Tag: poetry

Villains Needed

JD Adler Key West In an age when the bad guys are winning and the good guys are on the run Maybe we don’t need heroes But villains to save everyone Loki, Lex Luthor and Magneto to the rescue of

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Put Down Your Pencils

PUT DOWN YOUR PENCILS David Leeson Key West The little hand points to twelve. The big hand points to twelve. You didn’t think high noon Would come so soon. Children, put down your pencils. The test is now complete. That

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When I Stop Loving You

WHEN I STOP LOVING YOU Patty Patten Tiffany When I stop loving you after a prolonged period in which you scorn me, I will exile you to Pluto, downgraded from planet to icy mass, something like you.

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WHERE’S MY MUSE WHEN I NEED HER?

By Flower Conroy Poet Laureate, Key West “There’s no such thing as writer’s block… you just need to lower your standards.” – Peter Murphy I’ve spent a good portion of the afternoon wracking my brain trying to think what craft

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Angels Whisper

Jah Love Key West Angels whisper in the night Calling lovers to their hearts’ delight With the softest breath they draw us near And dry the streak of the lonely tear Angels whisper in the night

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My Favorite Position is Juxtaposition

My Favorite Position is Juxtaposition Flower Conroy Key West Poet Laureate   In last month’s issue of Decimos, I scratched the surface of ‘what transpires between the title of a poem and its first line’.  Although I focused on the

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Old Town Clown

OLD TOWN CLOWN by Tod Perry   So pleased to look the scruffy clown his clothes were blots on polka dots on top of rings on top of spots paint in drips collar to cuff half a Pollack half a

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Hand Over Hand

Hand Over Hand by Kalo Jason-next-door cursed Show off   as my Dad smiling wide bravissimo turned a gleaming 1955 Buick Century into our driveway

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The Shepherd

The Shepherd by JD Adler   In the middle of the night The slow scratch of my Long slender claws At the entrance To your home Sets the soul a shiver sets the body to quake Forgotten when you awake

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The Fine Art of Professional Suicide

The Fine Art of Professional Suicide by Hal Howland The toothless, trembling old man approached the circulation desk and struggled to speak. Normally he would have been dismissed as one of a hundred lazy vagrants who spent their days in

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