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Featured Poetry: Week Ending Sunday, October 05, 2014

Below are this week's featured poems. Congratulations to our featured poets. Poems are rotated each day in groups of 14-18 to give each poem an equal opportunity to be displayed. Those who post a lot of poetry and actively comment on the poetry of others are more likely to have their poetry featured. The only guaranteed way to be featured is to become a Premium Member.

Click on the numbered navigation below to navigate though all of the featured poems.


Paul Avatar
Written by: Wm Paul  Send Soup Mail  Premium Member
Read Poems by Wm Paul

Yes,I have a Passion for Dance

The music,
The touching,
The after.

All the types
    from Folk to Polka,
            Tango, Rumba, Samba,
            Waltz to Square,
            Cha Cha, Mambo, Twist ,
            Tap, Jazz, Rock.
Ballroom Proms to Backyard Parties,
Late Night Dives and Quite Evenings.
Steps that Jump, Slide Skip and Hop,
And then some motion stops.


'Can I hold your hand'

Can I hold your hand? Just until your smile returns? Promise not to hold too tight In case you feel smothered A hint of the tears you shed Still visible – a testimony of your pain Your wall went up again I can feel it; you pushing at it Pushing every one away I will not feel wounded I will not force you to talk I know you need your space Can I hold your hand? Until your smile returns



A son desires – requires a little of the fires –
that some fathers places upon funeral pyres.

Lost to ghostly shadows prowling the hallways of ones mind.
Catching glimpses of, drifting past the corners of, one will find

little in them, of substance to tell one just what kind
of man – this man called dad – was / is and no sign

that a day will come, when his light, his essence will define
for ones aging soul, the empty places left in the passing of time.

I wonder about my Daughters, will they dig deep into the past ?,
for the gold, find fools gold ?, find stories untold, having passed

into history and into their presence, as part of the whole ?
Will I become fodder for a funeral pyre ?, or buried in a hole ?

B. J. “A” 2
April 1st 2004

As Go the Hours, the Days, the Years


I remember 20:

Aflame with ideas and visions,
A mind unfettered by necessity's constraints,
Spirit open to everything -
Tomorrow held no fears, 
Yesterday no regrets;
There was only day following day,
Each new and with something to give,
And each corner I turned
Led down a new road
Where the joy was ever in the going,
With a horizon impossibly far and bright.

     Do you still see that youth somewhere inside
     When I gaze on you, Love,
     As I still see that girl with the laughing eyes
     Who ran down those roads with me?

That was our dreaming-time,
The cloudcastle years

When we could scarcely bear
The brightness of our own being.

The wonder of the world embraces the young,
And they return the embrace,
But like the children they so recently were,
They are distracted, and break away
Enticed by the next marvel
Peaking 'round the corner.

A part of us yet runs there, Love;
Running and running
Through the endless light.


I remember 30:

Young parenthood, responsibilities.
We showed them all the light we could,
Let them run into it and find their ways.

Small voices grew to sound like our own;
Busy days and nights fly past
Like leaves blown out of the grasp of their trees,
Tumbling, mixing, moving on

Until at last the bigger voices went off on their own,
Running down new roads
Chasing their own marvels.

Now and again they return,
And we share our found treasures
And fondly laugh together
At Youth's follies and discoveries
And sigh within
At the beautiful light.

This was the time when we were Fortune's Fools,
And proud and happy to be.


I remember 40:

The time of Action
The time of Challenge.

This is the time we found our strength,
Though it was sometimes purchased with pain.

This was the time of lessons,
Some of them hard.

This was also the age of flowing friendships -
Some growing, some degenerating, most holding stable,
Especially, of course, the good old ones,
The ones that stretch to childhood, and go on stretching still.

And finally, also our era of finding out:

     Our spouses really are our best friends
     How relative time truly is
     Why learning to Just Accept pays off
     Where the foci of our lives need to be
     When to roll over and when to dig in
     Who's a Friend and who's a Face.

The forties were something special.


So now we stand in the middle 50s.

Less ahead than behind, for sure.

Youth is still not quite out of reach,
But age is on the horizon and beckoning.

Has Age brought wisdom along?

I think yes, but she's holding back,
Not saying much just yet.

Now the light has begun to slant;
There are decades to go,
But the afternoon has come on,
The hot day is cooling ...
Sunset is gathering into its birth,

     I know where we are now.
     I know who we are now.

We walk the shore and look ahead,
Knowing that after sunset comes the dawn again,
After a little rest in the starland between
As go the hours, the days, the years,
Pulled out, away into the great Unknown.

Now we walk together towards that sunset
And all the mysteries waiting there.
Together we shall find them all,
And when we reach the last, the Greatest,
I expect to turn and find again
That girl with the laughing eyes beside me,
Ready to run, and run, and run.

God at the helm

Life in an instant, a blip
A rockets fuel cylinders spent
Through the vastness of time, a footprint
In the grand scheme of things, just a dent
Still unique to this planet, perhaps universe
So self aware, blessing or curse
To know you're so small, yet potential so great
Live life with love, throw away hate
Care for the poor, hungry mouths fill
Don't live with regret, that most bitter pill
Reach out, feel, care and give
Fulfill this limited time we live
Greed and envy will not satisfy
Or fill the void you're hiding inside
The truest reward, goes beyond earthly realm
Travel to Heaven with God at the helm

You gave me everything I need

I can’t wait to see what you want
What do you want God?
What do you want for me?
I don’t know what you want
I don’t know what you want of me
But I know I can do it
Because you gave me everything I need

Your Endless Lighthouse Beam

I miss you more than sky is blue
     Piercing sunlight from beyond;
Days made old and mind anew
     My weariness like a song:
When up is down too many few
     Tightropes when you’re gone.

Needing you more than oceans deep
     Currents in the flow;
Wide awake or drifting sleep
     Lying in pure snow:
If I should die my soul to keep
     Wherever you may go.

Remember me when I have sailed
     To that far away world of dreams;
Think well of me though I have failed
     From time to time it seems:
While upon my ship I’ll man the rails
     In search of your endless lighthouse beam. 

The Thing

a cycle in eight parts
with a slightly criminal coda
(quickly recanted)

copyright T.H.A. Hassan,
the ZKH Foundation for Holistic Human Development
18 Mohammad Saleh Street, Dokki, Cairo, EGYPT
tel/fax 20 2 37491481

I - the thing

the thing the thing the thing!

oh the thing

          the thing is IT

          the thing and nothing but the thing

          long live the thing

          hurrah for the thing

          what is the thing?

the books say
               the thing is ......THE THING

and the wisdom of the ages

...and sages

          worn out pages cages museum pieces masterpieces THE THING

          the thing IS

                    the thing is our SALVATION permutation  castration
          the thing is the isness that is not before the essence of
                    the meaningfulness of reason before
                    existence existing apple cart before                     the apple 
                    donkey before the horse cart
                    after the equi-histamopholous oblong
                    wheel was invented

                                        (pythaphagoranamus 2)

                    THE THING IS MYSTERIOUS

the thing the thing the thing
oh the thing                            what is the thing?






                         let us read

                         let us write

                         LET US FIGHT

                                        about the thing

                              for a month

                                  a year

                                  a century

                                             or two

                                             or four

                                             or eight
                                             or ninety eight
                                             or eighty four

the thing the thing the thing

oh the thing

          sh sh sh sh sh sh sh sh sh sh sh

                    be composed




                       BE GRAVE

                                   AND WORSHIP


                                                       the thing


          Kara wesha wesha wesha

          wesha wesha wesha wesha

          wesha wesha wesha wesha




               ..and then

               LET US SPEAK
                                             of IT

                                                   over tea

                                                   butter scotch

                                                   or L.S.D.

                    what is the fashion today

                                               with it?

the thing the thing the thing
oh the thing
                              what is the fashion with IT
                                                    the thing

Moments like This

The stars quickly dim,
taking their place behind stretching clouds,
as the allure of night fades
and the lamp of the world switches on.
Morning's scent steals grace from sleeps convalescent ether, 
rousing hearts and minds from delusional dreams,
to don their disguise of a million lies,
reassembling, to suffer again daily.

And each tick of the clock, mimics the hum of my pulse,
as I sit with head in hands, holding on to my shattering sanity.
For in the light of day, truth is easily seen
in this house, that is not a home;
where the silence unfolds to surround me,
like solitary prison walls.
So aimlessly, I walk throughout the day,
heart wrapped in strands of tender; frayed,
always one beat away from surrender;
anxiously timid, awaiting yet another shoe to fall,
keeping to this intimate isolation,
for this world has proved incapable of trust.

But oh when the night comes, and the blind moon rises,
taking its rightful place in the sky,
I lovingly stand within her sliver rain, and the
subliminal foreplay emanating from stars.
Inside the darkness, shadows span to fill the emptiness
and my consciousness gives way to blurry visions,
staining these eyes with the presence of you.

And its moments like this, I have come to cherish;
when this sensory state of existence, 
exonerates me from misery’s melody, 
deafening its sound in the hours of midnight suede.


You who sexless heard the pounding of the sex
     nerves    conditioned to the tune
            through all the slushy push of distending flesh
                   in the ooze slime of semen ******l fluid
Your eyes turned inward
       heart brimming to the flush
                                   fed by your central runaway generator    
    your frail limbs were hardly sketched
          in the clasp of a Reichian curve
       through all the terrifying pounding
                                                         More terrifying still
Now YOU see the crook of  the aborting metal
   the surgeon's staff
      dig into your behind
    the gossamer sack of your promised dream world
  avoiding at every thrust
                                    the inevitable dismemberment
               charred chicken wings coming apart in cinders

 JOLT of the bend in the crook
           your eyes to the back of you
       a ninja without arms or legs
    whirling upwards
   flying in the face of crookish metal
                   by the grit of your teeth
FIRST your spine goes
              shrivelled skin over mashed bone and marrow
                   the nerves  a calligrapher's skein
       vaguely stretched over your incumbent's drawn face 

TILL your seminal fluid
            stains the blood
                splashing through every thrust
        of the abortionist's clinical will

 YET you resist
        STILL clinging to your umblical chord
  the silent screams of your unformed mouth
        reaching no where
  the mother sprawled on the trolley etherised
In the distance  a faraway distance 
                                                 a vague throbbing
        away from prying eyes
    a ringing call unanswered
                                           and you let go...
 see your will turned to mash

Only your long sleep nurtured your dream
   a singular dream of a snuffed world

    ©  T.Wignesan 1992  (March 10, 1992)
[from the collection: back to background material, 1993]
    On seeing an ecography of an abortion on the FR3 French TV programme: "La Marche du siècle: Contraception et avortement", March 4, 1992 at 20.40 hours. Professor Etienne Baulieu, the inventor of the oral abortive pill, was the guest of honour.               

Yes Ye Will-Will Come

Oh, how it is so much fun
All having been given a choice
You can hear it in their voice
As we all dance and play in the sun

The there are many who shall turn and run
Living a continuous life of evil
End the end it will only bring upheaval
In truth their virtue, they have none

Loneliest existence

With the sun in the forceps 
Of an ageless night, 
The bells at the lighthouse toll 
Until they are merely sterile 
Occasionally, a ghostly whisper 
Validates and dissects 
Each tear, each truth. 
I can't imagine their loneliness- 
watching light burn 
Until it is as small as a flea, 
While we endure engulfed 
In light, 
Principals of refuge 
And shadow. 

One last song

One last song for the wicked
One last song and a cigarette
I see you standing in the back
Forming a silhouette

One last song for the really weird
One last song and a big cigar
I see you dancing by yourself
Wondering who you are

One last song for the wild at heart
One last song for you my dear 
I see you crying in the dark
Clinging to a beer

Wish you would dance like gods
Like the devil's at your heels
Show your partner all the moves 
And tell the devil how it feels

Schizophrenia Sympathy Pain

I’ve misplaced my phone,
no I haven’t, I’ve lost it.
It’s nowhere in my home
and no matter where I look, I can’t come across it.  
You’ve probably done similar things like that before
like leaving your car keys inside your car, 
and then locking yourself outside your car door.
I lost my phone, wallet and cash within the course of a week
and then suddenly it hit me like an unexpected rain.
This is my unprofessional conclusion to all of my confusion, 
Schizophrenia Sympathy Pain.
Much like the loved ones who witness the terms of pregnancy of their beloved,
they often experience sympathy pregnancy pains as if it were real.
When it comes to Sympathy Pain, Schizophrenia also has it covered.
IT got a huge helping of the Sympathy Pain deal.
I used to watch my poor son, stricken with this horrible thing,
pacing and laughing and talking without a care.
He seemed so happy and this picture would be perfect, if not for one thing.
He was carrying on with someone who just wasn’t there.
One day I happened to accidentally videotape myself. 
I forgot that my camera was still recording me, but all just the same,
 I once again caught a glimpse of my ailing mental health.
More Schizophrenia Sympathy Pain.
There I was just like he, rambling on endlessly,
talking out loud to no one. I was home all alone
and as if in a competitive race, just like he I would pace
with vocalized imagined conversations of my own.
Even though I realize that I was just talking aloud to myself,
and that unlike he, I was always aware, no one else was there.
Still, Schizophrenia Sympathy Pain creeps up on me with the greatest of stealth.
Schizophrenia Sympathy Pain will always be my cross to bear.
Schizophrenia Sympathy Pain will always haunt me and continue to remain 
While My Son suffers with REAL Schizophrenia Pain.



like kilogrammes
	on the belly
and tar
	in the lungs 
               of the foolish

is unteachable
because nobody else
	is you
and their situation
	was never
	like yours


on the back
	of experience
from either
	foolish success
	or clever failure

more so
	than “My Desktop”
but not as much
	as DNA
	or tattoos


as a child
	with support
or like a garden
	by manure

in latter years
	with sports injuries
my only hope
	I’ve enough sense
	to use it

I have made some revisions as of the 24th Jan. Again thanks to you all for reading and now for tweeting this piece.

These Mornings

Maple and Cherry Oak
deciduous delight;
a new wardrobe.

Another marriage; 
violent waterways 
racing traffic.

Cremation of
fallen family
lingers onward.

sweet scent--
Lavender & Lilacs.

Desiring exactly
what we despise
as dreams drown.

Twenty branches above 
percussion solos begin
between wings while

lead singers gather on
electrical tightropes
of music notation.

Trade-winds whisper
as the ocean above
remains motionless.

Until next
December my
dear winter.


What is Poetry

Poetry is a careful, inventive, or creative consideration of words written in order to convey some thought as a literary composition. Usually, but not always, the words written are designed to evoke emotion. Poetry can manifest itself as a two-word phrase or a one thousand-page book. Related terms: abecedarius, Alcaic, Alcaic verse, ballad, ballade, blank verse, canto, elegy, epic, epic poem, epos, free verse, haiku, lament, lay, line of poetry, line of verse, literary composition, literary work, lyric, lyric poem, poetic rhythm, prosody, rhyme, rhythmic pattern, rime, rondeau, rondel, sonnet, stanza, tanka, terza rima, vers libre, verse, verse line, versicle. Submit Poems.