issue 33: metronome

There’s Nothing Left but to Admit

- gregory manning (bio)

There' nothing left but to admit
That my ego's got me in it' grip
I sought to free me but in return
The me I was caged with let me burn
No hope, no chance, no clever wits
Can ever awaken me from where I sit
So long as I keep this carriage moving
In this one direction I've been grooving
A magic spell; throwing myself to chance
Can remold this hardened clay's mishaps
To let the reins fall from my cracking hands
Will wet them so in paralysis I can stand
But I beg, I pray, for some better way
To free myself from my own cage
How can one come to freshly see
Without destroying the eye called me?
There's nothing left but to admit
That this self is what I must quit.


- gregory manning (bio)

The ocean is a tumultuous place
Waves forming from the water's race
The surfer smiles at the sight of crest
But frowns when the water comes to rest
The tides are nature's way of showing
Us perspective in the direction we'e going
The sea keeps moving, never ceasing
To keep out experience from decreasing
The difference between the ups and downs
Keeps us from wearing eternal frowns


- flora leask (bio)

Speak to yourself: Relax!
And let yourself open.

Receive the world, its ebb and flow
And what its tide wants you to know.

Receive others and what they give
For otherwise, you will never feel it
Even if later taken away

You will not lose yourself
If you become pliable,
But find yourself in different places
Different does not mean wrong

Untitled Poem #028

-  flora leask (bio)


to be able to see
to be able to be
to be able to write like me


with no confidant
with the world as my confidant
skipping words like stones to the sea


- a.a. (bio)

kneaded against teeth
like rocks in charring,
shrouded edges with soot,
hard pressed.
each time around you,
sharpness ebbing
and fall, crusts,
off fingertips.
fraying as if a
wrinkle in - between,
each rim scoured
was that why you
felt the need
to wear yourself rough
onto me?


- a.a. (bio)

a gusting upon
your rippled tongue,

supple, com-

my interior red
-uced down.
feverish residue dissipates.
succulent, these insides,
with embers strewn across,
caught aglow
in only your tenor.
enough inclement,
settling to submerge
my skin barren.
grasping, but to sustain
no longer
other seeds in dispersion.



- anon

The Staircase on Lamma Island.JPG

The Staircase on Lamma Island

- anon

end of issue 33. go back to issues page.

the poetry juicebox
an international poetry & art publication
the poetry juicebox