The Poetry Box

Pushcart Poems

“The Cup is Half Full” by Judith Terzi

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Front Cover The Poeming PIgeon: Sports

“The Cup is Half Full” by Judith Terzi , published inThe Poeming Pigeon: Sports, released in May 2019 by The Poetry Box, has  been nominated for The Pushcart Prize.

Please enjoy the poem, and feel free to leave a comment.

The Cup is Half Full

I rooted for México in the Group Stage
since our team never made it to Russia,

though Russia made it to the USA. Hard
to keep track of points the first round,

sort of like keeping oligarchs straight
in the Mueller probe or remembering

“Veselnitskaya” if you need to. Watch
humanity on the screen—blended roots,

races. Liberté, égalité, dualité. Dualities:
the colonized, the colonizer harmonizing

fearless wish. A choreography of hope.
Telemundo’s rolling out the Rs, trilling

Rodriguez, Rojo, Ronaldo, Radamel.
Prolonging the ecstasy of G….O….A….L

for as long as a human voice can hang on
to a vowel. We stand up in our den, yell

like maniacs. In the den of my childhood,
a big Philco radio bellowed Phillies games.

My father taught me to pitch a softball.
Now I live with a soccer fanatic from Chile

who knows zilch about popouts, grounders,
bunts. So I’ve had to absorb a few things

about fútbol. Like there’s a biter on the team
from Uruguay they call el vampiro who

plays for Barcelona with Lionel Messi. And
Brazilian Neymar used to play for Barça

but was traded to Paris Saint-Germain
for a megaton of bucks. He’s the most

expensive player around & the most
histrionic: Just whisper sweet nothings,

he’ll fall to the ground & roll around.
I know the reasons for a corner kick,

penalty kick, free one. And I get what
offside means. Sort of. I still can’t predict

when a goal will not be a goal. I miss
Zidane on the green, his presto dance

for France. But they won without him.
The Copa is a breather from politics.

Sort of. All four of my grandparents fled
the pogroms of the Tsar, their trunks

bursting with prayer shawls & sacred books
& silver cups for sweet red wine & blessings.

And hope.

Pushcart Nominees for 2018 (and links to poems)

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We are thrilled to announce the following poets have been put nominated for a Pushcart Prize: Best of the Small Press Awards, for poetry published in 2018. 

2018

 

Pushcart 2018 Nominees Announcment from The Poetry Box

 

We wish all of these talented poets the best of luck!

Swept Under the  Rug by Julene Tripp Weaver

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“Swept Under the  Rug” by Julene Tripp Weaver, published inThe Poeming Pigeon: In The News, released in August 2018 by The Poetry Box.

Swept Under the  Rug

there are words
		      hiding
			under our rug
          someone took a broom
(or perhaps asked their servant)
                                   and swept
these vulnerable words
to the side       and into a  dust pan,
		      neatly,
the little fetus ball-words
rolled in dust 	 swept up,
but entitled to one last
science-based breach
yakked among themselves
about what sex they were and
		      what gender 
one clearly declared they
		      were transgender
and wanted to be addressed
		      as such, another,
(in good form) swore
that due to evidence-based
proof	      research (in fact)
they had the right to their race
and rejoiced in their		diversity
		      it was such a party
		      in the swept up dust pan
but then,         the awful truth
the rug came down

still      they bounce 
		       and mumble
determined to see
the light of day

Libretto by Ed Mabrey

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“Libretto” by Ed Mabrey, published inThe Poeming Pigeon: In The News, released in August 2018 by The Poetry Box.

Libretto

The Libretto of the Opera: Death of a Black Boy

Curtains open
Sun rises on anywhere USA
Small kitchen with mother at stove
(We never see her face)

The Black Boy sits at table eating
Soft piano
Mother sings the song, How lucky am I to have a boy such as this
Violins giggle Cellos chuckle
The Black Boy sings the song, I’m going to get us out of here one day

Enter Father
Director’s note: The part of Father has been cancelled
(Replace Father with empty notes from woodwind section)
Wood wind section plays the song, Absence

ACT ONE

Enter Mothers Boyfriend
Director’s note: All Boyfriends shall be given title “temporary” or “fill-in” regardless of instrument backing
The Boyfriend sings the song, Bitch where’s my breakfast, why you feeding him first when I’m the one helping you with these bills, it’s not like he’s my kid anyway
Director’s note: Option to replace this song with, Gimme your car keys
Boy leaves
Piano 1 and 2 begin walking music
Concrete will be played by strings
Cue percussion to perform song, Broken glass everywhere

ACT TWO

The Black Boy Tries to Make It to School Alive
The Black Boy walks thru his neighborhood
Cue homeless men
Cue daytime hookers
Cue drug dealers
Drug Dealer sings song, I got a job for you
Blaring car horns by trumpets section 1
All instruments stop
Cue single snare drum

The Black Boy enters school
Lockers sing the song, Insecurity
Walls sing the song, Inferiority complex
Teacher sings, Overworked and underpaid
Career Counselor sings, You won’t live to see 20 so why discuss job opportunities
Principle sings, I’ve touched a child in an inappropriate manner
School Board sings, Keep the student to teacher ratio high enough for federal funding and if things go bad, fire a teacher
School desks perform medley, Get them behinds in the seats
Students perform, All in all it’s just another brick in the wall

ACT THREE

The Black Boy Goes Home
Cue timpani for gun shots

(Next section is simultaneous)
Stage left mother sings, Will my son make it home today
Stage right father sings, I’ll do better tomorrow
Upstage boyfriend sings, When did I stop caring
Homeless man sings, I used to live round here
Hooker sings, Has anyone seen my babies
Drug Dealer sings, If you don’t give a damn, we don’t give a fuck
Apartment buildings sing, Don’t it make my brown eyes blue
Cue police officer
Cue neighborhood watch vigilante
Cue stand your ground

Black Boy sings song, Wallet on the ground sun in the sky bullet in my back, sandwich in my hand bullet in my face, cell phone in my hand bullet in my head, skittles in my hand iced tea in my blood, cigar in my hand college bound in the wind

Enter 100 police officers singing, Bad moon rising
Enter Fox News singing, Pleased to meet you, hope you guess my name
Enter a thousand bullets singing, Dead men can’t be witnesses

Keep snare, add bass drum
Upright bass with bow, then off key piano
All instruments! Harder! Louder! Cymbals crash! And stop!
Violins and cellos hum of a million bees whispering
Single street light center stage on Black Boy
Sopranos sing song, And the blood came a trembling down
Cue Michelle and Barack – tenors sing, Too much too little too late
Light fades to black on Black Boy- as moon sings, Change gon’ come

The End

Director’s note: I think if we do this right, we can bring this opera back every week around the country and no one will notice. Tell the producers- we’ve got a hit on our hands.

 

Abraham Morales Hernandez by Christopher Bogart

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“Abraham Morales Hernandez” by Christopher Bogart, published in 14: Antologia del Sonoran, released in October 2018 by The Poetry Box.

Abraham Morales Hernandez

(N. 32.21.85/W. 113.18.94)

I had dressed for a race, not a marathon.
My black sweatpants were cooking me alive.
As we trod toward El Norte,
We eyed each other, wondering
Who would be the next one to fall.

Exhausted, I tripped and hit the dirt hard.
I crawled the dry ground rolling onto my side.
I kicked till I was under a bush.

The cries of the others
Faded in. Faded out.
Out was the last I remembered.

They spotted my tennis shoes,
Two small white will-o’-the-whisps
Peeking out from under the shrubs.

I took the long truck ride
As a man with no name.

I lie in a drawer,
As I had in the desert,
Waiting for someone to find me.

Desconocido.
Unknown.

The Inheritance by donnarkevic

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“The Inheritance” by donnarkevic, published in Many Sparrows, to be released in December 2018 by The Poetry Box.

The Inheritance

Mrs. Reznik, the mother of that boy
who hanged himself, visits Mom.
They sway on the front porch swing
and talk quiet as Confession.
Sitting on the useless milk box,
I bounce a red ball against the house
without Mom yelling.
When Mrs. Reznik pulls a Kleenex from her purse,
Mom nods her head, mentions my name,
says everything will be okay,
her voice like when I scrape a knee.
As the woman leaves, she stops to look at me.
I’m wearing a pair of her son’s double knee denims.
Bending down, she kisses my forehead.
Her dangling gold earrings jingle.
She thanks me.
For what, I don’t know.

At supper, Mom tells Dad the news.
Cutting a pork chop, he nods approval,
asks for more coffee.

The next day, Mr. Reznik hurries me
as I haul forty-seven newspapers
in a pregnant canvas bag.
He tells me I make nothing but mistakes:
walk too slow,
fold papers too loose, too tight,
tramp too close to Mrs. Tomo’s flower bed.
When I drop a paper into a muddy puddle,
he shouts, You’re just as stupid as . . .
But he stops yelling, stares at the ground
as though he lost something,
then picks up the soggy bundle,
trying to wipe it dry like a tear.
I’m sorry, he says to the puddle.
I feel like rain.

Each collection day, Mr. Reznik tips fifty cents,
asks me how I’m doing,
waves goodbye from the porch,
and watches me go door to door
until I know he can’t see me anymore.

Misha by Gudrun Bortman

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“Misha” by Gudrun Bortman published in Fireweed, released in Oct 2018 by The Poetry Box.

Misha

that winter     you asked me   to scatter
your ashes in my garden             sheltered
under the big oak’s branches at the canyon edge
& I promised
lightly—
thinking that time still far away.

That spring   one day in March     they handed you
to me        heavy
in the zip-lock bag           hidden       inside
a velvet satchel.

I took you to my house           & kept you
tucked into that wooden box you loved,
carved with horses
& waited
ambivalent about who we had been together.

And then the fire came           mingled
ash with ash
till rain & wind disturbed
the frothy layers      & I found a small heap
gritty         rose-grey             flecked
with flakes of bone.

I shoveled you as best I could       carried you
to the old oak           now charred
spread you around the blackened trunk
and sat with you         and asked forgiveness

Columbine by Linda Ferguson

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“Columbine” by Linda Ferguson, published in The Poeming Pigeon: In The News, released in August 2018 by The Poetry Box.

Columbine

Ballerina slender stalks, opening
to petal silk, fluted
like a fairy’s skirt as she flits from fern
to fragrant moss

round leaves sheltering
ladybugs, potato bugs,
bees of bumble and honey,
pink worms, green crickets,
wings of moon-white moths,

my first Columbine – fingertips pressing seeds
into yogurt cups on our window sill – then
cradling my baby daughter on the couch, both of us
sick and falling into sweet fever dreams
of whimsical blossoms the color
of butter and cream –

silence of seeds beginning to stir,
pushing open, unseen, as my young son plays
beside me, humming a song
in a parallelogram of sunshine –

Columbine, flower of picnics and
petrichor – the baby awake now
and sucking on me for dear life –

Columbine

Columbine

suddenly flowering
into a burst of fire
forcing entry,
moving from room to room,
taking hostages in fertile imagination,
finger-painting it with the gore
of church pews, classrooms, and the dance floor
where the elegance of erotic love
had begun to unfurl –

and me tightening my arms
around my children and finding there’s no
flying back to the Columbine
of a sun-warmed couch
and baby seeds beginning to sprout –

before a chorus of pale pistils hardened
into artillery of lead and steel,
before we cut our tongues
against the lost innocence
of vowels and consonants:

Sutherland Springs
Sandy Hook
Orlando

Columbine –

Columbine
a flower, a fancy,
sweet milky breath

weight of a baby,
still safe on my chest

 

(Please note, the online format of this poem is left-justified where as the print version dances on the page with more creative indents, etc.)