Literary Yard

Search for meaning

Poetry

By: J.L. Orango Before you call this anger,call it arithmetic. Eight hundred and forty million. Nearly one woman in three. And before somebody saysthat happens over there- bring me the atlas. Open it. Anywhere. I will wait. Because violence against…

Essay

By: Feride Güney A spider asks a fly caught in its web: “Is the God you beg to save you the same God I thank for my lunch?” Sometimes a person falls silent for a long time before a very…

Fiction

By Peter Aronson There was no reason why this day would not simply be marvelous, no reason at all. It was the first full day of Elmira’s and Herman’s 40th wedding anniversary trip, a trip a year in the making…

Poetry

By: John Ziegler Two soft curled feathers,blow across the pavement. The blue pigeonsbob their heads, gather aroundthe old lady’s low heeled brown shoes, shoulder up to herto pick shelled peanuts, still warm from hersoft palm. They all seem old,the pigeons,…

Poetry

By: Sayani Mukherjee. The autumn windfall of fallen leavesA shadowy misty river waterSat by the upfront the river criedA dozen zenith full of wavering sadnessI churned the fall from the seasonsOf Tulip’s most unkempt secretA lonely hazardous blush gardenAll around…

EssayMemoir

By: Fyeo Hale My mother started asking me the same question as soon as I was old enough to have a conscience, and she kept asking it at least three times a week for my entire childhood. “Fyeo, did anyone…

Poetry

By: Karoline Wimmer Shivering, shaking, shudderingright down to the burning core,the blistering, unforgiving sunlighthas stripped all that was before. Trembling, twitching, throbbingwith the utmost perverse delight,the burning, barbaric sunlightwill not give way to the soothing caressof the peaceful night. Oh!…

focused student studying in sunny classroom

Joy

Fiction

By: Don Tassone “So what do you do?” she said. “I write books,” he said. “What kind of books?” “The kind that nobody buys, filled with stories that nobody reads.” “So why do you write?” “Because writing brings me joy.”…

Poetry

By Carl Papa Palmer The Florence Nightingale costumered splattered with face paint bloodfrom Halloween makeup tubesarranged on the bathroom sink. Watching Mom in the mirrortransform the clear complexionof her lovely daughter intothe ghastly black and greenof the dreaded Nurse Hatchet….

Poetry

By: James Aitchison (pantoum suggested by dada) to make parallel lines meet in albaniato vegetize the universal cesspoolto caress radical intentions via hysteriato charm king zog’s zippered sentiments to vegetize the universal cesspoolto sight-read cardboard suitcasesto charm king zog’s zippered…