Since my obsession with Honey Bees is no longer a secret, here's a poem about them! Inspired by Book IV of Endymion by Keats, some Poe, Shelley, Wilde, and Yeats. God save the Queen!
Indignantly, Feeling certain dignity. Breath and tone, Blood and bone. Complete oblivion, At times I beg for you But often I shun you Effortlessly. Window-shattering sounds Cluttering the mind and Confusing the Body. Ever so sweet, But Cowering, From the Synchronous sourness. Once a hungry ghost, Now just a mood-swing Within winter, Hiding. From everyone I... Continue Reading →
Think poetry is a fluffy, giant pageant? That's the plebeian idea. It's cutthroat. Want to choke down your prey before you become its prey? Try this. Stephen Dawson's personal rules for writing poetry. Don't like rules? Feel free to break them.
Let not the excess of lusts and comforts mislead you as they have the sheep of this hellscape, miasma, painted in this poem.
A little prose poem that I wrote as a freshman in high school that I still enjoy reading from time to time. Enjoy!
Leah Cappelli is a poet and psychonaut from Staten Island, New York. Leah works as a counselor for people with mental health and substance abuse issues and has experience on both ends of the therapy room. Leah has experienced the trials and tribulations of hypo-manic and depressive mood-swings, panic attacks, and dissociation. Her passion lies at the crux of all forms of social justice, mental health advocacy, and writing as a form of therapy. She has been previously published in Open Minds Quarterly, various blogs, and is in the final phases of launching her first chapbook, Radiate and Resonate, in the coming months.
Sonnet by Stephen J. Dawson Jr. Her loving words comfort and dance off her tongue To trickle down poetry perched on her chest They blanket her curves and exalt them in song So, I gave them my ear, let my heart convalesce She looked inside me, her stare was wide-eyed She read all my scars... Continue Reading →
The Man Who Swallowed Himself by Stephen J. Dawson Jr. These are an old man's last dying words, Lined in absurdity of voices he's heard, "To my unnotice, my heart beats so still With a filling, if absent, still much harrowed will." But unknowing the touch of a woman in bed, Or of nature, of... Continue Reading →