Writer’s Note: this poem was originally published in the August 2021 ‘Family’ issue of PopShot magazine. My Father Was An Athlete He ran out of the maternity ward so fast,that he got to the finish line beforeI even opened my eyes for the first time. And every man that came after himTreat us like it… Continue reading My Father Was An Athlete
Star of Hope (1883) One hour and forty-five minutes is howlong it took to walk to the mouth of thebeast that swallowed you, and back. Along the way is where I found you. Inthe distance you looked like a group of peoplecrouching, a consortium of people. I thought maybe fishermen, or women,which reminded me of… Continue reading Star of Hope (1883)
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
Delayed We’ll get the 16:22 Hazel Grove service,and we’ll get off at Piccadilly station. The train will be delayed by 17 minutesbut we won’t notice because our eyes will be lost in conversation. I will sipfrom my coffee and we’ll share a cigarette and by the time the train arriveswe’ll have seen each other naked.
The Starry Night after Van Gogh It haunts me, the starsyellow eyes peering behind curling clouds, like wild wavesfoaming in my dreams. I wake on the edge, the precipiceof sleep. I turn to the moon for strength but through itsteeth you can hear the sneer. ‘Jump’ whispered in winds.
You were temptationin a tight red dress, the shotof tequila that pushedme over the edge. You were prohibitionon my tongue, secrecycutting through the airlike stale perfume. Youwere cool silk on my skin. You were an island on a treasure map.I meant all that I said butI had to search for the gold.
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
Side note: Today is International Grandparents Day. A while ago, before my granddad died, actually, I started writing this poem for him. Today I translated it into Portuguese and although this is a first draft, I’m proud of it and wanted to add it to my portfolio. I understand a lot of people won’t be… Continue reading Dentro da Minha Caixa de Recordações
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.
Yesterday I smoked poetry, I
rolled metaphors into a blunt
and got high on the first stanza…