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A Poem of Grief & Broken LimbsA Poem of Grief
mama, you are the verse we chanted when our knees fall into water in your palm is a broken river we scoop from it eternal rains to wash our flowered skin in your eyes—a darken sky littered with grains of dreams smoldering in sawdust in your tongue—flames of a blue language written in the heart of a dead sperm with sadness in an haystack—needle a poem of grief on the back of a duck. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Aquatic Verse
Over the holidays, we created a video writing prompt to inspire the Quail Bell community. Here are the top poetry submissions we received. Watch more Quail Bell videos on Vimeo.
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By Olivia Wu In the sea of perception, I seek among so many fish until I touch stillness within. Love, truth and beauty expand until they permeate my reality. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Letter WriterFrom the broad, concrete steps of the old Post Office in central Bamako he sees her approaching and looking around. She wears a pale blue boubou, not new but freshly washed and ironed, the fold lines proudly showing. The flowing gown has white embroidery. She sees him and comes over towards where he is sitting.
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I Knew There Surely Would be a LifeI knew there surely would be a life
A life that waters the thirsty throat And whispers to the tenebrific clouds The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
In Your Eyes I BeholdIn your eyes I behold
A harvest moon And a dusk diaphanous An ocean fractious and eaten with cold wrath The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
In April We Born and SproutIn April we born and sprout
We infuse nature with merriment The leaves glint with dews All is verdant all is verdant The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Ash BirthdayNow I am old enough to be the keeper of Tales:
Neither maid nor crone, but a woman who lives alone with her magic, the apples and ravens, tending to her hearth dwelling delinquents. I am past the age and waste of princes, more like than not to bed the huntsman and go prowling the wood for wolves to untame. I have solved the riddle of my name. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
21 Cows Struck by LightningOn their way to high-jumping the moon,
things got cloudy. Night moved to a deeper dark. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Anniversary CoffeeBy Marjorie Maddox QuailBellMagazine.com *Editor's Note: Previously Published in Local News from Someplace Else. On this side of plate glass,
the Midwestern sky threatens The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Still Life of House in Late MarchWords by Marjorie Maddox Image by Annika Lindok QuailBellMagazine.com *Editor's Note: Previously Published in Local News from Someplace Else and Christianity and Literature A century old, she knows
how to pose, shutters not even twitching in natural light as the artist tinkers with perception, vandalizes the stark air with voyeurism. She is naked of snow, leaves, flowers but beautiful in her simple stance among curved hills. |