Tevis Bluff

Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category

Midnight Bike Ride

In Poetry on October 25, 2012 at 1:25 pm

Midnight bike ride, friend in tow
Wobbly unsure start, riding side by side
Rushing sound of the wind in your ears
Like the drone of a thousand angry bees
Exhilarating feeling, senses heightened, heart pumping
Peddle awhile, cruise, peddle some more

Yapping dogs lunging at your feet (their exercise
For the evening)
Lone walkers, dark neighborhood
You peddle faster
Another courageous biker coming out of the
Darkness of night
Riding like he’s in a New York marathon
Peddle, coast, coast, glide
You ride on…

Full moon ..a welcome beacon in the midnight sky
Like the north star for weary slaves
Lighting the way on an otherwise dark and foreboding street
Giving vision to certain obstacles in our path
Occasional bumps, or those infamous potholes
That can send you flying over the handlebars
Railroad tracks… a welcome break
Peddle hard to the top
Coast for a block, arms flailing like
Kids on a roller coaster
Pump harder, pick up speed

Street lamps dot the lane like islands
They are few and far between
A lone vehicle lights our way,
But cautiously passes by eventually
The wind engulfs us like an airish blanket
Rhythmic panting, muscles aching
Nearing the end of our trek
Slowly peddling… coast to a stop.

-Dorothy Sells Clover

Originally published in Cornucopia, her book of poetry.
Read our review


Like Hart Crane

In Poetry on October 2, 2012 at 5:00 pm

You’re so tragic,
in that green wool sweater
first time sailing in a steam liner
going across the harbor
thinking about eating,
thinking about dying.
Night time, middle of the night
crying, sinking, falling onto land
of a conclusion,
peaceful emissions
coming from the brain to the body to swallow
that cleaning
liquid kept underneath the sink

Youre so tragic,
everything to you is about dying
eat something! damn it.
dont you wish you could
since you’re drinking yourself silly,
in Houston last night
with music coming from across the street
through patio lights and tables

You’re so tragic,
driving your car down the interstate
thinking about eating something
thinking about dying or something
thinking about crashing this leased car into a barrier,
crumpling, like paper, tossed into a basket
by a man in the office, who is
just so damned tragic,
never going to escape this
casual black tie affair.

Youre so tragic,
waiting in the morning,
breathing though a clogged nose
sleeping on your side,
wondering if this is a story
in some other’s play
and this protagonist-
missing his mother, missing the sunlight,
working his tired eyes towards easy


You’re so tragic
standing on the rooftops,
making no ends meet,
living like Hart Crane,
thinking about drinking,
thinking about eating.
thinking about dying.


Wondering what it is like to sleep all day, instead
of taking the stairs back down to the ground floor
and passing up the lobby
outside the door- into the street
looking at the men and looking the women
and their bodies and their faces,
as you pass them passing you by,
riding in their cars
watching their movies
eating their dinners
(something that you will never have)


and wondering if its all worth it.

Walking inside at night,
through the lobby, up the stairs
Thinking about eating.
Thinking about sleeping.
Thinking about the rush of air
as it breathes out
emptying the lungs of the
and then over through
the hairs on the face and the head
sighing for excitement
smiling for the ideas
of eating, and sex
and joy.
Thinking about eating.
Thinking about drinking.
Thinking about dying.


Ryan Fisette


In Poetry on May 15, 2012 at 6:12 pm

Oh ‘Mother,’ what’s in the name?
Of course quick to mind is fame.

As we all know by far
You are the shining star!

To add we cannot forget kindness,
Nor gentleness and thoughtfulness,

As much as the human heart can hold
So are these that the name beholds.

Until a woman bears a seed
So these emotions have no title or deed?

Yet upon the birth, a woman becomes a mother,
There is a burst of all these together.

Whereas the mother releases from the heart,
All that God’s given – Oh what a start!

To receive too small to mention,
There is no other in contention.

For the name ‘Mother’ means simply to love.
Indeed, God instills it from above.

And so we write line for line,
This little poem that comes to mind.

But it also comes from the heart and soul.
To again be recited and told.

Lisa Clark

Machiavellian Bonanza

In Poetry on February 9, 2012 at 12:00 pm

Bought, sold, traded, underwritten

Shipped overseas and hidden away

In brass cavities the size of a house

Secret tombs still holding the wealth

Passed down from long dead men

Stashed away from the public sphere

For fear of an uprising

Poverty breeds violence, right?

Damn, dirty beggars trying to catch a free ride

Off of someone else’s inheritance

Flabbergasted fools glued to blue cloth seats

Pretend to understand the evils of socialism

And will scream it through the streets

As they patrol the neighborhoods

Protecting everyone from themselves

And pocketing that redistributed wealth

Hypocritical normalities cloaked in moral ambiguities

That closely resemble the emperor’s new clothes

And the sidewalks are still buzzing

With the ignorant whispers

Breathing life into their own doom

As trillions is washed out to sea

And settles not beneath the ocean

But in the slimy pockets of overcoats

Hanging from the shoulders

Of all those we never stopped calling Master


Roy Dequeant

The Gray

In Poetry on December 15, 2011 at 12:00 pm

I possess the control,
the ability to choose between
black and white.
To dissuade from gray,
the color of confusion,
the color eyes wide shut make.

It is the representative shade
for those who choose to not,
hide with the scared or
march with the brave,
but instead don a veil
the color of gray.

With this veil, this mask, this masquerade
they hide amongst heroes
and receive undue accolades,
and cower with the poor, the fearful,
to receive charity not intended for them.
For their valor is selfish,
and their woes or not true.
They wade in the muddy tween space,
having found the benefits of blending
while being completely out of place.

The gray is not a solution
it is dissolution
a stepping stone towards indifference.
It places a plague on both of your houses
and feeds you to the point of malnutrition.
It fills your body, your mind, your soul
with empty thoughts of grandeur
and materialistic goals.

I have a dream that all men are not created equal,
that the strong were created
to carry the weak;
that the outspoken were meant
to speak for the meek;
that the ones who could stand
were meant to pick up their fallen man.
For without black there is no white,
without wrong there is no right.
For beauty is found in the
like and dislike of both.
What we disdain about one
brings forth what we appreciate in the other.
By turning a blind eye to the negative
we will never truly understand the positive.

So in living your dream
remember to not embrace all
for all are not meant to be embraced,
but instead placed amongst us
so we might taste
the difference between the gray and the
unequivocal feeling, the moment, the knowing
of our true place.

For I possess the control,
the intelligent ability
to voice my choice
to use my sensibility,
and cast away my veil
making a promise to never masquerade
as a hero hiding among the weak
or a coward among the brave;
to not engorge myself
with empty deeds
and consuming thoughts
of undeserving wants
and self made needs.

Kelly Neild Price

It’s not as if

In Poetry on September 19, 2011 at 12:00 pm

It’s not as if
I haven’t wanted
to kiss your mouth,
to touch this torso,
to squeeze the soft parts,
and the more firm parts

in my lonely hands.
To drink you up in the
fading cosmic sunshine,
to take you in and
softly glide over your limbs
with the tips of my fingers, and

with the tips of my fingers
gently scratching skin
from biting my nails
and cuticles away,
worried that I might hurt you.
Soft hair in my face,

smelling it, it smells like me.
My breath, and my beard
has made an impression upon you.
Yet, and it feels as
if your nakedness, next to mine,
isn’t bothering you

much anymore;
and you push up your shoulders
to your ears, to play shy
and snicker, pushing air
through your short, little nose
that I have kissed with my eyes closed.

Lying here in
the middle of the night
like spoons, in the cutlery drawer,
without any sound
coming from the house
or any movements outside.

Ryan Fisette


In Poetry on August 9, 2011 at 11:13 pm

I go to the water’s edge and stand alone,
Waiting to see a wave, a sign of life below,
But still, still, still is the water’s cry.

Try as I may to peer into the black water’s deeps
Nothing breaks the mirror’s scene of me bent like these trees,
And still, still, still is the water’s cry.

I jump into the water, ripples to make,
But drowning, buried underneath, all looks the same.
So still, still, still is the water’s cry.

I go to the Lord and pray the water will move.
He says stillness, black and glassy tells the truth, so there’s nothing left to do,
But be still.

Hannah Read

House of Mirrors

In Poetry on August 9, 2011 at 10:22 pm

Sharp, jagged corners.

The silver sheen of imperfection.

Outstretched arms of shards.

The fractures of an image.

Frozen in the corner.

Lost in the icy smoke.

Surrounded by critical amber.

A multitude of the same soul,

imprisoned in this house of mirrors.

             –Roy Quebedeaux

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