my heart keeps monitoring the precious memory
from when your eyes first met mine.
my arms are now full of your phantom
presence, as I attempt to bargain with you, telepathically,
to join in recovering every missed opportunity to
have been brave enough to go at our own speed in
finding what true love is all about,
rather than rushing
to each milestone, rather
than holding onto each other
so tightly from being afraid of
our passion resting, even if only
for a little while.
I mourn you and I,
and the wisdom that evaded us in
those early teenage days.
just the mere thought of your face, or the slightest utterance of
your name, sets the flame in me fully ablaze.
– Tony Nicholas Clark
Author’s Note: I wrote this poem while reflecting on teenage love and how, while often brief, it can leave an impact on us that never fades.… ...continue reading
My body
not her choice
Her body
not his choice
Not my body
it was his choice
His choice
not her body
not really
– R.A. Murphy
Author’s Note: This is my first published piece and I have hopes for many more. I worked for a year and a half as a social worker for a sexual violence resource center in my college town. I only worked there for a relatively short time, but that type of work stays with you forever. Nothing will wash away the feeling of someone holding your hand while they’re getting a rape kit completed in the emergency room. And I think it’s supposed to be like that for a reason.… ...continue reading
It was early fall. The old dog had just come back from a week-long hunting trip. A self-respecting dog in Amsterdam knew how to take care of himself. He had a home here, in the nicely-kept small house on the St. Anthoniebreestraat. His master looked after him when he was around—in the winter, his master would feed him milk and table scraps and let him sleep inside. In the summer he slept outside on the porch when he was not roaming around, sniffing the docks and the countryside.
This time when he got home, the smell was strange. His master’s smell was there, but it was faded. He kept coming back and sniffing, but the smell was more and more faded, and the door never opened. … ...continue reading
From the time he reached puberty, Ezekiel Morgan had been the punching bag for Sydney Powell III. As a slave on the Powell Plantation in north Mississippi, he couldn’t muster much of a defense. The beatings didn’t stop until “Trey” was exhausted from raining blows on the undersized teenaged boy. Ezekiel’s salvation was occasionally provided by his sister, Rose. Although she was statuesque and old enough to be with men, she showed little interest in the opposite sex. But when she saw the Master looking for her little brother, she would sidle up to the man and lure him to a secluded spot. After the seduction, Ezekiel was safe for the rest of the day. Such was the pattern of the young man’s life until Captain Powell was commissioned into a Confederate infantry regiment and sallied forth to face the “Northern oppressors.”… ...continue reading
the collar i turn up
against the cold
reminds me
draws me back
to a life
before
when
rushing cold against my skin
meant you
drawing near to share
your warmth
your life
cascading
out of control
drew me to
its flame
its fury
its fate
sealed
by visions
and missions
and empty streets
in dark
of night
falling
about us
capturing heart and soul
entwined
in this dance
of despair… ...continue reading
I’m just a servant
Who serves these
Words,
Inky sentiments,
Nearly sentient-
And the mind
Works on her own time,
Sometimes,
She works against mine.
I’m just a maid
Who cleans up after these
Thoughts ablaze
And they swarm
Like bees in a summer haze,
You cannot force them in a cage,
And sometimes they say messy things
So,
Someone must oversee them.… ...continue reading
After a long day of travelling, Claire followed Robert through the hotel lounge to a table by the window. Soft piano music played, mingling with the low hum of conversation from customers seated sparsely throughout the lounge. The circular bar in the center of the room was empty of patrons, and behind it a bartender mixed drinks at a leisurely pace while talking to the lone server. Robert held Claire’s chair for her, then sat down across the table, their chairs angled so that they were not directly facing each other, but rather, looking out into the room.
The server approached the table to take their order. She was a friendly looking young woman, with thick, luxurious eyelashes and long flawless nails.
Claire studied Robert as he conversed amiably with the server.… ...continue reading