185 lede

A Churchwoman. by Juanita Rey

For many years, / on Monday mornings, / my mother has cleaned the church, / down on her knees / with brush and bucket, / doesn’t quit until / the floor is spotless / and every pew shines / with what she refers to as / “the light of God.” / / It is one of many jobs, / that she has worked / to pay for the chores / she does at home for free. / / But it is the one / she would have done for nothing / had the priest so asked.
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Poem Written After Reading a Nicolas Cage Interview. by Colin James

So far we have traded nothing.
Behind the visions is a blind spot
where flight is not a consideration.

memory palace. by Joey Lew

some people create libraries
in their mind
to catalog greater and greater amounts
of data to become like
but what if instead
they just created one place:
the lake district—
rolling hills dotted with sheep

Whys. by Lukpata Lomba Joseph

You are here again,
more astute perhaps.
Your pockets sag with whys.
You give all to mum as gift,
she would mould them into a meal for Apate.

Alexander Guzman, a poem by Joseph Buehler, but first Cowboy Poetry by the same

Cowboy Johnson
couldn’t take it any more,
so he went out to the prairie
and rammed a six-shooter into
his mouth and blew his brains out.

Childhood Poems of Gale Acuff

1 /of/ 2
My dog's dead, run-over dead, just as dead
as a dog can get, if not deader.
I found him on the highway this morning,
on my way to catch the schoolbus. There he lies
as we pull away. Hey, Acuff, someone says
ain't that your mutt run-over there? Shit!
True, I say. When school's over and the bus
brings me home Caesar's deader than ever.
I get off and go to the workshed
for the shovel and walk back to the highway.