019

Jenny Guilford is a composer & writer from Australia. After five years as a freelance composer, with music performed by professionals and community groups alike, she has since expanded into freelance writing. With a focus on the importance of stories and building healthy creative practice, her work aims to inspire creative thought and emotion. You can listen to her music and read more of her work here: https://jennysjourneythroughwords.com


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