March 25-31, 2024: Poetry from C.W. Bryan and Walter Ruhlmann

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C.W. Bryan

C.W. Bryan is a student at Georgia State University. He lives in Atlanta, GA where he writes poetry, nonfiction and short fiction. He is currently writing his weekly series, Poetry is Plagiarism, with Sam Kilkenny at poetryispretentious.com. His debut chapbook Celine was published with Bottlecap Press in 2023. Visit C.W. on the web here.

The following work is Copyright © 2024, and owned by C.W. Bryan and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Simple Machine

The simple thrumming
of a diesel engine
roars to life on your lap.
The cat is dreaming
of other things now.
The gentle hand of
sunlight reaches through
the window to hold
her head steady as she
dreams of a world where
vacuum cleaners
do not exist.

You think about it for
a while, until the droning
of the small engine sends
your waking mind reeling
into a world that isn’t
all metaphor. It is quiet,
and warm.

 

Oak Island, NC

The sun rises slowly here,
fingers of sunlight
lifting his body over the wall
of marshland to check
on his children.

Walter Ruhlmann

Walter Ruhlmann teaches English, edits Datura, Urtica and Beakful. He has published close to thirty chapbooks and poetry collections both in French and English, and hundreds of poems worldwide. Visit Walter on the web here.

The following work is Copyright © 2024, and owned by Walter Ruhlmann and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

The Silver Helmet

She wears a silver helmet
Light rivulets of ash, glittering in the sunlight.
She sat at the front of the car – the dead man’s seat.
The graveyard was your goal. She didn’t want to go.

Panting from the flat to the car park,
her heart will be defunct one day.
The compartment overheated by the sun,
this anise-drink-coloured car you customized.

They have arranged the paths inside the yard,
no more bones sticking out of the grass,
or collapsing tombstones – your father’s at the other end.
She panted even more, needed to sit on the marble bench.

You brushed her silver helmet the night he passed away,
she cried in your arms, she said it had been fast.
She has her mother’s silver helmet, you have your father’s skull.
That moment, you wondered if you could keep her scalp when she dies.