A Poem A Day
by Stacey Margaret Jones
ER weather is
incessant wailing
sharp and raw
weighted,
not the light cry of fakery
when resorting to that
malingering bait to gain
The fix.
No words
from the woman
bawling out
for thirty-four minutes,
just vowels in waves
and washes.
Ambient pain
for all of us waiting.
###
Stacey’s poems have also been published in Slant, Ariel, North Coast Review, Shelterbelt and Agave.
by Janice Canerdy
Each day from dawn till late at night,
she only wished to do his will.
She would be worthy in his sight.
Her love for him was at its height.
It kept her warm in winter’s chill
each day from dawn till late at night.
She knew her prince was always right.
Obeying was a cherished thrill.
She would be worthy in his sight.
She cooked and cleaned with all her might,
for there was never time to kill
each day from dawn till late at night.
They’d never passed insult or slight.
His every wish she would fulfill.
She would be worthy in his sight.
The hurtful truth then came to light.
His love for her had tempered; still,
each day from dawn till late at night,
she would be worthy in his sight.
Yep you read that right. We are setting up a publishing data house where you can submit your work and many editors can read it. Those editors can then contact you if they want to publish your work. It works the same way if you are an editor looking for work to publish. It works like this:
See. The little stick editor and the little stick writer look happy. You will be too. Be one of the first to be published with this very different approach. Also, it’s free, all you have to do is sign up: http://www.everywritersresource.com/literarymagazines/register/?This feature will launch sometime this week.
I really hate doing this! We need your help again. We have run our: Raise Money Campaign very quietly. It turns out, that’s not the best way to try to raise money for something. So, we are running this request to all of our readers once again. I hate asking for money, and please believe that I wouldn’t do it if we could stay on the web without it. We really need your help. EWR has over 3 million readers per year. If every reader gave a dollar this year, we would not be asking for money. We would be working harder to bring you stories, poetry, literary magazines, book publisher listings, interviews and articles on writing. So, to that end, please give us what you can. Please help us stay on the web. I don’t want to be in your face about it. Not in the least, but we really do need your help. Please donate:
by Amit Parmessur
Around blue, white oceans,
in a blue and black house dwells a black
speck. So black, so blue
black alive, emotionally blue.
Sometimes like a fresh road, after the rain,
spellbinding every periwinkle and
sometimes imitating a baffled bluebird
he has had the blues so, so often that
he never listens to the blues and
his eyes have long gone into his
socks that smell of cheap cigarettes.
On his neighbors lips are perched
black curses that threaten to recreate
him every day, and his disloyal wife’s
hair flies in the wind in such a way
that she might inspire him into frothing
himself off some mossy cliff, any time
on one of those moonlit, blue nights.
He’ll never understand that he’s
the symbol of a country losing itself
because of people like him.
###
Born in 1983, Amit Parmessur lives with his black cat nowadays. Since 2010, his poems have appeared in more than 100 literary magazines. His book on blog Lord Shiva and other poems has also been published by The Camel Saloon. He is nominated for the Pushcart Award and lives in Quatre-Bornes, Mauritius. As long as he gets published, he knows he is on the right track.
