petro c. k.: “As one who often writes haiku, it’s always a challenge to distill moments to its essence. When I was sitting with my thoughts, I heard sirens off in the distance, which captured the sense I had of melancholy, anxiety, and unknown dangers on the horizon.” (web)
Matthew King: “This poem refers to a bit of graffiti I saw many years ago, but the question it posed ironically—obviously, the real question is what’s it all worth with an open free and fair election?—is, for now, as pertinent as ever. This is what your open free and fair elections get you. What do you make of that?” (web)
Alison Luterman: “I don’t have to explain why this moment is so fraught right now. I’m feeling a lot of tenderness for all of us who are suffering anxiety this week, and trying to hold each other up.” (web)
Greg Schwartz: “Most of the poetry I read goes over my head, but haiku is something that tends to stick with me. The compactness of a haiku fits my attention span nicely, though the good ones have an impact much larger than their words. This poem resulted from that day’s #haikuhorrorprompt prompt on Twitter, which was ‘kerosene.’ It took a while to come up with something, but the vampire shapeshifting into a bat trope seemed to fit well with the Dracula-era setting conjured up by the prompt.” (web)
“Ghazal of Bones” by Ebuka StephenPosted by Rattle
Ebuka Stephen
GHAZAL OF BONES
Who can love me better than the ligaments love my bones?
I’m fragile now, my heart can’t bear the weight of brokenness, those pains from fractured bones.
I heard the night feels lonely, too, when the birds choose to leave their nests. I feel the same way but only skin cuddles my bones.
One morning, I lifted up my veil. I saw a Bible, opened it & it showed me a valley of dry bones.
Perhaps I’ve opened a lonely verse different from the psalms that sang of rising dry bones.
I need these miracles but nobody to go these extra miles for me. I only soak my beads for God to strengthen my bones.
Who can calcify me from envy of those who never chew the ripe fruit of forlornness? Those who never dreamt of lonely bones.
& dreaming is always real until it’s not. In a cadaver room, I saw my twin me being loved by formalinated bodies. They showed me skeletons that were made with their bones.
All night, every bone in my body tells me to get a deep sleep. They said I’m Adam, that one day a bone will be made from my bones.
Ebuka Stephen: “Poetry is a way I reflect on life. It allows me to explore my feelings and enjoy it. I’m attracted to ghazals, so I hue mine with elegy. I’m currently studying human anatomy at College of Health Sciences, Nnewi in Nigeria. I dedicate this ghazal to the dead bodies and bones in every cadaver room, and in commemoration of World Anatomy Day, celebrated every October 15th.”
Lexi Pelle: “Frank X. Gaspar wrote, ‘It’s never the aboutness of anything but the wailing underneath it.’ This poem, although based on a relatively uncharged article, was a slow settling into that wailing.” (web)