Person of colour is coherently germane,
He is never insane.
Some things about this person of colour may seem strange,
He is simple and he is yet to engage.
This person of colour loves the critics,
It is from them, he ticks.
This person of colour is natural,
And so, he is not a trial.
This person of colour loves to exchange
Ideas beyond his range.
This person of colour loves keyboard,
Tis with this he comes on board.
This person of colour is a charcoal- a black beauty.
This person of colour is me.
Copyright © Abdulhafeez Oyewole
My sizzling flame has faded in the midst of Summer's embrace
and taken my virgin flower of delicately woven lace
In subtle shadows and fading light
silently in bewilderment I crumble without sight
For each year of happiness and silver dream abound
now a resonating memory silent without a sound
As I walk the cobble stone path where our days had found no end
I raise my arms above and pray for this love to mend
If only a God-sent chance should fall my weary way
this love I would cherish endless with each passing day
In subtle shadows and fading light
each memory of you held forever in soft moonlight
Copyright © Rick Parise
Removed by author upon realization that this site gives permission for use of poems to anyone with the option of removing the author's name.
Copyright © FJ Thomas
There's a bench at the high school where I graduated
The wood is cracked, chipped and all weather faded
But in its prime, there each morning faces smiled hello greetings
And was always the agreed upon place, for after school meetings
Many then, lovers initials are carved upon her wood
Though young love didn't last like we thought it could
Also, many peace signs and let's stop Vietnam
Even, one I love John Denver and a, I rule at pac man
Under her bottom is petrified gum of every flavor
Stuck there, because gum in class was considered bad behavior
Like some people need but one name to be known
The Bench, was like a city of its very own....
Originally posted 3-19-2013, On A Bench Contest
Copyright © Donna Jones
In moments when the twilight sparks
To gently flare as dark embarks,
Tender comes eve swinging a hum
While air-brushed clouds, on flight, succumb.
Yet, through the lull of sky, I hear
Their voices billow quite unclear
Whispering mildly, still I know
Those refrains from seasons ago.
Somehow, before the call of morn
When foggy mist glides on hawthorns,
And daybreak hails a new sunset
I trace past journeys now at rest.
Amidst the quiver of my dreams,
Beloved voices float midstream
On to pathways that bless each name;
Marked deeply in my soul, aflame.
Andrea Dietrich's Let's Get Technical Contest
Copyright © nette onclaud
At awe by my mothers beautiful mind,
when it came to writing I always felt so blind.
Literature class advised us to write,
for the first time I did not feel bright.
Sneak a poem of my mothers i did,
boy did I feel like a little kid.
Praise my teacher gave me for such a lovely write,
my mind here and there like a kite.
Lucky me open house was here,
the poem posted on the class wall had me at fear.
Suggesting my parents to skip that class,
trying to avoid the coming sass.
She read it and thought to herself that it was idolized,
her eyes got big as she realized.
Quiet she kept as she knew how embarrassed I was,
of course it gave her a buzz.
It was cause of that day we look back,
and my mom gave me some slack.
She later taught me it's as simple as rhyming,
and with the emotions I have priming.
Copyright © Royal Trevino
I was young and innocent and I only had eyes for you
You were my constant companion the whole day through
But you fell into a puddle and mum hurried you away
I was oh so sad, I cried and cried so much that day
I found you hiding from me, high up on the washing line
Pegged up by your ears, but my teddy now looked fine
When I look through old photos its plain for all to see
‘Lying on teddy’ you really meant the world to me
21st June 2015
Penned after looking through old photos of me from aged about two
My teddy bear was called lying on teddy because I used to lie on him in my sleep and he went from a cuddly round bear to a flat bear
Copyright © JAN ALLISON
I was fascinated by frogs, dinosaurs, and outer space.
Comic books, video games, and fast cars to race.
I got my clean clothes dirty and skinned my knees.
I spent my afternoons climbing high up in the trees.
Came home from the playground with shoes full of sand.
Went fishing, and held up my catch with my bare hand.
I would get on my rusty, blue bike and ride to the park.
Where we played games of tag or catch almost until dark.
After school, I would go play baseball with the boys.
Then, stay up late, listening to music and make noise.
My homework sat in my backpack and never got done.
I was too preoccupied with finding adventure and having fun.
I was the tomboy that liked building Lego block walls.
I was also a girl who played with pretty Barbie dolls.
Richard Lamoureux's Gender Bender Contest
Copyright © Kelly Deschler
Born American, sixth generation of great-grands all German,
not much liking sausage or sauerkraut, English speaking all the way,
except the Germany of my ancestry was fought over and broken
so I’m a bit of France, Germany, Poland, Hungary all the Holy
Roman empire, dissolved down, fought over, egotized, horrified
and remade Into some new state where English is as common as German.
We share a love of flowers in the face of cold and rain, I drink less beer
and wine, meet up somewhere, anywhere around the world on a beach.
From my parents and grandparents, I know to serve up too much food
seven sweets, seven sours and drink and whirl the night away to a band.
Hardworking sorts, unafraid of a little dirt, loving dirt, the turnover
and young sprout brought to fruit, wearing overalls and then washing up.
To sit before a pressed linen table cloth, served up on the finest china,
the cha in my father’s name, the uff da, and other exclamations.
The morning rosaries, the blessed churches where we give thanks for all good
and the setting aside of pride while we work together to make our food.
Sure there are aprons for cooking. Shorts for summertime. A dive into any pool.
What do I know of being German, not much, it's just somewhere in my roots.
Copyright © Sheri Fresonke Harper
It seems ages since we met over your long, golden hair
an hour glass on the table keeping the meter.
It seems like too many dress up doll days when we played
take me to the river but don’t get our feet wet.
It seems we lost our inner selves painting our faces
painting our nails, singing karaoke at the bars.
Oh, to regain those lost years of our youth, unwrinkled skin
turn back all the pages, like winding gold on a spindle.
Instead we have just leaves, grieves, and grandchildren
with their laser guns, plastic skin and smug attitudes.
They never challenged gamey little midgets with foul intent
they had us to pad them safely with money, love and scent.
Dear Rapunzel, do please let your hair down one more time
and play climb out of the cellar and up the apple tree with me.
Signed Your Dearest Play Mate.
Copyright © Sheri Fresonke Harper
When I closed my eyes and fell asleep in the premature hours of dawn
I never dreamed Your face would be
The next I’d look upon
My vehicle came to rest against the square concrete pylon
And those who found me declared to all
“It appears as though he’s gone”
They said I had the look of peace upon my face so fair
And in my lap my hands were laid
As if God placed them there
Just underneath those hands of mine my Gummy Bears were found
How is it that they rested there
And were not tossed around
You chose for me the greatest dad and mother one could have
And my sister; she’s so beautiful
Will you hold her for me Dad
For all of those that knew me knew how much I loved the game
But they also knew I loved you Lord
And someday you’d call my name
I’m grateful that I prayed the prayer to receive you in my heart
Now I know for sure that heaven is real
And we two shall never part
My final game was played that day as I heard you say “well done”
I ran into my dwelling place
Where I’m truly “safe at home”
Dedicated to RJ Ledesma jr who was called from this earth much to soon. May you rest in the Lord's care till we see you again. October 29, 1992 - September 24, 2011
Copyright © Janice Smith
Enchanted magic beans,
They were always enchanted to me.
Worth their weight in gold,
They never ever got old.
Some people would complain,
Some would look at them with disdain,
But magic beans meant the world to me,
They brought me warmth and satiety.
When you were of little means,
Your mind had to spark with creativity.
You could not always expect the next best thing,
Avoiding magic beans like a bee sting.
My mom would bring home our magic beans,
She would then drop them into the swirling seas.
She stirred them in a cauldron boiling hot,
I then waited for my sustenance cooking in the pot.
Today I still gather magic beans,
Even though I am no longer of little means.
The happy memories come flooding back,
As I pour magic beans from their overflowing sack.
January 16, 2015
Copyright © Ed Belcher
Can you remember this feeling very much.
Hearing something in the kitchen making a fuss.
I can remember it so well, it's like yesterday.
Pots and pans wrattle, as I'm outside to play.
I would be playing in the dirt or kicking a beach ball.
Hearing mamma in the kitchen, hoping she'd call.
I know that she's cooking dinner in there.
I'm not sure what it is and I don't really care.
I am completely dirty from my head to my toes.
Is there dessert or ice cream, she only knows.
I can smell the cooking from the yard and all sides.
With realization I know it's sloppy joe and french fries.
How it was when I was young.
Freedom around the yard I could roam.
I loved my mamma and daddy for just being there.
I'd be nothing without them, no love or no care.
-No contest, just some things I was thinking.
Copyright © Donald Williams
The lonely street stood still in the night,
Buildings grew tall all around with dim light.
Sound of my steps echoing in the alleys,
The air is moist like a mountain valley.
A bright neon light a few blocks away,
With a beer and an arrow pointing that way.
A few cars lined up beside the street,
I work my way through them not to discrete.
I walk up to the door with my collar pulled high,
The cold air chills me, as a taxi rides by.
Thumping of music can be heard from behind the door,
Some kind of music that I've never heard before.
A slight push on the door opens to a big room,
Louder now I heard sounds and the smell of perfume.
Smell of smoke and alcohol fills my lungs,
So thick is the smoke, my eyes burn and stung.
My eyesight dances across the room that's filled with so many,
I hear a man ask his waitress if she has change for a twenty.
I can see the bar all the way in the back.
With a lot of alcohol and a huge wine rack.
This was what I saw when I went out that night to the bar,
People gather and have fun in a place called The North Starr.
Copyright © Donald Williams
A Brave Soul Goes Home
No mortal power ever on this common earthly plane
Can call you back as Heaven makes its final gain.
You mind was one steeped in such numeric certitude,
Possessing a spirit with a most certain pulchritude.
Your life strode a period of only six decades plus two,
But in God’s divine plan he knew so well the real you.
You developed in time a zest for friendship and love,
Which God felt with such passion in Heaven above.
Your life had its great share of such suffering and pain,
But that never dampened your spirit on this mortal plane.
God was most aware always of your charitable nature,
As you helped those in need—victims of human nature.
Your departure from us was sadly short and unexpected,
But God’s plan and wishes for you were always expected.
And so Brave Soul we mourn your loss from our mortal home,
But we take solace in knowing God’s called you to His home.
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved,
April 27, 2015 (Rhymed Couplet)
*A special tribute to a departed and most loved family member.
Copyright © Gary Bateman
Copyright © 2013
Skittles and a soda
against a gun in its holster?
One day that scream
will be known as a teen
not a heinous lying Fein
What a sinister ploy and twist
with a loaded gun and no fist?
Had everyone sitting and waiting
doomed by a verdict just delaying
Was this just an optical illusion
or, a devious planned conclusion?
Now, this generation too afraid
wearing hoodies will get you dead
But, the Klan was still glad
hoodies they've always had
A verdict they too saw,
ushering in martial law
Copyright © Les Pruitt
Living day in
Living day out
Working as hard as I can
To get money to pay the bills
Searching for food for the family
Trying to get through the day
As best as I can
All it matters
Is to get some money
To be able to not to think
How am I supposed to support?
My kids, my husband, and I
It all hits me like rain pounding the roof
Is this how life is supposed to be?
Going down hills
Going up hills
Having great times
And some bad times
You think your life should be easy
It is not supposed to be
Life is difficult for a reason
*MAKE LIFE WHAT YOU WANT IT TO BE. LIVE EACH DAY, THE BEST WAY YOU CAN, LIFE GOES ON UNTIL YOUDIE. BE HAPPY BECAUSE YOU CAN DIE ANY MINUTE NOW. SO LIVE IT UP!!!
Copyright © Mikayla Mitts
Wandering memory lane, childhood days of yore;
Aunt Minnie and Uncle Carl whose spirits go before.
Grandfather, stoic and silent; Grandmother, full of chatter.
granting to us a legacy of conduct and values which matter.
Wistfully, I walk the lane, gathering into my heart
visions of carefree days, to fill my rolling cart.
When clouds hide the path and my wheels hit a snag,
I'll pull out loving memories, banish thoughts that drag.
Memory road is congested, we must guide the sleigh
through centuries of lessons and throw the trash away.
Copyright © Cona Adams
My arms are empty my heart in such pain
For I know that I may never ever see you again
That mother’s love so strong, gentle and true
Has to be put aside, forgotten in favour of you
Who knows how long this sadness will last?
Will I ever recover and get over the past?
My prayer is fervent and is always the same
That you be cherished protected this is my aim
It was different up to the very day you were born
I had made up my mind and had always sworn
We would stay close together whatever the cost
But I looked into your face and was immediately lost
You deserved better than me and my rebellious boy
We prepared for you as if you were a living small toy
Reality changed the moment I held you so close
I knew then and there that I did not have a choice
And so we said our goodbyes that cold winter day
I cried so many tears that I struggled to find my way
Out of the refuge into the wide world once more
Your loss to remain with me an open weeping sore
But my awful sadness became someone else’s true gain
My sacrifice made sure two strangers would forever remain
In my debt grateful to me for the selfless gift I had made
This knowledge alone helped make my deep sorrow fade
What of the future who knows what life may bring?
Perhaps a connection that will make my heart sing
For whatever the heartache, the trauma and pain
It is as mother and daughter we will forever remain
©Copyright Dilys Brown 3rd September 2013
Copyright © Dilys Brown
My sister wrote a poem for me
Of christmass's gone and past
The time that was so special
We thought would last and last
The time is always changing
And we all know this is true
And things are not the same for us
So what are we to do?
We take the precious moments
That we shared some years ago
And know we will always have them
And never let them go
For no one can take the memories
That we hold oh so dear
As long as we could remember
And so how much we care
Copyright © Veronica Aicher
The city streets are littered with sodden remnants of fall,
a chilling wind moans low between brick walls;
my vacant arms enfold my shivering form
to shield a heart grown weary of the storm.
There is a melancholy feeling to damp leaves upon the way
as though some precious spirit has packed and moved away.
The sidewalk's sheeted puddles reflect the faces that I love
peering through the golden ramparts in God's city up above.
I bend beneath the streetlamp where my face with theirs' will blend
remembering us together the way it will be in the end.
November 12, 2014
Copyright © Faye Gibson
Wow!... words cannot express,
Such beauty, such finesse.
The shape and color of those eyes,
No description will suffice.
Just like wine, you're finer when older,
And beauty to the eye of every beholder.
©2013 Honestly JT
Copyright © Honestly J.T.
Giant swarming horse flies
Swatting hands and fishing poles on deck
We hit the lake wide open, the whole time craning our necks
The sun heats our backs as the motor sputters and spits
We stop and cast waiting on the fish to hit
A few longs hours in I loose determination and start to slouch
I watch the line on the ripples and take a piece of bait from my waist pouch
I bait my hook with a glittery jig and throw out once again
I'll be damned if he didn't latch on, "Look I see his fin!"
My pole bends over as I keep tension on the line
I hear my reel screech and whine
He thrashes with fury and swims down deep
I see him jump. Oh this one I will surely keep!
I haul his 24 1/2 inch body onto our boat
He's a nice bass. I admire him and take my camera from my coat.
What a great day spent on the lake.
Copyright © Roxanna Ressler
My old home town, 12 years old and playing in the hay
preparing feed as I waited for sunrise, that fateful day
The suns warm rays broke the dark crispness of my world
Just as if windblown leafs, the rays of light began to whorl
It nudged life, to wake from sleep, on this November day
Then painted my world in colors, instead of moonlit gray
Thankful to see the sun, tend animals, I didn’t disobey
I cleaned up, caught the bus, to learn at school this day
A simple, wonderful life, in a world that's about to change
As we listened, we learned our ideas aren't so strange
My teacher's and classes are great but, I must confess
we'd see movies, even watch TV, but not to an excess
After lunch I had history, maybe he had a movie to see
But, in class he looked sad as I heard the intercom key
"Our President has been shot, teachers turn on your TV"
As we watched tears flowed, it wasn't a movie we'd see
Learning of fear, uncertainty, hope and prayer I bereave
That life is like a roller coaster, on this day, as we grieve
My world and life changed this day, seeing life so brutal
Was it pointless to live free, an effort seemingly so futile?
I struggled with this many years, then in 1969, I choose
It's better to die free, than live in fear of what you oppose
A fragment of my life.
Started writing this for Broken Wings contest
but, I lost track of time
Copyright © Tom Larrow
Memories haven’t blurred
Of how we were once love birds
And sat here together
In good and foul weather.
And of how the ones more bold
In ultimate pleasure rolled
In this coarse garden bench
With some cheap paid-for wench.
And of how after they left
Someone slept after a theft
Or a beggar for a night
Lay here and forgot his plight.
21 Mar 13.
Copyright © S.Jagathsimhan Nair
It seems I wanted too much:
or may be just a touch.
May be a little bit more:
happiness with the one I adore.
May be a good morning kiss,
or sweet words: “My honey I miss”.
It seems I wanted too much:
to be happy as such,
to fly in the sky like a bird,
to be understood without a second word,
to listen to the songs of my Lord,
to give a smile and behave like a child.
It seems I wanted too much:
to live without any mistakes,
without any heart breaks.
I wanted my soul not to be cold,
to live without any storms,
to feel your heart warmth.
It seems I wanted too much:
to turn into a dove,
to swim on the waves of love,
to meet with you every dawn,
to have the wings of a swan
and never be alone.
It seems I wanted too much...
Larisa Rzhepishevska (Odessa, Ukraine)
Copyright © Larisa Rzhepishevska
I was thinking of buying a new house
So I’m here with my son and his spouse
Sitting outback looking up to the sky
Hoping to see something go bye
Wishing for a sign to see
Something from my wife to me
To move into an empty and cold house
I would leave behind memories of my spouse
I don’t want to leave those memories behind
More memories in the house then in my mind
When my kids were small
They would play and mark up a wall
I see memories on every wall
Where my wife painted over marks from a ball
A memory in every room
Some good some with a little gloom
It’s something that will always be
Even the gloom is a memory to me
Copyright © Michael Gelb
Most days I go to the beach. I like to sit
in the warm sand and watch the waves.
Like a parking lot, the beach is heaving
with day trippers who have come to play.
Mostly I like to watch the body surfers,
as they maneuver and swim out brave.
I have known this rush of speed and foam
crashing over the tops of breaking waves.
But lately I prefer to sit and breathe,
and catch some whiffs of my long lost days.
Copyright © James Fredholm
I keep you—you and all things you—behind this wooden locked door.
But still, your shadow: through the gap below, escapes; painted all over the floor.
That door stares and stares at me for days, weeks, months, years in vain;
For I truly dare not even touch that gilded, rust-eaten key again.
From there, I hear your screams as if you were declaring the next World War,
And truth be told—for no lies would suffice, it scares me to my deepest core.
From the gap below I see flickering lights, hear metallic sounds of rustling chains;
I see seeping from below unrestrained laughter, like puddles formed when it rains.
And often too, I find blood pooling underneath: rose syrup generously poured.
(Though I always stand there and stare—I don’t know what I’m waiting for.)
After a while, I noticed a curious thing: my hand, on the wood, it has left a stain;
Obscure, it was nonetheless there. I still see it with bare eyes, slightly strained.
Hey, you know, it has been coming to me lately; the monster that stomps and roars.
Trembling at first, I will be alright, for I remember: “Lock the door and count to four!”
And there it comes for its daily visit and find me it will. But fear not, dear; for I'd fain
Suffer this than to open the door and let you, too, be devoured again by Pain.
Copyright © Adam Adhistian
My mind calls attention to where I've been,
When I was alive in that lion's den.
Summer breeze on a winter's day,
That memory won't fade away.
Yeah, I know these skies are gray;
I pray, we don't press replay.
©2014 Honestly JT
Copyright © Honestly J.T.