The Ramingo’s Porch – “Words Flow Like A River” A Poem By J. J. Campbell

words flow like a river

there are days where
my ego just wants to
lay back and let the
genius flow
that fucker thinks
this shit is easy
i just snap my fingers
and the words flow
like a river
those are the rare
occasions
the rest of the time
is stuck down there
with the scars and
pain
memories that would
make a serial killer
blush at times

---

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) was raised by wolves yet managed to graduate high school with honors. He’s been published most recently in Dumpster Fire Press, The Rye Whiskey Review, Synchronized Chaos, The Beatnik Cowboy and The Black Shamrock Magazine. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

The Ramingo’s Porch – “Mothers In Cars” & “Dreaming” Two Poems By Marianne Szlyk

Mothers in Cars

In the future, no one drives.
Parents bundle up children
and place them in the driverless car.
They will arrive safely.

Sometimes mother or father
rides along. They can work
anywhere. They work
in dreams. They work
everywhere, minds connected
to the system no matter
where their bodies are.
Except for the eighty-year old mother
whose family lives in the brick house.

The Ramingo’s Porch – “Layers” & “Inward Tides” Two Poems By Theresa C. Gaynord

Layers

I thought about incense burned
under banana trees, the way
you may have worn your shirttail
out, a childhood rebellion carried
into adulthood, the special way
you would have held my hand after
the jade Buddha’s head that meant
so much to me fell and broke among
wilting lotuses.

The Ramingo’s Porch – “Time Framed Me” A Poem By John Patrick Robbins

Time Framed Me

The math was simple and life seldom is .
The women are sometimes easy and the relationships often complex.

We are guessing at best on what’s our next move.
Trying to pretend we know it all.
When in reality we are all hopeless by design.

The Ramingo’s Porch – “Purple Poems” and “The Tinkle of a Scar” Two Poems By Praniti Gulyani

Purple Poems

there is a purple poem
on my mother’s neck
that my father writes for her
every full moon night

instead, most poets write on paper
but my father writes on mother’s skin
she smiles, she says she doesn’t mind
says, the purple poem is truly
a thing of pride and beauty