September: Writer/poet of the Month – Heath Brougher

Heath Brougher is the Editor-in-Chief of Concrete Mist Press, USA and co-poetry editor of Into the Void, winner of the 2017 and 2018 Saboteur Awards for Best Magazine. He received Taj Mahal Review’s 2018 Poet of the Year Award and is a multiple Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee. In 2020, he was awarded the Wakefield Prize for Poetry. He has published 11 books and, after spending over three years editing the work of others, is ready to get back into the creative driver seat for a bit. He has four books forthcoming in 2022 and 2023.

Here are some poems by Heath Brougher:

Peeling Philosophies

Your crow wears hats
and bursts out of your chest
whenever the barometer dips


scrapings, remnants
rule the world
the always knocked off-kilter world
while feathers
drip with blood
in a sudden
Universal guttural

after all the Universe
began with a sudden explosion
a “burst’ if you will
but you won’t admit to it
because you don’t exist.

Metallic Forest

Steel trees bloom above my head,
their tinny foliage gleaming from certain vantage points

along the path in the night, shimmering, as I trek onward
noticing a copper bird’s next built on the silver branches


without a smidgeon of Verdigris. I can’t help but wonder
what happens when the chill of Autumn arrives


with its light aluminium breeze and the iron leaves
fall clanking to the ground beneath the turquoise sun.


But for now it is warm and I pick you a metal rose,
so heavy and shiny and    lifeless

Imitation of Life

The Spirit of pigeons 
from 1800 pastorals 
emanates from a yonder hollow;
flies with thick, paint-heavy wings.

A morning of aerial scissors 
snips kites from the bone colored polka-dot air.
A fallen plastic goldfish
no longer swims through the sky.

In a rare dream, I bought an umbrella
that rained acorns. But that never really happened.
It was only a subconscious projection
experienced within a spurious limelight.

Gonna Lose

A boy floats down Glendale Rd in York, PA—
his girlfriend [I imagine her name is Cricket]
proceeded in her 1999 Jane-like summer shorts
or 2002 Shannon-like tight winter jeans.
Two pieces of twine adorned with an anklet     
to prevent her shoestrings from falling apart. 
She walked into the gloaming downstreet.
She reminded me of love and vitality.
She resembled the perfect mixture 
of Jane and Shannon. 


I assume Jane and Shannon have 
disappeared forever into 
the legendary landscapes 
of my sacrosanct youth. 

Heath Brougher

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