The NY Literary Magazine

A Distinguished Selection of the Finest Modern Literature

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modern poems

Sad December Moon by Marjon van Bruggen

December evening;
long, grey spirals of dusk
skirr in.
The moon hangs
out of its socket,
dripping.

The lovers don´t touch,
final lies freeze their breath,
a brittle, vertical icicle.

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The Painter and the Poet by Katie Lynn

A Poet took his gilded pen
And wrote a line or two,
Then read aloud his magic words
To mould the world anew.

A Painter heard the Poet’s words,
Then took his golden brush,
To paint the world alive again,
Down to the river’s rush.

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The Balanced Book by Marie Hanna Curran

In an over-produced world
Of populous populations,
Supply is often halted beyond the womb

And should a child make it
To the densely packed production line,
There are no lifetime guarantees
No best before, or after birthday dates

Supply outcries demand.

But demand increases should you move
Within the factory floor,
Be placed onto the packaged line
“First World”
Or stamped and wrapped:
“For Family Wealth”

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We’re Old Enough to be Young Again by Eunice-Grace Domingo

Gloomy sunshine, ineffable coffee, and lies that cake the day,
Monotone silences and idle gossip and smiles that just decay,
Laughter that fizzles past the lips of superfluous strangers,
Hospital rooms and bathroom stalls saving you from dangers,

Gripping writing tools like vices for the future,
Avoiding full eye contact and solidifying closure,
Running up ramp ways and giggling like it’s pleasantry,
Bells ringing like Notre Dame ignoring all the travesty,

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The Paper Man by Dixie

He fell from the tip of my pen,
He fell from the edge of my rhymes,
He fell out of my poems,
He slipped from between the lines.

His lips were made of paper,
Unkissable and cold,
But his hands were a sonnet
So beautifully told.

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The Tear-Catcher by Emily Bilman

The salt taste of my tears
bears memories buried
in the corolla of a rose,
in the odours of my childhood,
barely woken from a dream,
our tryst abandoned.

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A Nobody by Julia Hones

A “nobody” who writes for the voiceless
swims against the tides of fate,
clashes with uptight currents,
is buoyed by gentle waves
like a bolt into a dream made out of nothingness,
crowns of hope
along the touch of nature.No golden shoes enfold the feet.
They are bare and wounded.

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Glass Monsters by TheNightShift

Monsters rise from the ground,
wrought from iron, glass, and concrete.
An old world under shadows drowned,
their conquest nearly complete.

Grotesque forms rise to the skies,
Heavens territory is ceded.
The old from consumption dies,
its ancient spirit depleted.

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Sands of Time by Tate Morgan

We meet many men of sorrow
oh much deeper than our own pain
Wisdom and strength they all borrow
washed by waters of life’s own rain

Each of us ponders life’s reason
looking deep within our own soul
We follow each path and season
that vainly we seek to control

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Yours is the Haunt by Ranscan

Yours is the haunt
the silky palace of nights revenge
the desert dreaming of a storm
the voice whispering across the back of a neck,

Longing quantified and articulated
yours is the touch
that lights the forever fires
seethes the trembling earth,

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I am by Tina Cox

I am the woman that husbands don’t like
The woman that wife’s will never invite
The one with the mouth, opinions, and brains
Who’ll never be asked round to their house again

The cause of divorce one way or another
Who’s always accused of being a lover
Causing a rift at parties or work

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Whirlwind by Tyla Merrill

I am a mime.
Burning fingers pressed
against frozen air.
Fingerprints engraved on the whirl
of wind that guards your heart,
hides your heart,
traps your heart in the eye
of the storm. Snatches
wisps of meaning
with intrusive fingers.
Promises bits of something better…
promises unfulfilled.

I draw closer.

Laughing, taunting, stealing
the breath from my lungs.
Worn lungs,
searching for air,
gasping for words,
for some part of myself
to launch into the wind
as if it could reach you.

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The Old Roadway by MacabreeLewis

Something is menacing in every bemuse;
as something unspecified grows into my cranium.
flare of old remembrance transpire me into a nerve-racking feeling.
The boundary in my intellect has become slain;

The road I stride has become deceased;
as all subsistence commodity thing’s are lamented.
The only thing that exhalation is only the extinct zephyr.

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A Sound I Could Drink by Neva Flores Smith

My heart pretended
you were a sound
I could drink
when I went searching
for golden lines full of surprise.
When I walked towards you,
my ears tasted the beat of the earth
and it began to turn
in reverse.

Ringing clear were hundreds of memories
I had kissed freely,
known as all the things you did.
Then in came the rushing sea
crashing into my mind
with waves of everything
you have ever said.

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