FreeWrights Peer Review™

Please post your own submission or nomination of another poet's work for the November contest as a reply to this thread. Closes at 8 pm October 28. Thanks.

where eyes crawl

in words
grace falls
from the page

falling down for quite some time
every soft silence is falling
every flying dream
falls swiftly down

every enjambment
every word
every note
falls down
to
your feet

where the beat
lifts it up
again

where you dance
it up
again

and feel your heart
again

where you lift your eyes
from the mud to the skies
looking like a fallen angel or a dirty saint

seeing the words
in the clouds and the rain
in the stars and galaxies filled with dust and fire
in the wars of men and the gathering of moths
in the sweetest honey mead and your broken guitar
in the sea and the wind and the shadows of the street
in the secret gleaming in your eyes

in the spaces

where my pen in silence aches

Allen's:




This is how our love will be


I'm seldom sure just where you are in this settling house—too big now,
too hollow for two. We share less often our destinations; our wants
direct us to different rooms, and once there I imagine no need

to renew our vows. You’ll think of me as you rearrange your signature
bouquet—rosemary and zinnias; I’ll fall into your nana's chair and
open a book of your poems—fanning its pages, stopping for dog-ears.

As one we’ll smile at the tick-tink rhythm of laundered buttons and snaps.
(There are always things to dry and put away.) An August rain thrums
our windows, and someone on the radio sings: This is how our love will be.

Recurring Dream About Dropping Percy From High Places


I find myself on the outskirts of Kuala Lumpur
being introduced to a group of strangers
seated around a large fire pit. A blaze reaches
for the zenith moon, sparks whip
from its spear-shaped tips,
an earthly Perseid shower drizzles.

Sundry people read poems from my book,
but keep reverting to the piece about Percy.
Each speaks their native language, which I understand.

An Asian licks his lips, asks if Percy was plump.
The Aussie wonders if a yellow tabby is a true blond.
A pair of Egyptians is angry over Percy’s mistreatment.
The Spaniard wants to know if I am gay for having a cat.
Then silence and stares paint me with bad karma.

Umber eyes promise revenge from a thicket of Queen Anne’s lace.
Claws, sharpened on the cherry tree trunk, seek to shred my skin.
My peace is cursed by nasal howls and basal growls
as Percy floats in air, falling from porches and limbs.
All this for fucking with five of his nine simple lives.

These are our three for the month. We shall see how we do!