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November 27th, 2020 Poems

Black Friday


After the Thanksgiving day,

The thunderbolt divides the black sky

Unleashing the nuggets of black hole

Of desires of “Must haves” 

That can’t be bleached away.


The black Friday has a sundry of cousins

Almost looking, sounding, and smelling alike,

And blind us trapped in one-way alley

Clawing our way out 



Black is black, none other

Absorbing all lights,

And all colors, 

End in the black

Home of spectrum 

On Friday.  


Yenna Yi



Can We?


Can we get back to being neighbors

Once all this is done?


Everyone on


Tenterhooks, (which aren’t what I thought they were), till then.

Only the animals act normal, neither politics nor pandemics

Getting between them. It will take some 

Effort, but I’m 

Thinking we can do this.

Heck, once you set your mind to it,

Even an acrostic’s not that ha



-P Crosby


Rock Steady

When she opens her mouth

I hear a beat

that inspires my heart

to entrain


become one


I hear music

that makes me beautiful

and move like a geisha

a mermaid

a harem girl

a soughing wind



I hear words

that make me a strong,







that makes men turn

and look at me

and marry me

then have to back away

‘cause I’m too much trouble


Aretha – you rock

in the most respectful



No zoomin’ you.


Isabell VanMerlin


I am kneeling. You are kneeling close to me. 
Our skins touch. Maybe we were born here. 
There is a line of bodies kneeling 
that leads beyond the vanishing point.
All our naked knees kneading the earth, our bread. 
It is night. The sky is porcelain black and the iris of each star’s iridescence is an
Our heads are hatless. Our feet shoeless. Dark settles on our shoulders.
Her weight, an intersection. 
Air moves, shifts through and among us, supple traveller too.
The desert is still.  Cautious. Weighing each soul’s imprint. Carbon and water
and sorrow.
Her beige body, indigo in dark, stretches
Grain and chafe making more room for more bodies—
Bodies bending the way they do when kneeling
Awkward.  Almost impossible not to lean one way or the other.
The desert sand’s still warm from sun’s singe.
And we are all waiting. We are waiting together— 
Perhaps for our invitation from some singular star’s signal. 
On our hot knees, hatless and shoeless. 
Leaning and quiet. Awkward and filled with the harrow of our
– Lindsay Rockwell