Welcome to The Coffee Shop, just for you early risers on Monday mornings.
This is an Open Thread forum, so if you have an off-topic opinion burning
a hole in your brainpan, feel free to add a comment.
Therefore, since brevity is the soul of wit
And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes,
I will be brief . . .
HAMLET Act II, Scene 2 – William Shakespeare
In May 2016, I posted a piece about One Sentence Poems, a website that
is a showcase for — you guessed it — one sentence poems.
In June 2018, I posted more of these little gems.
And today, I’m posting some more.
One Sentence Poems
The Art of Politics
by Nancy Key Peterson
I don’t know any
Nancy Kay Peterson usually finds humor in one sentence but occasionally takes a serious turn.
by Wendy Cobourne
I want to dissolve
like a stray ice cube
thawing on the counter,
Wendy Cobourne is a journalist and college writing tutor whose poetry and short stories have appeared in several print and online literary journals, including One Sentence Poems.
by Kirby Olson
Oceans scatter over the desert.
Kirby Olson‘s poems have appeared in Partisan Review, First Things, Village Voice, and some other venues. He teaches philosophy at SUNY Delhi in the western Catskills.
by Robert Nisbet
There arrives, over an iron bridge,
the rush of a train, its lights
shuddering slightly, but surging with
the vehemence of brilliant things.
Robert Nisbet is a Welsh poet whose work appears in roughly equal measures in Britain and the USA.
by F. J. Bergmann
I think of all those people
lost inside of their America.
J. Bergmann would prefer that the days remain long year-round without the hassle of moving to the Equator.
by Paige Foster
Perhaps it is a sort of nostalgia,
this wistful feeling
that blossoms like wet ink on the page
every time I come across your handwriting
in an old book.
Fascinated by the multitude of ways humans communicate, Paige Foster spends a lot of time trying to coax various languages and mediums into playing nice with her.
by Howie Good
out of the sun,
over the marsh,
in its claws
that must be
to be flying.
Howie Good is on the pavement, thinking about the government.
by J. R. Solonche
Like dirty oil
from an old
truck, the wild
out of the woods
and across the road,
black drop, by black
drop, by black drop.
R. Solonche has been publishing in magazines, journals, and anthologies since the early 70s and is author of six poetry collections.