4 days ago

POETRY

The Cliffs of Dover, UK
Photo by Tatiana via Pexels

The Fiend appeared in the rain
at the top of the cliff,
no need for him to fall again.

The blind man fell from a mind
that could imagine a fall
that saved.
That Christ, that Satan,
fell betrayed and rose redeemed.

The mind set him gently on the sand
and…

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Aug 2

POETRY

A woman in a white dress with smoke around her head
Photo by cottonbro via Pexels

Queen of smoke,
heaven’s daughter,
you were never more
than Apollo’s laughter
anyway, a puff of gray,
a miasmatic haze
of burnt tobacco
silver as solder,
dangerous like motherhood.

A hole in the ground for a church,
Facilis descensus Averno,
you muttered perched
above the fuming fissure,
mouth foaming, eyes shut,
but just try hauling…

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Jul 19

POETRY

Simon Jaques Rochard, “Lady Smith and Her Children.” Public domain courtesy of The Metropolitan Museum…

The day Natalie left for Charleston,
Max sketched the scene on the sidewalk in chalk.
He frowns as he waves goodbye,
his arms arching over his head like weeping willow branches.
The car is drawn small,
as if it is far away.
That night I was afraid of the dark,
and I jumped at minute noises…

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Jul 12

POETRY

Photo by Al d’Vilas via Pexels

for Tracy Pellett, 24th President of Glenville State College

I’ve been having the wasp dream again.
First one, then several
reddish-brown pests
hover around my torso, land on my shirt.

No problem.
If I just stand still,
They’ll leave me alone,
lose interest,
float away.

More come.
Panic sets in.
I remain…

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Jul 5

POETRY

Photo by Alexander Bagno on Unsplash

Hedda wakes with a start,
her head on Løvborg’s shoulder.
The same rhythmic clack
that lulled her to sleep
pulls her out,
her head bouncing slightly
against the man’s sharp acromion.

She looks up to see him
gazing at the landscape
beyond the train car window.
She smiles a genuine smile…

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Jun 21

POETRY

Photo by Brian Schumin under Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 2.0 Generic license via Wikimedia Commons

We drove up Afton Mountain,
Cloaked in fog,
To say goodbye
Before she left for Fife,
The splendor of the Shenandoah
Somewhere to our left.

It was never right;
I was always running after her.
I thought about learning to walk on water,
But I was tired.

The Inn was…

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Matthew Thiele

Matthew Thiele

Teacher. Satirist. Scholar. Published in Slackjaw, Points in Case, McSweeney’s, Ben Jonson Journal, and elsewhere. Definitely not a robot. Or an alien.