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

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.

"Ah, no; the years, the years   Down their carved names the rain-drop ploughs" - Thomas Hardy You made rubbings   of the marks of death.   easing them carefully   onto the page   worn words rising   sharp   from crumbling stone.   The strong hands of death   ease you   into the earth   but your careful marks   will outlive   stone by Séamus Duggan 'Stone' was a winner of the Goodreads poetry competition  and was written in response to the death of Séamus Heaney, in 2013. 

Greetings, fellow Aphraites! We have all very much enjoyed running our 'Beat the Monday Blues' poetry series here at Cafe Aphra - in particular our Poetry Editor, Yvonne, who has done a sterling job reading submissions and frequently offering helpful feedback on entries.  However, after careful consideration we've decided to change the format this year. While we are still committed to publishing poetry on Cafe Aphra, we'd like to do so less often and thus be able to take more time over the selection process. We've therefore decided to transform our series from a weekly Monday Poem, to a "Poem of the Month".  Poems will be published on the first Monday of each month. We continue to welcome submissions from poets both published and unpublished and the same guidelines apply as before. Send us your submissions with an accompanying image to: cafeaphra@yahoo.com Our first "Poem of the Month", for February, is 'Stone' by Séamus Duggan - ...

she danced   like she was settling fingerprint frost emblazoned on her skin   above everyone else   skirt blooming; dying arms outstretched-- shivers up her spine:   her only fear was flying.   i knew a wintergirl once.   from up out of the snow-flakes   falling on her appleglass eyes,   and with thoughts like mountains   words made of icicles   the delicate orange blossom painting her lips,   she rose moonlight monument   to soar on the stars. by Sarah Goehring

Before the onset of addled speech when stitch becomes swatch becomes swish becomes swash becomes schwa, the fabric needs to be dipped and dyed, measured and cut, patterned and sewn. But it’s all wrong, needs to be done twice again. Shaky hands, poor sight make for mis-measurement, mis-hue. The felt has never been sick, yet it’s still cured with mercury in rooms with no vents. In the late stages, the hats make themselves. Dance under needles. Zip through machines. Twinkle. Entwine. Glow velvet neon. Crush with feathers.  Drink the mercury gallon by gallon, let the hatter sleep in his maddened bed. by Christina M. Rau

Alternative Title :'The Thought-Fox, Revisited by a Drunk Woman' I sit, fingers poised above keys, shivering in my conservatory freeze Un petit Christmas ditty, please, would end my struggles, creative pleas And ploys. Despite the lack of fuss or noise – the house is quiet of voice and boys The words just do not want to come.   Unpressed, keys don’t know joy or fun Don’t make you laugh or make you think or make you feel or make you drink. Drink. Aha, the very thing.   Perhaps un petit verre de quelque chose May tease out words, make them flow like harmonies across staves from treble to bass. ( SCRABBLE TO BACK OF DRINKS CUPBOARD, FOLLOWED BY DASH TO CAKE TIN IN KITCHEN, RETURN TO ORTHOPAEDIC COMPUTER CHAIR, CLIMB BACK ON ) I sit, fingers poised above keys, shivering less, crumbs on my knees Sod the computer, let’s get a pen.   It might work better.   I’ll try again. Unstraddle heights off computer chair.   Straighten my knees, then p...