Tag: poetry by Stephen Page

Week 4 and Week 7 by Stephen Page

Two Poems by Stephen Page

The Short List

Dear Stephen Page,

I hope this email finds you well. I’m pleased to let you know that your submission has made the “short list” for possible publication by Alphabet Box ( https://www.AlphabetBox.com ). Congratulations. If you like, feel free to share this information online or off.


All the Best, 
Stephen FitzGerald 

All the Best,
Stephen FitzGerald
Alphabet Box publisher and editor
https://www.AlphabetBox.com
https://www.Twitter.com/Alphabet_Box

Enjoy haiku? https://Twitter.com/HaikuCrush

Stephen Page in Mad, Mad Swirl

Stephen Page and a select number of writers included included in The Best of Mad Swirl 2023:

Reading

Pages of the books I once read,

Yellow and crumble as I turn them.

They once smelled of inked forests.

Now they rank of mildewed towels 

On a dirty basement floor.

Books spill off my bookshelves

Disintegrating as the hit the wood floor.

I pick up my electronic reader,

Push the on button, swipe the page,

Read a book on a non-glare screen.

This light, thin, 6 inch by 4 inch

Rechargeable device holds as many 

Of the tons of paperbacks and hardcovered 

Worlds that line my four office walls,

And I wonder,

                        When will the grid go down,

And how many years,

                                    As opposed to decades,

                                                                          Will the digits

Become outdate ones and zeros,

                                                    Unreadable

Toxic chemicals

                           Polluting

                                          Dry riverbeds

And earth

                 Scorched?

A Haunting Poem Fit for Halloween or Day of the Dead or All Souls’ Day

Charlie Chaplin doll largeThe Night is Long
By Stephen Page

red and green walls
melt from the ceiling
red and brown ducks
paint the windows
a hanging witch
a reminder of Salem
12:00 12:00
the hour of evil
a female nude stands
in shy sexual wanting
cold as stone
from sculptor’s hands
my clothes are scattered
in some semi-order
my room is displaced
in time and location
Pluto’s guitar
her lovely remembrance
strums and plays
A song for daughter
Charlie Chaplin
sits on a shelf
his staring eyes
sadly know all
five o’clock now
the mourning bird sings
a song for me
the death I’ve lived
a week has passed
in eight long hours
a moment ago
it was tomorrow

*This poem first published in “Our Reader’s Quarterly”
Editor: Gene Brill

Featured

Teresa and Jonathan Barks

Keep up to date on Stephen Page‘s publications, and follow the further adventures of Teresa and Jonathan Barks on Facebook page Stephen Page, https://facebook.com/Stephen-Page-Author-101662732520431/.

#poet#fictionwriter#essayist#screeenplaywriter#playwrite#BookCritic#electricbass#noisemaker

Stephen Page is part Native American. He is an alumnus of Bennington Writing Seminars, Columbia SchooloftheArts , and Palomar College. He is also a writing Fellow at Vermont Studio Center. He has 4 books of poetry published. He loves his wife, road trips, playing his electric bass, and getting lost in a woods.

Stephen Page’s books:

https://amazon.com/Salty-River-Bleeds-Stephen-Page/dp/1646620259

https://amazon.com/Ranch-Bordering-Salty-River/dp/1635340357

https://amazon.com/-/es/Stephen-Page/dp/0966835301

https://smpages.wordpress.com/2015/09/19/still-dandelinons/

#drama #adventure #read #books

Protected: Home

“Elvis,” a poem by Stephen Page

Elvis

By Stephen Page


Jonathan wakes at 9 o’clock
Hungry He drank a half-bottle
Of Scotch last night while watching
“Elvis,” the movie, with Teresa. She ate
But he did not. She only sipped one
Neat glass of whisky. His head hurts
As he opens the fridge. “Buzz,” the doorbell
Blares. “Fuck you,” Jon shouts at the door,
Then opens it. Cati stands there wearing
A smile. He imagines her naked,
Petite breasts, pink nipples, gumdrop areolas,
Lithe body, blonde pubic hair. He smiles,
“Buen día.” She returns, “Good
Morning.” He steps back
To let her pass by carrying her
Suitcase full of hairstyling
Equipment. She wafts of
Jasmine. “One moment,” he says
And strides to his marriage
Bedroom to wake his wife,
His headache gone, the front door left
Open.

*This poem first published on The Lake

Stephen Page is part Native American. He was born in Detroit. He holds degrees from Columbia University and Bennington College. He has 4 books of poetry published. He loves his wife, long walks through woodlands, nature, solitude, peace, meditating, spontaneous road trips, motorcycles, and accidently on purpose losing his cellphone. 

#poetry #poem #thepoetfromdetroit #elhombredelbosque #thewoodsman #thesaltyriverwriter