lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/2026/03/thre...
11.03.2026 20:49
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"When night bore down like wild horses
you rode its back to dark and distant corners.
Disappeared into buildings and other places
you would forget. Tell me months later
how much you loved the disappearing.
That world took you. Held you
under. Forgot your name."
Is there a pigeon named The Artful Dodger?
"Did that keen-eyed bird / kill a baby
rabbit /Catch it / by its neck / carry it
to my rooftop / Or / did the wail
rage out of me"
"There's no explaining people. I stroke gato's head. Feel the purr. People laugh on the roof, lean over the edge. A skinny cowboy without a horse plays Santa Claus chimney."
heroinchic.weebly.com/blog/bastant...
Two more weeks before submissions close. Share with us that ongoing story the words give shape to, a life, yours, ours. Words as medicine, weapon, or small patch of silence. As forgiveness, as mercy, as almost. heroinchic.weebly.com
"maybe this world / is worth clinging to / maybe it is /
maybe I’m still here /
maybe maybe maybe I’m ok"
"Cleave to the pleasure, the poet says. Which sounds like a good line. She tells us to protect our poems. Now I imagine spotted fawns nibbling at the side of the road. I want so badly for them to make it."
heroinchic.weebly.com/blog/poetry-...
"A balm he had never experienced heretofore spread over him, the blessedness of being without duties or appointments, in the midst of anxious muddlement."
~ Henry Green from his novel Caught, which is full of curious sentences.
"Say out loud the things you should have said that day:
Are you okay?
Can I hold you?
Tell me what hurts.
Disconnect the images of his death from images of his life. Try to remember his long, dark lashes or the smell of his sweet, earthy breath..."
"Just because you’re one thing, doesn’t mean all your journeys end, or start again, with your staying that same thing.”
"Mouth of the Sciota River gushes
in addicts’ dreams. A water wall broken.
Point of transfer. Rivers entwined.
The factory windows cracked in your eyes.
No one was there when you passed.
Walls of Portsmouth, Ohio, painted by floodwaters.
Bricked over windows. Your eyes only hoped."
"Why are you crying?
I answer him with my kissing mouth,
say the song on the radio played at my brother’s funeral
& it made me think about his accident.
That’s what I called it then,
an accident.
My other mouth, the one that drinks stolen vodka...doesn’t tell this lie.
That girl says it true"
Submissions are open for our April issue. We're seeking poetry, stories, essays, and photography/artwork on that condition known as human. We look forward to walking down the road with your work awhile and getting to know the places you come from and the places you are going. heroinchic.weebly.com
"When something
disappears like that, does it mean it never happened?
I swear when you died I was not through
with needing you. But gone you were, so fast,
and I’m left yearning for your return. Daily.
Trying to make it all mean something."
Today just might be the day that I don't do the things that I've been thinking I ought to do.
"because when people like us make room for themselves
it demands liberating into flutter surfaces those that came before,
those that fell into first light, saw the day, and realized too late that the self,
in its sum apart, in its clear thundering mile high arch, is composed
only in the passing"
We are sometimes terrified of being known because it didn't happen when we most needed it to happen. But it can happen. Art opens a door we never thought could be opened onto ourselves. And it lets others in. Our submissions are open to the passion that makes real your life.
heroinchic.weebly.com
"I know there is no better. There’s only two kinds of men in this town, Nate's kind and Drew's kind, and it’s six one way, half a dozen the other. Either way, either one, I'm just as likely to end up on the wrong side of the dirt."
Delighted to have my poem The Hermit published on MasticadoresCanada. My thanks to wonderful Editor Ray Whitaker. masticadorescanada.wordpress.com/2025/11/29/t... stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/2026/02/15/d...
"One roll of the dice
stirs up the ghosts."
~ Alkman
The solitary path is familiar & strangely comforting, but truth is none can go it alone. "Hand reach for hand / when the dark night falls" it's the truest medicine. Subs are open to those stories told round the fire as the night gathers deep and dark, and we make between us each our own kind of ark.
He feels an urge to tell her how damaged & broken he is, how he can no longer find the line that separates broken from unbroken or that the line wavers in front of him most of the time & he can’t tell one side from the other or how he wonders if the wavering line will follow him everywhere, forever
The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie (1972)
"A white woman calls me a shaman
I laugh in indigenous
Or whatever blood quantum calls me/I cannot be a thing/deducted
A thing I cannot enter - that is my own
The land is a body..
the body is a
dance and I do not like the music
it is too beautiful."
a brown wire-haired pup stands on a wooden deck in a grassy yard. he looks at us with golden eyes and his right ear flipped inside out. he has a pipe-shaped stick in his mouth, giving him the appearance of a sophisticated and dapper gentleman. just give him a deerstalker cap and a cloak, and he'd give Sherlock Holmes a run for his money.
This pup found a stick shaped like an old timey pipe earlier today and has already solved three mysteries. 13/10
"It is folly to measure the true and false by our own capacity." ~ Montaigne
