Poetry of the Non-Prose Kind

(more at: un-)

Jeanie Tomasko


unalone unaloof unaloft undone

(that day I bought waxed linen at a craft shop I raveled
together a string for you which seems the right word
because un-
ravel is to un-make or un-do
and I tied it on your arm so we wouldn’t)

as in: not without, as in (you)


Louis Bourgeois

Blood on the cypress
and the wild dogs
have broken through the gate.


Philip Kobylarz

The rest being simplification, a pruning
of the citronnier branches, crusts
from bread left for pigeons, thread
and needle unattached. Men in the street
smile to each other; coins, sad faces of,
making music in their pockets.

In a Quiet Home

Halvard Johnson

in the USA, the prayer rugs
are kneeling, are

Inaudible Conversations

Halvard Johnson

Bible verses whispering
amongst themselves.


Halvard Johnson

Wandering out there among the bosons
and fermions, kicking back while others stretched out
before us, seeking to amuse us, to show us
the errors of our ways. Particulations
devoutly to be wished.

Poem Ending With a Line by James Richardson

James Cervantes

Witness a hopeful face when the cancer
has been located. Surrounded, cancer appears

in a window of every other house.
The only victory is to deprive it of a body.

Think of ash trees in a front yard,
budding before their last leaves drop.

Likewise, there is no body, no thought
missing from a chain of thoughts.

A beginning ends what an end begins.


James Cervantes

He holds the camera-phone at arm’s length to take the selfie.
A breeze kicks up, the leaves turn, and the air is crystal clear.
He holds the self at arm’s length and the distance grows.
A new breeze twirls a leaf around the self, a leaf around the air.


Cintia Santana

Adam is dreaming of a bomb      atom become A-bomb       so many atoms in this @

Shark Fin

Cintia Santana

Like a black wing angled out
     of water, it rose, lured

by the shadow of our boat.
     Circled us—no seal—turned

north. I loved a banker then.
     The boat was his. Perhaps

the water, too, its small, tin
     mirrors. I’d never known the traps

of wealth before: the rigging
     of its baits, its blue-barbed hooks.

I, too, have circled, mistaking
     metal for a meal, duped

by instinct. Wide, the sea. The oar:
     the heart’s dark sail, its hunger.