Nourish

Poetry

NOURISH’S mission is to showcase talent in the field of poetry, and to inspire amateur and experienced poets, both young and old, to express themselves to poetry enthusiasts in the newest poetry publication,

Nourish-Poetry.

Staff

Editorial

EDITORIAL DIRECTOR

EDITOR

Chris Slaughter

Art & Production

PRODUCTION EDITOR

Nathaniel Wyllie

Marketing

INTERNET MARKETING DIRECTOR

Analiza Ash

Corporate Officer

PUBLISHER

W. Wayne Lin

Poems

Don’t Push the Button America

by Juan Felipe Herrera

 

Just don't understand why so many want you to push the button

don’t push it please don’t push it

you are making me nervous I am slouching toward nowhere

art is not enough

performance is not enough

something is missing don’t push it to fill the vacuum

it is something that has not been done before it is that simple

you must find that achieve that it is not too late

the button of course is not the answer of course

it provides an ounce or two of arousal

similar to the walls of Patrols on the border

similar to the 30 billion dollar aircraft carrier you just set out

into the metal oceans

do not push it I am nervous something is off-kilter

it is beyond words beyond poetry beyond Milton and Sappho

it is beyond Paz and Ko Un it is beyond all the African drummers

of Ghana it is closer to the ashes of South Sudan and the green skulls

of a Mexican State I cannot mention and

the massacres the massacres so many massacres in plain sight

do not push it

we will fall leaves or snow it is that simple we will not have to wait

for 3 billion more years to perish

as the solar orb dissolves and cuts the forces that hold us

do not push do not listen to the war provosts beside you

come here where we sit

in this annex between that walls of a nondescript house

we were shudder & read Anne Frank

were we write and string the guitar the quiet bones we

spin on the floor do not push it

from unpublished ms., America Stop Deporting Us

SHORE RIGHTS, NIGHT LIGHTS

by Roald Hoffman

The dark

privileged by the hour,

rolls up the variegated

green of fields,

for a spell . . .

and while

you, focusing on a hedge,

try to see how it's managed it, it,

the dark,

marches the road,

by day a beige and graveled stretch, off

to a street light,

under a tire.

 

Water

comes out at dusk,

it's time for reflection,

a pressing of the sunny sparseness

of island spruce and rock

to a twin-jagged

black palisade.

On a dock

jutting into the bay

a man skipping stones at night

has the power to shatter,

arc of shards,

the quarter moon.

TIANANMEN       

by William Marr

 

as a grand plaza

of heavenly peace

it must somehow attract

flocks of pigeons

from the sky

 

and let them walk leisurely in the square

let them peck food out of tourists' hand

slet them coo coo

and shit all over the heads and shoulders of the statues

without any fear

butterfly    

wherever the wind goes          

Point B

by Christopher Herold

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