Search

Poetry Breakfast

Beginning March 20th, 2016 Poetry Breakfast will once again serve a little poetic nourishment every morning. Start your day with our new expanded menu. Poems, of course, are our specialty. But we will also be serving a fuller menu that includes poetry related creative non-fiction such as letters to and from poets, essays on poetry, and anything else that might feed a poet and poetry lover’s soul.

Free-Box – A Poem by Devon Balwit

Free-Box

I am not above stooping,
free-box food as good as any other,

the shampoo in half-used bottles still shampoo,
a set of tea lights with only two missing,

a cable sweater with a faint stain I’d put
in the same place, a batik wall-hanging,

a serving platter, an unopened bottle of wine,
all still treasures. The code is don’t take all

the good stuff, leave one book you’d want to read,
split the four chairs with someone still blocks away;

and if you’re the one boxing, scan the sky and
watch for rain; don’t leave anything drained of mana.

Joy comes when nothing is left, with imagining
your castoffs buttoned by new hands, catching the light

on different sills, with picturing someone whose bad day
your gift drains of sadness, no money exchanged.

A true bodhisattva would point the way home
with a sign: Come in. Whatever you want is yours.

 

 

About the Poet:
Devon Balwit is a poet, parent, and educator from Portland, OR. Her work can be found both in print journals and on-line. The only thing she likes better than writing is watching her joyful dog catch frisbees in the morning.

 

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.

Start your morning with a nourishing poem.  Follow us on  Twitter, Facebook, and  Tumblr,  and enjoy a new poem every morning straight to your feed.

Elegy – A Poem by Aden Thomas

 Elegy

The wildflowers run their purple flags.
Fields are castaways.
The crescent moon is unattached again.
No stardust. No clouds.

You think you’ll keep the memories of lovers
inside your pocket for easy travels,
but apparitions run
like mice across the snow.

You hear a woman’s voice on the radio.
You reach. The airwaves have her gone
to another’s ear a universe away.
The voice never called your name.

Coyotes howl because the silence is impossible.
The sparrows know a coyote’s song
is a simple elegy to an empty sky
and the tonality of wings.

 

 

About the Poet:
Aden Thomas grew up in central Wyoming. His work has been featured in The Kentucky Review, The Inflectionist Review, and Absinthe Poetry Review. He lives north of Denver.

 

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.

Start your morning with a nourishing poem.  Follow us on  Twitter,Facebook, and  Tumblr,  and enjoy a new poem every morning straight to your feed.

Two Poems by Wilderness Sarchild

Ordinary Moments

Again, the hummingbird
is buzzing over the sugar water.
Again, the coyote
is crossing the road.
Again, the deer
are feeding in my yard.

One breath
Then another

 

 

 

Belonging To Sand

Time stops here
Terns perch on my nose
Whales breech on my tongue
Sea grass sprouts between my toes
Salt water swims in my eyes

Like the sand bleached coyote skull,
I, too, can imagine decaying out here
until all that is left are white bones
and the ghost
of a satisfied sigh.

 

 

About the Poet:
Wilderness Sarchild is an expressive arts therapist, poet, playwright, and grandmother of five. Her play, “Wrinkles, the Musical,” will be produced at The Cape Cod Theatre Company in 2017. Her poems have been published in several anthologies/journals and she has won awards for her poetry and play writing from Veterans for Peace, Women’s International League for Peace and Freedom, Chicago’s Side Project Theatre Company, and in 2015, was the first place regional winner of the Joe Gouveia WOMR National Poetry Competition.

 

 

 

 

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.

Start your morning with a nourishing poem.  Follow us on  Twitter, Facebook, and  Tumblr,  and enjoy a new poem every morning straight to your feed.

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

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
there are no invisible hands seen around here anymore
that is except for hands that once pulled levers.
 

About the Poet:
Brian Gilmore is a Washington DC poet and writer. He currently teaches social justice law at Michigan State University. His latest book is, “We Didn’t Know Any Gangsters” (Cherry Castle Publishing LLC), a 2015 Hurston-Wright Award nominee.

 

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.

Start your morning with a nourishing poem.  Follow us on  Twitter,Facebook, and  Tumblr,  and enjoy a new poem every morning straight to your feed.

Breaking Glass on the Way to Accidentally Falling in Love – A Poem by Stephanie M. Wytovich

Breaking Glass on the Way to Accidentally Falling in Love

We were lost somewhere in Ohio and it was dark and our phones were dead but we’d stocked my car with bad decisions and booze even though we were already late and a little bit drunk. He offered me a beer, offered me his lips, and I drank them both while I drove us down back country roads, telling ghost stories I didn’t know the ending to while I watched him watching me trying hard not to show how happy I was because

it was easy, too easy, and we drank ourselves drunk and got lost in the words thinking that if we threw the bottles out the car window that no one would ever know, that if we hit a tree, we’d get extra points, that if we ended up dead in the fog that surrounded the car, it would be almost too perfect, that if we fell in love by the end of the weekend, we wouldn’t have to tell anyone, including ourselves:

especially ourselves.
 

 
About the Poet:
Stephanie M. Wytovich is the Poetry Editor for Raw Dog Screaming Press and an adjunct at Western Connecticut State University. She is a member of the Science Fiction Poetry Association, an active member of the Horror Writers Association, and a graduate of Seton Hill University’s MFA program for Writing Popular Fiction. Her Bram Stoker Award-nominated poetry collections, Hysteria: A Collection of Madness, Mourning Jewelry, An Exorcism of Angels, and Brothel can be found at www.rawdogscreaming.com, and her debut novel, The Eighth, is to be published through Dark Regions Press later this year. Follow Wytovich at stephaniewytovich.com and on twitter @JustAfterSunset

 

 

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.

Start your morning with a nourishing poem.  Follow us on  Twitter, Facebook, and  Tumblr,  and enjoy a new poem every morning straight to your feed.

various placements – A Poem by Crystal Snoddon

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 fictions in 101 Words.

 

Photo by

 

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.

Start your morning with a nourishing poem.  Follow us on  Twitter,Facebook, and  Tumblr,  and enjoy a new poem every morning straight to your feed.

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑

%d bloggers like this: