Derek Richards

After performing both music and poetry around the Boston area for twenty years, Derek Richards shed his fear of rejection and began submitting his work this past August. So far his poetry has appeared in over twenty-five publications, including, Lung, Word Riot, Cantaraville, Soundzine, The Centrifugal Eye, Opium 2.0, Calliope Nerve, Right Hand Pointing, Breadcrumb Scabs, Tinfoildresses, Poets Ink, The Foundling Review and Underground Voices. He has also been told to keep his day job by Quills and Parchment. His dog, cat and two ferrets admire his attempts to be honest, direct, brilliant and lucrative. Also, he wants you to know that he has compiled over 50 fantasy sports championships. Happily engaged, he resides in Gloucester, MA, cleaning windows for a living.

Sympathy Red

she was buried

in her favorite red

cocktail dress

a white rose behind each ear

she had been the dictionary of eighteen

and beautiful, streetwise innocent,

twisting curls around the hearts

of young men and old desire.

volunteered to work on the alzheimers unit,

pocketing pills no one

would remember tomorrow

there was never any pain, just a compulsive

ache to obtain more than enough

at twenty-five she'd been red-flagged

by emergency rooms throughout

a ninety-mile radius

hip pain and back aches

abusive boyfriends

anxiety

she would hold your hand and kiss your neck

while slyly stealing from your pockets.

we called her sympathy red.

when she raised her hand

explaining how she couldn't stay sober

couldn't sleep

couldn't love somebody who couldn't dare

to hit her back

she was buried

in her favorite red

cocktail dress

we thought white roses

might get her home

Confessions of Wayward Reason

liquor stores sell cigarettes and that sells me.

after the last valium overdose,

i decided to stop attending meetings

and focus on my lungs.

the rose garden across the street

is cursed with beauty and honey bees.

a place i want to stomp, rumble,

a pleasant haven for procrastination.

graveyards have never been quiet places for me.

there are songs i hear, love notes torn,

repeated phrases about pain, profit and purgatory.

and so i reason, i cry mercy, i wilt and stumble

all the while, pretending to hallucinate genius

april whispers december

april whispers

murder by barbituate

by clean thick water

accidents prosper along old cow paths

one way shotgun alibis

so who wants to dance down by the river?

who takes this hand

in sickness and in health

and in hell

who lights the merry may candles?

the weaker children steal our lighters

burn among the corn

smooth limbs rub the mud from baskets

while june encourages rain

we teach the tarnish of forgiving

gasp at horrors of wealth

the fourth of july tastes like suicide

when pillows dirty

and the chickens go mad

august whispers

prayer by flashing flood

for sweet dumb decay

holidays linger among young blind girls

raw cold switchblade prophecy

so who wants to dance down by the river?

who takes this hand

in sickness and in health

and in heaven

who cries septembers tears?

everyone goes home in october

thrust out penny-luck eyes

sheets of birch bark entertain fires

careless sex and busy angels

i am the tidal wave of torment and turkey

cranberry veins failed by church

dogs grow bored and fat as november begets

jesus, frost and fairytales

december whispers

ice curing the goats milk

glorious disease wrapped in paper

sacraments torn by sweat and glove

long lost morals fuel the furnace

so who wants to dance down by the river?

who takes this hand

in sickness and in health

and in love

we cry when we sleep