An Anthology of Poetry That Has Graced The Pages Of RagMag

Scroll or Select From The List of Titles

  Orange Velvet Armchair by Trent Alic   Lonely Roads  by Bill Crimi    Please Accept Me  by Valerie Loveless     Beautiful Soul  by Dawn-Marie Kontomichalis   Big Sweet Blinking Eyes  by Bill Crimi    Into The Mist  by Bill Crimi    Making the Cut  by Anon    Welcome to Earth  by Woo Ahn   What Is It...? by Woo Ahn     You Cry  by Erica  Sandlin     Flickering Out  by Bill Crimi     OK I  by Trent Alic    Baby Kitten Dying  by Bill Crimi   No Regrets  by Erica Sandlin   Saddened to Silence  by Bill Crimi   Measuring Time  by Karen Bashkirew   Breath of the Hand  by Bill Crimi   Deep Within by Dawn-Marie Kontomichalos   Destiny by Martha Kinsey   Hand Fried Potatoes by Karen Bashkirew   Dark Form by Daniel Madrid   Blink of an Eye by Brittany Stout   War and Tale of Tales and Warriors by Andrew Conforti   A Taste of Sin by Andrew Conforti

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WAR AND TALE OF TALES AND WARRIORS
By Andrew Conforti

A story is told of a brave one
Who became a hero in the eyes of a kingdom
A tale of tails of beasts and dragons
As the sick and the dead were rolled in wagons

The beasts raided the lands with such power and might
The Citizens felt just worry and fright
The blood soaked plains and the fearing people
The gold rich dungeons and the signs of the reaper

Corrupt Kings ruling through ears and flood
The fallen empire, the ashes and blood
The burning forest, the smell of death
Rotting corpses in the beast"s breath

At this time of darkness and discourage
A hero rises and climbs the mountain of courage
He holds a sword in his left and a shield in his right
A hero begins to swing with all his might

The beasts fight back and put up a battle
But the hero reigns victor, mounted on his horse's saddle
Dragons still blow fire and flames
The hero however continues to reign.

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Blink of an Eye

by Brittany Stout

You had me good.

Knew just the right words,

that made me believe

you were real,

and can trust you.

But with a blink of an eye,

it was like a knife to the heart.

You took off into the dark

without a sense of knowing

if you will be returning.

Waitin to see

will determine if we’ll ever be.

You can’t even come around,

ashamed to see how I will act,

but now you know.

You won’t even talk

so, in a blink of an eye

I’m saying good-bye.

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A TASTE OF SIN
By Andrew Conforti

A beautiful world has been created
A garden full of life
A garden named Eden
A great creation by God for two souls

The souls roam freely
The souls are intelligent
Yet the souls are deceived
A serpent slithers into their minds
The serpent corrupts the souls
And they are destroyed

God had warned these souls
He warned them not to bite the fruit of sin
The souls did not listen and had a taste
The souls did not gain wisdom
They became nothing but sinful bodies

Why have thou bit the fruit?

The souls were tricked
The joy that became sorrow
The creation of sin

Why have thou bit the fruit?

God was upset
The devil laughed
But God forgave
And We still suffer

Why have thou bit the fruit?

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Deep Within

by Dawn-Marie Kontomichalos

From deep within my soul,
comes the pain I cannot bear.
 too afraid to face it,
 I pretend that it’s not there.

Putting on my best fake smile
I make it go away.
Safe in my own little world
is where I like to stay.

Consumed by denial,
deep in fantasy
is where I would remain
if my heart would just let me.

Paralyzed by fear,
I find it hard to breathe
begging for escape
I’m longing to be freed.

My heart is aching all the time

body tired and weak

If only I could free myself

Allow my heart to speak.

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Hand-Fried Potatoes

by Karen Bashkirew

Daytime moon, drifting like a whispered

secret in the bleached blue July sky,

you carry me to the narrow house

on Chestnut Street, to the kitchen

where Nana stands, corseted and aproned,

at high noon on the hottest day of the summer

making hand-fried potatoes–

my father, her first-born son,

has a sudden taste for them.

She peels plump potatoes, nicks out

the eyes, slices translucent circles.

She slips them, one by one,

into a skillet of sizzling lard.

Sweat beads on her forehead,

dampens her gingham dress.

Hot grease spits at her as she

spears each slice and turns it over.

I watch her flinch at the sting,

wilt in the heat, beam in her son’s

white light. I watch her folk each chip

from the pan and pat the crisp moons dry.

I watch as she salts and peppers and serves

this communion she offers only to sons.

                                                                                           *for Auntie Mim

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