Gnashing Teeth Publishing

| words that get in your teeth

New Found Veins by Kelli Lage

when I wake up I try to remember / what age I should be / on a Saturday filled with shades of champagne / not the age of my bones / but the age when my cheeks are rosy / realms of fantasy / meet in the southeast corner / on the map of our hometown / weeds pour out of my fingertips / like the new found veins that brought the abandoned car back to life / lores around here can’t be trusted / but I believe in the day greenery sprung from crying hills / forests split their palms open to claim years of rust and broken howls / if only to give breath back to a town taught to hold theirs / I do this at a cost / my spine cracks / like a skater who gave into the ice / I dig for the soaring birds / clouds stick beneath my low cut nails / the tree limbs shake sense into me / honey floods the sunset / I don’t waste a moment guzzling it down / and the warmth awakens something in the back of my throat 

Kelli Lage lives in the Midwest countryside with her husband, and their dog, Cedar. Lage is currently earning her degree in Secondary English Education. Lage states she is here to give readers words that resonate. Awards: Special Award for First-time Entrant, Lyrical Iowa.

young woman with red hair smiling at the camera with a white paper umbrella behind her

like pretty tulips by linda m. crate

everything has been hard and heavy, as of late; in my world and the world at large— so yesterday i was drinking in small wonders like pretty tulips dancing out

What I Can Offer You by Rich Orloff

I cannot fix your pain I cannot solve your problem I can’t prevent the sorrow you’re feeling Or even guarantee I’ll make you smile However, because I’ve known Joy embracing

by Natalye Childress

*this poem is in .jpg to preserve formatting *this is the unformatted text of the poem after rainer maria rilke you, the poet, have become world weary, word-wrought. and god

guy with a dark beard and moustache wearing a black graphic tee

Orchards of Udders by Jon Wesick

dripped on the blanket while air rustled tamarind trees. Chekhov drank a Thai iced tea and plummeted out of this poem. A flock of circles twittered in the hacksaw bushes

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