Literary Yard

Search for meaning

Poetry

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…

Poetry

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…

Poetry

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…

Poetry

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…

Poetry

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…

Poetry

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…

Literary criticismPoetry

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…

Fiction

By: Joseph Grant   The venerable old Grand Central Market was as good a place to meet as any, thought Eddie Ruggerio. It had been on Grand Street for almost a decade on the entire ground floor of the Homer Laughlin…

Poetry

By: Kyle Hemmings We are glitter-puppies in a dance temple of extended happy hour truths. Some of us will die in our distressed jeans. Who is the closet lipster with too many au cell phone lives? So wasted in those buckled…

Poetry

  By: Kyle Hemmings   At work, her father fights a losing war with paper men. Home, Zin imagines wind scorpion women without musical sense, exoskeletons in the morning, left-overs of love. Some girls are cursed with supernatural powers of hearing….