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(Because I'm a fan of Survivor)
All-star "player" Boston Rob
didn't win Survivor. Sob!
No, matter. . . he got fame and by his side,
the pretty one who holds the loot to be his bride.
For Nathan's Clerihew contest
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich
More featured poems below...
An approach to see a heaven..
World is full of blathers
Anger and Aggravation found in everyone
Another door is opened to lead towards cruelty
This is a wonder world; open your eyes
Immensity of jealousy growing, to infinitude a heaven
Open your eyes wide; you are leading towards cruelty
Throbbed the cosmos; shine like a star
Spark your kindness; shine like a star
Being a blithe, I'm another example!
Just shine like a star!
Copyright © Asma Memon
She spurs me on
Like a violent wind.
She howls to me in the night
Like a siren.
Her light is red as blood.
My flesh is cold as steel.
Sweet dew is a nectar.
She gathers it with teacups,
Stirs it with a bent finger,
Tastes the life-blood of earth,
Singing silently in her mind.
There is no need for sound.
She reads to me patiently
As to a child.
I listen, and interrupt.
Her voice is as piercing
As a Bene Gesserit.
I tremble with violence.
Tomorrow we may dance together
In the steely dawn.
The shutters are down;
The gowns flow all red and black.
Surely some secret is at hand.
I make my bed by morning.
There is no sleeping there,
Only turning like a storm,
Kicking in the night,
Wanting to seize the force,
The aperture is open
The glass is clear as day.
I revel in in it .
I soak and darken in my soul
Like a sunspot.
There is no need for singing.
Praise be to almighty Thor
Or whoever carries the club
And hangs a tooth about his neck.
They are one, those restless ones.
They are not meek, nor tidy.
Each day begins with them.
Secretly as a cloud,
Those forms appear,
They evaporate again.
Most useful is their image,
They do not irritate the skin
Or pulverize the mind.
Frankly, it is beyond the pale
What mortals fear and would revere.
Beating a drum might drive away
The awful dream
Or call in reinforcements,
Conjuring a pleading battle cry.
Copyright © Bill Yates
How pure is the memory of a late-night walk on silent
streets as they collected a coat of new and elegant snow?
My stroll was guided by the luminescent globes of incandescent
street lights. They marked well my passage and the flight
of each descending snowflake toward lawn, street, or sidewalk rest.
Witnessing this unblemished cloak of crystalline white,
I paused to reflect on and memorize the elegance of delicate,
frozen perfection, given by nature. The streetlights subdued
aura and glow revealed with breathtaking clarity the
purity of all that I beheld.
I stopped, feeling the kiss of each frozen snowflake,
breathing the sharp-edged winter air,
and meditating on the fulfillment of the scene,
so free along that solitary and tranquil walkway.
And not desiring to blemish what lay ahead on the boulevard
where I tread, I turned around and trekked back toward my
home, carefully retracing the swiftly evaporating footsteps
of my approach.
Copyright © Brian Baumgarn
Beneath an azure canopy I find,
Myself listening to the serene day;
Green trees shiver above without a wind.
I wonder what the chirping birds do say?
Just dreaming as drifting clouds go away!
Such a sweet calm fills my trembling,
Oh, the trials of life leave me wondering;
And this a lovely rest and time for bliss.
For dreaming and for contemplating,
On such a perfect tranquil day as this!
Second Place in the contest, A Poem Time Forgot, November 2015
Featured Poem November 29 - December 5, 2015
Copyright © Broken Wings
A tornado comes and goes so quick
Sometimes revisiting on the same day
Air humid, breathing hard and thick
Best advice given…get out of its way
Sounds like freight train bearing down
Delivers this –Varoommmmmmmmmm
Next best advice--don’t live in a valley
Respite from twisters in Oklahoma town
Not possible— it’s tornado alley
Here’s the scoop
May 5, 1960…The date of the natural crime
Wilburton, Oklahoma…quiet and boring
Me…my life, smooth and in my prime
Outside, trouble brewing, rain pouring
No wind—then dark---storm clouds
Sudden change and all so loud
No way to stop---nature makes it way
Tornadoes F4 hit twice that day
Up one hill, down in the valley, another hill
A path right through main street
Wiped out fifteen blocks with shocking skill
Score tornado 16, town 0…no receipt
Sadly, sixteen dead, hundreds hurt
Think disaster, destruction, devastation
Hail equates baseballs—certain disconcert
Wind 250 miles per hour, an aberration
On a personal note
Mom, sister, and I alone
Little sister told to put football helmet on
I get only, “You better pray. Don't groan."
Three females in bathtub…no put-on
Scared, hoping this was a no drop zone
First cyclone over…it was no spoof
Uh, oh, second one took the roof---
But not us…Prayed and prayed
God was there, though fear stayed
What happens next...nothing good
Can’t drink the water…
Dysentery, typhoid, cholera—it could
Can’t go to school
Can’t go to church
Can’t find food
Red Cross helps pick up the tone
Friends hurt, one killed
One man up in the swirl…
Carried him about a mile—life unfulfilled
No limbs left—no head to twirl
People scared another will hit
The normal long gone—some split
Build shelters, that's the name of the game
Yet, life did go on... but nothing ever the same
Copyright © Carol Davis
I went to Church this morning with my head already bowed.
I would hear the sermon, but my heart was heavy now.
Sooner or later I would put my offering on the plate.
And tied to that offering was an envelope with my name.
I wouldn’t relent using the envelope; it was a matter of pride to me.
Even if a few would know my plight and shame, this eve.
Truly it was all I had… but giving less isn’t a sin,
So I tried to hold my head up, as I put the envelope in.
Last Sunday I didn’t go, and regrets have plagued me so…
So here I am at church with my both my head and heart rightly bowed.
Jesus gave us a parable of a poor woman and what she gave.
Would I have less courage than to do the same?
The church is built upon offerings and dutiful work, too.
And I’m unable to work so the offering will have to do.
Forty-Six Cents may not seem like much.
But I will pay my portion as best as I can do.
The amount isn’t monumental and maybe won’t be felt.
But even small amounts help add to the Church’s work.
So as I lay my envelope down… It is with some small hope…
My prayer this day became… that in some small way it will be felt.
Copyright © Carol Eastman
wind blasts trees
naked as newborn birds...
cascade of snowflakes
"Suit Yourself Contest"
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
Copyright © Carol Sunshine Brown
by Rachel Dunkerque AKA Carolyn V. Crawford
(lyric and melody)
Can't you see, how I feel
The essence of me quivers
When it's you I'm near
Look my way, let me say
How much I love you.
Can't you tell, deep in this well
There's a churning passion
Long-stirred by your spell
Look my way, let me say
How much I love you.
How can I, won't even try
To explain the tide that floods me
When you're near my side
Look my way, let me say
How much I love you.
And when you walk into my presence
You have to feel the effervescence, running through my head
Not twice, look once, I'm sure you'll notice
If you even think to slightly touch me
You sense loss of life's breath
So look my way, let me say
How much I love you.
So look my way, let me say
How much I love you.
Copyright © Carolyn Crawford
I want my moment back,
that moment when I got lost in your eyes.
A color explosion of green, blue and you.
Your soul so rich in artistic hue.
I want that moment to stay with me forever,
it is already starting to slip away.
I feel the warmth of your cheek on my cheek.
My heart races, a sprint to the seconds
my lips begging to feel yours.
Breathing, I must remind myself how,
because next to you, I am breathless.
I want to see, I want to feel,
I want to be one with so completely.
But moments are unkind and they fade fast.
A glimpse of perfection, I wish it would last.
Slipping away, and I want to hold tight,
Letting you go does not feel right.
I belong at the receiving end of your touch.
You know how I love you so,
Do you really know how much?
My heart is left in your passenger seat,
Keeping you safe until the next time we meet.
I feel my lips but your kiss is gone.
October 12, 2015
Copyright © Casarah Nance
Ballet is poetry. . .
And both share in
The magical movement
That is defined as art.
As brushstrokes blend
Hues onto a white canvas
And forms begin to
Appear in the glory of a
Golden pas de deux dawn,
Fingers of light stream
Through parting clouds
Capturing the divinity
Of the death of night
Into days beautiful birth.
Fluid motion, chassé. . .
Balancing earth's elements
In an alluring assemblé.
© Connie Marcum Wong
Copyright © Connie Marcum Wong
He always knows
Which way to go
How much to fight
Or what's too slow
Never quit, never surrender
That's the oath
He'll always remember
Who is too weak,
Or which one is strong
He'll cover down
And won't be wrong
He'll sing along with every creed
He will never miss a beat
Nor a bullet, nor a friend
His heart is strong,
But in the end,
The hiss of a mortar,
It just won't matter,
Because the good die young,
And the bad live longer,
To spread disease,
To make life harder,
To do more harm than good,
And make the good even better...
Copyright © Criss Tripp
The bouquet of opulent, red roses
is royalty visiting squalor,
kept in a pickle jar that allows
stems to spread,
One finger touches one petal
with pride of ownership,
as though the blooms brighten
a parlour, are housed in crystal.
My first place is a furnished room
with wood paneling,
a basement apartment
with a TV that hums
like a school janitor. I pull things
from a bar fridge that barely holds
a carton of milk, scramble eggs
using a dented hotplate I bought
from the Sally Ann. The couch
has a mangy scent that reminds me
of wet puppy. I glance at the phone,
try not to think of her. I do.
Guilt has me tossing away
my planned dinner after a bite.
I wonder if my mother is okay
or is rocking in the silence
of regret. The words she’d said
replay and I agonize
over my decision. An albatross,
she’d called me, why couldn’t
I just grow up and move out?
Her venting embossed itself
on walls that had already
heard too much and within hours
I'd found a place to rent,
packed my clothes. Stay,
she’d pled, swung into depression,
blue pendulum. I sit in dimly lit
independence, tasting freedom
and uncertainty, worrying about
the one who left lash marks
on the thinnest of wings.
I cave and call her,
promise to visit Sunday, but stay
my new ground. Alone, I go
to bed in clean sheets,
so old they rasp skin,
My boyfriend will visit,
perhaps tomorrow, his sweat
will singe cotton. I stretch
and discover that there are
no boundaries here,
as though toes could wander
all the way to some
annex in Paris. I change my mind,
move the flowers closer, so
their perfume can weave
through dreams that will hover
between happiness and hell.
There in the dark, I make out
the outline of my future; it wavers.
It’s then that I realize
I’ve left the nest at eighteen
with tight bits of shell.
By Cyndi MacMillan, For Frank's Coming of Age Contest
Copyright © Cyndi MacMillan
I remember long ago when your voice always answered the phone
It was always quite clear just how you felt just by the tone
And so long ago i am not sure if I would ever have known
Just how quiet it got and how it became to be not one of your own
It was our first Christmas day together I remember you most
All the sparkles in your eyes, the lights, and candle lit posts
I get lost in myself when I remember, and think of that now all alone
As the sparkles and the old flames fade away like unwanted ghosts
It seemed like yesterday everything was brand new and felt right
And not long ago it was you, that I held, and loved thru the night
Now everything has become so cold and dull never too bright
Since the last time I heard your voice on the phone, saying goodnight
Copyright © Cynthia Ferguson
I saw evil last night,
evil in the form of a sweet fleshed beauty,
evil in the form of sparkling eyes,
with the fork of serpent’s tongue.
I saw evil, perhaps, not in its entirety;
as with goodness, evil is an abundant
and all consuming well.
So young, so stained by herself and others,
this child daily sought the flame,
stealing from anyone, anything; she could.
From the fragile, translucent, moth
to kitten’s lick, she enticed beyond bounds.
Her beauty narcotic, evil bathed in jasmine,
giving kisses to gain access to her drug of choice.
Failure’s false excuses acts dispensing sexual pleasures;
luring with ribald sensation with filthy lucre.
Flames leapt from the eyes of the sweetest face,
recalling the pill vials abundance and place;
recalling the ease of reach.
Her thrusting tongue-tip, licked and leapt.
at the drooled corners of her strawberry-pink lips.
The lips she would let his aged, sick, body, kiss,
all for the high, his legal drugs would bring.
She stay. She’d give him everything—
He didn't pay in money, surely, there was no crime?
So near death, he’d pray.
“Lord God please heal me.” He’d say.
She’d smile and the horned corners of her lips would rise.
He’d seek life’s affirmation between her thighs.
She’d stay—until he died.
Copyright © Debbie Guzzi
He was my hero when I was a child,
His way with words were never harsh, always mild.
He taught me how to live and have a pure heart,
This he showed me from the very start.
I felt he was too easy because he never took a stand,
But as I grew older, I realized that's what he planned.
He needed to be caring and the parent that would listen,
Each time I spoke to him, his eyes would always glisten.
Now that I am a mother and have a daughter myself,
I learned from him how to make her feel special, never just on the shelf.
He showed me how to be very good hearted sometimes, too much,
But it helped me to keep my loved ones close in my clutch.
Each day that passes I realize what he helped me become,
I'll always be full of love and emotions, never numb.
My hero is my father but he passed away,
I will always love you and I miss you everyday.
Copyright © Debra Baviello
Oh LORD, give me the force to withstand the
cyclopean waves of human hypocrisy and malice.
Make me strong as to endure the suffering inflicted
by the knives of hatred and inconsideration which
constantly pierce my heart, so as not to seek revenge
but only affection. And finally, oh LORD, let your divine
love pass through my bleeding wounds and heal them in
such a degree as, in the place where insensitive people
wanted to plant the malevolent seed of vice, to flourish
instead the glorious tree of Your virtue!
© Demetrios Trifiatis
Copyright © Demetrios Trifiatis
Wrench your heart and cry
For those with demons inside
With no will left to try
Find your voice and scream
For those who live in silence
Who are robbed of their dream
Beat your chest and mourn
For those lost in the night
Whose hearts have been torn
Tear your clothes and wail
For those with twisted minds
Who seek help to no avail
Close your eyes and weep
For the many living dead
Buried in nightmares deep
Open you ears and hear
The silent cries of the poor
Who cower in their fear
Open your eyes and see
The one who is tormented
That tortured soul is me!
Eileen Manassian Ghali
Copyright © Eileen Manassian
Was it really there?
Deep in its lair
the dragon sleeps
rumbles and shakes
sending quivers to all
villagers quake in fright
it must be thunder
they hide indoors
too afraid to look
but the dragon
goes on sleeping
it’s bones now creek
as it slowly stretches
old and cold
he curls back up
in his gloomy lair
just lying there
slowly fading away
his fire extinct
children creep inside
the dank dark cave
to hunt for a dragon
long since gone
did he really exist
or is that just legend
are they scales glistening
or trickles of water
with your eyes
was it really there
Copyright © Gail Underwood
Written by Gail DeBole on October 7, 2015
Sal the Snail wished for a ride
On a turtle before Sal died
With his antenna intact
And the wind at his shell's back
He'd relax while enjoying the stride.
Sal the Snail's Haiku
Sal the Snail's To Do List
Copyright © Gail DeBole