He reads voraciously
to his young children,
beguiled, somewhat bewildered
by sweet progeny's relentless
leaching of his words, his hungry baby
birds, how their peeps teach.
He reads sporadically
to his father, articles from the paper,
headlines and bylines for his dad
has cataracts, now, and velum
hands shake newsprint, make a rattling
sound, too like the quiver of cloistered
skeletons, all those remains,
all those remains.
There is wisdom in comics, he's found,
bucolic rings so like old church bells,
tutoring fields through fog.
He still tries to read
shared history in eyes,
the geography of long sighs, that topography
of belly, yes, yes, a theology
that spills from parted lips;
bless each rumpled sheet, that chemistry
which repeats poetry, spoken
in a dialect, so rare.
He remembers reading an encyclopedia
in the face of a beggar, once,
prophetical sparks from high brows —
crossed currents; a lifetime recorded,
an unbound edition, A through Z
but when he carefully turned to C,
he'd found a full entry
on compassion and charity.
Soon, he'll no longer read music notes
through a soft blur, playing guitar
for one a thousand times more educated
then he, this twelve year old girl,
this preteen, dying, her heart
an open lecture hall, her smile,
pure academia. May she ever be
opus angelorum, that reaches,
will ever reach, far past
mere hospice walls.
Copyright © Cyndi MacMillan | Year Posted 2014
Somebody keeps pulling on the rope to swing the bells
They toll for me.
Don't touch it. Don't say it. Don't do it.
Don't doubt it. Don't think. Don't ...
Somebody handcuffs my steps,
determines my boundaries.
Before I fully understand free will
there is a slap on my head
and phosphenes like stars
command my orbit.
Before I recognize differences
there is a slap on my hand
right hand, not left hand,
its isolation without trial
to fear wrongdoing
to allow them to remote-control my existence,
conditional on demand, frightening.
An aborted freedom escaping
into the sewer
trying not to get it on the seat
attempting to prove an alibi
for being alive
No one cares, not even myself.
Somebody pulls on the rope to swing the bells
They toll for me.
It's dirty. It's ugly. It's bad. It's poo. It's sin.
deception makes them ring in a low tone.
I do what they say,
and not what they do,
and not what I want,
and not what I think.
Through fragments of this duplicity
and this duplicity
I would be able to rebuild myself and Myself
into another hypocritical being;
the intentional perversion of the self proclaimed truth,
the liar paradox to reign
through tricks and cotton swabs.
When the remorseless hours run counterclockwise,
I would be happy of imaginary experiences,
consistently depurated, consistently believed to be true.
Would I dare to examine the society in which I've been educated and raised?
Would I dare rip my skin, my flesh off of my bones?
How could I blame them?
How could I possibly judge them?
Social order and obedience
in confabulation, in conspiracy, in complicity
Somebody will keep pulling on the rope
to swing the bells; they will toll for me:
the one who guards his own cell.
Cause I'm the jailer, and the convict, and the crime.
Copyright © Ruben O. | Year Posted 2012
Authored by Chuck Keys
It had no color,
Lacking shape, size and dimension.
It wasn't moving or breathing.
There was neither aroma nor taste, not here or there.
Touching was useless because it wasn't physical.
It was indistinct and limitless.
Multi-sensually and multi-psychologically
It wasn't here or there and it was.
With no distinction,
It looked like everything else,
Or it could not have looked like everything else.
It never made me feel good nor bad,
Nor happy nor sad
Nor quite nor trite.
In our world of joy and destroy, we sort and distort,
Looking more on the surface and less on the inside,
Ready to judge and be judged from outside in.
The "oneness" of mankind stretches beyond definitions and limits,
From outside to inside and from inside to outside.
We are one distinct and alike world of "oneness."
Differences exist for differences,
Therefore, differences don't exist.
Only "oneness" exists.
This poem is dedicated to Dr. Clayborne Carson and The Gandhi-King Community,
For Global Peace with Social Justice in a Sustainable Environment.
Copyright © Chuck Keys | Year Posted 2010
dadgum doctors, heads up their butts
poking, prodding, pricking skin
neurologist a psychopath
gets pleasure as electric volts pass through my body
family doctor showed little concern
made me paranoid about irregular heartbeat
EKG failed to determine cause
left me more in doubt than at ease
dentist like a character from Dustin Hoffman’s “Marathon Man”
the more pain inflicted
the more he rejoiced
deep root cleaning caused severe infection
bloodwork done by Vampira clones
labs filled with tubes and needles
results not shared with me
yet I footed the bill
optometrist an Oriental who moved so fast
didn’t care if the prescribed glasses worked
boo on you, dang aristocrats
waving your credentials
nurses so slow to respond
MRI promised on CD, but couldn’t be obtained
just like the blood tests, needed a “report”
doctors driving me insane
each should share my mental hospital bills
*Based on ongoing health tests and written for PD’s contest. Assignment Free Verse, 25 lines, category slam, sad and educational, title: Mental Hospital Bills
Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire | Year Posted 2009
Some people are voices
On the edge of rocks
With steep slopes and cliffs.
Some people are echoes
At the bottom of walls
Carved by rushing waters.
Copyright © Leon Stacey | Year Posted 2007
Eyes can feel the unseen
Before it is verbalized and organised in pain
They seize innocent criminals that abuse letters
Eyes of creativity don’t feel no pity
They endlessly seek traumatized emotions in numerous seasons
These eyes live in the back of every tongue rotation
These eyes pee tears like polluted rain drops
Urinating deceases polluting the already sick tears
They lecture life with pride
Eyelashes that endlessly spray hope in words with no doubt
Eyes on words prefer no sun glasses but stanzas
They speak darkness in all artistic graphics
They visualize visions in brain map fantasies
A place with more sins and judgments they visit
They speak non-rated missions
When the world is rude to you don’t be picky on dreams
Dreams are never on vacation
These eyes can sense
These eyes are like pens
They are fans of disappointments while contribution stepladders
It’s like a clan
They reproduce stomach cramps using fertile words
The family of giving and receiving
Eyes on words speak in mute expressions
They build towers of tomorrow’s errors
Buildings that look down on problems
Eyes on words are like cold visions with no ice
© Raymond Ngomane
Copyright © Raymond Ngomane | Year Posted 2014
Resounding echoes awaken the child
demons in the attic beckon unto him
stark fear grips his Vick's laden chest
shivers vibrate rusty springs of down
footsteps creak closer upon loose floorboards
while steamed filled pipes play taps
a somber teddybear snarls
causing the world to be still
foolish nuns, God doesn't want to "get me"
the sting of a ruler splinters a left hand
blood spurts upon faces of laughter
evil little boy too wicked for a mother
affliction runs in the family
Florence became flop because she always fell
polio never whipped her ass
just abused her now and then
she healed with a smile
Even humility has its price
Jimmy Dean wore sunglasses
maybe his eyes were bloodshot
or maybe he was a child of an alcoholic
and they became part of his attire
degenerate eye disease, masturbation
spattering or battering
does it really matter when you can't see
or understand the difference between ADD and ADHD
Psych 101: Crack can be Prozac
Iron gates surround a new residence
protecting the innocent who peer from outside
rehabilitation means refining bad habits
like those on the outside who have mastered them
twelve years of bars and games people play
provide an education unto itself
seclusion can be the deciding factor
between murder or suicide
self righteous judges choose life
recidivism is a revolving door
of vicious cycles with no engines
only propellers called co-dependants
or co-defendants, take your pick
life repeats itself over and over
only the circumstances change
yet the merry-go-round stops
when the flowers are arranged
Why are most tombstones gray
scared, afraid to die
are you saved?
from what, ourselves
you can't hurt me
Bob Shank-Nov. 30th, 2006
Copyright © Bob shank | Year Posted 2006
I could care less about the four
corners of insults,
That intelligence invites;
It is always the first straw of
grass that’s grows,
which reveals the popular outcast;
As a youth, I found my image cut down
into this manufactured silhouette.
Drenched in social rain, my peers
had never found me more alienated,
Then when I spoke fluently of diverse
They did everything in their power to provide
a verbal umbrella,
However, the texture remains weak and
This stormy parade that remains’ dripping is
indeed an afterthought,
For within this cranial mansion resides
For the more abstract and surreal
elements of life;
It is that secluded gland which reveals
the renaissance of men, who wear
Now wearing the shoes of a young
A taste of charisma resides in my
However this slight addiction to external
Comes in second to my first drug of
Membership into this fraternity may take a lifetime;
So don’t be surprised when resistance
knocks at your door,
Intimidated by the lion that dwells within
Indeed intellect is the misunderstood
That blossoms sweeter when accepted.
Copyright © Jiril Clemons | Year Posted 2013
Thathud, boom boom boom
Thathud, boom boom boom
As drums beat in Africa
Voices rise above the pounding
Crying out for their lost
For their feverish
Helpless people dying one loving touch at a time
Ebola, your tears bring destruction
You methodically make your way to the city
The river from which you flow is cursed
A stream of blood gushes forth
Pouring out and through Africa
Thathud, boom boom boom
Travel in secrecy
Disguised as lesser diseases
Now the uncommon more common cold
You wear malaria like a illusionist's garment
Making your way through the marketplace
Taxicabs fill with your unsuspecting victims
Fear and ignorance, your loyal companions
Following you to the hospitals
Places of healing become decimated
The healers hands are not protected
Their fingers become your own
You whisper "take me home with you,
let me kiss the face of your loved ones!"
Still the drums continue to beat
Thathud, boom boom boom
Hear the beat of Africa's heart
Bring your Doctors across her borders
Open Samaritan's Purse
Ebola, must not win
Let us love Africa one person at a time
God's loving hand's poised to heal
Redemption is possible
He has not forgotten his children
Strength will once again course through their veins
Africa will sing a new song
The fever will break
Ebola, you cannot
Silence the drums of Africa!
Thathud, boom boom boom
Thathud, boom boom boom
Thathud, boom boom boom........
Copyright © Richard Lamoureux | Year Posted 2015
Primose path leads to the slaughter of American
dream delete pause proficiency with internetty
webbegone after thoughts of yahoo googleyed
interred intracacises that shed benign capsules of
mom entary apple pie delquiences cooling
the soul shopping for the next alias avenue of
pointless me procurement mauling an ongoing
onerous dildodate vis a vie meme.com/me in
an engaging omnipresence of sextext no tact
spell ckeck chicshicshakplak no sense tic tac.
Talk? Walk? Balk? Chalk? Sue? Sulk?
Dinosaur diligence posse with the senior
gestages gestulating, we r forevre 21 and ying yang
dung. Yes, good f ing luck with that!! Look at your
petridish parents and see what box u check to lid close
and abscond with the lost liberal leftovers. That
is you in reverse in a few carnal years after Hilter youth
children decide to screw us as the new
generation which skewer post present parental postulates
to the oldster outhouse outlets so u can be "youf" free. Little
do they notknow as they cumulatively co opulate
that they set the stooge stage for no thanx ahole actions.
The DOS does'nt fall from the Apple tree. Leave it,
love it, learn it while ye may, the kid crisp cosmos of
offspring social dicktates are biting at your heartbeatbit
empty elmo enterprises. Pause parenatal prenatal
preferences prepearing perinatal persons pretasking
postnatal practices, in which you have veno papa preparation.
Think before you For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge and Analyze
your ass-incarnate initiate. Borrow berofe u basterdize,
condomize before u copu culminate, decide before
u dicktate, envision before u envy, fail before u foil,
grasp before u germinate, halt before u hinder,
illuminate before u illerate, jump before u jinx,
kill before u keep, love before u lay, meaning before
moaning, neutralize before u now, obilerate before
u ooops! presence before predicament, quit before
quake, resilience before ridiculous, sanity before
sexusensuality, thinkth before u thumpth, utilize
before u unionize, victory before victimization, we
before want, xx nor xy, zen before zeal. Pocket
passion files fly in the face of ruined reason residules
to the point of pronounced perplextion plagued
prominantly with no recall references to problematic
protocals for near north normalicies in my buckeye
life measures of simpatico silly symbiosis sublime
of mini me monophile mucous made misdemeanor
milktoast memories. Pass go, collect $200.
Copyright © Dave Collins | Year Posted 2013
Today, upon the ground, I found a rusted nail.
Red and yellowed since its use,
It was caked and swollen; cracked lines top to bottom
With one turn in its body where last it was removed.
And the head was tilted slightly from a blow
Received when it was first employed and put to use.
I pondered of the purpose it had served
And the structure it had helped to hold and form.
I recognized its shape having spent many days
With hammer in my hand and blueprint in mind.
I have straightened many that were pulled and bent
And drove them to serve purpose.
Once this nail had value and function was providence.
Now, it fills a wrinkle of my palm
And leads me to wonder….
What will someday become of me?
Will a member of the generation born this day
Look upon me and speculate my past,
And weigh my usefulness against my keep?
Will I present as bent?
And, will the balding gray and shortened step
Persuade them I have passed my day of worth?
Or, will they look about their world
And see what I have made?
So much from just one rusted nail.
4th place in "Darn I Wish I Wrote This" on 6-26-12
Copyright © Ray Dillard | Year Posted 2012
Cast me upon the dreaming sea, beneath the roots of heavens tree,
within the flow of timeless tide, the mind soul and spirits glide,
come come! and yet there's that other truth, be still within..!
within your sphere; that also true to enlightenment's face,
await's its free and giving grace.
copyright Joe Maverick 2011
written in celestial verse.
Copyright © Joe Maverick | Year Posted 2011
In chilly sensation held
Wrapped within warm quilt
I could almost feel my balmy
Breath condense through the
With the odor of my favorite
Scents swarming through my
I sit with passion, my divan positioned
My posture upright, my thoughts
My room lit just right
My table perfectly placed
I focus, I think
Glasses on, books on the
Right pages… pens, pencils,
Some papers to solve upon
Copyright © farah chamma | Year Posted 2009
A burst of white light
gamma rays, overbearing
a flash of brilliance
burns through to my soul
everything is like hell
the world starts to melt
in the blink of an eye
just the cold blackness
I don't care if I am not again
what I once was, for at this moment
I am greater now
than ever before
I took the path between
teetering, tight roping walking
right up to my right
divined in my unholy state
I thought I told you
I am your king
still you sit there, hesitating
I know you hate me
what does that mean?
I hate just about everything
still I'm chosen
I did not wish before
now bow down to me
refuse me no more
for I shall always be your demon
until you accept me as your King.
I don't even know you
though you say we used to be
best of friends, you and me
the day you ditched me
I remember now
exactly how it played out
back when we were just tiny things
even back then I still was King
you thought me stupid
just a ruse
I would laugh inside, you see?
not one of you single, mean people
ever even knew me
in a world, mostly seen to me
that is why only I can be your true King
and bring forth a new source
of light everlasting.
As two worlds collide slowly aligned
one wrapped in shadows
one bathed in white
evils swirling in the clouds above
I'll always be the king you love
to hate or despise as in your blood
I thought I told you, I am the one
I am the way, the way out shall be shown
breathe in my spirit as it carries you away
breathe in my faith it shall carry your empty space
and deposit you gently on a cloud just enough
higher than you've ever dreamed of
for I am king now, and your in my hell
your in my imagination, I'll just never tell
you'll feel as though dreaming, you'll feel now
if you try and see
you were always found the most
shared in the light cast upon me
the last bright star in heaven.
Denounce my name, if you may
One year later, still not afraid
A black sheep, a darkened spade
That's just life, I'm not right
I'm in the wrong, follow along
Like a piper, I'll pitch a song
Mesmerized, the weak wills sing
I thought he told you, he's still our king.
Copyright © Bj Fard | Year Posted 2011
I first saw the hen as she flew
Up to the raised bed in front of the school.
I thought it was odd she was there,
With so much activity at the entrance.
The second time I saw her,
I decided to see what she was up to.
Imagine my surprise when I found
A cleverly hidden nest containing ten eggs.
I questioned her choice of location,
But, what do I know about building a nest?
I watched closely from the window for a week.
But now, so did others.
The kids were bright, and nosey.
Soon, several knew the secret.
When I came to school on Monday,
I found the eggs had been thrown
About the drive and against the brick.
The efforts of the expectant hen and drake
Had been spoiled by someone.
I could almost understand if it had
Been a skunk or possum that
Needed the eggs for survival.
But to be wasted…was senseless!
If you know anything about school and kids,
You know that someone came to me with a name.
And that person gave me another name.
Soon, I had three kids in my office.
And a choice to make…
Should I break them like the eggs
They had strewn and spoiled?
Or, should I protect them and watch
Them grow as I would the duckling
Had they hatched?
And then, on cue, the pair flew down
From the nest and waddled away
From their loss.
I watched with the children,
And after a few moments,
Made an observation.
“They’re just like parents… walking away
From the spot where they lost their
Entire family…Every child…
Imagine how they must feel!”
Their eyes filled with tears.
They left my office with compassion,
And, a newly acquired appreciation of nature…
The nest was not a total loss.
Copyright © Ray Dillard | Year Posted 2010
this is true;
you and I
who was I,
and now this crutch
just past mine age,
for I have passed on knowledge;
"I will discover grace"
her soft kiss
letting me in
Copyright © James Peranteau | Year Posted 2010
I always had this fascination with the English language.
Ever since I learned to read and write,
it captivated my interest, beside my own native tongue;
Opening for me a whole new world different from my own -
A world of kingdoms, of princesses and princes, of queens and kings,
of knights in shining armor, of noblemen and the common man,
of many innumerable things.
A child who found such joy in a second language or third
would feel like a traitor to her own when deep nationalism
is rooted in her bones. It was not easy.
And yet the fascination remained – despite being inculcated
with heavy ideas on love for motherland and in the words of Rizal –
“Ang hindi magmahal sa sariling wika,
Ay higit pa ang amoy sa malansang isda”.*
To a child who secretly preferred reading in the foreign tongue,
These words were damning. So much so that in my mind
there was always an ongoing war while growing up
with the king’s language and Rizal.
Looking back, mastering both languages would have been a lot easier
had somebody told me: “Go ahead, do what makes you happy,
as long as you do not forget your identity.
Be proud of the color of your skin.
You can be unique and world class at the same time,
there is no need to feel guilt, find your own rhyme.”
And so today, I tell the youth who have their own native tongue:
Enjoy the journey, but do not forget you are a child of your land
while you discover many things, using the language of kings.
Dr. Jose Rizal – Philippine National Hero, who ironically have mastered different languages including Greek, Latin, Hebrew ,Sanskrit, German, French, Italian among others, aside from Spanish and the now commonly used English language
* "Anyone who does not love his own language
is worse than the smell of a rotting fish."
26 July 2015
The Doesn't Fit Contest
Sponsor: Carol Eastman
Copyright © Kim Patrice Nunez | Year Posted 2015
“Look out for vampires!
For sure they’re very charming
I’d say disarming
Don’t look into their eyes
Or you’re in for a surprise!
Don’t think they are sweet
They think you are something to eat
Their eyes are like fire
Burn with erotic desire
Look out for vampires!
Are there defenses?
They say wear a garlic clove
Garlic they don’t love
Or fire a silver bullet
Sorry that is full-of-it!
Carve a wooden stake
Drive it deep into the heart
The soul will depart
You have to catch them asleep
But don’t let your cell-phone beep
Vampires hate the sun
It melts their skin that aint no fun
They sleep in a dark box
Fully clothed plus shoes and sox
Let's all keep a vampire watch
This poem for Van Helsing's "Toothy" contest
Copyright © daver austin | Year Posted 2011
An English Life
It is midnight the Milk train pulls into darnall station
No ordinary passengers here
Steelworkers with their families
Loaded with fishing tackle, sandwiches and maggots
The Fossdyke in Lincolnshire, their destination
The fare Half a crown for happiness
The long walk in the dark,
A stairway to heaven in my memory
Dawn on the Foss and a cup of tea,
Fever in the blood, the first eel of the day
Our cane rods lovingly handed down from father to son.
I remember, Pheasants looking for mates
Shrieking their songs of love
Swans begging for scraps
Their majestic white necks, nodding,
A greeting into their kingdom
The mist off the water revealing families,
being together, laughing, enjoying what was free.
For tomorrow the grime returns.
A conversation with a stranger then out of a bag,
The rabbits, sometimes hare, sometimes pheasant.
Onions and carrots, shortly follow
The smell, forever linked with summer
The scent of my childhood
Summers were hotter then;
At times I drank the Foss, for I was nature’s child
Being clean was never a priority,
Catching fish was, never killed always returned,
Our Covenant with Nature.
For it is the sport that we honour.
And with age comes reflection,
Poor I may have been, my education neglected
But I have a Doctorate in nature, for I have seen the dawn
Away from the factories, where the pheasant runs free
And where the swan reins king, I was part of them.
It was here I learned what family was,
To share, my last drink of pop with my neighbour,
A simple life, maybe, but what a life
For I have seen what Constable painted
Lived every word that Wordsworth wrote
Understood the Fragrance of the Flowers
And revelled in the poets dream.
I loved every colour, every sound, every scent,
And every fish I ever caught.
Father and mother are gone now,
Never complained about their Station in life,
For they found paradise on the Foss.
They left me the seeds to their heaven
And the key to my happiness
A key forged in a mans worth
To open up my soul to the beauty
That surrounds us all.
Dawn on the Foss, was my church
My soul was cleansed here
And my heart was shaped here
My memories kept safe here
And the Foss fever still resides here
I will die on some bank side, one day
Rod in hand, and I will be content,
So Tight lines my fellow Anglers.
Copyright © steven cooke | Year Posted 2011
There was once a young girl,
Who wish upon the stars,
Looking so bright in the sky,
She dream and soar up high.
Opportunities knock in front of her,
She think, she decide, with a prayer,
Go on, walk alone and prove to everyone,
That no matter what, she will do her plan.
Roads are not as smooth as she goes,
But strong enough to dream and pursue,
Thinking of the wish she promise to herself,
And she asks God to give her more strength.
To be strong to face challenges in life,
And dedicate her wish to God above,
Now success is within her reach,
With her determination not to be rich,
But to help for those who are need.
A girl who once wish upon the stars,
Is now a woman of example and virtues ,
For she is the already the molders of the youth,
Wish granted and she is now contented,
For God is really good if you believe and have faith
9th Place Winner
Pd's "New Poem" Contest
That Young girl was.......me
9th Place Winner
For Nathan's "oOne of your Best" Contest
Copyright © Maria Paz Samelo | Year Posted 2012
Fall tumbles relentlessly on our door steps
young winter birds inducing provoking sounds scamper in trees
Watching winter crawling slowly under our feet.
The night rain wet the ground with sadness
washing away the environmental stench
purging the atmosphere of its infectious dew
And I could absorb fresh air in my lungs again.
I fell into a deep sleep shortly after nine but woke up
by my next door neighbor bustling activities.
Nice showers clean fresh air is the perfect night to
be drenched with sleep but instead I was on my knees.
An unknown burden overshadowed me, disturbing my spirit
raising my curiosity, causing me to ponder over unknown mysteries
unexplainable matters that doesn't concern me, yet they troubled me.
I soaked myself in prayer seeking for a plausible answer
And after praying I fell asleep again; a sleep that
I thought would be peaceful but here I am again
on an unannounced journey to the Far East.
I mysteriously found myself on a university campus in the Far East,
no paint, no color, everywhere was deserted, no one was around
except for dry leaves spreading out on the troubled ground
and dull trees astoundingly lingering in the autumn breeze.
I walked propitiously through the front door along a bare corridor
in search of a toilet to ease my body pressure.
A desolated corridor whose hope seemed to be diminished with the passing of time
a million feet must have trodden upon it, feet in search of freedom ,
feet looking for peace, proud feet, dirty feet, bloody feet, stubborn feet.
Feet looking for revenge and feet marching to the destiny of doom.
I moved anxiously from door to door but every door that I opened I saw
Asian toilet embedded deeply in the ground and clean water flooding all around.
I opened another door and found a western bath filled with clean water
I kept walking along the corridor but all the Asian toilets were flood with water.
At the end of the corridor I found one that was completely dry but there was no toilet inside except for PVC pipe fittings planted firmly in the ground.
I tread along the opposite side of the hallway still searching for a toilet
but only rooms whose doors were removed and leaning helplessly
in front of them occupy the other side of the stricken corridor.
I anxiously left the building and a slim young man in his early twenties
wearing shaded glasses ran behind a reception area outside the campus ground
and pretended as if he was at work, but that was only a deception.
As I walked passed him he tried to reached out to me
He complained about someone who has treated him badly
and pointed to a friend who was instrumental in turning his life around.
A sizable crowd gather around him as he illustrates his painful story.
He and his friend took me to the other side of the campus where
a larger crowd of young people had gathered for a wedding
some were sitting under large beach umbrellas
While others congregate in groups all over the campus grounds.
I walked upon a platform where the wedding ceremony
was about to take place but daylight suddenly exploded in my face.
©2014 Christine Phillips
Copyright © Christine Phillips | Year Posted 2014
envision harmony and mental clarity
focus on a journey of possibility
Meditate on transformation and
awareness of inner state
peace and healing
instruct your mind
to redirect the lost and struggling inner voice
Where you can’t see the wood for the trees
under your nose is the path of freedom
Put aside perceived struggles
revitalize, relax, respond
to body, mind, heart and spirit
Intuition, introspection and spiritual renewal
bring about personal healing and
Stillness of mind – concentration
Thoughts of the subconcious and subliminal
beyond all negativity
away from all interuption
To allow time for self communication and
expression of inner self
Senses – awareness of scent, sight, sound, taste and touch
Healing hands of the medical profession or alternative therapy
ambiance, temperature, oils, music, sounds and
sights of nature or universe
realisation comes in various form and shape
causing us to feel life in fullest expression
Connecting – whispers of wind
radiating everpresent warmth of sun
a blanket of love and light comforts consoles over and through the cosmos
rippling infinately through infinity outwards, onwards
connecting right back into where we are at right now
unmoved unchanged and as we were
Wise – responsible courageous allowed to let go of need to be judgemental or
let go of controlling enable trust wisdom and humility
intelligence of knowing others
wisdom of knowing self
strength in mastering others
power to master oneself
Energy -breath, force, spirit, soul, God, universe –
whatever – doesn’t matter how you refer to it on personal level
energy, balance, light, sound, vibration, peace
centered self – stillness – silent – eternal –
to have enough is a richness in itself
accept appreciate and acknowledge oneself
Copyright © Anna-Marie Docherty | Year Posted 2011
I am whatever you say I am
currently I'm the eyes of the world
it's what they discovered when
daddy tied a pork chop around my neck just to get the dog to play with me
first time I menstruated, mommy said I would bleed to death,
"hemorrhage" she said. Scared me to death
someone said it's not proper to rhyme a word with the very same word
Teddy Boof was my favorite stuffed bear, but brother tied fishing line to Boof's
thumb, threw him off the New River Bridge and laughed at me for being dumb
thinking he had succumb to the Gully rapids.
This head's been sunburned one too many times, Hydro codeine began the
bad dream, attended HIGH school with Oxy, until my pupils penned black
cocaine and crank brought them speed balling back hard until stars graduated
I cannot help what you assume I'm on
I cannot help what you do not understand
Art and I play Clyde the Glide with Garfunkle on a tragic carpet ride with Joan
Baez...(spelled Be A Easy)
Am I showing my true age yet?
Or should I recite Little Wayne and T. Pain, and say made up word like : Fo'
Sho' Yo! and/or Fo' Sheezy my Neezy?
Then would you believe me? That I'm really 16 and smoke weed dipped in PCP.
I am a woman now, but how?
I know you from who?
have you studied my avatar and guessed me to be thirty three?
did you see my ball cap and mistake me for shallow?
did you read a young man's writing and ask, "for what is that guy aspiring? I
mean he's got fire, but he's a liar and I write circles around that jerk!"
did you go berserk when ya' heard I was a cross dresser on Thirsty
did you attend my Miss World pageant and make fun of my Max Factor?
did you love me when I walked with Jehovah, Praise YHWH! YAH BRAVO YAH?
Encore, encore! Atta boy, what a saint?
guess it doesn't matter anyway
we're going to perceive what we want to believe
guess it never mattered anyway
next year I'll be ninety-nine and every time I go swimming, mobs of teenage
women beg to dive in the deep end for too long with me...and just be wrinkled
friends...(Depends in the deep end)
at one hundred and ten, I suppose things will be different
seventy five years in the methadone line and it's time to be free and begin to
spend my pension.
Can I have your attention
one more thing to mention
For the last time, I can't help if you don't understand me....I'm only alien see,
so please, shine your light and stop taking these random words so literally.
There is a reason why I cannot read. Now I must ask...
why do you?
Copyright © JSLambert Mister ROBOTO | Year Posted 2014
YOU’RE THE WEAK ONE
You’re the weak one, you’re a bully. The weak one is definitely
The bully is always the weak one, but your weakness you can’t
seem to see.
So, I’m going to try to shed a little light on your weak and inappropriate ways.
Your weakness began on your first bullying day.
Your false sense of power is not strength at all; it is a cry for help desperately trying to break through.
I actually feel a little sorry for you.
Weak kids like you always seek to find other kids they can dominate.
Bullies do this with vicious words, inappropriate actions, and misguided hate.
Is being a weak bully the banner you want to carry for the rest of your life?
Get rid of the bully banner forever; take up a banner that shows respect,
understanding, and tolerance for others, and always hold that one very high.
Copyright © Al Johnson | Year Posted 2012
Just as we live and just as we die
We laugh, kill and crucify
We are no more our brothers than we are ourselves
We are the players
With the tools and talent of the efficient demise
Of war, famine and greed
We do rise
Of the ever constant ricochet of freedom in our ears
As we wrap our fallen dead in a shroud of rights, laws and bills
And continue to improve the technology, the precision
The assurance of absolute destruction
Buying death is easy
Dealing is easier
The career choice of many
A thriving business with prestige and power
Taking, wanting, hungry for the rush
So young, so fragile
Blood is running in the streets
A seemingly endless fountain of misguided youth
Falling, one after the other
So far from the truth
What good has ever come from a gun ?
Why kill ?
Why are we arming our children ?
Our future ?
Are you blind to the fact ?
Do you not hear the sound ?
Do you not see ?
Do you not care ?
We are killing ourselves
Stealing each others dreams
Each others families
Why pro-create ?
To produce, raise, and nurture more disposable targets ?
Is there another use for guns ?
1 + 1 = 0
One bullet + one individual = one less reason to care
We are waging war upon our brothers for money, love and survival
All to easy....................
Living In Fear Everywhere
Eric (and sometimes not)
Copyright © Eric Nolan | Year Posted 2009
“WHAT IS A SAD DAY IN AMERICA?”
It is a “Sad Day” in America when you wake up every day worrying about being
black, educated and female.
It is a “Sad Day” in America when you wake up every day and there is a new battle.
It is a “Sad Day” in America when you wake up living on the outside of the
American Dream, but you live within America and you have nightmares about
walking in the shoes of another race in your view.
It is a “Sad Day” in America when Civil Rights begin to regress over 40 years.
It is a “Sad Day” in America when you have to worry about what religion or
denomination you belong too.
It is a “Sad Day” in American when the words “I can” in the word American does
not represent “I can because I am free.”
Instead it becomes an obstacle because others continue to suppress me---
because of my race, religion, sex, ability or disability?
It is a “Sad Day” in America when we accept mediocracy.
It is a “Sad Day” in America when we cannot accept our fellow man or fellow
It is a “Sad Day” in America when others cannot hear or see.
It is a “Sad Day” when we can no longer show empathy.
It is a “Sad Day” when all we do is “nothing”.
The “Glorious Day” will come when we learn the history of others, walk with
others by empathizing with others and consider ourselves brothers and sisters
in “One America”, one fight, one battle, one love-- until that time “it is” and “will
be” a “Sad Day” in America.
copyright@2006 by Carrie M. Love-Atkins
Copyright © Carrie Love-atkins | Year Posted 2006
I am a black prince
Who use to rule over a kingdom
But now my people and me are enslaved
Force to pick the white mans cotton
I see my brother and sisters
Being whipped and branded like cattle
They think we are cattle
So we are treated like cattle
But my people dream and sing of the future
Where we are free from our shackles
I am the black preacher
Who has been freed from his shackles
But now fighting for our rights
So my son and daughter
Can go to a pool and not be separated
By the racial line.
Or when they go outside to play
They don’t have to worry about the KKK
Trying to hang them from a tree branch
That is the reason I fight that is why I want equal rights
For there can be a better tomorrow
The better tomorrow
I’m the son of the preacher
Who was the grandson of the black prince.
Here saying that enslavement and segregation
An now the only problem remains is
The fact that we are killing each other
Over money and women
This makes no sense
Have we as a people suffered enough?
Have we shed enough blood?
So I ask you
Put the gun down spread the word
Tell our brothers tell are sisters that the
300 years of enslavement and segregation is over
We have our black president
We have the power
To show the world that
We as a people are united
Copyright © kevin goodrum | Year Posted 2012
there once was a flying monkey who didn't know what to eat. so he ate the old scraggly poop hanging from his butthole. His friends thought he was weird but i didnt. i do that all the time. it tastes good.
Copyright © Matt Poopenheimer | Year Posted 2012
surrounded by incredibly
bonded by word
yet heard to the third....
within the stillness
fuels their army of relevance
the rarest people you'll meet
standing up for freedom
feet to the street
sharing their fearless soul
with body and mind aligned
*(dedicated to Moody Black's Upstate S.C. Poetry team, and Dr. Richard Moss)
Copyright © JSLambert Mister ROBOTO | Year Posted 2011
Our maths exam was one big sham.
A mix up over rooms and times.
Shifting around for space to be found.
Musical chairs. Up and down stairs.
After all that the lists didn't tally.
Absent or present or dilly-dally.
Who is he or is it she?
And where should these two be?
What a fuss, sorting the mess.
Exam boss, he's in distress.
One hour late but now we start.
Invigilator playing his part,
Explains each aspect of the rules.
Does he think we are fools?
Our huffs and tuts wind him up.
He drops the sheets upon the floor.
We all let out a great guffaw.
He picks them up and gives them out.
At long last we start to write.
One student finishes in two minutes,
Puts down her pen and smiles with glee.
Invigilator comes to see,
Then snatches the script and walks away.
On his face a look of dismay.
It would seem he's going to scream
Cos he'd given out the marking scheme.
He returns with the question paper.
But for that student it now is easy
for on her mobile, so discreet,
she'd taken a photo of that mark sheet.
Copyright © Tony Hargreaves | Year Posted 2016