The Watchman

April 19, 2015 at 4:20 pm (Dominic Alapat, Poetry)

sat under the mango tree

on a blue tin chair

tapping his stick

on the ground

in the afternoon.

Across the road

a white Fiat slept

in its rusted garage

in the shadow

of a faded

yellow building.

The white sky

burned in

complete silence.

– Dominic Alapat


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April 1, 2015 at 7:55 am (Dani Clark, Poetry)

Oh wounded of the world

would you

hook your finger into the gore

pull out the bullet

hear the clink

on a metal tray

if I said

doing this would mean

never befriending a leathery old woman

never seeing her eyes afire

never listening to her raspy voice say

I don’t take no tea for the fever

never knowing then

exactly what she means?


– Dani Clark

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