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.

Tag

poety

Quintile – A Poem by Richard King Perkins II

Quintile

A copper token forges a place
in the unlit sky.

I can see the contours of another life
playing out in dim silhouette.

Bodies and foliage in swirling arabesque
sculpt a new astronomy.

A chimney’s blue smoke obscures
the possibility of hybrid mosaics.

As our car nears the train station
you ask me why we name

the patterns in stars
and not the emptiness of shapes between.

 

 

About the Poet:  Richard King Perkins II is a state-sponsored advocate for residents in long-term care facilities. He lives in Crystal Lake, IL, USA with his wife, Vickie and daughter, Sage. He is a three-time Pushcart, Best of the Net and Best of the Web nominee whose work has appeared in more than a thousand publications.

 

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.

Advertisements

When Grandma Wins at Bingo – A Poem by Rebecca Villineau

When Grandma Wins at Bingo

We four get to go
To Denny’s
Fried chicken in baskets
A mound of hot crisp fries
Our oily fingerprints all over
The paper mats
The four of us coloring
Laughing and gulping
Milkshakes
And grandma with her bingo wins
Fresh under her Irish hands
Her purse ajar
On her lap breathing the winnings
A sweet aroma
To the air
On the way home we stop at the Kmart
Each of us gets a toy
The doll I saw on television
New play dough and markers
At home grandma laughs again at those winnings
At how luck came when she was down
The winnings turning her life into
Something more beautiful

Then there are the days
When there are no bingo winnings
Grandma returns from the basement of St. Patrick’s Church
Her purse holding on
Like a defeated friend
To her elbow
We sit quiet knowing the sound of disappointment
We eat cube steak
And instant potatoes
When we ask for a dollar for the candy store
She snaps, “You think I’m made of money!”

 

 

About the Poet:  Rebecca Villineau is a poet and a social worker. Her poems have appeared in Vox Poetica, Spillwords Press and upcoming fall/winter issue of The Stray Branch. She lives and creates in New Bedford, Ma..

 

 

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.

One Bad Date – A Poem by Travis Laurence Naught

One Bad Date

There is an armadillo
underneath the art-house
picture frame. It’s holding
two blue slushies
and an answering machine.
No one knows how
he got there. By snooping
around where the leftover
popcorn gets thrown out
seems most likely. And why
does he have two
blue slushies? Everyone
in the theater is holding
hands with someone else
and all the seats are taken.

Maybe the little fella’s girl
had to go to the bathroom
after the last show released,
got out an alley window,
hailed a cab, went home,
told her mom all about it;
how he balled up
at the first cold touch,
how he never even looked
her in the armadillo eye,
how he’s probably still
standing there, hoping
they don’t chase him out
with the rest of the varmints
at the end of the night.

 

 

About the Poet:  Travis Laurence Naught is an author who happens to be a quadriplegic wheelchair user. His confessional style poetry has found individual publication online and in print, as well as in two full-length volumes: The Virgin Journals (ASD Publishing, 2012) and Still Journaling (e-book, 2013). His debut novel, Joyride (Black Rose Writing, 2016), is also available on the market. Check out naughtapoet.blogspot.com for more information and original writing by Travis!

 

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.

Gray Hope – A Poem by Tricia Knoll

Gray Hope

I fold back our bed sheets this morning
to match the rolls of cloud billows
sliding like pillows into the naked hot sky.

My feet slip to the tuck at the mattress
to test the cool slickness that may be rain
on a horizon of gray hope

this drought might end.

 

This poem also appears in Knoll’s collection Broadfork Farm available from The Poetry Box.  The collection features poetry about pigs, dogs, starry nights, predators and farmers on this small organic farm in Trout Lake, Washington. Knoll is a regular farmsitter on the property.

 

About the Poet:  Tricia Knoll is an Oregon poet.  She is a frequent farmsitter at a small organic farm in Trout Lake, Washington. Broadfork Farm, her collected poems from the farm, came out in July 2017. Her work appears in many journals and anthologies as well as two other collections. Website: triciaknoll.com

 

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.

Morning Poem – A Poem by Jennifer Judge

Morning Poem

In the moments before the day begins, I am alone.
Almost full moon still visible through
the narrow slit of a window in the back of the house.

Dawn breaks in an instant:
Look out one window and it’s dark,
turn to another and it’s light,
morning flooding the side yard,
instant time travel.

Wet leaves cling to everything this morning,
so much rain last night,
we had to stand outside to
watch it fall on streets flooded with lamplight.

It’s been years now since that fall day I cried
with joy because we moved in,
because we came home
to this town, the only one that
has ever felt like home.

A week ago I stood in
the acoustic room of the Martin Guitar Factory
holding one guitar by its neck
while my husband played another.

It thrummed in my hand
like a living thing,
its vibrations a call and response to the other guitar,
as though they were partners,
as though they could finish each other’s sentences,
as if one could translate for the other.

The house will wake,
I know this the way the dog knows this:
she stretches and sighs in preparation.

Feet will find their way down stairs and into kitchens
as if it is inevitable, a call and response,
the period at the end of my sentence.

 

 

About the Poet:  Jennifer Judge has taught creative writing and composition for 20 years at King’s College in Wilkes-Barre, PA.  She earned her MFA from Goddard College.  She lives in Dallas, PA with her husband and two daughters.  Her work has been published in Literary Mama, Blueline, Mothers Always Write, Schuylkill Valley Journal, Every Pigeon! and Rhino.

 

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.

Happy Hour Revisited – A Poem by William Doreski

Happy Hour Revisited

Like the promise of rain in drought
you perch on a barstool and smirk
in rainbows of special effects.

Baseball slogs away on TV.
The bartender keeps refilling you
with splashes of molten gold.

I want to be more decorous,
more ornamental in my habits,
less like a scrap of metal

rusting in the weeds. You’d laugh
if I told you that the starlight
and urban lamplight have entwined

in cuddles that infect us all.
You’d dismiss my terror of meat
and even the word “meat” when

uttered by the diner waitress
whose statuesque hairdo you admire.
I can’t drink serious liquor

anymore, can only sip tonic
and nibble snacks while men shaped
like wine vats pine for the kisses

you depleted forty years ago.
So we will terminate in sparks
and spangles, fizzing and spitting

in the gusty midnight streets.
You look forward to ascending,
while I expect to pool in slick

of ichor, leaving one messy clue.
The bartender’s crocodile outlook
almost busses your own. I tilt

from my perch and clop to the men’s room
where in a moment of disbursement
I can pretend I’m myself alone.

 

Written by William Doreski.

 

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.

 

 

Create a free website or blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑

%d bloggers like this: