Cafe Aphra: An Online Community for Writers

I saw you arranging Bouquets for a wedding And two funerals Lighting up the room yourself For all the plants to grow Despite a north facing window I saw you cutting thorns Off a rose So nobody who loves it Gets hurt So I want to ask Where I should plant my roots So I can grow Am I a potted Or a free-growing plant How much sun I need And how often should someone Stop by t o water me And trim my branches I want to bloom someday And lose all my thorns I know You’re used to flowers And I think of myself As a weed by Mikolaj Czerbak

The jester mocks and tells his jokes, Whereas the king, he hears his word, And both they laugh ‘bout funny folks, Of braveries that they have heard. And while the king is entertained, The jester smiles and shakes his head, For he’s a jester, friend and saint, Forerunners told him who are dead. The king is lost, they start to sing, They swap the crown for hat with bell, Who jester is and who is king, The servants ask, they cannot tell. by Salia Jansen

In this world we all have silver eyes hunched in an alley at night in a dark overcoat and a floppy hat bottle of cheap liquor next to me like a prayer candle that went out hours ago the beginning of a scene that has played itself out a thousand times before all we need to do is wait for the lights/ camera/action/enter stage left the guy with the blue shirt and the badge and his hand grabs my shoulder and my knife goes into his gut and I stand up and whisper in his ear “regards from my brother” and once I finish drawing the T on his body it’s only a short jaunt to the river to wash off and send the clothes on their way to the ocean

She is in exile here. your mother, the gray-haired female Napoleon, bestriding this St Helena of a kitchen. We find her on a rock between the wall cupboards, stove and table. Your father moved out years ago, she does not recreate him, merely nods towards the remnants of his empire, the walls, the ceilings, honored by her choice of curtain, paper, linoleum, and this liberating cooking range. Her eyes peck at me for signs of constancy. I grip your hand tight. I’m aligning with her hopes not planting the seeds of your banishment. by John Grey

In the cool wind of early October I walk down to last summer's garden, morning glories twined among rows of cornstalks and up the ladders of leaves. I hear them calling to me, and I lean in to listen; delicate little trumpeters flaring their clarion tones, pink as the inner lip of a seashell, and I hear my own heartbeat rise and fall, a tide tugging me closer so I can see each one opening to the light, their faith but a star etched across their faces, rejoicing in their manna from the sun, in their day-to-day life. by  Bobbi Sinha-Morey

do not miniaturize the bicycle torso between blue wheels nor the twig tree broad-shouldered nor yellow-trousered man walking the candy cane coming shapes myself an igloo of time contracting mirror view hot pyramids the tips crumble so reaper crows confuse for wheat the sculpted falsity in the curving sidewalk those pickled legs just churn and churn by  James Croal Jackson

Dim flame dying like a senile candle, a flickering old woman, crinkled fingers drooping  from large jeweled rings  as she sobs in septic sleep  that no lover’s steps  tread the midnights  of her bedroom.  by Gary Beck Gary Beck's poetry collection Rude Awakenings will be published by Winter Goose Publishing this spring.