J. R. Solonche “Van Gogh, Cornfield with Lark”
J.R. Solonche Van Gogh, Cornfield with Lark He wanted to be a poet more than a painter, so when van Gogh tried to paint the sound of the lark as it ascended into the sky above the cornfield, he painted...
View ArticleJ. R. Solonche “On a Photograph of Me”
J.R. Solonche On a Photograph of Me Shit, how I envy all the millions who lived before photography. J.R. Solonche has been publishing poetry since the early 70s.
View ArticleScott Hughes “Old Plot”
Scott Hughes Old Plot My father drives me around his new property, a tract slicing into the Okefenokee Swamp, and points out the grotesquely twisted pines, the spot where a B-29 fireballed to earth in...
View ArticleGeorge Lee
George Lee Perfect goodbye In perfect thirds we say goodbye You, my subject, framed in silver Our words composed for the start, Not the end. George Lee is a budding thinker trying to find his place in...
View ArticleSteve Klepetar “Solstice”
Steve Klepetar Solstice As summer begins, light travels the trails of the universe, curving around to wheat fields where crows gather in fury at this late hour dusk, beating their black wings. Steve...
View ArticleSteve Klepetar “Cassandra”
Steve Klepetar Cassandra As summer begins, light travels the trails of the universe, curving around to wheat fields where crows gather in fury at this late hour dusk, beating their black wings. As a...
View ArticleSteve Klepetar “Cassandra”
Steve Klepetar Cassandra Cursed and breathing darkness, she dreams of temples and a burning rain, while her tongue, blistered raw with prophecy, muddies the rhythms of flame. As a small boy, Steve...
View ArticleSteve Klepetar “Future”
Steve Klepetar Future My mother read the future as she mopped, seeing all our lives unwind, reflected in slick puddles on the kitchen floor. Steve Klepetar believes the future lies before us.
View ArticleSteve Klepetar “Entropy”
Steve Klepetar Entropy I remember it all like a dream, how slowly we crumbled, waking after long sleep, standing, stretching as the city grew and changed, sliding into rubble at the end. Having spent...
View ArticleSteve Klepetar “I too”
Steve Klepetar I too I too have a secret history, a self I keep locked away in the dark where it feeds always, trolling the waters, a shark gliding near the surface of memory and thought, striking at...
View ArticleBrad Rose “Sedan de Ville”
Brad Rose Sedan de Ville They say death is a low, black, chauffeur-driven limousine, but who can afford that? Brad Rose is a lot taller than he thinks. www.bradrosepoetry.com
View ArticleMary Ellen Shaughan “My Sister”
Mary Ellen Shaughan My Sister Nearly 90 now, she writes to me each week in her distinct scrawl, the characters looking more and more like chickadee tracks, the pen unwilling to comply with her mind,...
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Sarah J. Sloat “Misery 11”
Sarah J. Sloat Misery 11 Into the long pink string of his mouth, the pill, like a sack slung over a stone wall, astonished him in flowers. Citation: King, Stephen. Misery. London: Hodder &...
View ArticleLisa DeSiro “Why Single Straight Women Love Their Gay Male Friends”
Lisa DeSiro Why Single Straight Women Love Their Gay Male Friends Because they’re such charming chaps and they fill in the gaps for those of us who don’t have a mate: emergency contact / confidante /...
View ArticleLisa DeSiro “Minus +1”
Lisa DeSiro Minus +1 At this garden party, among partners & husbands & wives & boyfriends & girlfriends, and a couple of bees pollinating butterfly bushes, and a pear tree bearing fruit...
View ArticleThanks from Your Editors
Thanks from Your Editors We just had occasion to check the index and note that One Sentence Poems has now published 758 poems, give or take 1 or 2, in the three-and-a-half years we’ve been online. For...
View ArticleER Underbrink “Kiss”
ER Underbrink Kiss Our lips became graveyards: we buried our pasts in each other, because for the first time, I felt how church bells sound, ringing over faded gray stones. ER Underbrink is a man...
View ArticleCameron Morse “The Lamppost”
Cameron Morse The Lamppost There is, at dusk, that precise moment as the bicycles creak through near darkness when a bouquet of light bulbs is presented from the wrought iron stalk. Cameron Morse...
View ArticleJohn Hawkhead
John Hawkhead Watching snails mate in coils of shared slime we aim our barbs. John Hawkhead is a writer and illustrator from the South West of England whose book Small Shadows is available from Alba...
View ArticleJohn Hawkhead
John Hawkhead Under a streetlight a lone bat flies back and forth sketching infinity. John Hawkhead is a writer and illustrator from the South West of England whose book Small Shadows is available...
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