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Featured poetry

haiku

water dripping down
from rusting pipes counting time –
the sun’s morning crown

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haiku

in a feijoa
orchard, birds are singing – ripe
fruit lies on the grass

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haiku

the night’s starry robe
dresses the hills – an old man
limps down empty roads

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Sign Your Name

Today, my name
Was etched into steel
But you tell me
This is not how it feels.
I say there is no
No “F” in friend,
No “U” in unaware.
Only some random drugs that say
Goodbye, world.
If only.

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Haiku

ears freeze in the hiss
of winds coming from the south;
a mother’s soft kiss.

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Haiku

On an oily road
Drivers try to gain control;
A programmer’s code.

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Haiku

beggars in old cloaks;
next to a crackling fire,
soldiers swapping jokes

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Winter Has Come

I can still remember what love felt like,
When winter became a warm spring day
And the streets were filled with
Children twirling parasols,
When everything was as delicate
As a butterfly in my hand,
Launching into the summer breeze,
And crisp autumn leaves
Cha cha’ed beneath our feet.
Those are no longer mine.
Winter’s cold embrace
Has torn through my heart and soul
Like a butcher’s hacking blade.
And I can never taste love again.

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Tears

There are not enough tears
To put out the fire in my soul,
Or wash away the words
You said to me today.
Where is this love
That will set me free?

Photo by Kate Jayne from Pexels

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Short Fiction

Tom

August 6th, 2018|0 Comments

“You’re a racist,” he said. “And racists don’t get jobs here.” Tom swallowed. Nobody fucking calls me a racist, he thought. The interviewer started to put Tom's papers back into the brown manila folder. “And I’m gonna report you for discrimination,” Tom said. The interviewer laughed as he closed the folder. “You hate faggots,” Tom continued trying to force the point home. The interviewer smirked, “You haven’t got a leg to stand on.” “I’ll have these,” Tom said, and quickly took the papers and ran from the building. It had been two weeks since the interview with the faggot [...]

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