Literary Yard

Search for meaning

Poetry

Poem: Lions

By: Isabelle Kenyon Flattened fur and dampened spirits, bodies too large to take refuge in long grass – you lie defeated, resigned but waiting. With eyes of fire you watch for prey.  

Poem: The Whale

By: Isabelle Kenyon Great clouds gather, hang like rotten fruit, Peppering the waves with their sour perfume. Salt–drizzled iceberg tickled by an arched bough a mermaid tail, somersaulting through Ocean’s silence, body twisting, Commanding the tides.    

Poem: For Old Time’s Sake

By: Ian Fletcher They bump into each other after thirty-five years at the funeral of a friend from university days whom cancer has taken from the world too soon. They’re both staying over so have arranged to chill that evening over…

Poem: Honey’s

By: Ricky Garni There is a bar named Honey’s that makes a delicious and exotic cocktail that uses filtered ocean water from Montauk in its recipe. Even though it sounds interesting and inspired, I am afraid to try it because…

Poem: Waking Up, Post-Surgery

By: Alyssa Trivett Newspaper cutout men danced in my head, my stomach bowling pin quakes, sits, stays, rolls over to machine beep symphonies. Bedpans slam-dance. I spy faint figures in hospital garbs; the ghosts of my dreams, as I see stars….

Poem: Waiting for a Train to Pass

By: Alyssa Trivett We sit in our pill-bottles, dormant like vampires during daytime laundry cycles, scurrying away from our own heads with running thoughts ceiling fan spinning above us. Lawnmowers in front of me shake, hardware store paint cans. The horizon…

Poem: In The Moment On The River

By: G. Louis Heath I am looking at the motorboats racing up And down, going nowhere it seems, in the Pursuit of pleasure. This is recreation on The mighty river that runs through my town. I sit on a bench…

Poem: My Children’s Snow Men

By: G. Louis Heath The sky that Sunday spring evening Curdled burnt-orange and salmon pink Against a canopy of blue, a motley sky Over fugitive snow, so evanescent as to Defy my sense of what is. Snow takes Its leave,…

Poem: Pure Gold

By: Lynn White We were the pure gold people. The golden generation of bouncing baby boomers who had it all, the best music, the most fun and the security and optimism of a golden future. Now we have had our…

Poem: Shaken Not Stirred

By: Lynn White These people here, those people there. What do they know. What do they care. What will touch their little lives, to move them, shake them, disarrange them. What will pinch them, wake them, make them sit up,…