issue 7: ποιητής "poet" vol. 2


- brandon conway (bio)


This heart ’twas plucked

                                and tossed

A young boy stranded

                                and lost

Laid in a fresh dug bed

Contemplating the blanket of dirt

Sacrificing this mortal coil

                                  to the worms

She found me there

 That coy mistress

                                             She whispered

Her voice the medicine to cleanse

Left as a reminder,


Left to stories in thy head

A cycle that never ends

These gossamer sinews will not hold

To a finger that pokes

To a hand that grips

The flesh, how it rips

Left exposed

A dark nothingness

Lay thy hand on thine chest

Do you feel a beat?

It doesn’t exist

An empty field

Left for the crows

A seed was planted

How could it grow?

Water from thine eyes

And a hand to hold

In that field of brown

A little green



- brandon conway (bio)


Do you remember when we were fearless

I would jump in the lake

Swim shoes lead to a shirt to not even swimming

Do you remember when we would go to concerts and I would body surf

Back row to ear plugs now we never go

Remember when we were sociable

I would have friends and conversate

Phone calls to text messages to not even talking


Do you remember when things went wrong?


- brandon conway (bio)

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Hammock Nights

- brandon conway (bio)

It was a warm June night

Swaying between two trees

You laid your head on my chest

The leaves whispered its sweet breeze

The lantern was set to low

While we read about that giant peach

Fireflies giving us a show

The AC shut off with a screech

You lifted your tiny head

Do you remember what you asked me?


Why do we never see mommy anymore?


Instead of telling you about the horror of drugs

I told you about the peace in death.

Art of Movement

- brandon conway (bio)

The greatest piece of art

is found in the movement

of bodies


the fluidity of the wrist

to paint the nakedness

of humanity


the speed of fingers

strumming and plucking

our souls


the sensuality of flesh

moving in rhythm

of life


the meticulous eye

capturing little moments

of society


Art is beauty

and beauty is movement

of bodies.

Mine Eyes of Calamity

- brandon conway (bio)


Look into mine eyes

tell me what thou see


I see a prison, a soul

with hopes of escaping


I see padded walls

with a crazed man aching


I see deep sorrow

a human breaking


I see a gray sky

always raining


I see a husk of skin

eternally forsaking


I see a chasm

forever isolating


I see a mind

always creating

and hating

thy creation


I gazed upon thine eyes

and I saw hell in thy pupils

end of issue 7. return to issue 6. go back to issues page.

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