Poetry Breakfast

Serving 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 book reviews to feed poets' and poetry lovers' souls.



The Final End to Poetry Breakfast

I know it comes as a shock.  But Poetry Breakfast has come to its final end.

There comes a time for all things to pass.  I’ve taken breaks and put the journal on hiatus before.  But I know now, it is time for me to permanently move on.

I’ve been honored to receive your poetry submissions and I am humbled to know that you let Poetry Breakfast be the journal through which you shared your work with the world.

Poetry Breakfast will remain online with the poems archived for as long as I can afford to keep the site up.

I want to thank Sarah Russell for ending our journey on the perfect note.  The last post was a review of her book I lost summer somewhere.  In that review the final poem to grace Poetry Breakfast appeared.  That poem, by Sarah Russell, is called “The Cottage” and its last lines are:

“Afterwards, I tidy up, wipe away
drops spilled in the pouring. I save
the leftovers though they’re getting stale.
I may crumble them on the porch rail
tomorrow for sparrows
before I garden.”

The words bring tears to my eyes, thinking of cleaning up our morning coffee cups and crumbs.  And knowing it is time now for me to find a new garden to grow.

Thank you to everyone.  We had a good long run.  The kitchen is permanently closed.  Go tend to your gardens now.  Grow.

Love Always,


Inevitability – A Poem by Teresa McLamb Blackmon

By Teresa McLamb Blackmon

Waiting for the spotted dog beside me
to be gone, skinless bones buried
under yard trees in perfect grass
we mow and mourn.

Waiting for the father down the road
to finish his fit, at 87,
draped in a flag, tagged out
as if in a game of catch.

Waiting for endings of all beginnings
to wrap our lives in
garments whole and safe as armor,
shielding from the naked chill of loss.



About the Poet: Teresa McLamb Blackmon is a retired high school English teacher who spends her time on the farm with adoring animals. She graduated from NCSU in 1984 with a MA in English. She graduated in 1995 from NCCU with an MLS. Her poems have been published in “Toasted Cheese,” “Absinthe,” “The News & Observer,” “Poet Lore,” Nochua Review,” “Cellar 101 Anthology,” “From the Edge Review,” “Floyd County Moonshine,” “Main Street Rag,” and “Olive Press.”

Resurrection by Nina Bennett

by Nina Bennett

The first Easter after Dad died
I waited for him to come back to life.
I sat at dinner, silence broken
by klink of fork against china,
swish and crackle of ice
as I stirred sugar into my tea.
I tried to ignore the whispered hypocrite,
you don’t believe in the resurrection

I am responsible for my father’s
death. I’m the one who implored
the ICU doctors to convince my brother
it was time to forgo life-sustaining treatment,
to explain that our father now existed
in a realm we could not access.

First child, oldest daughter,
I’m the one who rested my head
on Dad’s chest, strained to hear
his fading heartbeat, pressed my fingers
against the once-pulsing artery in his neck,
pushed the call button and told the nurse
his final exhale was at 5 p.m.

Nina Bennett is the author of Forgotten Tears A Grandmother’s Journey Through Grief. Her poetry has appeared in numerous journals including Requiem, Tipton Poetry Journal, San Pedro River Review, The Summerset Review, Bryant Literary Review, Yale Journal for Humanities in Medicine, The Broadkill Review, and anthologies such as Spaces Between Us: Poetry, Prose and Art on HIV/AIDS. Nina is a contributing author to the Open to Hope Foundation.

Reunion by Kenneth P. Gurney

by Kenneth P. Gurney 

The dead who came
and visited me last night in a dream
were people I had not thought of
in at least twenty years—
most of them I knew from college.

As happens in dreams
they did not speak to me
even though many opened their mouths
as if to say something
and it was all like a puzzle
I had to figure out,
just as our relationships
when we were younger were a puzzle
that we worked out
over late night beer
or early morning coffee.

After waking from the dream
and the visitation of the dead
I wondered why it was this night
they chose to visit after so long a time
and I was relieved that so many
I long ago called friends
were absent from this visitation,
although I had not heard from them
since graduation.


Kenneth P. Gurney lives in Albuquerque, NM, USA with his beloved Dianne.  He edits the anthology Adobe Walls which contains the poetry of New Mexico.  His latest book is This is not Black & White.  To learn more visit

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