Dear Friends & Poets,
Black Poppy will be closed to submissions to take a break. I'm not sure when or if the journal will reopen but thank you again to everyone who submitted their work over the past two months.
Be Well!
May 3, 2024
April 30, 2024
Nietzsche by Robert L. Penick
Nietzsche was wrong
when he said the abyss
looks back into the seeker.
When one looks too long
into the abyss, one becomes
the abyss, is translated
into less a lacking
than a vacuum, an absence
of warmth, light, and pulse.
One becomes
every word unwritten,
a single great thought
uncomposed.
when he said the abyss
looks back into the seeker.
When one looks too long
into the abyss, one becomes
the abyss, is translated
into less a lacking
than a vacuum, an absence
of warmth, light, and pulse.
One becomes
every word unwritten,
a single great thought
uncomposed.
The poetry and prose of Robert L. Penick have appeared in well over 200 different literary journals, including The Hudson Review, North American Review, Plainsongs, and Oxford Magazine. The Art of Mercy: New and Selected Poems is now available from Hohm Press, and more of his work can be found at theartofmercy.net
April 29, 2024
Sleepwalking by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal
Join me in sleepwalking
without fear.
The weight of the world
is all wind.
We can climb walls with
our eyes closed.
We can run against the wind
and the world.
We can take measured steps
and slow turns.
We can let the man know the sky
is limitless.
My sleepwalking is all I have.
Touch my heart.
Meet where the day begins to
fade away.
without fear.
The weight of the world
is all wind.
We can climb walls with
our eyes closed.
We can run against the wind
and the world.
We can take measured steps
and slow turns.
We can let the man know the sky
is limitless.
My sleepwalking is all I have.
Touch my heart.
Meet where the day begins to
fade away.
Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal lives in California and works in Los Angeles. His poetry and art has appeared in Black Petals, Black Poppy Review, Blue Collar Review, Escape Into Life, Four Feathers Press, and Kendra Steiner Editions.
April 25, 2024
Unraveling by Joan McNerney
all those mundane strings broken
mores manners, perhaps it is better
to forget names dates skills scores
we who are human who have
spoiled and squandered so much
do we long to become those primal
creatures as we were meant to be?
simply swaying with winds breathing in
flowers gazing at birds tasting raindrops
gathering sunshine on our faces
mores manners, perhaps it is better
to forget names dates skills scores
we who are human who have
spoiled and squandered so much
do we long to become those primal
creatures as we were meant to be?
simply swaying with winds breathing in
flowers gazing at birds tasting raindrops
gathering sunshine on our faces
Joan McNerney’s poetry is published worldwide in over thirty-five countries in numerous literary magazines. Four Best of the Net nominations have been awarded to her. The Muse in Miniature, Love Poems for Michael, and At Work are available on Amazon.com. A new title Light & Shadows has recently been released.
April 23, 2024
In the Shadows / The Crossing by Wayne Russell
In the Shadows
On the night shift
there's no one to
talk to.
You learn that the
sounds of your own
voice is all you have.
The shadows on the
walls are shaped and
like your disparity-
they morph into the
demons hidden upon
the innate tapestry of
your soul.
The minutes tick by so
slowly, two icy hands
screeching methodical
etching the sad history
upon your gravelly heart
and you just know that
the real world will surely
continue tomorrow, in
the bloodletting sunrise
of a new day.
The Crossing
When the rain plummets down
upon flesh, soaking through to
bones that are weary-
when nightingales’ song, interwoven,
with the mourning of a starling’s weep,
dead unto the earth and slate grey
of tomb. Rise from this terminus
point, ride the waves and cast off
this salty hue-
and the flowers bloom in spring, no
mammoth flowing hillside palace can
encapsulate soaring red tail hawk-
a feather's soft touch, a rebuke of
death in the soft ebbs of twilight,
and those that are the galloping
hooves of the dark reaper's horse,
a mockery of life crossing over the
bridge into immortality.
On the night shift
there's no one to
talk to.
You learn that the
sounds of your own
voice is all you have.
The shadows on the
walls are shaped and
like your disparity-
they morph into the
demons hidden upon
the innate tapestry of
your soul.
The minutes tick by so
slowly, two icy hands
screeching methodical
etching the sad history
upon your gravelly heart
and you just know that
the real world will surely
continue tomorrow, in
the bloodletting sunrise
of a new day.
The Crossing
When the rain plummets down
upon flesh, soaking through to
bones that are weary-
when nightingales’ song, interwoven,
with the mourning of a starling’s weep,
dead unto the earth and slate grey
of tomb. Rise from this terminus
point, ride the waves and cast off
this salty hue-
and the flowers bloom in spring, no
mammoth flowing hillside palace can
encapsulate soaring red tail hawk-
a feather's soft touch, a rebuke of
death in the soft ebbs of twilight,
and those that are the galloping
hooves of the dark reaper's horse,
a mockery of life crossing over the
bridge into immortality.
Wayne Russell is a creative jack of all trades, master of none. Poet, rhythm guitar player, singer, artist, photographer, and author of the poetry books “Where Angels Fear” via Guerilla Genius Press, and the newly released “Splinter of the Moon” via Silver Bow Publishing, they are both available for purchase on Amazon.
April 22, 2024
Neolithic Mansion by Simon Christiansen
You can leave the house,
but no one does.
You can rebel,
but no one is in charge.
Doors are unlocked.
Unkempt rooms connect to
musty halls. Flies sleep on
pizza boxes. Hallways divide
spaces and people
into sections and groups.
Cobwebs are the cleanest homes,
twinkling in corners.
The gate could be opened
but remains closed.
Gargoyles, silent guardians.
but no one does.
You can rebel,
but no one is in charge.
Doors are unlocked.
Unkempt rooms connect to
musty halls. Flies sleep on
pizza boxes. Hallways divide
spaces and people
into sections and groups.
Cobwebs are the cleanest homes,
twinkling in corners.
The gate could be opened
but remains closed.
Gargoyles, silent guardians.
Simon Christiansen is a writer, poet, and indie game designer living in Denmark. His poetry has been published in Neologism Poetry Journal, Dreams & Nightmares, and The Pierian. Simon has also written award-winning works of interactive fiction. His website is www.sichris.com.
April 21, 2024
Sunrise Trials of the Occupant by Ben Nardolilli
Waiting for a daybreak to remember,
the mornings that I’m waking up to now
are cold openings, and forgettable,
once, I could rise like a chinook,
to greet the day’s awaiting romance
but these matins, I slide out of the sheets,
like a snake made out of lead,
heavy, bulbous, and unable to see clear
The struggle afterwards brings no gift
or surprise behind the opening
and closing doors of apartment and train,
at work, coffee drips into waxy cups
with the same, unseasonal floral design,
at my desk I face an equilibrium
of paper piles, by nighttime, all I remember
is how the days have begun to rhyme.
are cold openings, and forgettable,
once, I could rise like a chinook,
to greet the day’s awaiting romance
but these matins, I slide out of the sheets,
like a snake made out of lead,
heavy, bulbous, and unable to see clear
The struggle afterwards brings no gift
or surprise behind the opening
and closing doors of apartment and train,
at work, coffee drips into waxy cups
with the same, unseasonal floral design,
at my desk I face an equilibrium
of paper piles, by nighttime, all I remember
is how the days have begun to rhyme.
Ben Nardolilli is a MFA candidate at Long Island University. His work has appeared in Perigee Magazine, Door Is a Jar, The Delmarva Review, Red Fez, The Oklahoma Review, Quail Bell Magazine, and Slab. Follow his publishing journey at mirrorsponge.blogspot.com.
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