A Finite Universe by Andrés Luís Vaamonde

Forever is waiting

For the popcorn to be ready as

We sit on a couch

With holes that know

Too many secrets. No words

Have been said but everything
Is understood

And the movie is starting

So you

Best be quiet.

Where does

The universe end?

Hopefully, I think

By the end of tonight. That is

Assuming I muster the courage

Or bravado to tell you to get the
Fuck out of my apartment. The credits have

Been rolling since you curled into my

Arms. Do not misunderstand my flexing – it

Is not for you

I think; you and I have overrun

Our welcome. So I tell you in words
I cannot help but

Shout/whisper:

Here. Tonight.

 

You do look ugly

When you cry. But I do also

Envy poets

In moments when everything is swollen

Except for your heartbeat

As it skips like stones on Walden pond

Thumping against a worn tired sweater

That smells of your mother

As you dream on moonlight

By the kitchenette

Salty by Miller Bradford

The sun was caught orange and hot in the corner of the sky

Burning skin and rubber into asphalt and melting brains that drip

strawberry ice cream pink with salty sweat

down curved noses

pooling in cupid’s bow before sliding past parched lips

into the devil’s doorway

becoming fuel for fire-breathers and flames

that only tickle the house they meant to burn

And nothing moves but simmering heat

Off the streets in slow blurred lines like ghosts straining out of floorboards

keeping them wilted

Until, like a gust of cold wind before a rainstorm

Their grandmother gathers them up home

Frantic among a world of drips

and leaks

and melts.

The Janitor by Danny P. Barbare

All
Together
With
The
Wooden
Handle

And
All
Together
With
The
Golden
Straw
I
Sweep
The
Floor
Whether
Poor
Or
Rich
Because
I’m
America
Who
Whistles
A
Mighty
Happy
Tune
With
The
Peaceful
Whisper
Of
A
Broom.

Honest poetry

To kick off the birth of Walking Is Still Honest, here is one of the most honest poems of the 20th century.  Remember, you can submit your own your work to be published as well.

“The Road Not Taken”

by Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth; 5

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same, 10

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back. 15

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Walking Is Still Honest Press

Walking Is Still Honest is a publishing press under Nostrovia! Poetry, a small press dedicated towards promoting the poetic community as a whole.  In order to help further this idea, W.I.S.H was founded.

This press has a goal to publish poetry “as honest as walking”.  We want poetry that speaks the truth.  Simplicity is a beautiful thing in poetry.  When a poem can be written as a conversation, be accessible, be relate-able, then something beautiful is occurring.

The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost has survived so long because it’s so relate-able.  Everyone has been at a point in their life where they happen upon a “fork in the road”, and a decision must be made.

Which road are you going to take?

Follow the submission guidelines to send your poetry in.

Like the press on Facebook to help promote and stay up to date with new publications and opportunities.

Cheers!