Tag Archives: BLYNKT

‘Tis the Season by Karen Wolf

Blue eyes dripping sadness stare through dark
rimmed glasses and Daddy’s Mopar
truck windshield. My
running pace allowing glimpses of his
disproportionate pear-shaped scowl. Flashes
of his life imagined
schoolmate cruelties leveled for his
countenance, name calling,
social shunning, tripping, punches. A passing freight
train halts my progress enabling a hello
with Dad as he emerges from the post office, Christmas
cookie in hand. His boyhood
sadness crumbles away.

Karen Wolf has been published in Smokey Blue Literary and Art Magazine, The Wagon Magazine, Oasis Journal, Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, The Bookends Review, The Drunken Llama, Blynkt, Raw Dog Press, Street Light Press, Lady Blue Literary Arts Journal, Ripcord Magazine and many others. Her chapbook, “That’s Just the Way it Is”, was published by Finishing Line Press in 2018.

She says that poetry soothes the savage beast and opens her eyes to the beauty that abounds within the world.

“Do Not” by Barbara Lawhorn

Don’t fall in love ever again.
Maybe, don’t trust yourself.
Maybe only believe in what is
tangible. Don’t use similes
and metaphors so much in speech. Don’t

let others know what you are thinking. Feeling.
Doing next. Don’t plan ahead. Don’t plan meals.
Don’t think. Don’t think the wind rustling the dead
leaves, still hanging on, is God. Don’t

expect. Anything. Don’t expect anyone.
Anyone to make room for you in the homes
of their lives. Or you for them. Get small. Get quiet.
Work on disappearing into yourself. Think.
Think bomb shelter, canned goods, flashlights, and sleeping
bags. Zip yourself up. Listen. Listen. To the water rising
in you; all that blood. Be a dead leaf casting away, first on air
then on water. Use as few words as possible. As necessary.
You aren’t a tree. Words aren’t branches. Words are icicles.
Only hang them coldly, where they are really needed. Don’t

press your body to anything or anyone. Let your body only
be lodging wherever and whenever you are in the world. Don’t
talk. Don’t send a telegram to the world; send one to yourself.
Don’t smile unnecessarily. Set your face. Your skin isn’t Silly
Putty. Much of the world is unfunny. Don’t

laugh. What foolishness
you swam in. How dare you? You wore optimism like a bikini
that didn’t fit you. Take it off. No one will look at you,
much less touch you, in your nakedness.

Barbara Lawhorn is an Assistant Professor at Western Illinois University. She’s into literacy activism, walking her dog, Banjo, running, baking and eating bread, and finding the wild places, within and outside. Her most recent work can be found at The Longleaf Pine, BLYNKT, Nebo: A Literary Magazine, and Naugatuck River Review. Her favorite creative endeavors are her kids, Annaleigh and Jack.