Poetry – Page 4 – Novus Literary and Arts Journal

Realization

Written by Shelby Summar. Posted in Poetry.

I wish I could write about the things that don’t hurt. like how the sky fights against the dark shoreline of trees. or how the sun makes everything glow golden in the mornings. and how the horses’ tails sway effortlessly back and forth as they graze the ground below them. But I can’t do that, I don’t know how. Or maybe I could write about the red windmill in the backyard that creaks and turns as the wind pushes through it. I hear the wind chimes and I’m reminded of my grandfather, reminded of his life and how his voice always boomed through the earth, the windchimes doing the same now. I wish I could write about how I feel when I look at him. I’ve been broken for a while now and gave up on that feeling, but he brings a different light than what I’ve seen before, kind of like the golden sun in the morning. I want to write about the warmth of the sun burning my back and I spread across the sheets waking up in the morning. The feeling of the tears running down my face when the boy gets the girl. the happy ending. I want to write about mom’s wildflowers that she planted in the garden, and how they shot from the ground and created a display of pattern and active color. At night, I open the door and see the night sky polluted with the burning stars, freckled with the white dots that remind me how small I am, how small my problems are.

I want to write about that.

I focus on the things that hurt because that’s what you told me to do. Never expect the best, conceal those emotions, they’re bad for you anyway. I want to write of the things that make me happy but you stole that from me a long time ago.

But I look past what I’ve written now, and the words in me are more powerful than you. I see the truth, only in me, not in you.

Prodigal Sun

Written by Sam Kaspar. Posted in Poetry.

I hold 2 of my dad’s fingers

He’s a great guy

Especially when your hands are little

Going to the better store in town

after he washes up almost ceremoniously

and after We cash the cheque

Prepping food and laughter, good times follow

Sunny barbeque, It sounds better in French

Skewered from the beard to the tail

de la barbe à la queue

Cutting gristle from the edges

Hollow belly feeds on protein

times are good

Stories of the old days

His abilities secured a good, decent job

Afforded roofs above our heads

Food on our plates

Footings on upward mobility

There’s a lot of competition

But I get college

I get work

Dad used to preach against the pensionless jobs

He first felt trapped

Then dignified with steady work

Benefits

The Gig Economy bites down

I bought the cheapest razors

Bargain grocer, a bus ride away

It’s too humid in this sunlight, screw the ride

maybe I’ll get the five dollar combo from nearby

Lard and starch drenched fatty edge morsels

Of leftovers stir fried, unholy alchemy

Ass scratched by one ply toilet paper

Caged in dimmed low energy domicile

Power bill’s a bitch

Sheepish when I consider telling him there’s no room

In a junior studio bachelor’s

Or other euphemisms for living in a closet sized trap

In a giant city

I know they’re sick and old and

I’m guilt stricken by my absence

I hang my head in shame on the phone

but try not to spell that out

or let him feel that pose

I put out my hand, a small hand still, only

Phonating what I know he’ll refuse:

Why don’t you and mom come live with me?

He says he’s proud of me, and that We’ll not bother while it’s cold out son

let’s wait til summer(,) Sunshine

times will be good, we can do up a feast.

FUTURE INSTRUCTION MANUAL: On Work

Written by Thad DeVassie. Posted in Poetry.

It will be the opposite of toil // the once-towed line that is now yours to draw // to define what has value // what will halve you // much like day from night // labor from leisure // from punch clocks to punch lines from those working the line // lunch lines in the corporate café // clock watching so as not to waste time on the timeline // the time sheets that need to be complete // accounting for hours // by the quarter // like a hoarder of time and profit // yet still not fit for the next rung //the one your brother said you should be gunning for // running for as if you were up for the vote // on the ballot // not some speculative write-in charlatan // work will not be this // it will not be just this toil of hands // head work intended to get you ahead // it will be eye work // mouth work // your words at work // your whole self // poured into something more than self-serving // a conviction of how time, more precious than profit, is spent // work is not the obligation you thought it was // told it was // sold it was // it is a decision // a vote // the only one you’ve got // the most consequential one you will cast.

High Beams (GET OFF THE ROAD)

Written by Brianna Fay. Posted in Poetry.

I have dreams

every other full moon or so

that I’m driving down middle road

and the sun had already set

and there’s a car driving towards me

he flashes his high beams at me.

On, off, and on. Three times.

I’m driving down the dip in the road

He’s coming at it from the other direction

His high beams light up the cabin of my Chevy Trailblazer

They illuminate the yellow dashes in the road

They light up the wheat on either side of the street.

On, off, and on. Three times.

What are you trying to tell me?

They light up the abandoned machinery in the field.

It’s been abandoned;

every time I pass,

every time the car drives by in my dreams.

The fields by this road are my favorite part of this town.

My family used to watch fireworks from that hill at the top of the road

and when the sun is setting

the city skyline lights up over the trees.

I used to take that road as a short cut to get home from Jay’s Diner.

It’s where I got pulled over for the first time.

It’s where I drove the car to the side of the road to spend three hours crying

just because everything was falling apart.

I have these dreams

every full moon or so

that I’m driving down middle road

and the sun has already set

and there’s a car driving towards me

and he flashes his high beams.

On, off, and on. Three times.

What are you trying to tell me?

Is there something wrong with my car?

YOU’RE DRIVING IN THE WRONG DIRECTION

Lately, the landscape has changed

but I still take that route home.

The machinery has been moving dirt.

Dad says they’re building soon

and we might not be able to see the skyline from that hill

GET OFF THE ROAD

I never go to Jay’s Diner anymore.

BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE

I don’t even know if this route is really a short cut.

GET OUT

On, off, and on again.

IT’S NOT TOO LATE

On Contemplating a Buzz Cut Before the Pandemic

Written by Briana Grace Hammerstrom. Posted in Poetry.

The Mania tells me to chop off my hair. I don’t.

I talk down the scissors

from an idea of bangs.

The clippers and I compromise on

an undercut- only mutilating

half of my head, no need

for the whole punishment. I

do not remind myself of all the knives in

the kitchen, afraid of the mob

they would become; taking

to the streets of my body, igniting

the memory of bleeding by choice. No-

I squash this rebellion before it starts,

thumb to forearm. Instead, remind

myself that I am sovereign: nothing

can remove my crown ((“Or the weight of it,”

Depression adds unsolicited, like a mother.))

I, like a mother, gift my hair the name Anchor.

A noun of its own. Depression simpers

something about

irony//doubt//the lies we tell ourselves

My hair rebuttals “truth

is subjective at best.” and says nothing else,

no billowy language, bloated

on its ideals of forgiveness

or growth or weight. Instead, it leaves

me alone. Gifts me an allowance of mistakes

The soft joy of bad at-home hair dye.

The brisk rush of freshly cut bangs.

The gentle thrum of clippers in steady hands.

Quarantine/SSRI Dreams Nos. 1, 2, 4, 5, 6, and 8

Written by Thomas Ketchersid. Posted in Poetry.

I dreamed that I wrote

a poem

for someone inappropriate

who needed

one.

I dreamed that they later

shared it

with the world and it felt ok

with everyone

but me.

Sometimes a sprawling

resort on a cliff where

I do not belong and live

in shadows, sprints, and

confidence.

There is another country

I travel to in some dreams.

There is an airport in my

shadowland I have spent

many days running late to,

many days on a train to.

I wonder if I am on my way

to someone else’s shadow

and all of our ports and all

of our trains look the same

and we will never grant each

other entry, asylum, bondage.

I will swim up

and down the floors

of the house I

grew up and learned

everything important in.

I find your corpse

floating in the attic

I don’t remember

you ever visiting.

Like a cathedral cut from stone

my favorite exhibit in a museum

of the other country I visit in my

dreams appears before me with

heights and depths I can never

hope to absorb or comprehend.

I move through the levels, mansions, and

rooms like Kowloonon

on the run in my other country with dank

flower sweating in hand.

If I could smell it would be Genoa docks

and wine breath.

If I weren’t saving the terpenes these legs

would never move.

Realization

Prodigal Sun

FUTURE INSTRUCTION MANUAL: On Work

High Beams (GET OFF THE ROAD)

On Contemplating a Buzz Cut Before the Pandemic

Quarantine/SSRI Dreams Nos. 1, 2, 4, 5, 6, and 8

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