Poems and Poetry

Original Contemporary Poetry Human Condition

My Credit Adjustor Nightmare | A Poem by Roy Pullam

He cupped his hands
Around the flames
of a kitchen match
Large, hairy knuckles
With a Bic tattoo
Spelling love
On one hand
And hate
On the other
The fraternal love
An orphan emotion
If his reputation
Was to be believed
Prison time
Numerous scrapes
With neighbors
The hardness
Of his face
Lies about his age
He has not worn well
With nicotine-coated, sausage fingers
And yellow teeth
His hands
Blocking his face
Assuring the flame
Allowing the unfiltered cigarettes
To burn
I sniff the tobacco
As he blows a stream
Into my face
The mixture of sulfur
From the match
And burning leaf
Creates a cloud
Floating across
His broken teeth
The cigarette burns down
As the light grows
Gray swirls
Circle my face
Like dirty cotton
The smoke is extended
Thinner still
Until it disappears
The remnant
Of a Budweiser
Sits beside an empty
His primitive ash tray
Ours is not a conversation
Just the bones of words
That transmits
Basic information
He does not have the payment
He is threatened
By my attitude
I dare not
Push the issue
There is a coldness
In this man
He promises
To have the payment
By the end
Of the week
I take his promise
Chewing on a sandwich
Of frustration and fear

A Sinking Bottle (She Explained, Softly) | A Poem by Paul Tristram

I’m all cried out, one minute,
then waterfall full the next.
The Sun still shines…
but, it’s always somewhere else… yonder.
I hate that word ‘Yonder’
for you can walk all day and night,
until your weary, battered feet
blister and bleed
and you are never any closer to it.
I have great self control,
I will not succumb to the traps
of ‘Covetousness’ nor ‘Envy’
but, ‘Yearning’ masters me truly.
The ‘Feeling’ started
like a Pebble being dropped into a Well.
A falling sensation, giddying at first,
then later… quite sickening.
The Well eventually changed,
reformed into a tumultuous Ocean.
The Pebble an uncorked Bottle,
slave to all external currents
and full up to the very brim
with the ‘Thing’ which is forever
dragging and pulling it downwards.

Visit Paul at https://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/.

24 Frames a Second | A Poem by Stan Morrison

a blink of an eye at 24 frames a second
endless flickering of a splendid hologram
revealing a universe totally out of order
a constantly growing round peg
battling a fast shrinking square hole
pat answers don’t fit any questions
an endless array of mistaken notions
an amalgamation of borrowed ideas
struggling to justify the ways of man
24 frames are mere images
fading on exposure to light

Please Forgive My Lapse of Memory | A Poem by Roy Pullam

Your face has changed
From 13 to 40
You have filled
The demand of adulthood
I look with the slight memory
A faint recognition
But I am afraid
To speculate
To put my finger
On the roll
To place you
In my past
I know it hurts
That you are anonymous
That years of pimpled faces
Of kids eager
To get beyond
The clumsy
To claim their place
Among what they think
Is independence
Only to find
The bind tighter
Jobs, children, husbands
That blacken your calendar
Now I face your disappointment
That during the best
During the worst
Years of your life
You can find no register
In my blank stare
I feel guilty
Not remembering
But time
Erased so much
Like the erasers
On my blackboard
And I am left
With just the yellow dust
The powder
Of times past

Storms | A Poem by Martin A. David

Every wind dust-thick
The air is green
Of tree green
Grass green
Grey green death.
Heat is a breathing thing
World filling
Head filling
Blue spaces filling
Between purple clouds
And invisible clouds
Like tons of corpse hands
Stroking faces
Of walkers
In storm city.
Dust-thick wind
Grows crueler
Purple grows black
Gasping grey green of death
Filters light.
Far away
A white hot whip cracks
And huddled children count the seconds
Before the whiplash roars
The scary welcome sound
God moving furniture
(Why can’t we run outside and see Him?)
Dust-thick wind
Makes trees drunk
Drunken trees dance
Like joyous Hassidim.
Torn newspaper
Gets up alive
And runs somewhere
In circles
Secret place.
First drops fall
Like bullets
Through dust-thick wind
Death grey green
Splashing drops
Flash and groan
Crescendo crescendo crescendo
(Witches fly in that magic time)
When hot clouds
Like crushed bodies.
Storm wind
Whips tree frenzy higher
Blood drops
From black sky
Black clouds
Black rain
Black trees
Black wind
Black screams
Frozen in memory
By whiplash flashed
Of blue ice light
Darkness again
And then the roar
God breaking furniture
Earth throbs
Turmoil of lovers
Rising falling
A million ecstasies before
Crescendo crescendo crescendo
Fiercely tender
Biting Clawing Stroking
Lightening thunder
Surging rain
Bursting like rockets inside my head
And the wind subsides
Distant thunder
The lightning is no longer in the room
The earth is peaceful and tired
Trees tremble softly
Warm green winds whisper
And caress wet towers
In storm city.


PHS 1964 | A Poem by Roy Pullam

The parchment has faded
The setting
And most of the teachers
Gone now
Lucky classmates
Aged and gray
Other chasing
The lines of Bryant
That mysterious caravan
That will not allow
Them to return
We gather
Hoping to see
A glint of youth
In each other’s eyes
To reclaim that past
That gathers more fog
In the passing
Of years
How we long
To rekindle
Lying in ashes
Between the time
Between reunions
We chose not
To abandon the light
to let the past
Be done
It is the bond
Of shared confidences
That stirs us
From the recliner
To look our best
So others
Will not see
The cost of time
I will come
Bathing in the fellowship
Sharing the jokes
Sharing the stories
Grieving for lost friends
Counting my blessings
In our five year