I wish to be with the broken people
the get in your face challenge me people
The sometimes hidden
sitting in a dark corner kinda people
The don't you love me
I wish you seen me sorta people
People just being real people
not having to have it all together people
Them doing their best to figure it out people
dancing and singing without the smooth moves people
I don't care about the color of their skin
or what others think of as their sin
They don't need to be perfect to win
seeing and listening is where I'll begin
Beyond appearance of fat or thin
I only know what I know
I've never been where they've been.
with our broken smiles
It's the best we've got
It might seem like so little
still I think it's a lot
Through life's struggles we've all fought
lessons needed learning
experienced not taught
real is real it couldn't be bought
So forget the fake people
the all about perfect hair and clothes people
The I live in the right neighborhood and drive the right car people
It's all about me, top of the hill people
They only hang out with the supremely cool people
those too important to talk to me people
thinking they're the best of the best kinda people
when all along they are merely Sheeple
ba ba baaing, thinking they are strong instead of feeble
I love characters
people who are unique
I look under exteriors to gain a peek
strength of lions disguised in meek
unconcearned with fab or being chic
Worth listening to if allowed to speak
the stories they tell will make your eyes leak
For in the end
we are all broken
stumbling and choking
Disguising hurt with our joking
victims of others and their poking
So look close maybe you'll see
eyes that aren't blank
hearts that aren't empty
Who we think of as complicated
in the end might not be
They might push when others come close
yet they are affectionate times three
Each just a bit afraid and broken
all the while wishing
and wanting to be
A part of something
If only we choose to see
those on the fringes
are a part of the we
All we have to do
is let them be!
Dedicated to our homeless population.
They teach us the unvarnished truth about ourselves.
Copyright © Richard Lamoureux
Every day, I fall in love with something new,
while maintaining the love I have already found.
I fall in love with scars, wrinkles,
redundancies and repetition,
items that people throw into the wind,
kick around and step upon.
I fall in love with my enemies,
one of life's hardest lessons to learn.
I find haters to be marvelous motivators.
Every day, I fall in love with something new,
while reinforcing the love I have already found.
The old man who sits in a rain-filled gutter,
seemingly oblivious to the water sluicing down the hill,
splashing against his clothes -
fists raised up to the heavens in fury
as he talks to an invisible audience
about how Apollo stole his dearly beloved wife....
....I fell in love with him too.
I fall in love with things that some people deem as insignificant,
ugly, morose, dirty and immoral.
The more I fall in love, the more I love each passing moment,
including the pain, torture and misery that may appear along the way.
If I write down treasonously treacherous words,
the reader could assume such words to be rooted in rage
or a cynical outlook. But the words are actually born out of love -
I love every single word in existence.
Every day, I fall in love with something new,
while still maintaining the love I have already found.
I fall in love with the woman
who is too shy to have a proper conversation with anyone,
because she believes herself to be very ugly,
when in fact, she is an exquisitely gorgeous woman.
I fall in love with broken daffodils, bent daisies,
a shattered seashell, the sweet stench of rotting seaweed on the shore,
the way her hair smells baking in the sun.
I fall in love with black and white photographs,
hypnotized by the essence the dead have left behind.
I fall in love with marbles, the feathers of mourning doves,
and with the stray cat who after watching the moving truck drive away,
slunk around the alley in search of scraps -
over the years, she has proven to be
a most respectful and loyal animal.
I fall in love with saints, villains, rusted watering cans,
the way sunlight bends into prisms when it shines
through the cracked antique windowpane
which I simply cannot find the presence to replace.
And as for the people who think that my love is a whole
different spectrum of emotions,
or how it is impossible for someone like myself
to fall in love with something new, every, single day....
....well, I love them too.
April 6th, 2012
Copyright © Chris D. Aechtner
and the porch light hums
the sound of another
Burnt up – crisp
aching new reaches
of the imagination turn
to the pungent shade
of dried blood on hands –
kissing corners of a mouth
Sweeping ‘cross in whispers
two thousand years
and more, come
words on the flat-line horizon,
like a red cat's eye marble
on a circular seesaw
that knows no bounds;
rolling infinitely back
and forth -
ringing through ears that were once
in that ago (can you hear it?)
hearing the coming of a storm
by another set of ears,
in some other when –
some other marble.
When, speaks the unspoken.
When, treads where none may tread.
When, grips the barren outcroppings of space –
playing the unending moments –
where no other question hence forth
Night sounds come in floods
and quiet apricot;
slicing through oceans,
where no ears hear.
The farm: echoing, lowing and fawning –
Trying to stay true
bleeds into the fibers of a dream
once lived –
recognizing its existence
through the act of a moment,
The girl turns to face
of all she has yet to hear upon
the brazen, blazing horizon;
she strips down to goose bumps
on the skin
that God gave her;
opening her mouth to hear all
that she is –
breathing in the dawn
as it breaks.
The farm notes this coming.
The sky knows;
The wind knows.
The earth knows - relaxing
at her feet
through her soles,
resounding through the mouth
of the un-kissed,
breathing through this land;
humming through porch lights,
spinning through atoms,
sifting though heavens,
recorded through lifetimes,
and through into another’s
© Kristin Reynolds 1/9/09
Copyright © Kristin Reynolds
This girl, she's crying inside,
But all everyone sees is smiles,
This girl, she's hurting inside,
She's lived like this for quite a while,
Always holding her pain inside,
She won't ruin everyone's time,
This girl, she's breaking down inside,
But all she does is smile,
Those deep eyes,
Hold a lot world of misery,
Playing pictures from her mind,
Showing her past, her history,
She doesn't want to remember,
But the memories continue to play,
Every night she prays,
Wishing them away,
But this girl lies with her laugh,
And hides behind a mask,
So that no-one can see her pain,
Her past, her denials,
This girl, she's dying inside,
Although no-one can see her pain,
She just continues to smile bright,
From day to everyday,
With beautiful lying eyes,
For everyone to see,
Everyone and anyone,
Everyone but me.
Copyright © Loretta Bailey
Trust not in the words: "In God We Trust", printed on currency,
for God and Money should be kept separate,
unless one desires to tempt fate with the Money-God,
tempt fate by not over-turning the money-lenders' tables,
although many might argue how this isn't good for business.
Why not know the value of life,
instead of focusing too hard on the prices of Idols.
People are bleating at the prospect of "God" being removed
from money, arguing that if God is removed from money,
the grazing grounds will become Godless.
With or without the words,
a Money-God is a God nonetheless.
There is at least one true God,
whether man-made or not;
an authority of control,
a God of profit margins.
Violence is a profit margin.
Hatred is a profit margin.
Bullets, Amendments, and Death, are all profit margins.
The war being waged upon children, is a profit margin.
If I had been given the chance,
I would have tried my best to take him out,
morphed the vapours of my remaining hatred into bullets,
or torn him apart with my hands.
To stop innocents from losing their innocence.
There are lines drawn in minds,
that if crossed over, stretch beyond the bristle-board of rehabilitation.
Even Clockwork Orange bleeds into crimson spatters.
When a child survives a massacre,
runs across his school field to find safety from a stranger,
proclaiming to the stranger, "I can't go back to my school, it isn't safe there.
My teacher was killed, I don't have a teacher anymore.
All of my friends are dead."....
....then innocence has been lost, and the Money-God is empowered even more.
Lost innocence spreads like a disease through the minds of global villagers.
Fear breeds fear, breeds control and disintegration of the Stream-Mind.
If I had been given the chance,
I would have fought fire with fire,
fed the beast within,
taken him apart with a breath of hatred.
Breathed it out, pushed it out, purged it out.
Satan is a scapegoat used by people who are unwilling
to take accountability for their actions and sacred responsibilities.
The Beast is humanity -
not marked by a fairy-tale Devil,
but instead marked by the Money-God created in the image of man;
recreating the image of man through fear.
Some people might be intrigued by how many definitions of God there are.
Even if money is a necessity,
within our core there should reside a different Kingdom -
without and within, within and without.
If I had been given the chance -- past tense....
....if I am given the chance,
I will try my best to take him out,
smudge him out
with the remaining hatred in my heart.
Breathe it out, push it out, purge it out,
until all that's left is to love,
until all that's left is to love.
December 14th, 2012 - S.H.E.S: 28 - 2 = 26
January 7th, 2013
Copyright © Chris D. Aechtner
Color me white, or color me black. Color
me brown, or color me red. Color me
yellow, but color me to be just me.
Color me anyway you want. You are the
artist, you know what to do, just capture
my beauty and let it show through.
My beauty is not on the outside for everyone
to see. My beauty comes from within and
few people have seen.
Color me with the colors that you so much
love to use and when people see this painting,
they will see themselves in me.
The people will ask you - why did you put so
many colors on me and you will tell them - because
the beauty I did see.
The painting is now finished, the artist has done
his job. A painting of many colors, that he is very
The colors bring beauty to the painting on the
wall, but if we were all colored blind - we wouldn't
see any colors at all...
Copyright: written by
Lucilla M. Carrillo
I wrote this poem because through out life
I have seen a lot of injustice done, because
of who we are , or where we came from. We
did not choose to be who we are, or where
we came from. God chose that for us. I don't
think God made a mistake when He made us.
He had His reasons. We are who we are, that
can never be changed. We live in this world.
We are God's Race...
Copyright © Lucilla Carrillo
Where Have All The Pretty Poets Gone?
A real poet are you, charismatic over everything you serve
Showcasing, a rainbow that folds the perfect world wide perspective
I'm talking about flawless literature at its best no typos, no muss
Just a page full of boredom and rust
Thank you for having Lunesta all up in my head
It's like reading a poetry lesson, from the extras of The Walking Dead
An image frozen cold, waiting for inspiration to hit like Al Capone
I'm bored of your flora flamboyant language rocking me like stones
A psychedelic trip, into the odyssey of a blind man's tale
A home where I am pushed to open a dictionary & thesaurus with braille
Wondering what you just said, --Hakuna Matata, what a wonderful day!
The best rocket pen poet in the USA Today,
Launching words like no tomorrow, a fool of wordplay and sorrow
A godlike guinea-pig genius, delegating poetry politician style
Perhaps, one day you will become a famous writer
Burning books, like a cigarette lighter
Until then, enjoy pushing your pen as if it was cocaine,
Snorting up and cutting up the food chain in vain
Patronizing and ignoring those, for better or worse
A solo cup stuck up another cup, -won't even look my way
Correct me if you will, it's no big deal
Just don't forget to give me the same respect I offer you
Until then my pretty poetic friend, I kneel before no one
Copyright © Poet Destroyer A
"When humanity becomes louder than love, stay out of its way. At times, it's better to be the lion in the distance, rather than the sheep losing their way...again."
This was the 1st time
I felt out of place.
Its impact mimicked abused parallelograms
Unto emptiness’ solution
I witness sliced wrists shedding bohemian smiles.
Latching onto anchors of invalid mo(u)rning
There was no sunrise to be found,
Because humanity kept making love to silhouetted blinders
I was surrounded by shovels
For the sake of digging louder messages’ trench
Caress incipient wings
And half-full Windex bottles
Just to keep perception from clouding my lyrics
Because nobody wants to see eye to eye…
…cataract-laced speeches permeate tainted whispers
Of an innocent breath
For B-rated serendipity
Oh, this was the 1st time
I felt out of place.
Turning away from windowed afflictions
To step towards gratitude’s breath
No longer looking in
How good it feels.
Yet, I still miss my friends.
©Drake J. Eszes
Copyright © Drake Eszes
If my mind be painted in colors borrowed, would it be red?
Rusted in brown, or maybe instead, an indigo streak?
Depending upon the source of inspiration,
and the song on the radio at the time of connection...
I keep coming back to sea green,
or the blue of underwater murals at 3ft tall of childhood,
eyes wide in fickle, transient hazel
absorbing each moment, be it safe or unstable
categorizing each scent and each color
each love and each valor
each crisp Autumn, Summer
in vats of brain paint to be later unlidded
and splashed with insignias
of every person and place and event
that ever touched corneas innocent, bent
If my mind be painted, I think it be green
like the moment I'm lucid before I dip dreams
and hang them to dry in the gallery
and push to wake up to connect, signify
every sensory path that I've traveled before
to traipse them again and still come back for more.
I'm a stickler for art and with your canvas blank
my sweet innocent dear, with each word that you hear
you will brush stroke your way to uniqueness.
Copyright © Tatyana Carney
What are we but vibrant green leaves in the foliage of the tree of life, soon to be turned brown and fall before others take their place?
What are we but fast moving waves on the surface of the ocean of humanity, heading towards the shores of oblivion where they break up and die?
What are we but wandering clouds, chased across the sky of existence by the winds of necessity and consumed by the sun of voracious time?
Let us ponder for a while, my loving friends
Let us try to give an answer to this:
How sensible is it, to waste our ephemeral life by
Hurting one another?
Wouldn't it preferable be, more holy and more wise,
Only love to harbor in our hearts and
© Demetrios Trifiatis
20 OCTOBER 2014
Copyright © Demetrios Trifiatis
If I had those pretentious brains which act faster than this heart
maybe then I would abhore this soul which spreads freely through each verse
maybe then I would impress you with my intellectual grammar and sophisticated words
maybe then I would scrutinize my each and every coma,dot and exclamationmark!
But I would never let that happen,I'd rather go away.
Writing with my mind and not my heart leads only to asylum within the being of myself.
Poetry is my voice,my life,my escape,my each emotion stored,processed in a yesterday
breathing softly in fresh air,wanting to explode in death, love,passion and romance.
Each verse, a thought I'm able to scribe of yet unable to express through spoken words.
Maybe in a tomorrow you might pass by ,tread your footstep on my verse
but maybe in a today,a broken-hearted fool stops by to find comfort in my world
Maybe a prisoner, an insane man,a tramp ,or any outcast to society
would pick these shattered pieces and gather them as whole
and maybe through this scribbled cross-word puzzle finds God'love once again.
Maybe a little child who understands only little words
would turn the pages of silly rhymes i penned
rhymes which speak of moon and stars,angels,dreams and faries
and maybe He would smile, maybe He would laugh
Maybe he would dream ,the way i used to dream
and maybe He would write the most eloquent sonnet
or maybe just simple words about blossoming flowers
And maybe then,my mission is accomplished,and maybe I feel blessed.
Copyright © Charmaine Chircop
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
The sting of shattered trust
fills his veins with toxic spite,
contaminating his heart.
He finds solace in a bottle,
quenching his resentment,
slurring forth caustic fumes;
nauseating his liver.
Until he spits her treachery up
with a sickening heave,
in the shallow, murky gutter
of a jaded man's reprieve.
Copyright © Thvia Shetley
You waited for this moment,
As if you were an incomplete salutation
You waited for confessional breaths to alleviate this finite evening
Missing its constellations
You wept for their sunflower touch.
A touch to engorge the gaps of your imprinted thumb
With honeysuckle madness
Another cashmere moistened parable
Hungering for ink-plated resolutions
You waited for their Haiku smile.
A smile condoning resilient waterfalls
Unto ocean’s distant memory
Aching for risky walks above coal-ridden tomorrows
No forest green pupils observing
The hindrance of time
You wished upon wishes
For blanketed convenance to warm aspiring, French kiss upon promised morn
You wrestled with downward spirals,
Uplifting loneliness from Heaven’s chasm
Regurgitated sobs reserved under no-name invitations
…I was h e r e.
©Drake J. Eszes
Copyright © Drake Eszes
God , we are sorry,
we need you in this time of fury,
we are broken and blackened,
we are slaves of someone else all shackled.
the chains hurts our feet our legs
but we can take all that we deserve this toll
we just don't want them to take over our souls
we don't want to be mind controlled
our will is one thing You don't even interfere with
then why do You give them a space in our brains to sit
yes we are disobedient, drowned in our arrogance
but we never denied Your existence never denied your magnificence
we came to you with all our issues all problems
we ask you for help in every form of danger
yet You turn your back on us like we a stranger
You know they are evil, u know they are wrong
but why is it that You see us take the fall
my heart cries with the death of all your men
we sacrificed our kids our parents our country as a whole
God, i respectfully ask you, how much more?
how much blood, how many tears?
Is this the price we are paying for having a divine fear?
please forgive me God, i dare not complain
You have blessed me with so much that its hard to explain
You are the all kind all gracious
but why is your creation so ferocious?
why don't they know how to love why cant we be ever in peace?
have we been mislead from Your path and now are paying a fees?
my lord, my king please bring down mercy upon us
open our eyes,please keep us away from lust
let our kids breath the fresh air that you made away from all those drugs and meds
please don't let them put chip in our heads
please make us honest and make us love our friends
alleviate us from the differences of black and white no matter where we are born and bred
let us renew the beauty of freedom of speech
where everyone is allowed to let their minds speak
where we don't make fun of people who disagree and call them freaks.
please destroy all the evil that makes us fall apart
that brings hatred and greed in our hearts
Take us somewhere else ,oh lord
where you are proud of us and the world is not all fraud
where the people think before making a decision
where we are not lab rats put in horrible conditions
where the people are obedient to You and not the politician
where big fish eating weaker ones is not considered a tradition
I know You arelistening,You always do
please save us today, We all need you more than ever
and whether You help us or not,it doesnt matter
because I know You are the merciful we are in Your debts forever!
Copyright © mary abdali
It seems like everybody around me has forgotten,
they're stuck on a thought again,
saying alot and whining more.
Preying on their own self-doubts,
they have so much,
yet see so little.
Can't they see that 64 inch TV,
or feel the beating of the jets in their hot tub ?
They measure their lives too much,
they have fallen into the "Great American Dream Sham"
as my friend "Chad Williams Lowther" would say !
Its a ruse,
so they can make changes in their lives which they normally wouldn't do,
because they lack the strength and insight,
so they get stuck in their minds.
and the damn kids are really suffering,
cause they don't have the latest video gizmo box.
Thoughtless over-reactions of self- abuse,
much like an addict who is never satisfied.
"The Great American Dream Sham" sucked them in,
macroni and cheese,
saturday morning cartoons and matinees.
All replaced by todays goals and desires,
which are masquerading as tired souls trying to find solice,
stuck in "the Great American Dream Sham"
and now saying all there is to say,
Hail, Hail to me
and all who are free,
all who go their own way
and all who see though it !
Copyright © mark king
sometimes i talk to myself,
my mind is racing,
i dont know what to do...
so hard to explain.
depression isn't a stage
or a faze some kids go through
it shatters you...
i saw it all.
she cried silent in her bed,
blood stains covered her favorite jeans,
her every shirt,
long sleeve ofcourse...
she suffered through it all with few people to call friend
and more to call enemy
even more to say where quite dissappointed....
her first name in school,
not started by a bully
or a mean rival,
but by her sister,
and it echoed through her soul,
repeating in her mind... over and over again,
like the ripples of still water
when a pebble is dropped
flash frozen in time
over and over again...
It was the first name they gave her,
millions where created over the years,
some repeating again, just as the first had..
gothic they called her,
emo, fat, ugly....worse things.
but in her mind, things where worse.
everything was repeating,
over and over again,
finally she believed it.
she asked for help, from everyone
tried to explain to parents she wasnt well,
got called a psycho for asking to see a theripist,
not from a teacher,
not from a class mate,
but from her own father, who wouldn't, couldn't,
believe there could possibly be a thing wrong....
finally, crying, she confessed her bloody secret to a teacher.
rather then giving her time,
she is sent back to class crying her eyes out, as if she wherent going through enough...
she is sent to the principals office a few minutes later, after breaking down in class...
the princlipal says she needs help,
sends her and her dad for a risk evaluation,
her dads crying as she shows him her cuts...
they walk into a hospital room,
it smells of chemicals and hand sanitizer,
the lady at the desk gives her a smile.
then she goes into a room with a lady,
her cheeks are sunken in and shes wearing way too much makeup,
the girl is gaging on her perfume,
and she looks really intimidating....
her dark brown hair looks dead and flat
even though its a bit wavy,
and she wears somewhat of a mocking frown.
asks her all these questions,
is mommy beating her?
is daddy raping her?
is she doing drugs?
is anyone beating her?
did anyone molest her?
oxcarbezapine, trazadone, citalipran, clinazapam, colonipan,
valium, lithium, more.......
and thats what they gave her,
some numbed the pain
some brought it out
tearing through her organs,
she became an addict by the time she was fourteen....
over dose after over dose
some for pleasure
some for pain,
gashes on her legs getting deeper,
this time she didnt tell a soul,
not even those she had come to call friends....
wakeup she screamed in her head over and over again
as she dropped weight like it was nothing....
you cant controll it she argued as things became worse.
at age fourteen she attempted suicide,
she didnt quite succeed.
the medication took away her aappitite....
she liked it
she hated her body
felt out of controll
found a new way to cope
as she shoved tooth brush after toothbrush down her throat
to keep her body from nuitrients...
as she whent weeks and weeks spitting food into napkins and making excuses
I ate at my friends house....
spoken as a whisper
heard like a sentance
echoing in her mind over and over again,
along with that word, all the words,
ugy, anoying, stupid, fake, worthless, nothing...
one bite she would say
rocking back and forth
craving nothing but food
her body racked with hunger pain
one bite and there she was again
over and over and over again
back to a toothbrush
this time she sees blood
she saw her ribs
she saw her bones,
it wasnt good enough,
she almost died, again....
choking on this deep dissappointment in herself,
gaging on everything they where pushing down her throat,
their words, and their insults, their criticism.... their drugs
all shoved down her throat like candy
and just as she was was trained to do she swallowed despite the bad taste
or the hurt
or the fact that at the rate she was going she would be dead soon...
and you know why?
because daddy yelled
and couldnt accept what was happening
not because he wanted to hurt her
but because it hurt him,
and she let him believe,
because she could take the hurt if it meant he didnt have too.
because mommy didnt want to sit in her room all day
practically having us raise ourselves,
she didnt mean to take anger, or frustration or hurt out on her daughter
she suffered everyday in her solitary confinement,
and from a young age she accepted her bedroom was the cage
her mother had created for herself.
because sister didnt want to effect her the way she did
she was just frustrated
fed up with the way things where
scared, she needed someone to take her cruelty
and to help heal her pain...
because people in school
who where so cruel
had to have learned from somewhere
and she wasnt going to play into their games,
and they knew she was an easy target
because she would never attack someone so weak
and she accepted her suffering was a sacrafice
to help all these people....
to help her dad,
every person who was beaten abused or hurt
and felt so weak at home they wanted to feel strong in the one safe place they had.
because depite the fact she had died inside,
and almost passed away on the out,
it was a saccrafice she was willing to make
so that no one else would have to feel that kind of pain,
and they all inflicted it and broke her down'untill there was nothing left but a shell
of somthing that could have been
and never had the chance
because she would take it and wouldnt strike back,
because sometimes "just taking it"
isnt so much about the weakness not to do anything
but about the strangth not to hurt others the way they hurt you...
Copyright © cassie hellberg
Gary's Yard Sale, the story
Authored by Chuck Keys
Among the rustbelt cities of yesterday,
Along the edges of the Detroit River,
A short distance to the side,
Resides a slice of Victorian times,
Excesses exceeded needed,
Where age confronts time,
The day before meets the day of,
And greets tomorrow.
Those in the hood
Meet and greet among
The scraps of forgotten memories.
Lawns filled with bygones of size,
Tables filled with important somethings,
For important that evolved into history.
Where memories become linked,
Each to a stored thought,
Treasured, pleasured or disdained,
To a person,
Of late or present,
To a future of who knows what.
During the day,
The history-of and the future-of talk,
Of where they were,
And where they hope to be,
The dust is blown off with the wind,
From the east, west, north and south.
The yard sale, the graveyard of the past,
The arena of the present,
Life and death of the sale,
Dance together, coupled,
Where Mine, becomes Yours' while
Gary the Conductor, orchestrates to perfection,
The operatic enjoyment of history,
Buyer meets seller, exchanges
Are made. As is today.
*This poem is dedicated to Gary and Ann Harris of Northville MI USA – May they and
their Yard Sales age forever!
© Charles H Keys, 2010. All Rights Reserved. V1.4.09252010
Copyright © Chuck Keys
You are the wild flower in my palm
With no stem to keep you anchored to this covetous earth
You are the fragile thing I dare not cup,
As your petals whittle away under the wind
And flit unfettered in the air;
Exaggerated fear leaves my fingers numb
Hungry need leaves my fingers twitching
And my hand is paralyzed by turmoil
As every breath of wind takes another petal from me
And brings to my lungs, my chest and my heart
An overwhelming scent of need-
You are the wild beauty in my palm
And I dare not hold you to my chest
For I fear to crush you
To know first hand
That caged beauty, is beauty no more.
Copyright © Samir Georges
You say: Wrong place—wrong time,
Maybe: Wrong place—not right time,
Not right place—but wrong time?
I say: This's right place—right time,
In times and places,
What is the time?
Where is the place
For right not wrong?
Is this like signs
Tearing up the scenery;
What about my mind?
Don't what? I can read the sign!
Oh—Signs of the time?
What’s wrong is not right,
Lord, I will sing this song!
Fight for what’s right
Correct what's wrong!
In all times and places
Please, be alright,
And make it—
© Joseph, October 11, 2008
© All Rights Reserved
Joseph S. Spence, Sr., is the author of "The Awakened One Poetics" (2009), which is
published in seven different languages. He invented the Epulaeryu poetry form, which
focuses on succulent cuisines and drinks. He is published in various forums, including the
World Haiku Association; Poetinis Druskininku, Milwaukee Area College, Phoenix Magazine;
Möbius Poetry, and Taj Mahal Review to name a few. Joseph is a Goodwill Ambassador for
the state of Arkansas, USA, a college faculty, and a military veteran.
Copyright © Joseph Spence Sr
Sometimes I am happy, sometimes I am sad.
Sometime I sing, sometimes I stammer
Sometimes I dance on the music of my soul, Sometimes I dance on the fingers of
one single person
Sometimes I expect so much from others; sometime I myself can’t meet my own
Sometime I make fun of others and feel bad later, sometimes life makes fun of me
and I smile
Sometime I win and sometimes I lose, sometimes I don’t even understand whether I
won or lost.
Sometimes I laugh as if whole world is with me,
Sometimes I cry as if I am alone wandering in a strange land
Sometimes I give up so easily
Sometimes I work so hard that no one can stop me to achieve what I want
Sometimes I am dynamic person, who wants to change the world,
And sometimes I am a kid who expects anyone to embrace him tightly.
Sometimes I feel happy about the achievement of my enemy
Sometime I feel dejected with my own success.
Sometimes I help others and show them the right path
Sometimes I feel totally helpless and don’t know where to go
Sometimes I ask god to please give my past back
Sometimes I pray to show me the way forward
Life is composed of SOMETIMES and I just flow with that.
U admit or not but you are also sailing on the same boat.
So join me and enjoy it EVERYTIME as SOMETIMES life is very short!
Copyright © Rajat Singhal
Place your head on my shoulder,
let it stay there
and we'll just breathe
Pluck the sadness from the air,
unravel that ball of worry...
We'll find that knot
that started it all,
and wave ribbons
in the air
We'll let those colors swirl
around each other,
we'll blend them...
then weave them
into a tapestry
that comforts us
in the end
if it turns out
are full of tangles
a lot of thread
So place your hand in mine,
let it stay there,
and we'll weave
Copyright © binibining P.iNk
This will be the last stanza
The last stanza
The final syllable
I commemorate these wounds
to my Agnostic dreams
Because God kept telling me to believe in her
He kept saying,
“Son, be her tissue when she collapses”
“Son, wipe away her sins with this blank slate I’ve given to you”
“Be that man for the woman she may never accept herself to be”
“Be the wings of that angel”
Until, one night, I said a prayer
I said to Him,
“She must go”
“I won’t give up on her, but I must let her go.”
“I leave it to You to save the pariah.”
I, can no longer be that man.
Because I exhaled insipid banter
from misery hollow
whisked me away to coalescent landscapes
under eclipsed moonshine,
sipping unto artificially incipient sunrises
Tasting drops, sour
Wiping them dry, with this flower
my sanctum holds close
And on this day,
this new day,
this last stanza,
soon, I will
no longer finish you with question marks and exclamation points
Soon, I will
withdraw from you,
with punctuated silence
I will walk while you crawl
I will smile while you cry
I will see while you’re blind
I will shout while you mumble
I will pray while you deny
I will climb while you trip
I will love while you hesitate
This will be my final kiss to you
No longer will we
For I now complete you,
my end poem
©Drake J. Eszes
Copyright © Drake Eszes
You called me "baby"
When your eyes streaked
In nudist dialect
Upon my strength
You begged to engorge
With cinnamon scented lotion
Taking me into melancholic forest
To sacrifice your shedding, virgin silk
To have your way
It was imperative
That I brought you inches closer to God
As chastity’s ribbon
Slides down leagues below sea level truths
Refused to be a puppet pulled
By your G-strings
You implored with vehement thrusts
Of creamy, inner thigh
To turn my page
But, you never bothered to read
My table of contents
©Drake J. Eszes
Copyright © Drake Eszes
The thing about today is that:
It will be different than any other day
Many different factors will share in the reasons
That today will be completely original
The people we encounter can play a huge role
In the way that our day plays out
We have no control over how these people may act
No control over what they may say or do
We can however control the way we allow it to affect us
I have met and been friends with
About every type of person that there is
From healers to killers I have met them all
Shared meals and how we feel;the pressure of it all
I used to allow outside influences
Like these people
To play a role in how my day would go
Then one day I realized that if you remove the water from the falls
All that you have left is a cliff
And of course a hole at the bottom
All the breathtaking beauty of the waterfall is gone
All because some fool decided to build a dam to divert the water
The River had no choice in how its day would go
It had no choice in allowing an outside force
To change its course
Of where it would end today
We have a choice, no matter what anyone does
We can stay on course and maintain the original beauty of our day
As long as we always remember
That this day belongs to us
The only thing that can change that is God, for it is his gift to us all
Copyright © Michael Jordan
See the people watcher
Still as a mantis
Endless ambient sounds, unidentifiable
Does not prevent his gaze
He studies her eyes; her smile
And undresses her mind
The watcher finds himself
Her thoughts are not easily uncovered
A coffin, sealed; undefiled
The watcher will only find him,
Looking out as he looks in
Copyright © John Trainer
Did you close your eyes? Did you think of them?
Memories come every year and I weep, alone and wondering
if at the top and at the end you had a fear of heights
as if the answer could make a difference.
Yet I'm dismayed to watch it again, acrophobic, imagining...
a room afire and the smoke making signals to the World
no easy means of escape, no places to hide, no exit.
Suffocated in that vision, I stay breathless trying to perceive...
Hot gasses in red eyes begging for the luxury of fresh air
a burning window and the fall-space: coin with just one side
pieces of crystals in livid hands without time to wave
sticky blood warming fingers in a last cold morning.
And I weep, helpless and thinking in what you saw from above
that pandemonium of alarms, yelling and the sound of the fire
just an instant to decide how to face it, how to accept it
an instant in which you may comprehend our brevity.
Perhaps, you could say goodbye... Did you have time?
Did you close your eyes? Did you think of them?
in their faces, their eyes, their voices, their scents...
Behind, below, inside...Death, waiting for your decision...
And I weep for your innocence... for your panic...for you
I'm with you now, terrified... yet, I can't follow you...
But you drag me and I jump with you, as every year
as the only way I can remember you...feeling you, being with you ...
And I weep...recoiling to that morning that will live in infamy
in its intense impact, in those images
Because the towers disappeared in its collapse
but you, through the years...you're still falling.
Footnote: This short video is very disturbing; it shows people falling and jumping from the towers. I don't recommend you to watch it because it may offend or hurt your feelings. However, it shows the true horror of that day and I think that it's the true extent in which those innocent people lost their lives.
Copyright © Ruben O.
Even islands get lonely
Like weaving palm leaves to make baskets
Like crocheting to make a pair of socks
We need each other
The threads that connect us all
The webs that we leave behind
As we meet each other
As we befriend each other
As we spend bits of time with each other
As we are there for each other
Add us years, that hold us dear
Copyright © njeri hunjeri
A man lives without literature
And an another man wears no garments
Both are naked in the world.
SANDIP GOSWAMI, INDIA
Copyright © Sandip Goswami
...like two pieces of wood,
adrift and worn through time,
passing like ships in the night,
each on a different path
but destined to meet,
somewhere in time.
...like the sky, wet kissing the ocean
with winded breath, lusting
over the crest's of calmer seas
as it fills itself with the moon
in the high-tide romance
of un-chartered depths,
awaiting to connect the stars
fill the void's of night,
and awake, refreshed
to the rise of the sun's blush
together in destiny.
Copyright © Sandra Adams