E.S. Wynn: poetry

Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts

Queer Authors of Sacramento

Author E.S. Wynn reading transgender poetry at the Sacramento Lavender Library's Queer Authors event 2/23/2018

Tonight's reading was so much fun! There were six of us in total. A thoroughly enjoyable experience! I'm excited for the next one!

Video recorded by author J. Scott Coatsworth of Sacramento Queer Authors Collective.

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Stormcloud Poets #2

Join me in giving a big hand to the poets of Stormcloud Poets #2!

Stormcloud Poets #2 is a collection of poems selected by Author E.S. Wynn from submissions sent to Thunderune Publishing. Each issue of Stormcloud Poets brings to the forefront both new and established voices in independent and contemporary poetry. My standards as an editor are so high that roughly 96% of poems received were rejected. The competition was intense, but what remains is an anthology of incredible poetry unlike anything you've seen before.

Find out more and get your copy in print or digital here: http://www.thunderune.com/2014/03/stormcloud-poets-2.html

If you would like to be notified by email if/when Thunderune Publishing is seeking poetry submissions for future issues of the Stormcloud Poets anthology series, sign up for our mailing list at: http://www.thunderune.com/2011/06/join-mailing-list.html

Stormcloud Poets #2!

Stormcloud Poets Anthology #2

Edited by E.S. Wynn

Cover photo by Cheryl Empey

From The Back Cover:

If I could write with fire
I would burn poems into pages
Fling sounds like sparks
Paint skies with brushes lit
By primal life
By primal rites.

If I could write with fire,
I would rise as such a force of flame
That my words would snap
Like the lash
Of a storm

That my words would burn
Pour passion
From streaming pages
And light the night
With the echoes
Of flaming
Written
Rain.

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Click here to
SUBMIT
Your poetry

Submissions close for Issue #2 on July 31st, 2014.

Sign up for our newsletter to get updates on this and future issues of Stormcloud Poets here: [link]

You might also like:

Windhover

Ozymandias

Light Brigade

Kubla Khan

Tennyson

Wilfred Owen

Pink Poet Video #6

Pink Poet Video #5

Pink Poet Video #4

Pink Poet Video #3

Pink Poet Video #2

Pink Poet Video #1

Pink Poet #4

Where The Highway Meets The Road
By E.S. Wynn
http://www.thunderune.com

Where the highway meets the road, a man stands alone, unsure. He waits on the corner, breathes in the sweet autumn air and knows that the end isn’t all that far away. The horn of a Mack truck blares in the distance, and then he is there, in the truck, the driver, melding with the rubber and the steel. He knows that this moment is the future, that he is the truck, the driver, the trailer, the pounding motor, the squirrel crushed beneath its tracks. He is all and none, everything and nothing, the man who stands but does not run.

In the distance, a rooster crows, and with the resolve of a hundred fallen kings, the man puts one foot on the road, takes the eternal first step.

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Pink Poet #3

Life splice
By E.S. Wynn
http://www.thunderune.com

Life is full of holes. We take the film frames of all that we know and splice them together to create our world view, our personality, our code for holding ourselves, for reacting and dealing with the daily business of life, but still there are gaps. It is in these gaps that we look to our parents, that we splice frames of their lives onto our own.

And so, bit by bit, we become a pastiche reflection of each generations’ improvisations, a reflection of a reflection of a reflection.

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Pink Poet #2

Pink Poet #1

The Beard of Von Horowictz
By E.S. Wynn
http://www.thunderune.com

“Blitz!” Screams the baker, but the candlemaker doesn’t hear her, doesn’t understand the words that flow from her babbering mouth like so much chopped salad. Babies in their cribs at night carve labyrinths of dark smudge and greasepaint into the sloping ceilings of their minds, explode new buildings meant to be toppled in the growth that comes with each shallow, ocean-surf breath. In the night, they dream of the beard of Von Horowictz, gentle eyes following the list and sway of his graying tips like succored flies. The old man doesn’t speak; his mouth is a mask of leather and crime, stitched through and sealed as much by age as tears. When he looks into their eyes, he sees into the slipstream of fate and time, weaves destinies for each and each alone with the greasepaint labyrinth stirrings of his own babbering mind.

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Tribalpunk

The Man With The Obsidian Eye

There is a story that is told
Of a man with an eye of cut obsidian
Sharp as an elder’s arrowhead,
Lashed to the shaft of a stare
As solid as a shaman’s soul.

There is a story that is told
Of men who have tried to snatch that eye
Snatch the power of his stare
And steal a piece of that shaman’s soul,

And there is a story that is told
Of how those men died
At the point of spirit spears,
Their throats crushed
In the stony grip
Of his shaman’s soul.

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