Migrating to new Site

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Dear Readers,

After a couple months of inactivity, I am sure many of you would like an update on the status of newgenerationverse.com. I have made the decision to close down the blog and migrate to a new website called https://www.jonathanrowewrites.com/. This site will contain more information about me as a writer, links to my published work and social media, and a contact page so that you stay in touch with me.

It has been an honor sharing my poetry the public through this site and I am excited to start a new chapter in my journey as a writer. Thank you for all for your loyal support over the last few years and I hope that you will consider following my website for news about my work. As I sign off, remember that we have a duty to express ourselves creatively.

Best,
Jonathan

Scones

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somewhere your hands are in dough infused with cinnamon

chocolate shavings and dried cranberries     you knead & roll

this sticky firm mass on a flour-coated board as if forming a fist    

but there is no violence in this process only tenderness

like an infant’s back lifted upward in one motion once satisfied

you tear off pieces with a light squeeze & mold them into balls

placing each one on a buttered baking sheet to rise

i taste what you have made     my bitter-sweet tongue wanting

to become like dough once in your hands crafted into something

worthy of love not what is before me now a plate of chocolate

streaks cranberries & crumbs i leave the dish uncleaned for days

unable to scrub evidence of you & your tender labor


Love: An Education

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Gathered with sibling and parents

at the dinner table, I watch

my father’s long, mahogany arm

stretch over to my mother, seated

at his side, and knead her neck

like dough, teaching me a lesson:

sometimes keeping two souls tied

does not require words.

My History with Language

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On Giving Thanks

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On Giving Thanks

Foundling

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Blog Post 3

This poem was originally published in Issue 19 of Fathom Magazine.

What Anxiety tells me

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Testimony of a Door

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Look at me, my

Frankenstein of a body,

genesis of Mahogany

limbs. Notice this skin,

faded casualty

of sunlight, rain,

passing age.

I’m positioned

at the onset of incident,

like battering rams

serving no-knock warrants or

fists demanding entry.

Consider me a sentry

armed with cognizance

of things concealed

behind my back, 

how closed rooms,

offices and residences deceive.

Concerning Hope

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When I imagine borders

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Copy of Gift