One night a guy & a girl were
driving home from the movies. The
boy sensed there was
something wrong because of the painful
silence they shared between them
that night. The girl then asked the boy to pull over
because she wanted to talk. She told him that her
feelings had changed & that it was time to move on.
A silent tear slid down his cheek as he
slowly reached into his pocket & passed her a folded note.
At that moment, a drunk driver was speeding down
that very same street. He swerved
right into the drivers seat, killing the boy.
Miraculously, the girl survived. Remembering the note, she
pulled it out & read it.
"Without your love, I would die."
Copyright © Le'Rita Clark
Some where in a faraway world , sitting alone is a faraway girl .
Alone with her thoughts , paper and pen .... Stroking her words ,
adventures begin .
Fantasy writes of long ago ; Ill fated lovers who's love has gone cold ;
Valiant knight's tasks of daring deeds , armor plated silver on their
galloping steeds ; Moonbeam walks alone or with him ;
Sunrise mornings bare bodies of them .
These are a few of her adventures to tell .
Deep in her heart loves abounds and swells .
Her words taking people on fascinating trips to secret gardens,
sanded shores , up hill side cliffs .
Scotland , London , Paris , Rome , all the while she's sitting at home .
Lost in her thoughts this faraway girl,
creating up dreams in her faraway world.
As she ends her stories her day's begun . A life like most others ,
more work than fun . Normal tasks take up her day , kids off to school ,
horses to hay . Clients coming one after another ;
welcomed visits from her dear mother ; a mother a daughter ,
sister a wife , a few of the titles , chapters of life .
Alone once again for a moment in time , visits these thoughts ,
the stories from the mind . Stepping into that faraway world ,
becoming again, that faraway girl .......
Copyright © Bev Smith
A girl around 13, sitting at a kitchen table of the home where she baby sits,
is waiting for the woman of the house to finish getting ready to leave.
She is startled by two brazen hands coming surreptitiously from behind her,
fingers and thumbs beginning to gently squeeze her prepubescent breasts.
Frightened and aghast, the young girl stays transfixed and says nothing.
The man’s wife calls out to her husband, and the fondling abruptly ceases.
The girl knows something is wrong, but she doesn’t want to give up the babysitting.
She enjoys the children and likes earning money on her own.
All she can do is fervently and silently hope the incident will not reoccur
as she continues, on and off, to watch the children of that disgusting man.
The girl’s mind and body mature; by age 17, she is coming into her own.
She has been reading, watching, experiencing, and . . . . learning.
Once again, in those later years, she has the occasion to watch the children
of that man whose invading hands had long ago so repulsed her!
As he drives her home late at night, he reaches out for breasts now much larger.
The girl is waiting for it. Shaking inside, she summons up her small bit of courage.
Pushing his hands away, she calmly but assertively declares:
“Leave me alone. You can never do that to me again.” She now realizes
there are not always others that can help you. No longer a scared little girl,
she's a woman who can take care of herself. I know because that girl was me.
For the TRUE Meaning of Being Adult Poetry Contest of F J Thomas
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich
The old woman sews
Marking each stitch
The whirring of machines
Whirling and whirling
Round and round
Of another time
Of a night
When she was afraid
To speak to a boy
Sitting next to her.
As her busy fingers work
She remembers more
Of that summer night
A blue cotton dress
With tiny ribbons
Lace curtains gently
Pulled by a breeze
Drifted out through opaque windows
While musicians played a rhythm
Of their own
And shadows pranced
On empty walls.
Waiting that night
Why no one
Her to dance.
On silver sails
She knows that today is now.
And yesterday was yesterday
Finished with her work
She catches her breathe,
Straightens her hair,
And turns off the lights.
Pausing to look back
Into the darkened room
Shadows return her glance
With a gaping stare
Adjusting to the darkness
She begins to recognize
Familiar shapes taking form
Satisfied that all will be the same
When she returns
She closes the door.
She holds onto her purse
For a traffic light
That has already
A smile crosses her face
As she remembers
When the boy
Became her husband
Children were born.
And the years went by
In a brown bag
Neatly folded in two
Is a blue chiffon dress
Almost like the one
She wore years ago
Only this one
Is for her granddaughter
Impatient for no reason
To go nowhere
The crowd pushes forward
But the old woman lingers
On the corner
Savoring the moment
Glad of memories
As a busy world saunters by.
Copyright © Edmund Siejka
To me, fair friend, you never can be old,
For as you were when first your eye I eye'd,
Such seems your beauty still.
~ William Shakespeare
I have looked into the mirror
Looking for a trace....a trace of my youth
A trace of the girl that I used to be...
Is she there? Buried deep? Is she still part of me?
Years can't be halted, change can't erase..
And there...in my face, are the lines of experience
Stories and time...I see staring back at me
A part of me wants to grieve for that girl
The girl that I was.. Has she vanished for good?
Oh, I do understand....
That I can't hang on to "then"..
To days long ago, when time was our friend
When summers, together, seemed never to end
But, then............ , here by chance, we meet up once again.....
Our friendship born in childhood..so young, and carefree
You...with bright eyes, and brown hair that fell long
Around your high cheeks ...and a wide, gamin smile!
You were the one who's light shined so brightly
Who's charm, laugh, and wisdom I fondly admired
A girlhood where we danced together in sweet grass under sunny skies
And under nighttime stadium lights, to the music of the high school band
After years, that have taken us to separate worlds
In my mind, and in my dreams you have always been
The fair maiden, the one who held my hand
Two girls who made promises...who sat in the dark, under a summer sky
And talked of our "somedays", of our future, our hopes
By the light of the moon, we wished upon the stars
Now here in this moment, I have found you again
And here in this moment, I have found "me" again....
I can be that girl again....as we share our history
our moment in the sun, ....I am "her", again!..
I can be that child, I can be fifteen, I can wear a crown, upon a teenaged throne...
And I can still dance to the sound of the drum, and the tuba,
I can sing football songs, and gossip about the boys,
and make fun of the stuck-up girls
and laugh about the teachers we didn't like,
and about the night of the prom, when I cried in your arms
I can hear Johnny Mathis singing "Misty", and the words will make me weep
I can hear "Canadian Sunset" as it lulls me off to sleep
Perhaps the stars have faded a bit...but beyond the weary miles
They still shine when I look into your eyes...my dear friend, from the past...
They will shine through the ages.........where a summer will always last....
For Frank's Contest:
Copyright © Carrie Richards
When I first saw her
She was only a few hours old
Instinctively kicking her long legs
I knew then
To an old drawer
Of crumpled notepaper
Taking me back
To a time when
Her hair was brownish gold
Took baths in a yellow tub
Cradled in the kitchen sink
When her mother
Worked on weekends.
When she was seven or eight
I would read to her
While she played
With her dolls
To look up at me
With her big brown eyes
One night she asked
Daddy do I have any friends?
I told her she had many friends
Imaginary friends too
Like Ooh Poo Poo Doo
Who would always be with her
That’s a strange name Daddy, she said
Brushing the hair
From her eyes
It’s not the name or how you say it
It’s the friend that counts.
One Spring day
She came back home
Her friends crowded the living room
As my wife and I left
Remebering the words
It’s not the name or how you say it
It’s the friend that counts.
Kept in her heart.
Copyright © Edmund Siejka
By Nate Spears
Published 2013 In Death Of A Rose by Nate Spears
Rescue this sunflower
It's capable of being a ray of light
Nurture it, value it, and love it
Its petals are more delicate than they appear in sight
A wild flower it is; but it displays beauty
The facts of its species remain unknown
Its fight to reach its true potential is admired
It’ birth to existence is undetermined
It’s roots shows trauma
Its presentation brings hesitates to potential caregivers
No one's prepared to take a chance
This flower is destined to win
All earthly roots sprout from above
At some point in a life’s span; we could use a kiss or hug
He who refuses to display any element of the wild
Is merely real
An artificial representation of life
Stuck in Styrofoam surrounded by fake moss and dust
No breath, no soul, non-existence
A human being choked from an outer dimension.
Rescue this wild flower with love.
Copyright © Nate Spears
A girl was born a beautiful summer day
She had beautiful blue eyes and light curly hair
The girl ...... it was me myself I
My mother has told me that I was a kind
and happy baby
The baby became a chubby girl who liked to
play with soft teddy bears and dolls
Chaunted and singing all day long,
yes I was a happy little girl
When I was seven years old and the
commitments hour had come
First day at school, dressed in a dress with
flowers and ribbon in my hair
I wanted out of the classroom, I wanted to be
free to play, sing and dance.... be free like a bird
Plus, minus and A-B-C... yes it all could wait
School years passed by and I learned: plus, minus,
A-B-C and more than that
"Almost adult" - a teenager, yes waithing for the time
Girls with menstruation, and acne wich we covered with powder
Boys with pimples, wich reflects like flashlights
Girls who "giggled" of everything and nothing
Boys who speakes with deep voices that bursts
Interested in the opposite sex
It`s was an exciting time ...
Distance love, blushing cheeks
Will you be mine?
Go hand in hand and perhaps a gentle kiss
Heartbreaks....well who has been there ?
But as in a fairytales the princess meets her prince, they are
in love....married... and have many other commitments,
work, home and children
Fairytales have always a happy ending
What about the reality ?
A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
Copyright © Anne Lise Andresen
My love of poetry started when I was still a five- year old child
When my parents asked me to memorize verses and rhymes
With all my feelings and actions, I recited my poems in front of a crowd
Innocently receiving adulations but not a handful of dime
The first piece I memorized was entitled, “Cradle Hymn”
I was a small girl sent in a poem competition, so naïve
When I’ve grown up , I realized it’s a song lyric with Christmas theme
So, I sang it and started to develop my good voice quite a bit
When I was a teenager, I memorized speech and declamation pieces
My teacher sent me in a poem contest for a campaign against drug addiction
I tried to deliver my piece like a candidate for a star award actress
Acting like a drug addict teenage girl longing for parents’ love and attention
As years went by, I turned out to be quite a flirty lady
With puppy love and sweet crushes to some guys around me
When one of them got me, so happy until I forgot all about reciting poetry
Relationship went long but when we broke up, it created another life’s story
All my heart brokenness has turned me out to be a poem writer
I also wrote few poems for my family, dreams and for close friends’ requests
My passion of poetry blazed and turned out to be greater
When I found a writing spot, motivated and inspired by my friends-the great poets
Feb. 6, 2013
Contest: Who What Where
Sponsor: Poet Carol Sunshine Brown
Copyright © Leonora Galinta
Girl Rising Unwanted Child
Since the day of her birth, she was not wanted.
Her mother rejected her. She was brought into
this world by a mid wife. Her mother already had
a lot of kids and didn't want anymore.
The mid wife told her - it's a beautiful little girl. The
mother said - I don't want her. You can keep her.
I don't even want to see her. The mid wife and her
husband adopted her and raised her as their own.
She would be their youngest child. They already had
She was loved from the beginning. They raised her,
send her to school, she graduated and went off to
college. While in collage she fell in love, but her boy
friend jilted her. Her heart was broken, but she still
went on and finished college.
After college - she went to Chicago to live with her
sister. There she met a young man, that liked her from
the start. They met in church. After a year of courtship,
they got married. They had a beautiful wedding.
They both worked hard. This was in the early 80's. They
raised 6 kids. Two are now married. She has a very important
job in a bank. They now own three buildings. She got to meet
her real mother at her mom's funneral. She asked her - why
are you crying? They weren't even your real parents.
She answered - They were the only parents that I ever knew.
She went back to Chicago and never saw her again. She lives
happy with her family. Both her parents that raised her have
now passed away....
Written by Lucilla M. Carrillo
Note: I believe that this is a real success story
of a girl rising. It is true. My husband and I were
sponsers at her Wedding. She is my best friend's baby
sister.... For Richard's contest ( Girl Rising )
Copyright © Lucilla Carrillo
She felt the world turned upside down in apace,
When he left her suddenly with his sad goodbyes in her last embrace;
She was so weak to endure the pain of losing him,
She thought, her life will be useless,
In his absence, how else can she live?
He brought her into the altar a month ago,
The same date when he left her, even if she begged him so;
“Please don’t leave me babe, please? “ she cried
His warmth and tenderness was deeply felt in his touch and waning smiles.
He gently held her face… whispered all the words of his eternal love,
As he looked lovingly into her eyes,
Took his last breath and on her lap, he died.
She cried out and whined under the rain,
She was abruptly fallen into the dungeon of pain;
Thunder rumbled in confusion
As lightning tried to ease as much as it can,
Instead, she did no longer care.
She asked, “ Why’s life’s so cruel and so unfair?”
Why did such dreadful disease came and robbed him away from her?
Without any past sign that he’d a bitter pill
He suffered in few days and in just a short moment
The wave of euphoria’s great love came to an end.
She walked distraught toward the sunset,
She lamented so much of his death.
So miserable, she couldn’t sleep,
A long period of time that she languished;
All she’d wished was to follow him too soon,
Without thinking anymore the life in her womb.
Looking at her with pity and grief,
Her friends and love ones extended their hands to lift up her spirit;
It took time for her to stand again on her feet,
Until finally, she clasped them…
Yet, she roved her future,
Feeling alone in the prairie, she walked ahead.
An old rickety soul was gradually rising,
The love around her and their future child served as her riggings
As words of comfort kept pouring…driving her to resilience,
Looking up unto the sky for another sunrise…anticipating…
Hoping to begin her life again,
Until a complete restitution may happen.
Aug. 4, 2013 2.45 pm
A true story inspired by my mum’s old friend. She married on June 24 (June Bride) and her husband died exactly on the following month, July 24.I can’t remember the exact year. I was still very young at that time and the couples were very close to me. Their love story and the man’s apparition to me on the night after his death harbours forever.
Contest: Girl Rising
Sponsor: Richard Lamoureux
Copyright © Leonora Galinta
A Woman’s Worth
By Nate Spears
Her purpose in this world is hurting
She’s never been a designed of perfect
But she is a mom, so she’s super
Then roll up her sleeves ; and
Take care of the kids; and
Making it a home
For a beautiful family to roam
Building wonderful memories
Becoming a woman of worth
Keeping her faith through Christ
Keeping her pace through health
Keeping her sanity through managing
This is a woman’s worth
I’m giving you
Despite of all the stress
She receives her family with open arms
Through all the mess
She’s a fantastic mom
A wonderful woman
Deserving a round of applause
Plus a standing ovation
For always being an American sensation
That held this continent down since day one
Since the Plymouth Rock landed on us
Thank you for her giving
Thank you for her living
Thank you for her children
This is ,
A woman’s worth.
Copyright © Nate Spears
I sleep. The hours tick by mercilessly;
unfilled, purposeless, full of potential
"What to do? What to do???" I mutter,
tumbling, like Alice, down the rabbit hole.
My hands push down ballooning petticoats,
careful not to show or touch anything.
I twirl beneath the pile down comforters.
The hours tick by crimson red
and in the dream,
the rose Queen shouts, "Off with HER HEAD!"
An eyebrow is plucked whole from my face.
It falls matted and to the ground leaving me,
brow akimbo, surprised, and horrified.
"What to do? What to do? What to do???"
Half shorn. Half drawn. Half born?
A painter's pallet appears before me.
A brow is drawn… for me.
Yet, the Rose Queen still screams on.
"Off with HER HEAD! Off with HER HEAD!"
Copyright © Debbie Guzzi
Sitting in my car in a supermarket parking lot
While Cathie was inside buying out the store
I watched the interaction between
A daddy and his adorable little two year old girl
Such a sweet moment watching this tender scene unfold
It brought a lump to this old geezer's throat
The love that this wee tyke felt was returned by her tiny giggles
And the happiness showed all over her pretty young face
This sweet moment could easily have been missed
By all the busy passers-by wrapped up in their own busy day
But these charming little vignettes
Are what makes life such a joy to behold
If we would only take time to stop and observe
So sweet, “daddy and his little girl!”
© Jack Ellison 2015
Copyright © Jack Ellison
DON’T BE AFRAID
I live to please you,
I live to see the best in you
You and I are the best match
Havens have open mountains
Heavy rains ought to end us
But don’t be afraid
I have created tents to keep you safe
The safest place for you is in my heart
Where only my thoughts and blood play
My blood oozes with oxygen and love
Don’t be afraid this love is forever
I have devoted all my love to you
The clouds have surrendered its beauty for us
This is all for you
So don’t be afraid
This is the love that children will fantasizes
This is the love that you wished for
Your wishes have come true
Copyright © Zakhe Michael Mcunu
I was sitting in the crowded train station with time to waste, waiting on the train to take me home on Christmas Eve. A very pretty, young lady, carrying a full backpack headed for one of the only open seats across the aisle from me next to a rather dirty and disheveled older man.
As she removed her backpack to sit down he glared up at her; she smiled a beautiful bright smile and said to him, “Merry Christmas”.
“I don’t celebrate Christmas”, he barked up at her.
“Yeah? Well, that doesn’t mean you can’t be happy on the day that I celebrate Christmas. And I hope the day is merry for you as well.”
“What is there to be merry about”, he moaned, “A bunch of hypocritical religious zealots pretending to be nice to one another while the world goes to hell in a hand basket.”
“Well, at least for that one day, most of us believe the hypocrisy, and even for just a few hours, we practice the morals that our religion tries to instill in us. At least on that one day, for us religious zealots, there is a glimmer of hope that we can save the world from going to hell and, I, for one, believe that is reason to be merry.”
“Terrific! And, what does that get me,” he whimpered.
“Well, what you get is this one time of year, when a twenty-two year old college girl is not afraid to sit next to you; smile at you; and, wish you a Merry Christmas. And, if you just say, ‘Thank you’ and ‘Merry Christmas’ back to her, she just may give you the biggest and best kiss you have ever experienced.”
She stood back up and started to put her backpack back on as he simply stared up at her. Once she was situated and ready to move on towards her train, she stopped; smiled at him again; and, said, “Merry Christmas.”
It seems I was not the only stranger that was witnessing this exchange. All of those around me were perched on the edge of their seats waiting to see what might happen. The old man cracked a little smile. A glimmer came to his eyes, and he said, “Thank you. And, Merry Christmas to you, too.”
The girl leaned down and planted a kiss right on his lips for what seemed like ten minutes. Smiles lit up the faces of all the men, women and children watching this take place. When the girl finally pulled back, the old man was frozen in place with a big ole smile on his face. She adjusted her backpack and started heading towards the tracks. All the men she passed on her way who witnessed this exchange anxiously yelled, “Merry Christmas” as she passed, hoping for a kiss as well.
I looked back at the old man who was still in a dream. Suddenly he caught me looking at him and barked, “What are you staring at?”
I just shook my head back and forth and said, “Merry Christmas”.
“Yeah! Well Merry Christmas to you, too” he shouted.
Copyright © Joe Flach
That razor blade
Is her paint brush/
That canvas... Is her wrist
Of blood/ To her head/
She's been painting deep into her flesh!.....
Her pain is still aching/
Her hands dripping with blood
She couldnt stop shaking/
That Paint brush Soaked up
Some of her pain/
Still a broken girl remained
Staring out her window pain
Heading down that lonely road/
with illness/ depression state/
Raged/ is reckoning/
taking over her brain/
every thought is plagued/
With depression/That's she been trying to escape/
But she trapped/ She feels she's been raped/
Of her old self/ She screaming
But no one seems to help/
With noone there except her self/
She so sick of seeing her reflection everywhere/
So she smashed up every single mirror/
She can't face her fears/
Her demons are over so powering its clear/
What she must do/
She thinks these only one way out/
And its now time over due
To get away from her broken home/
She Tried not to show/ no emotion/
But she holds emotion In/
like a renowned poet/ Whos constantly Going back over it/
So its now her time to go...
No love/So the blood stains/
On her paint brush!
A broken child/ with a broken smile!
That never should have gave up/
She painted her face with clown make up/
With a Smiley face
To hide the frown/Because beneath that make up/
Her tears fell to the ground/ Where depression held her down..
But she never cried out loud/ She was way too proud
But her parents love soon departed/
In fact they never new she was an art-ist!
She kept It secret/
Until the day she cut too far
Barely missing her main art-eries
They never knew about her secret world behide her wardrobe/
If you could switch roles/
And go into HER mind of a broken soul/
And you'll find out how far the rabbit hole goes/
Her secret past/
Came back to haute her/
No one saw that masterpiece/
called "the crying daughter"/
Would it be a masterpiece/
If she was still hear today/
That's remains to be said/
let me paint the picture for you..Instead/
That Paint splattered covered In red/
Covers her face but can't cover
Those whispering noises/
In her head/
There Getting lounder/
She is screaming but she feels voiceless/
In the world that now surrounds her/
She now paints deep into her flesh
So she can escape that madness,
If not for one hour or one second
She's now a drug addifted felon
Who never learnt her lesson
Her hand is steady
She feels ready
To force the razor blade deep into her flesh.....
Her wrist now blead, dripping
Onto the cold bathroom floor
Those noises whispering
In her head Fade
Her to wake
The room is white
Not like/ her bathroom
This one is bright...
Nurse she awake!
Her silent screams
That have become so deadly
Her nightmares are now her dreams
She thinks she not worthy
Of life, Not knowing why she decides
Tears rolling down her face
As she heads to the bathroom and grabs
The razor blade
She forces the sharp blade across her wrist once again
Im telling you her story she confessed
As the medics,Didn't make it in time
She lying on floor dead
Her poem left, in her hand that read....
The deep dark red
That Paint now pours
Onto the cold floor
My body cold
The pain fades away
Along with my soul
Im Finally falling into an endless sleep
No Screams/ Just a faint sound of sirens
No more crying/ I finally feel complete
With nothing but complete.. Silence.
Credits most go to another poetry soup member
for the opening line,not sure who but i remember seeing it
and thought i would add my own thoughts to it.
That razor blade
Is her paint brush/
That canvas... Is her wrist
Copyright © Jamie Walker
a Pakistani school girl,
was shot in the head
because she wanted an education.
A cowardly brain dead camel humping
moronic rat bastard raghead nazi shot her
for that reason and that reason alone,
she is a female and she wanted
to obtain a decent education
and have a bright future in this
turbulent world in which we live.
Malala lived and is well on her way
to becoming a brilliant young spokeswoman
for the equality of opportunity for
girls and women all over the world.
I pray for her safety and continued success.
And may every warped brainless raghead nazi’s
sorry worthless soul burn in Hell for all eternity.
Copyright © Jerry Stevenson
They are playing that song again,
The one that always reminds me of you,
remembered from some dim region of my past.
The radio weaves the lyrics
like sandalwood incense curling through the air.
"All the leaves are brown, and the sky is grey
I've been for a walk ....On a winter's day"
There is a picture I've kept, that wrestles with my envy
You at twenty-one, wild and beautiful in a way
I had never been
I only knew you then, as that hippie girl that lived next door for awhile
Playing a flute, tambourine, and your guitar...
A gypsy skirt, a peasant look that took one's breath
A frizz of strawberry blonde hair that streamed thick of ribbons
and the scent of sandalwood, that floated into my yard
from your wide-opened windows
as I hung bleached-white sheets on a clothesline
I had often wished I were you, ..... flitting about, barefoot in the morning sun
But, I was teaching my toddler to tie his shoes
Both of us twenty-one,.... on two sides of a cedar fence...
a thousand light years apart
"All the leaves are brown, and the sky is blue
I've been for a walk......on this autumn day
and wonder what became
9/18/13 By Carrie Richards
Copyright © Carrie Richards
By Nate Spears
Published 2013 in “Death OF A Rose” By Nate Spears
A lost woman the mirror reflects
Young; and it’s apparent
I can see it in her eyes
No focus and childbearing
Just ass, legs, and thighs in mind
If she knew better
Learned better; and
He would show her a better way of living
Instead of dealing with cowards
Seek a man with moral and merit
He’s stealing your joy
He’s bringing you pain
Removing your youth
He’s playing games
The truth at heart is
Reality should be your first thought
Loneliness is not your fault
It’s a part of life for most
Don’t let it destroy your values
You’ll find a true love to treasure you.
Copyright © Nate Spears
There was once a girl
who loved and embraced life
she smiled even in sorrow
but her smiles were always borrowed
But nobody seemed to notice
that there was anything wrong at all
In this tiny town she used to call home
is all foreign now
She used to have no enemies
but now she has many
its not the ones who harass her
or threaten her, though
it's the lonely girl sitting within her
There's a lonely girl inside of her
fooling people so they may see
just how brave she may be
speaking of only happiness
despite all the hurt within
But all alone is where the danger lay
as she's sprawled on her bedroom floor
with pills in one hand and a blade in the other
there are some battles that can't be fought
So she cried, cried for another day
a day to feel loved once more
she cried, cried for another hour
one more hour to say she was sorry
but it was too late.
Copyright © Jessica Bateman
Little Red was riding all alone
but she lost her way back home
Sweet Mommy, ready with her jam and pancakes
waited for her dear Little Red all day
but where did she go?
where did she go?
that night was starless
and the wind was blowing so cold
Sweet mommy got so worried
so she called up Little Red on the phone
and asked the little brat where did she go
"mommy dont worry, please be calm", she answered
"i'm here at the city to hang out.
got a new baby, and by the way, grandma's ok, the wolf is dead
I'll be fine. i promise... I'll be home at ten"
So Sweet mommy stayed awake
waiting for her dear Little Red
But no Little Red came at ten
"that stubborn brat...", sweet mommy said
Again she called up Little Red
but the daughter's phone was unattended
It was already past eleven
"tomorrow, she'll have a good beating..." the mother said
It was past twelve already
when Sweet Mommy's phone rang
It was Little Red with a trembling voice
crying to her out loud
"Mommy, mommy...i'm so scared...please pray!
My baby's drunk and our car lost its brake
Mommy, i'm so sorry for what i've done and said
Mommy, mommy...I Love you...Oh shit!!!"..then the phone was dead
That night was starless
The wind was so cold
Where's Little Red now?
Copyright © Samuel Evan Pacamparra
Moved out on my own a responsibility take’s place who could know of days of youth
To founding maturity as I lay days to rest a young lady move up stairs questioning where do I know her
From haste of paste of days take place-
To the assumption under the moon light filter the clouds with a maze of stars what a beautiful out take
To pin point long stressful days of time place and origin to reminisce of how I got to this place
The question that propose is who could understand such a burden of a person but as days turn into
Months I quickly
Learned that like minds think alike as I saw her underneath the stars written in her journal
Thinking to myself how life can be so grizzle I just play to the shaded-
Night capture beads at hand a wholesome prayer I knew she prayed perhaps every night
To resolve who would not put up a wall a wall of shallow glass but
On the other hand to pass it would be shallow ground for a man to bypass-
As days would continue to unraveled, usually routinely of checking the mail,
I notice her daughter careering a basket one plus size her size from upstairs,
I thought to help but she seem to be so determine,
And on the way back of getting her clothes out of the car she ask me did I help her daughter,
I told her I was surprise to see she got it but if you every need my help I be glad to help you,
And I notice her hips shift, head drop, smile, and laugh and she said she might just take me up on that
And that was the start of a conversation that was much pass due-
As time would capture I start to notice where I had seen her, it was high school
But did again it was college, but I ask myself what is upheave?
And given time to understand what was ectasia?
Giving time, place, and origin of the situation should I keep perusing?
As time unfold it and a year or two by past our pass cross once more this time
It was at a grocery store, And she smile in a way that was unexplanatory,
And my shoulder bend, quirked and shingled and I ask can a woman have that much power over a man,
Thinking to myself I can explain it better without words-
And what I learned that if you are going to give your heart give it to the fulfillment what woman would
Not want to be found acceptation-
And as I pick up the paper the next day it explain she was working on a master and
I thought to myself the only person I know to have a master was my older sister who would like to hear
The full story-
Copyright © Louis Borgo
Yesterday while on my way to a supermarket I saw a little girl of perhaps five leaning at
a tree close to the road and watching a blue plastic bag which was drifting in the wind.
She looked very sad with her light blue eyes and her blond hair streamed out behind her.
The bag was lifted by a strong blast and I ran after it, crossing the road. A car came and
stopped, waiting for me to cross the road. A younger man on the other side of the road saw
that I wanted to catch the bag and he was also running after it, but the wind drifted the
bag far over the lawn up hills. After some unsuccessful attempts to get hold of the bag he
finally could grab it. I went to him and he gave me the bag and smiled. I then told him
that a little girl was sad about losing that bag. He wished me a nice weekend and I
returned to that little girl still standing near the tree but this time smiling. She shyly
whispered "Thank you", took the bag and ran to her little playmates waiting for her
anxiously in the background.
Copyright © Gert W. Knop
This is a girl. She cried. She died everyday. Over and over again.
"Why is she still walking around if you say she is dead?"
That's not her. That's her body but her soul is missing. Along with her mind. That's why she is stupid. She is a zombie enslaving the human race. Her heart has also gone away. Because of her missing heart she can't get hurt anymore....that's a lie. With no soul she can't feel sympathy. That means she can't feel anyone's lies.
"Is she scared of anything?"
Yes! She is scared of rejection. She is full of fear. She cries fear, screams fear,she even bleeds fear.
Copyright © lysette marshall
Lost and Confused, with life.
My Pain and Fear is all I have Left.
Standing alone with no place to go.
Just another Piece in this puzzle, I am.
Playing a role, that shall not be remembered.
But a piece that will be forgotten.
One that got lost along the way.
Lost and Confused, with Life.
Love is all but what we have.
Its what drives us everyday.
A motivation so deeply encouraged.
When achieved, all is but of greater value.
Lost and Confused, with Life.
I leave this place with one memory
but of you, and all its glory.
Copyright © Tanner Anderson
He sits there and cries
Big tears fall from his eyes
“Why, oh why?”
He wrings his hands
and tries to understand
Why I'm curled up in bed
No words come to my head
There is no answer
“Where has my little girl gone?”
You were the life of the party
Friendly and sweet
Everyone you’d greet
With a smile and hug
You’re just curled up in bed
With eyes full of dread
Oh, where has my little girl gone?"
His princess, his dream
Youngest of his team
Unwilling to face life and live
She’s stuck in her bed
Wants to stay home instead
To the words hung in the space
Between him and his child
His heart's going wild
"Where has my little girl gone"
"She’s gone, daddy, gone...
Seeing Mama die
Holding broken dreams
Stifling her screams
Broken heart night
Losing the fight
Nothing more to give
No will to live
That’s where, Daddy. That’s where your little girl’s gone"
Eileen Manassian Ghali
I called this a narrative because it actually happened last time dad came to visit me in Lebanon. We had this conversation in my bedroom, and it broke my heart that I've caused him so much pain. When he calls....he's quick to detect what spirits I'm in. He worries about me. I'm his baby....the little one of the family. Mom had me when she was 41....surprise surprise. After two boys, they really wanted a girl....Well, yes....I have changed...Yes...I was the life of the party. That old sparkle comes back now and again....Life can be difficult, and it wears you down if you let it. I adore my dad. His word was gospel when I was growing up. He was larger than life to me. We share a special bond....He is coming for Christmas....I'm so happy.
Copyright © Eileen Manassian
A girl was raped in a bus that night
By six men, all drunk, who had lost their minds
Ambrosia was the elixir of gods, it is said
But godlike men in this age aren’t born or made
Alcohol wrecks judgment, makes beasts out of men
Deeds under its influence have put us men to shame
Shops abound in our nation where alcohol is sold
The government till overflows when the weather turns cold
A corrupt force is tasked to uphold the country’s law
Incidents occurring on a daily basis expose this basic flaw
Fear of law is no deterrent for miscreants and crooks
The police prefer to look away; with them, they are in cahoots
But a girl still battles death today aided by a ventilator
Skewered with an iron rod that night, unending was her horror
Demonstrations against this shame were met with brutal force
Citizens showing solidarity were bludgeoned without remorse
The hand that wields the baton to protect civil society
Is now the hand that throttles free voice and liberty
Bad governance, we know is the bane of any nation
Bad policing and lawlessness is responsible for any country’s degeneration
Instead of upholding law and maintaining order
Law enforcers are subdued by their political masters
Whose lack of will to rein in the force given selfish political aspirations
Stems from a sense of indebtedness for furthering their ambitions
Burning state fuel at night they stalk and chase prey
Fleecing shady truckers and wheeler-dealers who operate in markets grey
This extortion by night on city road and state highway
Robs the state of much needed revenue and is an add-on to their pay
Similar incidents happen each day of the year and night
In night’s anonymous darkness or blatantly by daylight
With the force preoccupied in matters so vital
Who will protect our girls and control the crime spiral
The government of the day is callous to people’s concerns
Callous to a daughter’s fate on whom men on a bus took turns
Copyright © Sumit Majumdar
This Poem is about the 'hard to get' attitude ladies portray to interested guys.
Despite my unbelievable swag
repugnance is her reaction to my flow
despite giving no attention to her
she seeks every opportunity to shout "NO!"
I seldom want to be friendly
but she spits on me like a bitter foe
I then don't give a damn about her
and she takes it like a heavy blow
Out of nothing, she creates a scene
but all I can do is shake my head
and say Oh!
the more I mingle, the worse she gets
but I'll not succumb and act so low
she flaunts her male acquaintances for me to notice
Okay! You have admirers, so?
I guessed this is a one time attitude
but it has been occurring seven weeks in a row
When I register my presence around her
her body rhythm increases as if in physio
trying so hard to pretend
makes her seem like a shy dancing Buffalo
Then, I make her seem not existing
it's not my fault; you reap what you sow
signs of her sufferings begin to show
as her body trembles in sight of me
from head to toe
what a pleasant feeling this brings
seeing her drown in her own woe
She concedes defeat and already surrendering
showing by the way she's changing like melting snow
now playing the nice girl, but my ignore?
Makes her want to stone me with a Hoe
I'm beginning to compromise emotionally too
and I'm scared she will get fed up and go
so, I create my chance and kiss her
as she shows her joy like a swelling dough
revealing her hypocrisy, exhibited right from the beginning.
Since this feeling is now reciprocated,
she shrugs off the attitude and dumps it below
as a new damsel now emitting with an everlasting glow.
Copyright © Funom Makama
I would like to pay tribute to a soup poet very special to my heart. I am not using my “tributick” method (though I’m sure she would appreciate the humor) because I want to say more than a few lines will allow.
In our Poetry Soup family we can become perplexed when a poet stops posting or participating in the soup mix. Often we’ve established relationships that feel as wonderful as those with whom we share “face-time.”
Soupers come and go for many reasons. Reasons are as unique as individuals and those reasons belong to individuals. Like individuals, reasons ought to be respected.
Shortly after I arrived at Poetry Soup, another Poet began posting. She eventually shared her life story via blog. It was a story about a miraculous second chance at life. I eventually became privileged to exchange personal correspondence with her.
Her journey, not mine to tell, was unique and inspiring.
Her gift for poetry, amazing. Her sense of humor, contagious.
We shared travel stories, discussed our common interest in bicycling, and, often collaborated with writings exchanged by email.
My last personal correspondence from her was many months ago. A note from our house to hers last Christmas was not acknowledged.
I have her book, Polished Stones. When it came to me from Amazon, its bold red cover spoke to me of the author — outspoken, at times brassy, and yet, capable of writing mesmerizing words the color of the heart.
Of all her poems, my favorite, (the title of which lingers on my mind), speaks of the way I think of Elizabeth Wesley — The Dancing Girl.
Copyright © John Wulf