Poems for Persons of Interest

Adam Strauss lives in San Diego.  Poems of his appear in the Brooklyn Rail , Prelude , and New American Writing .  H e adores the works of Marc Chagall.​ Sigh Dog—dog—loose Like a gotcha-gotcha goose In a patch like denim Where plenary mocks plenum. Thus this, and thus venom Brightens his leg as would a bruise. They told him he would choose A blue eclipses green, should sense Prevail, nor should he hawk phlegm: hum Evasions, like diapasons through a lens Focused on refractions tang its throat, Tantivy factored by tens—and Tennyson’s moat.

Elizabeth M. Johnson is a lawyer, poet, and transplanted Chicagoan living in Detroit.  She is the granddaughter of immigrants. Brood X Before you’re gone again, you’ll leave your mark: dirt burrows in the yard, the twig’s worn bark. The paw paw trees will lose their boughs. Cypress, willow, and ash. Just think how ravenous -- seventeen years! In vast numbers, you sing. You’re shock and awe, a mating call springing from a buckled rib, a hollow abdomen. You’ll leave your mark before you’re gone again. An ancient symbol of insouciance? To me, your wide eyes don’t say innocence. No lovely sibilance, no gentle hiss, instead continuous, cacophonous, your whirring cycles faster in the heat. I’m crunching carcasses under my feet. Abandoned exoskeletons remain: you leave your mark. And you will come again.

Steven Searcy is the author of  Below the Brightness  (Solum Press, 2024). His poems have appeared in  Southern Poetry Review ,  Commonweal ,  UCity Review ,  Autumn Sky Poetry Daily , and elsewhere. He lives with his wife and four sons in Georgia. The Spirit Makes Its Case The body begs with brash insistence to take the path of least resistance. The spirit, on its best day, yearns to go the way that chafes and burns, to seek the peak with sweeping views, to sweat and strain, to brave the bruise. The body pleads for rest and pleasure, uninterested in hidden treasure. The spirit looks into the future when every wound receives a suture, seeing how much there is to gain by bearing temporary pain. The body’s time is transitory— the spirit says memento mori and tries to teach the body how to look beyond the here and now.

Ethan McGuire is a healthcare cybersecurity professional and a writer of essays, fiction, poetry, reviews, and translations who lives in Fort Wayne, Indiana with his wife and their two children. Old Gods After Matthew Buckley Smith   God sits upon His throne, that golden height, And holds worlds in His palms, withholds His might.   The Muses by His side both come and go And whisper in our ears the good we know.   Old Satan rules the bowels of Earth’s black flame And wields his damned, wild reign, the King of Shame.   The Furies scour the land and boil men’s blood With coals—and with knives loose a crimson flood.   The Fates dispense and cut threads they contrive And make men meet mean ends or come alive.

Frances Boyle is a noted Canadian poet and fiction writer. Her poetry collections include Openwork and Limestone and Light-carved Passages . Gag Ordered                         The blank page awaits; it’s time for a poem I can read them, critique them, think that I know ’em   but the slippery old words slide just out of reach. Why won’t they fall in my hand like a low-hanging peach   not hide among brambles like the worst kind of berry? Is it hard to write humour?  You might say so. Very.   It’s not that I’m trying for a veritable saga or rhymes that will twine endlessly like a raga   just a snippet of verse with lines that ring true (oh, and something that’s funny, I need that part too).   So I give up and press save on this fine piece of doggerel ―just don’t mention, I beg you, that my dog is a mongrel.

Liv is an urban monk, a poet, a storyteller, and a student of Christian spirituality. When she’s not writing, Liv practices gardening, pipe-smoking, leather-working, and mischief. The Task While all creation held its breath, The young man’s hitched inside his chest. The knife raised up. The old man’s hand Stopped at its zenith, shaking and After a prayer, he let it fall While listening for some new call. No god worth following would ask Of him this vile and senseless task. Better to keep the gods of home Than with a faithless god to roam. ‘I thought you different,’ Abram prayed, Then turned to find the ram arrayed.

Felicity Teague features regularly in  The HyperTexts ,  Snakeskin , and elsewhere.  Her second collection,  Interruptus: A Poetry Year , is forthcoming in 2025. Rock Trio Ciao , all! I’m Gabbro and I’m igneous. The fiery type! I formed from mafic magma, hot as Satan’s own puff-pipe! With other rocks around me, I cooled slowly. We were snug! A group of grey guys gathered in a hot humongous hug.   Hola! I am Coquina. I’m a sedimentary sort. I’m made of shells. I love the beach. I’m not so fond of sport! For many years, I braved the waves and sailed the swirling seas. Now I can sunbathe with my friends, enjoy a life of ease.   Ah, Guten Tag . I’m Augen gneiss! A metamorphic make. My name means ‘eyes’. I seem to stare. I’m always wide awake! My birth involved high heat and pressure, two great strengths combined, to merge some granite and some feldspar. Now, let’s rock! Let’s grind!

Danny Fitzpatrick is the author of a few books.  He lives in New Orleans and  edits a journal called Joie de Vivre. Howl You heard it first, that loneliness aloft against the purblind sky, the certain, soft advance of six coyotes through the oaks. We shrank, admiring how the moonlight smoked upon that song, how the scavenged reek shone and shrouded those sleek ghosts of tongue and bone. That night you ’ d taught me how to see the past as part of what was promised us at last. You touched my throat and whispered they were gone, and soon we too arose and soon went on, hunched against the cold without a word for future griefs the hounds had overheard.

Coleman Glenn lives in Bryn Athyn, PA with his wife and their six kids. His poems have appeared in  Light ,  Autumn Sky Poetry Daily ,  Blue Unicorn ,  THINK , and other publications. WOE, WOE, WOE   We heard his word and something stirred — a nerve vibrating, resonating as if strummed until we thrummed, until we found his voice’s sound had seized us fully, left us wholly rearranged. We thought we changed.

  Jeffrey Rensch has been writing poetry for 50 years.  He is not a big fan of free verse. Being I was the master, no, not really that, the servant of something, I don’t know what, my fate?    I didn’t really have a fate to speak of or was ignorant of it, I mean, I couldn’t really lose my way without some way to sense the destiny I didn’t have, and this was more than loss, more like a robbery, I felt furious at… someone but I couldn’t figure out a single enemy to single out, for what was maybe my own clumsy doing, not to have even the remotest being. 

Bethel McGrew is a freelance writer based in Michigan. Her articles have appeared in various national and international outlets. Find her Substack at  furtherup.net . Ode to a Controversial Pizza Pie T hey say that pasta never goes on pies But they ain’t Jules, and Jules says otherwise. Guys, check this out, let’s take it from the top: A mozzarella base (Jules pies don’t flop). Pasta (no spoon, I like to use my hands). You like my tan? I got it in the sands Of Montauk with the family. Now let’s throw More cheese down. Pecorino: Make it snow Over that vodka sauce. You think I’m done? Guys, come on. Jules is having too much fun. OK, the chicken’s tucked in for the night. And now it’s showtime, gang. Let’s do this right. Pop in the oven. Wait, wait for it, wait… Boom! OK guys, now it’s your turn to rate My masterpiece. Come check it out today, Let Jules make all your worries melt away. It’s hot, it’s here, it’s now, it bends the rules. It’s Penne Vodka

I am pleased to announce that Ella Harrigan is the winner of the 12-Hour Couplets Contest for her poem "Mother."  Ella Harrigan is a poet and student at Swarthmore College, where she is a senior editor at the magazine Small Craft Warnings . She was the 2020 Virginia Ball Creative Writing Competition winner, the 2021 Claudia Ann Seaman winner in nonfiction, and has been published in Polyphony Lit and the Swarthmore Review. Mother yes, imagine it. what, on accident, i took from you. the apartment bright and piled with books   rising from the floor like hills. flowers from a friend on the windowsill.   and you, in the shower, humming, washing your hair. your beautiful long hair.   imagine me unborn, my brother sitting in his old bedroom, home for the summer, picking his nails. his guitar untuned.   you love him. the red that shines through his beard reminds you of your father. the rest isn't clear.   in the kitchen, your mother calling on the pho

 I won't be posting the winning poem until I hear back from the poet, but the 12-Hour Couplets Contest has a winner. This was a difficult contest to judge, because there were so very many good poems. I hope to share as many of those as I can with you over the next little while. Alex

Looking for poems in rhyming couplets for a fun, 50/50 contest.  By  11:35 pm EST, September 10, 2024: Send a word doc or pdf with one or more poems (guidelines below) to anrettie@gmail.com.  Send $5 Canadian for each poem submitted to   paypal.me/AlexanderRettie OR if you're in Canada, save us both fees and e-transfer to anrettie@gmail.com. By 11:35 am EST, September 12, 2024, I will announce a winner, who will receive 50% of the submission fees! All contestants will be contacted by email. I'll publish the winner and any other poems I like here by11:35 pm EST, September 13, 2024, Guidelines Poems can be written in any meter but must consist of a series of rhyming couplets Poems must be at least 12 lines and no more than 18 lines, but CANNOT be 14 lines Name your file the title of the poem and DO NOT include your name or other identifying information, including in the file name Add a note to your PayPal payment or e-transfer indicating the title of the poem or poems you're

 The second 12-Hour Poetry Contest is on its way! I'll let everyone know via this blog, Twitter and email (if I have it) when time starts running, but I thought I'd give you a little extra time with this one -- not everyone has a 12-line poem consisting of six rhyming couplets (in any meter) just kicking about. If you do, great! If you don't, better get started!