The Flea Market by: Romina Ramos Originally published in The Bolton Review Issue 9: Rats & Revelry This town is haunted by stained glass godsand crawling with slithering saints, but on the third Sunday of every monththe flea market comes. On this day it is permitted to skip Morning Mass,on this Sunday there is a… Continue reading The Flea Market
Tag: poems
Trouble
She was all mandalas
and peace signs, a free
spirit dancing on the
graves of our society…
The Emerald Isle Herself
The Emerald Isle Herself I packed up my whole life and movedoverseas for her. Granted it was more likeacross the pond, only two hundred andtwenty-six miles, but it was two hundredand twenty-six miles out of my comfort zone. To a brand-new country, where they speak thesame language, only there it sounded morelike a song, and… Continue reading The Emerald Isle Herself
Speaking In Tongues
Speaking In Tongues When I say I’m cleaning what I mean isI’m going to cleanse, wash the whiskey sweatingout of my pores, the smell of bad decisionsand cigarette smoke ingrained into my hair. When I say I have a meeting, I mean I have toget out of bed this week, open the curtainsto the blinding… Continue reading Speaking In Tongues
Soundless Fights In The Middle Of The Night
You say: say what you have to say! But those words echo in my mind because you are not ready for the deafening tone of the words that are spilling out of my eyes and you do not understand what I mean by your eyes make me want to skinny dip in the ocean and… Continue reading Soundless Fights In The Middle Of The Night
Changing Seasons
Changing Seasons In a city where every day is a miserable December evening she makes me feel like July.She does to me what summer does to trees dresses my branches in life and colour, andholds my proud roots firmly into the ground. She’s the hot chocolate to my crisp autumn morning, our fingers entwined inside… Continue reading Changing Seasons
Memory Box
Memory Box Some of my earliest memories are memories with you,how you would bring me along to pick up Rita from school.I remember how it would take my whole fist just to holdon to one of your fingers, your hands were that big. When I was six years old I went on a school trip… Continue reading Memory Box
A Shot of Tequila
A shot of tequila You are the shot of tequila thatI know I will regret tomorrow but still, recklessly I throw salt onto my wounded soul pour you down my throat, into my bloodstream, and take your lips in mine, as if my life depends on it. As if they are a slice of lemon.
High
Yesterday I smoked poetry, I
rolled metaphors into a blunt
and got high on the first stanza…
