Freedom planet torque patch4/24/2023 My father drank his coffee half milk and so much Life years before my sister and I were ever born. Panopoulous whose first son had ended his own Man who had a tiny grocery, Greek cookies from In the toes of our stockings and nuts in their shells,Īlmonds and walnuts and filberts, Brazil nutsĪnd pecans, and ribbon candy made by the Cockney My father never shook the dust of Ellis Island In defiance of the lack of cheese or meat. It’s nearly Christmas, and this memoryįrom childhood – December and real butter Whole grain loaf passed over in this whitebread That smell is still, to me, the scent of joy. I love this poem “Butter” and am pleased to feature it this year on my blog.ĭo you have any childhood memories connected to food? Does anyone not? Bread and butter are intimately linked to my memories of childhood happiness, specifically watching the homemade pita loaves puff up in the oven as they finished baking, and then spreading butter on them so soon it melted while the knife was still spreading it. Buckley’s work one of the times when I was a judge for the Poetry Super Highway annual contest. She holds an MFA in poetry and teaches English in her hometown. Born and raised in Houston, Texas, she has taught reading, writing, public speaking, math, drama, and vocational welding in Los Angeles, Houston, and the Mississippi Delta. The tether? Behind your back? Like it’s the weapon?Īutumn Hayes is a freelance writer and poet her work has appeared in Xavier Review, Storm Cellar, The Washington Spectator, 3:AM, Teachers & Writers Magazine, and the micro-fiction anthology 140 and Counting¸among other places. Where do you keep the tool that can sever Swift shrug, shoulder flickĪnd the air at least has been stabbed. To hear it hum through the anxious air? Whereĭoes it cling to your body? At elbow? At knee? For me ![]() Welded to the weight of the wait? Does it ripple your gut Of metal marrying metal? How heavy does it hang Its swing and land? A synthetic cord? A bow What tether have you fashioned to control Of pig iron painted black? A dying sun with spiked rays? Wild-born, lightning-crooked bush? A ball Pricking the blood to your palm’s numb palm? A rose ![]() What’s that thorny thing you clutch so close I only recently first encountered Autumn Hayes’ poetry at this month’s Mutable Hour reading, and wow! Powerhouse. Saba serves on the board of Mutabilis Press. Kennedy Poetry Prize, and semifinalist for the 2020 Philip Levine Poetry Prize. Saba Z Husain’s work has appeared in Sequestrum, Bangalore Review, Barrow Street, Cimarron Review, Texas Review, Bellevue Review, Houston Chronicle, Aleph Review, Synkroniciti, Equinox, and the anthologies of Mutabilis Press, Ankelbiters Press, Lamar University Press, Southern Poetry Vol. Having dallied enough nights on my driveway While the lunar jaw dropper was witnessed I hope you’ll enjoy it, as I hope you’ve enjoyed this whole month’s series. Today I’m pleased to feature a poem by Saba Husain to round out our poetry celebration. I’d intended to include more different types of posts this year - prompts and poetry-adjacent things and such - but ultimately I just had such a wealth of people’s poems to share that I bent to that impulse as the month wore on. Dear reader, it has been such a joy to share so many poems with you this year for National Poetry Month.
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