Literary Yard

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Poetry

Poem: Easter at Nana’s

By: Corey Cook   You lean against Nana’s charcoal grey Taurus – a monochromatic reflection of the midday sky. Hands in pockets. Hat pulled down. And watch your siblings search the boggy yard for “eggs.” Empty pantyhose containers heavy with…

Poem: Dogs and Big Black Guys

By: Antonio Prata i played sports sometimes like basketball there were courts near the school sometimes i played with big black guys sometimes dad and i went to see the nets play he let me drink a beer when they beat the…

Poem: Isle of Calypso

By: Josh Lisiuk I am about to start Allow the journey to depart Please have a read of my poetical story Its one that took place in the odyssey Our brave Hero, Odysseus fresh from the battle of troy A drift…

Poem: My White Angel

By: Kharis Lund My cocaine angel speaks to me In psychedelic light Bring forth visions of ecstasy In moments that feel just right My needles are all rusty My veins, bruised purple-blue But my white angel still sings to me…

Poem: Winter Never Dies

By: Kharis Lund The dead brown grass resurrects itself The trees no longer stand like sterile skeletons The flowers rouse themselves in blooms of color And the sun comes out of hiding, brighter than ever But nature lied to her…

Poem: Hardhearted

By: Mitchell Krochmalnik Grabois I was drawn to all the wrong things ego ambition callousness Even after I understood I refused to be enlightened I dated women solely as an excuse to scare them half to death with my reckless driving…

Poem: In Your Hands

By: Arthur Heifetz   In your hands, the fuchsia, which had never lasted, survived the winter and bloomed again in spring. At the first sign of frost, you took them in and placed them in a warm spot by the…

Poem: The Jesus Door

By: Anne Britting Oleson Ornate, wrought iron: I gently screw the plates into the doorjamb, a clockwise turn of the wrist tightening the dividers of my world, replacing a door which ages ago some previous resident of this house felt…

Poem: Smoking Dynamite

By: Andrew J. Stone The game went like this: My brother and his friends would stand in a circle facing each other with a stick of dynamite in their mouths. They’d light the wick and whoever let it burn the…

What is Poetry?

By: Geoffrey Hoffman What is poetry? In what form should it be written? Ought it to be written at all, or is it nothing but escapist nonsense behind which we shy from reality? These are questions so old that it…