Blanket Sea

Arts & Literary Magazine

Category: Poetry (page 1 of 7)

Poetry by Ben Wright

Depression

I’ll be in the meadow
picking flowers today,
but if you call me,
I’ll come right home.

A big bouquet
of purple and blue –
I’ll gather a bunch
and bring them back.

Call me home
if I am late picking
my scorpion grasses,
sad and sweet.

If night falls
and I’m not back,
have no worries;
I’ll be on the way.

I’ll be on my way
home with flowers –
forget-me-nots,
my favorites.

 

Self-Portrait

If I could paint,
I would paint a
purple liver locked
behind rusty bars.

It is not a metaphor.
There are no metaphors.
There is only an organ
caged, bellowing fugues.

 

 

Ben is currently studying mathematics as a graduate student in Madison, Wisconsin. He loves cats, books, anti-depressants, and revolutionary political theories and practices which strive for nothing less than the total liberation of all beings.

“The Giant’s Heel” by Lannie Stabile

My skull is beneath a giant’s heel
He rocks it leisurely back and forth
Across the clouded, chewed cement
Taunting, tempting and teasing me

A pressure has been culminating for decades

He bellows gleefully, foot poised just so
His titanic weight balances precariously
Above the weak skin shielding my temple
Smile wide, he depresses experimentally

Pain trickles through clenched, grinding teeth

It is whimsy to him, my life, my lucidity
Just something he can play with at will
While I can barely see or hear anymore
The giant Foxtrots atop my eyes and ears

Spittle leaks from miserable, bile-filled cheeks

There is bloodlust in his bulging limbs now
He tastes the terror licking behind my mind
A birdlike skull such as mine is merely dust
In the momentum of a heavy, cobbled boot

A soul ruptures, and one thousand screams flee


Lannie Stabile likens the process of creative writing to spanking ketchup:  grueling, but necessary.  More works can be found in MonsteringCellar Roots, Westland Writes, The Knight’s Library, and Wet Electric Blanket. You can find her on Twitter @LanniePenland.

“Box Spring Monster” by Amy Alexander

This monster under my bed is a mud woman,
dug from beneath the body keep,
creek water sauldered,
breakfast, lunch, and dinner breasts.

Belly, you’d think I’ve lived there
for how it pulls,
a thousand memories
I can’t quite capture
whisper vespers, suspect,
unsavory
Might savor me,
yet I am fixed,
and will not flee.

I would have no place, anyway,
if I did,
the 300-count sheet is thin,
over my head,
inadequate for shutting her out,
or is it them?
Gossip groups might issue
from one hoary mouth,
the collective can shun
or does it hold?

Oh, Mother,
you were inadequate in showing me the ways of women
as you warned me about men.

 

 

Amy Alexander is a poet, visual artist and homeschooling mother living in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, not far from the Mississippi River, which is very far from her hometown on the Colorado River, but still familiar, because of moving water. Her work has appeared most recently in The Coil, Anti-Heroin Chic, the Mojave Heart Review, Mooky Chick, The Remembered Arts, and RKVRY. Follow her on Twitter @iriemom.

« Older posts

© 2019 Blanket Sea

Theme by Anders NorenUp ↑