The NY Literary Magazine

A Distinguished Selection of the Finest Modern Literature

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poetic thoughts

“Scorpio Snake” – A Poem by Robert Black

I was born
A Scorpio snake
Longing for
The white hot desert
As pure as a needle tip
Under a naked flame
As I slither
And scratch around
The dirty streets
Of humanity
Trying my best
Not to bite
Or sting
Down Rue de Bellevue
To deposit the glass
From the previous nights
Of drinking
And writing

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Ode to My Body by Natalie Swain

You carry me.
So heavy is my
Soul,
A burden on the
Soles of your feet.

Your curves
Flow like a
River to the
Sea of
Becoming.

How I have abused your
Unassuming welcome –
Ravished receptacle for my
Loss of
Faith.

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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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Rose Gardens by Julia Cirignano

I have galaxies and rose gardens in my head
They come out as whispers and rolled eyes
I blink, and a rose blooms but no one notices

I hum, and life is found on a new planet
A melody is created but they only see me walk
They see my curves but not my angles

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Liturgy by Shawna Mayer

As a child I saw faith
in fragments of color

First Communion white
blood red martyr Sundays
the altar draped in purple Read More

Remember When by Winslow Des Totes

Years pass,
without fail,
no time to wonder
or unveil,
but as the future unfolds

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Ode To Music by Emily Bilman

Ode to Music

Like a village beacon lit for a celebration,
The mind’s halls are lit up, all by music.
Each note, sustained by that intuitive

Leap of faith, restores doubt with rock-strength
As the virtuoso hand trembles and resonates
On the chords of our innermost essence.

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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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Moral Views by Thomas Fitzgerald

Looking to a ceiling I wonder to my world,
Is it wrong to open my legs for him,
Take him into me and open to moral fear,
I close my eyes in haste for the answer,
Talk not of I lay with another man,
Consequence is ordered, for ecstasy and men.

Why do you have these second doubts?
Where do fears spring from?
Are they from the teachings of society?
Or is something genuine, trying to speak?
Has it always been like this in life?
Think back all to your youth, in class,
Perhaps the answers lay’s in the past.

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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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