February Poetry From Flapper Press



Flapper Press continues to feature original poetry from our writers and readers. We encourage you to write poetry and submit it to the site. We'll publish it next month! Start writing!

Submit your work to info@flapperpress.com




I'm Running in the Desert


It’s hard to get free.

They build our prisons

From the inside now.

I’m running at sunset

The sky is supreme

Clouds like islands of light

I pass a group of boys,

No older than twelve,

In knit beanies, looking tough.

Faces harder than they should be.

I could taste their darkness.

I run faster.

The sprinklers water the sidewalk

But the grasses are dry

I cross the street deliberately slow,

Playing chicken with a black

Landrover.

Running home now,

My back to the horizon,

The city a slow purple swirling

Calling forth the night.

I imagine my ancestors

Trailing behind me

And to them I pray:

Please help my dog get better.

Take care of my husband

And soften his grief.

Make of me

A man that can withstand

All this radiant suffering

Without trying to adjust my stride.

Make of me

A warrior of vulnerability.

The city is dark now.

The air still warm and

My skin foretells another brutal

Summer.

Will anyone survive the future?

Or was that never the point?

The glaciers had a god, so did we.

And all of us are melting.

This is a beautiful life now

Right now

Amidst the brokenness and

Looming terror.

If you look hard enough

There is still more than enough

Beauty

To sustain us all.

—Brandon Alter


Summer


Pink tinted, Street being

Look listen, night creeping

Summer corner of overcast haven

On the thirteenth we run by day breaking

One warmer breeze whispered

Let him play games of war

On the summer corner pour hues

This is the last day we count in Summer

Over the horizon

You can hear them calling,

Saying Summers here shortly

Oh cul de sac of orange hue

Suburban bubble popped by me and you

—Rachel Holman




Overjoyed


Childish at worst

Childlike at best

What I said at first

Still stands


Now that I contemplate

I would moderate

But the core of the matter

Of my childish chatter

Remains


Overjoyed

— Gerda Strobl

If you have original poetry or short stories, please submit to Flapper Press for us to publish in the coming months! info@flapperpress.com

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