Poetry Archives - Page 3 of 25 - Sensitive Skin Magazine

The Wrong Day

Vincent Katz

The Wrong Day it was so beautiful today, the most perfect of ones lighted on bricks and the last walkings toward figures one had seen all summer and would see again and my parents arrived last night after being dela...

Device

Steve Luttrell

Device She can’t take her eyes off her phone. Clutched in her hand, a tether to some unseen source. I wonder what she sees in that device? glowing like a beacon in her hand. She can’t take her...

COLD DAYS IN FLORIDA

Thaddeus Rutkowski

COLD DAYS IN FLORIDA When the temperature drops to forty degrees, people don’t want to walk around. It is too cold to be outside. They stay inside and wait until the days get warmer. The temperature rarely drop...

Poet Story

Peter Bushyeager

Poet Story The steel taps on Mayakovsky’s size 13 boots scraped the smear off his surface when he wrote while striding the Rockaway boardwalk each metallic rap on the planks a refugee thought gathered so he cou...

Hand Job

Ron Kolm

Hand Job It’s my first day on the job In a plant making hand trucks. “You’ll be rubbing acid on new Welds to seal them,” the foreman Tells me. “Here’s some rubber Gloves,” he says, tossing me a pair. ...

NEW YEAR’S EVE IS THE HARDEST

Anton Yakovlev

NEW YEAR’S EVE IS THE HARDEST By June he was done and done with politics and painting. He couldn’t care less where he’d dropped his KGB card. The shame at being blacklisted only sped up his breathing two or three...

RAIN

D. James Smith

RAIN Still vast, lung-wet, I lie there, awhile, Trickling out of the tiny cracks in my wrists. I waken slowly, cold as the sea and remember. Days I drove home weeping for nothing I could name but the bruised aft...

Dawn Patrol

Max Blagg

Dawn Patrol Lord I am risen from that misery and I wait for you Like the sleepless man waits for dawn The light was up at 5.45 am and I rose to meet it first hours of the day filled with rain lightning over Montauk so...

MUSICAL

Norman Douglas

MUSICAL memory is the mother of muses (of which some say there are three others count nine). and what is music but that which comes of muses musing deep enough our hearts do ...

Veil

Mia Hansford

Veil In a little while I’ll let go of your hand but for now I’ll rest it in the flashing blue-night dark, in the lights cross the water and along the bridge’s quiet: leather, radio, a nervous handler opening ...