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Narrative Introspection Poems | Narrative Poems About Introspection

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''and that comes from within''

 ~~

if I had all the money that I ever wanted,
                  I suppose that I could travel the world;

       live in a better home, buy designer clothes and stuff,

  if money was no object in my life . . . 

                     but you see money cannot help me,
each day my health is more delicate, slipping further away;

       and all the money in the universe will not change a thing,
                               this is my struggle and my daily reality . . . 

                                         the things I give myself are simple,

relaxing music to soothe this weary soul;
peace, tranquility and love to ease my pain,
and I ask the Lord for acceptance . . . 

             in meditation I try to fathom the why,
                                           
                      of course, with money I could go to a fancy retreat;
but a corner in my bedroom is set aside for meditation and relaxing,
and it is there I have placed peaceful things that cost very little . . . .

     perhaps with money I could get better drugs,
                but no drug is going to change this girl's destiny;

                                                this I know deep in my heart and soul, 
                       I have for a long, long time . . . 

I think a lot about my past and life so far,

                              the paths I took or did not take;
                              the things I said or did not say,
        could money have changed my journey in any way . . . 

                                     a warm bath, a cozy bed, a sweet purring cat,
                                                    paper and pen so I can write;
               my laptop within reach, a walk in nature listening to the birds,
      a loved one to hold my hand  . . . .

      these are my indulgences and they may not seem like much to you,

                              but I feel like the wealthiest person in this world;
              for money cannot buy happiness nor can it buy life,
                                      all I need is the indulgence of tranquility . . . 

                            ''and that comes from within''



_______________________________-
January 28 , 2015

Narrative


For the contest, Indulgence, sponsor Shadow Hamilton

First Place



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I Am Love


I AM A Father. A Son. A Brother. None are just titles. I live those titles every day through my actions. I am successful at those roles every day. I possess unconditional unwavering love . I AM A Director My profession as much as my titles defines me. It is not just my career it is my love. Directing theatre has my unconditional unwavering love. I am successful at this role every day. I AM defined by my actions. I act on my beliefs. I AM defined by my beliefs. I believe in the fiber of someone's character not their words, in their intent not just their actions. Peoples needs are important to me not just my own. I AM committed to forgiveness, Humans are basically good. The forest is dense predators lurk in the shadows. Fear plays too important a role in too many lives. I help others rather than judge them negatively. I believe Even though the task ahead seems insurmountable we will find our way through the black of these days. People with completely different views can and do bond. I believe We must learn tolerance for without it we are lost. I believe in priorities I do not give too much importance to words and ideas. I learn from nature like the mighty oak I can bend with the wind. I prefer more round tables, less round 'em up. In less locks more open doors, in more heart less knee jerks. I have the strength to accept I die the will to live every day. I worry about the incredible suffering exists away from North America. I Am Love above all else Love It is about put up or shut up. I am anything but silent. I Am one of many in the end that is who I Am. 06~11~2014 Sponsor: frank herrera Contest Name:"I AM"


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Faces Along the Way

Life is but a winding road
Filled with faces along the way
Coming in and out of your life
Coloring your every day

Yet most spend just a moment
A fleeting glimpse before your eyes
They giveth not and taketh not
And cause you barely a rise

And some stay just a moment
Earning a thought upon your mind
Triggers for countless memories
These are the most common kind

And fewer still stay even longer
And commune with you a while
Leaving behind dearest memoirs
Of sweet tears or a special smile

And rarer still those faces grand
Building mansions in your soul
These are the faces of a lifetime
Whose virtue you do extol

And know that you simply are
A feature filled soiree
A portrait in collage 
Of the faces along the way


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When Our Poetry Muse Beckons

Poetry is a highly personal endeavor for all who write
And answer the inspiration of Our Eternal Poetry Muse.

Why do we write poetry?
This a very important question for all of us who “spill ink.”

Poetry for me is a most wonderful magical medium and
An art and methodology which bespeaks the realm of the
Mysterious, Arcane, Uncanny, Mystical, Esoteric, and Divine. 

Poetry is my personal endeavor to master the complexity of
Relating my deepest thoughts and connecting with the reader;
Developing a memorable and intriguing theme or subject;
Choosing the right words and composing meaningful verse;
Finding the best metaphors and the proper tone and balance;
Exploring key theme attributes (to name a few):

	Feelings, passions, emotions, light, dark, happiness
	Sadness, humor, good, evil, intelligence, stupidity,
	Right, wrong, ethereal, ignorance, and indifference.

Our Poetry Muse touches each and every one of us at key times
When we least expect it:  morning, noon, evening, after midnight.

Our Muse, for me, captivates my thoughts and illuminates my soul
While compelling me onward to communicate and share with others
What I see and perceive, sense and feel, think and understand about 
A theme as it resonates in the depths of my innermost psyche.

I know that I have much to say now in my life . . .
Verse, meter, rhyme, tone, metaphors, metonymy, allegory, imagination—
All enliven my efforts and make easier my attempts to mirror my
Thoughts and views to the reading public.

I want my thoughts and doubts, as my passion abounds, to connect with
Those deepest elements of my human psyche and my emotions
In making my written message to be something that is: 
Meaningful and significant, resolute and spirited; 
Full of passion or compassion, humor or sadness, courage or fear,
Strength or weakness, Heaven or Hell, bliss or misery—or whatever
Motivates and inspires the Creative Process for me. 

Our Muse is there with all of us, in reality, to inspire us and help us
To bring passion, meaning, certitude, and direction to our thoughts
As we attempt to infuse these very attributes into our poetic narrative.

Our Muse, in the end, leaves it up to each and every one of us
To go one further step beyond Her ethereal influence and inspiration:
To invest and infuse at the end of this process our own “Free Will”
In making the final decision pertaining to what our final verse or
Narrative product will look like To Our Reading Public.

This is my take, my view on what happens when Our Eternal Poetry Muse
Tantalizes us and awakens within each of us that undeniable Spirit of  
Inspiration, and that giddy zest and irrepressible desire to “spill ink.”


Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved, Schoeningen, Germany (October 3, 2014) (Narrative poetic format)


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AND YET

AND YET?

If one short word could describe Betty, it’s fun
Gregarious, though seemingly loaded, falls short
You’d have to hear her laugh,
Have to see that lovely face blaze in every upward 
      grace
The voice is brown sugar, with hope of loving hugs
      In return
Betty can, on a cold, cloudy day, lift the face of any
      sunflower
Can inspire the weary to play
She is incredible, and yet?

I’ve caught her in a pensive mood
In solitude she is even more lovely, and yet?
This is not the Betty we know, flock to
She’s by the window, but gazes into space, 
Hand on cheek, arm supporting a downward frozen
      stare 
Same auburn hair tied in a bun at back
Same petite, protruding ear, delicate nose and mouth
Same all alluring, adult woman dressed in 
      mid morning attire, and yet?
As though lost in a moment, or bygone moments,
      she is absent from the flash and hilarity of her
      other world


No getting into that descending, unbending tunnel of
      inner cogitation
Our playmate has gone wandering through fields of
      joy, want, and regret, and yet?
There is no doubt Betty will come out from the 
      hiding wings to a loving life, to play another
      day on stage

Dave Austin





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And The Road Begins?

Mornings are dreadful time in life unless waking beside gorgeous woman hopefully 
a not married one  husbans can be such a downer.
And when ya wake to a warm beautiful creature by your side.
And the first thought that comes to your mind is i wonder whats for breakfest.

Then ya probaly cant read the menu to start with and desserve 
to have a oversized weight lifter re arrange your ribs.

Im a southern man once means several things  non of which means im normal.
And this morning finds my yerning for a trip and widespread  mischief.
My amigo had vanished after are trip south of the boarder I remember saying 
to myself as i watched him  running naked across the dessert  being chased 
by the flying monkeys  he was surley seeing after his consumption of a foreign substance 

There goes a fine american.

I would have ran after him  but  but i didnt want thoose things to turn there attention to me 
I herd they had a thing for southern  actscents.
And theres nothing  worse than a bunch of horney flying monkeys trust me 
Ive delt with this problem  befor.

and being it was happy hour i knew my slightly insane amigo would understand 
in all his naked glory.
Besides  I left him some sneakers  and a sixpack.
And kept his credit card for safe keeping.

Naked men have no place to keep credit cards and I figured he was in no state to handle 
money.

So as i sit  behind  the wheel  ready to to get lost in the madness of fast food and
  the ant hill of insanity that is wall mart i turn my thoughts to vegas.
For where would a lost nude slightly insane person  run to and feel at home.

I had turn the music up to drown out the sound of whoever was in the trunk.
I figured if i had put sombody in there  in a drunken moment.
It had to be for a good reason.

And so with slightly hungover mindset are road begins.
and so with that do the games also.
And i figured hanging around with a cops wife wasnt the smartest idea.
That and im allergic to bullets.

My muse and 16 year old spirtiual advisor had phoned me to say that.
I probaly needed to Invest in the spirt of Jack Daniels  today.
And hey she had went to church more than once  so who was I to argue.

With a five five spitfire by the name of tinker.
so with A unknown companion in the trunk not helping my hangover i was off
to the races  Untill next time kiddies. 
Adios and im off to find my amigo.


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The Drying Of The Ink

No longer at desk the typewriter has been given 
it's final rest.
As he cant recall the day or year.

The once strong mind is closed the body
but a museum or tribute to what once was.
he his home but locked within himself.

Vist's from thoose who once knew the man 
are like people viewing a body at a wake.
he calls from within the shell for for release.

Yet his lips will not move his voice never sounds.
Inside he burns for the chance to run as the river
chases the sea.

To be the man they never knew and the one he 
could admire and both despise.

The page sits in typewriter like a willing 
eager lover in bed. 
Waitting in stockings that cling to delicate thigh.
the tears escapes it's minds prison.

He thirsts for it like a drunk for that morning drink
of whiskey waitting hands held togather trying
to keep from shaking.

He sits as a painter without hand.
watching the most beautiful sunset fade without 
a chance of ever capturing this moment.

The ink is drying he feels it everyday.
Soon he hopes like the dust that does gather
he will be swept away.


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A New Road Home

I've passed it by, so many times before
While traveling this twisted asphalt highway
That weathered sign, nailed, so crudely fashioned
To peeling bark, upon the yoke 
Of one ancient, gnarled and battered cottonwood tree 

It marks a fork of the old backwood road
Where gravel branches, bends and sways
    And meanders through the glade
         Where the dry creek bed, goes high into the hills...
            Where poison oak thrives, and secrets hide...

There it is!.... That feeling, that inclination to explore...
 I've had before....
    Stabbing that place of my wanderlust
          My curiosity....
                An old dented mailbox....sitting alone...whose, do you suppose?
                     Where does the mail go?  Does anyone know?

So many times,.....we have passed on by...
I've caught a glimpse, and thoughts would rise...
What lies beyond this fork in the road?
What lies beyond the bend, the turn?...What would we learn?

What course, would we follow
If just this once, we turned, and broke away from the ordinary...
Changed our direction...followed the unknown
Where the creek runs dry
And the banks are rife...
     With chokecherry....and willow scrub
         Where leaves are layered with chalk white dust?...

Will we ever know?
     What lies beyond the fork in the road?....
           As I turn my head, and watch my chance disappear once again....
               Will I ever know?.....

_________________________________________________________________


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Moment of Clarity

Stumbling Through a Bewildering Maze,
Of Thoughts and Dreams, He Finds Emptiness.

The Over-exhuming Haze of a Comfortable
Life Exhausts Him, And He Sinks into Himself.

Words From His Brief Interactions Are Destroyed
By Him, Not Absorbed. It's Killing Him.

Water From His Dusty Satchel, Glints as
He Spills it onto His Lap.

                 -You're Losing it -

He Feels The Stares From Countless Eyes,
And Shrugs it off with Solitude as his Shield.

You've Become The Guy Your Parents Used
To Tell You To Avoid in The Street.

                  - You Wanna Hurt People -

He watches the Cliques of People Enjoy his
Insecurity. No-one Takes him Seriously.

He Picks The biggest Guy, His Shank, more
Powerful Than His Fist, He walks towards Him.

                   - It's About To Go Sour -

His Feet Crunches Aeons Beneath Him, And
Stamps Out His Future Genetics.

The Shank, Concealed in his Sleeve. Here it
Comes, This Was his final mark of Respect.

                   - His Veins Pump Hard -

The Adrenaline Sends Tears to his Eyes,
And Weakens His Legs, he'll Fight or Cry.

The Shank Slides Like Threading Silk Into
His Victims Stomach, Eyes Locked.
 
                    - Control it, Stay Calm -

There Was To be No Assistance, Retaliation 
Was To be Swift, and Effortless.

He Smiled as They Withdrew Their Weapons
From His Chest. 

                     - Fall To Your Knees -

Choking on Muffled Screams, behind The 
Blood and Mucus Filling his Mouth.

                      - Close your Eyes -

The Light Seemed To Bend in and out of The
Dark patches, It hit his eyes, and blinded him.

                      - This Makes Sense -

His Face hits Sand...


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The Phone

The phone rings empty into the night.
Filling a void that brings strange comfort
to thoose around.

Rage eats away untill it bores a hole
straight through are hearts.
Whiskey cauterizes the wound.

Alone with fools we gather.
The bitter ones taking to there barstools.
the weak look to punish thoose happy
bastards.
Who dare to feel anything in the place of  
emptyness.

She left so many years befor.
At least her mortal soul did.
I rememeber when it was when I still
dared to dream.

Long befor reallity was a friend.
Lovers lie.
Motions keep us living.

She spoke but the words were empty as her heart.
So as strangers we parted just as we met.
With a bitter taste I never did reply.

The phone rang it's last time.
I herd it echo farewell down the hall.

I had to go so I never unlocked the door.
i just left my emotions hanging  like some
forgotten coat pushed back in
the closet.

Its been almost a year since that phone filled
the emptyness of my soul.
If only I had answered.


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To Be Repaired

Seems I always come to You when things aren’t going well
Sometimes feeling cursed, deservedly so, but hurting inside
Knowing well I’ve had more than my share of good
Misused the blessings  but kept returning for more
Could have made better decisions, now I see
Could have thought before I acted, now I cry
Feels like a never ending rain as it wears me down
Like an old car that has seen its better years
Engine still runs but without the energy
Too many bad miles and rocky roads
Sunday, think I’ll drop it in the shop
To be repaired. 


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A World on Fire

We live today in a world of great tumult
And of rising uncertainty and anxiety 
Which pervade the world stage like a cancer

Despite soaring technological advances
Our environment and our home Earth
Are bearing an unimaginable burden

People are wondering what must be done
To right these wrongs and adjust our course
Before we turn the corner to “No Return”

Tyranny, Poverty, Disease, and War 
Are still with us today since the beginning
Of time and are mankind’s greatest shame

God may be with us intellectually
But mankind must be self-reliant
To survive an inattentive, distant deity

People see answers to these enigmas
Sounds are made, echoes are heard
But nothing comes back in response

Frustration reigns supreme for many 
Fear and anxiety multiple all concerns
There can never be easy answers

                      *******

Tyranny still reigns alive in many countries
As the actions of tin-eared dictators abound
And are on ample display for all to see 

Poverty is still a shameful, terrible curse
Which afflicts the most unfortunate
And is paid lip service by the wealthy

Disease is a scourge still in our world
And still felt by those most in need
And never enough is done to change this

War is the ultimate insult to mankind
And its wide-felt swath and affliction
Plagues yet our modern, enlightened world 

What to make of all these challenges
Is not easy for any of us to digest
And let alone understand why

Yet understand, comprehend we must
If we want a better world for all to live in
A Sisyphean task at its very best

Man still holds the key to make change
Positive and real for our troubled Earth
But can it ever be really so in the end

Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved, 
Schoeningen, Germany (October 16, 2014) 
(Tercet unrhymed poetic format)


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I'M A SOMEBODY

They listened to your clever lines,
Felt guilty when you gave them blame
Bought in to your stick man stories
The anecdotal evidence you proclaimed

So now adoption is the enemy
Christian families are a villain 
Gotcha day is doom's day
A horror story of joy killing

They believed you, "He was trafficked!"
But if that was true then what went wrong
The dollars would have moved me out of there
If these books were credible I'd have been gone

Of course you knew the true reality
Your agenda was so thinly veiled 
There isn't this army of rescuers
For years adoption numbers have fell

I'm not copy for your editors
Don't care about best selling lists
I wasn't a child for any Catcher's
Those kinds of children rarely exist

You'd think there was an evil industry
By the awful things you wrote
You created your desired fiction
The fact is agencies are going broke

So don't imprison me with narrow labels
I'm just a hurting human being
I'm not a product or a talking point
I'm a somebody, not a something!

No one shopped for me like it was Walmart
I'm a fatherless child, now an aged out orphan
I have a name, hopes, and fears
You sold me out and made a fortune! 

3-10-14

Sponsor: Chris D. Aechtner
Contest Name: Anything Goes


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The Bell My Mother Rang

The 18th of December was her last day;
she neither knew the date nor cared to.
Gathered at the hospital, keeping vigil,
we couldn't overcome her fright, or ours.
The pain, too great to be driven away,
was only "managed" with IV drips,
needles stuck in bruised appendages --
bony things -- arms and legs, hands and feet.
Above the medicines and washes, we sniffed
her scent, which, more than her yet familiar
face, to us identified our mother --
a smell we never would mistake
for any other. It went quickly
as her body cooled. The rouged and pickled
carcass they displayed was more a statue
than a person. We planned to bury her
with homely tokens, like an ancient mummy:
a family photo, a brooch she liked,
a pink hairbrush, and the brass bell she rang
to call her keeper during her last years.
But, when the time came, I could not bear
to see her leave so finally;
I took the bell from her metal box.
And, now, I ring it -- not to bring a keeper,
but to recall my mother on her birthday,
and on many dark days when I need her.


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Freedom From The Dead Earth

where were you when my world stopped moving? 
your hands were there as instruments of pain 
to inflict raw red burns and 
wounds that lay hidden and bruised 
           on a child’s skin and….. 
on tender hearts that can’t fight back 

are you haunted buried six feet beneath… 
as I shivered at night and grinded my teeth?   
  
do you think of me and wonder what shreds 
I managed to piece together of my tattered life? 
  
tell me to let go and forget this hurt 
that winds like poison ivy twisting 
my heart into a mere tenth of what it could be 
strangled in a mass of life eating lies 
and mangled sorrowful soul songs 
                      (mourning the sword slashes)   

you never knew me and would you have cared 
if you did…would you have wrangled with me 
hanging on a hook while you dangled me 
helpless and crying beneath a weeping moon 
that still watches me with helpless eyes 
                                          (pity resting there) 
  
             a child is priceless 
(innocence is worth more than gold) 
            and taking their lives 
unforgivable….so I wonder…are you punished 

do you cry in your darkness 
knowing what you have done 

will it pierce a naked sky with madness…. 
your cry? Or is any semblance of sanity gone 
buried beneath your shawl of rabid dog bites 
and sad listless body 
wasting into the sun as it flows back to earth 
going nowhere as I flounder in my own broken fate 
     (swimming upstream as I slowly drown) 

loss cannot be retrieved.....for it is lost 
                 and letting go 
                                    (finding peace) 
is my way of revenge on you …. 
so I let go now…I am free of you… 

and I toss it all back to you 
careful when you catch it…it burns the skin 

the hands of destiny are crying out to me 
I pull that little girl out of darkness 
and let her see the sunshine again 
as she smiles in to the light and takes my grown up hand 
and I will keep her safe from you 

hate is poison and I let it go….it crushes me no more


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The Captain and I

With the palms of well-worn leathery hands that in younger days guided a Tall Ship round 
the globe many times with the help of stars that still twinkled in his eyes, the old man made 
a porthole in the frosty forest of swirling ferns that had been painted on the kitchen window 
pane by Jack-Frost during the night.

As I sat on his lap, he told me the creaking sound made by the rockers from the rocking 
chair we sat in on the hardwood floor - if he closed his eyes, could make him believe he was 
back with the wind in his sails, rising and dipping and swaying with the whims of the 
waves ‘ore the sea.

Back- and- forth, back-and-forth, we rocked as the porthole on the window pane grew larger, 
exposing the winter wonder land outside where trees and roads and roof-tops lie frozen 
beneath a layer of fluffy snow that looked like icing on a birthday cake, as the house 
softened and swelled in the warmth of the burning kindling wood that snapped and crackled 
in the stove. 

Rocking  back-and-forth, back-and-forth, I asked him, looking into those eyes of green, with 
that far away look. “Grandpa, won’t you tell me please, what lies beyond the sea?”  He 
paused for a moment, blowing silver halos that rose from his pipe in an aroma of sweet 
smelling ‘Old Sail’ tobacco, and with the magic of his words, he took me on a journey, 
rocking across the sea where he showed me all the places and wondrous things he’d ever 
seen.

That was many and many a year ago, in a kingdom by the sea, where an old man, taught a 
little girl, that life is but a dream.

                                                                ~~~~~

                          In memory of: Captain James George the Third - My Grandfather

                                                                   ~~~~~
 2nd place in  'Anything Goes #2 Contest - sponsered by Constance La France 

                                                
Author's note:  

This is one entry of many that will appear in my next book ' A Journey of Roses and Thorns'. 
They are true events that have happened in my life - some where roses, some were 
thorns.  I have learned valuable lessons from both.


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One Simple Twilight

Do we ever really notice them? Those rare and perfect moments? Do we pay enough attention? Do we care enough to keep them safely tucked away? It was summertime I'm not sure of the year We were sitting on our front porch steps Our children were playing in the yard The air was warm, the grass was green and fragrant The sun had disappeared over the trees, and the nearest hill The sky shone with hues of purple, pink and orange You pointed as a first star appeared Then reached for my hand, carressing it with the roughness of your thumb We never thought to get a camera Or to write about this particular moment in a journal We never mentioned it the next day....or the day after that.... Perhaps something we should have done Just so that we would never forget such a perfect twilight....
~ For Frank's Contest: "Stand Out Day" By Carrie Richards


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The Christmas Haunting

The old man had always had an unnatural fondness 
for the animal but could never seem to bond with human easily, 
with the exception of a special, dear grandmother. His mind 
wandered back to his childhood, the Christmas eve of 1958 about 
a special chore that he was required to do of his parents…….

“Being”
To be or not to be
One two three,
Five more to go…
The eight year old counted the puppies his female Border collie 
had given birth to only three days earlier. The words of his parents 
echoed in his ears, “We can’t have so many dogs around the house, 
we can’t feed them all. You will have to dispose of them, 
she is your dog, your responsibility.”  The lad wiped the tears from 
his eyes, as he prepared reluctantly to smash another head against
a large stone which he had selected. “Smash!” not a whimper. 
He had become proficient at this chore.

 “Being”
To be or not to be
One two three four, 
four more to go. 
The remaining puppies snuggled together for warmth in the cold
December breeze. I can’t do this his conscience screamed as his 
young mind reasoned, “You have to, mom said, and dad will be home 
in the evening. You will get a licking such as you have never gotten before.”  “Smash!” not a whimper. The blood trickled down his finger tips.

“Being” 
To be or not to be, 
One, two, three, four, five, 
Three more to go, He looked at the huge stone, “The killing stone” he 
thought as he prepared to finish all three of the remaining puppies 
in one swift moment if possible. “Smash! Smash! Smash!” It was over 
he gave a sigh of relief as he gathered the tiny, still bodies into a small 
shoe box that was to be the coffin of burial. He quickly buried the box 
with the puppies’ corpses inside. He knew this was one chore on Christmas 
eve day that would haunt him for many days perhaps years to come.

In Honor of Carol Brown
And Contest


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Other Side of The Rainbow

It was on the other side of the rainbow
When I slid into a dream
I guess at that time nothing was, as it truly seemed
People came and people went
The needle played my blues
Through the rainbow dreams into leprechaun schemes
I was Papa Smurf with the magic brew
I built a Crystal Castle
On the shores of nevermore
I guess sometimes I wonder, “What was I searching for”
Beauty danced with big brown eyes
Though the faces always changed
Many times I slept with gals I thought were rather strange
Magic slides that no one hides
I wonder where they go?
I once slid down the rainbow just to see the show
The stars are bright it’s a beautiful night
Moonbeams illuminating mushrooms all around
Here by my house crickets and frogs are the only sound
Fairies dance like fireflies 
It’s really quite the sight
Ever tripped down Hollywood and Vine on a Friday night
I have lived through many dreams
Shared many angels souls
Shattered dreams and broken schemes, nothing but empty goals
Broken hearts torn apart
Blowing in the wind
Like fairy dust you just can’t trust
Not even your closest friend
I dove into a crystal pool on the other side of the hill
I swear sometimes in my ears I can hear the ringing still
I rode upon the tornado just to go spinning through the sound
Landed in a concrete room bouncing all around
Leprechauns and rainbows
Unicorn’s beautiful and white
When I finally kicked the horse
It wasn’t a pretty sight
Like a frog on the log or a sick old dawg
Just a skeleton in a box
With the strength of Arthur's sword and trust in the Lord
I shattered a thousand locks
Now I’m back on this side of the rainbow
And every thing’s looking bright
My Guinevere is here and I love her dear
She is such a lovely sight
Trials come like waterfalls
Flooding though our life
I truly am a lucky man to face them with my wife
Well let’s gig the frog and fire up the log
We’ll roast us a pig tonight
Life is good in my neighborhood
Nary a single vice
The other side of the rainbow now seems so very far away
I guess that is really about all I have to say


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Lunch With The Girls

.                           "Listen first,.....to the voice in your head"




Mmmmm, …if we can catch the waitress’s eye, we should order more iced tea…
Can hardly believe it… Joan is still complaining about her in-laws….
Peg interrupts, excusing herself to go to the ladies room
What was that about Barb’s husband burning breakfast? 
It must have been funny.., the way everyone is laughing…
Oh well…
----
          My eyes wander to the window….
          I see some geese in the sky
          Heading north...oh my,…summer has gone so quickly…
          I must get the family together and go out to the lake one more time
          We'll take a picnic, and let the children feed the geese...
          I'll take a loaf of bread just for that,....... 
          But we'll have to watch the children..
          Last time one goose chased Suzanna, and she fell down, ....
          …made her cry,…poor thing
          It is so beautiful on the east shore….hopefully the water isn’t too cold
          Maybe the children can still enjoy a swim…yes…we must do that soon….
 
----               

Oops,  she’s back from the Ladies......
I'd better scoot over, to make more room,.....
Hmm..looks like she's done something different with her hair...   
Joan is still chattering about her weekend with the in-laws.....

----

          How I long to be back at the lake again….on the beach in the sun….

           Oh there…outside the window…a whirlwind has gathered up a few leaves
           Already rust and brown…edges curled with the touch of autumn
                    Yes, ….summer has gone so quickly…
                    


....                  ....                ....                     ....             ....                  ....


For the Contest: Summer's End


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A Walk on the Beach

Morning breaks in cheerful warm brilliance,
pale sapphire sky pristine.
Grey-white gulls glide vociferously above
in search of firma bound fare.
Reflections of Sol’s arms vault from the sea,
smooth but for zephyr stroked folds;
pure, sugar white sand kissed softly
by persistent waves subtle roll.
Soft ghosts of tepid breeze course random,
sensually caressing what be;
long thin-bladed grasses sway lightly
in synchrony and shameless delight.

With bonnet in hand an aged woman strolls 
beside the vast Gulf of blue; 
damp, firm sand squeaks soothingly
against the soles of her tired bare feet.
Her large eyes of brown focus ahead,
bear no witness to her days and shine;
fine flowing hair of luminous white 
draped over shoulders so slight.
A pause, though brief, in quiet reflection,
her gaze upon the distant view
and mind in stoic reminiscence
of past friends and loves and wonder.

His strong arms hold her close tightly,
warmth of body and soul unite,
while gaiety in unbound laughter
disclose love once again renewed.
A tender brush of hand upon cheek
raises fiery passion in both,
as excited young eyes meet in ardor
essence link in eternal embrace.
One warm briny tear born of these thoughts
streams slowly down her cheek,
she slowly walks on as sand squeaks soothingly
against the soles of her tired bare feet.


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Chinese Scrolls

Poems from old and yellowed
Chinese scrolls make me sad,
make me sad: stored in shiny,
lacquered boxes of perfumed teak,
they crumble when unrolled.
And the hands that must have written
Chinese thoughts upon the rolls:
little, leathern, patient hands,
painting poems -- stroke and stroke
and careful, delicate stroke --
stopping, meanwhile, to twirl
a waxed mustache --
for someone else, a foreigner,
who cannot understand, to read,
mull over, and be sad.
And this when Chinese thoughts
are gone, and tiny, trembling
Chinese hands are dust.


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The Perfect Way Home

It's winter's evening, I am driving home.  The bare trees whisper my vulnerability like a secret to the sky.  I've come again to an all too familiar crossroads; the one of dreams and fear.  I stop at the traffic light waiting but I am lost within a cold ocean of myself.  Overhead on the telephone wires, a flock of blackbirds have gathered.  The electric current keeps their toes snug and warm as they chatter; eavesdropping on my thoughts.  I wonder why the birds have chosen this particular place with all its confusion?  Perhaps they are my muse, my witnesses and they wait for a change in the signal too.  With a slight ripple in the wind and the light, their wings lift up in unison and I am lifted too.  I have no need to tarry; I turn towards the fading sun.  My heart is carried by a light haven.  Inhaling a deep breath of me, I pass a billboard that tells me to have courage.  


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Exposition of a Thrashed Soul

she dances to the beat of hollow drums
acoustic guitars with trembling strings
solemn in the archeology of the long buried
(bleeding raw wounds on the moon)
a lonesome flute on a two AM skyline
and saxophone symphonies that weep the air

offbeat sounds and taut muscles swaying
unearthing the sorrow with the echo of songs
reverberate harshly the wail of rain
(it rattles the panes with a shattered reply)

she seeks an asylum of solace from memory
caught up in the fluid ballet of surviving
a dark cloud hovers the streets of her heart
whispers come harsher as the sun finally sets

its alright to cry in a cell of solitude
 (hiding the tatters inside her hands)
buried beneath the soil of eyelids
moistened by tears that tumble downstairs

brown eyes bruised when she cannot shut them
and hiding is no longer an option for her
(her prison holds her chained on concrete)

reality lives like a bile in her throat
and the world is battered by the truth of itself
whiskey would hide only so much hurt
(upon  awakening it slaps you with its validity)
ending up on a dead end road…..

wherever she goes….there she remains….
those footsteps taunt and cannot elude her….

Remembrance is a heavy cross to bear….


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Contemplation of a White Line

There's a white line
Dead center of the empty road
The sky is clear, the sun is hot

I am sitting on the edge of this blacktop world
Waiting for a tow
Some shortcut huh? A back road error in judgement...
Sitting in this no-man's land of desolate boredom
A missed appointment, a disappointed friend waiting
Frustration billows up in the heat of Indian summer

Peafowl graze in the tall brown weeds behind me, hunting grasshoppers
Territorial hens and cocks at their banquet
The patriarch, with his vast train, reigns aloof
In the shade of a vagrant oak, that shadows the place where I sit
One lone hen, wanders onto the white line, and looks at me, with disdain
I am an intruder, in a world I don't belong....

I have been sitting here for nearly an hour
Mesmerized by the long white line that meanders into the distant horizon...
I'm wondering how long has it been
Since I've had such a moment
To contemplate such a trifle...as a white line in the center of an asphalt road

Who put it there?  What sort of man?  Who drives the machine, that paints this line?
Did he do this all day...draw these straight white painted stripes?
Does he give it much thought?  This artist,...this Da'vinci of roadways?
Does he think of the life he might save?
The order this brings?   His touch of white on a blacktop world?
Does he do this all day.....day after day?
This artwork to pay for his wife's medicine?
Or for a son's braces, or a daughter's tuition?
Trivial contemplation, perhaps,  while one ponders by the side of a road.....
You say.....it is just a white line......so what??

To someone....even a trifle....a white line on asphalt....
                           might be important......


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Angelic People

On starry, starry nights
On sunny, sunny days
Angelic people, whose eyes
Resemble wounded deer`s eyes
Angelic, fragile, gentle  
People sadly pray
You can hear their cries
And they say:
`We do not want any more lies
Take your evil deeds today,
And stay out of our way.`


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Hands Across Time


Pink faced, and warm, I stand at the kitchen counter rubbing flour and butter briskly through my fingers into a large mixing bowl... Apples are already peeled and sliced, that lay like petals, pale green, in the pie plate, waiting for a crumbled topping I know they are mine, these hands, I see, deftly working... So skilled, they are, that even I am amazed,.... Even before my own eyes, there is a moment, I watch, from outside myself Yes these hands are mine... proven by the swirls and the valleys as I when I'm asked to write my own name,... as when I scribbled this new recipe, in a familiar, weary yellow notebook Yet, as if I were wearing gloves, my hands seem to live inside the skin of others... I watch their motion and have no control of every small detail, Rote tasks, of which I have seen before No hand has held the amber weight of sun or tugged in summer wind, but silently some root has crooked a finger into the flour, intent to foster a long connection, some ancient comfort, a deep knowing, of heart and bone, of mind, and soul that assures me, I never will stand alone, with flour on my hands I will always have centuries at my elbow
__________________________________________________________________ Submitted for Nette's Contest: With These Hands Carrie Richards 12/21/13 Image #6


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Remains

Here
In this centrifuge of sanctimony
Where I sip the atrophied air of my ancestors
The shipwrecked tide of my unborn children
Angels dangle from a precipice of silence
Strained by strings of a theoretical God
Sung by eyes of defiance
Which navigate the jagged epitaphs below
Searching
For that one sediment of salvation
That one moment of submission
Hoping he will see
His wonders, atrocities, his indifference
To cast a shadow of conviction
Over shivering light
There
Across the inlet where ivory columns crumbled
And modernity now deftly mumbles
Its fleets of fortune baptized
Nigh the bronze dust of golden millennia
Where history lies with its victims
A fugue of fossilized souls
A silent prayer remains
Here


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A Note To None

If I rewrote the story and somehow are paths
did not cross.
In temptations fire.
We would only know the cold of others.

Freezing in the silent agony unable 
to speak.
The statue remains its meaning erased.

As into others we will seek.
The emotions we no longer share.
Alone I am now inthe isolation of many blank
stares.

The jokes are but a wall built to conceal.
All that I am.
That I could never reveal.

Use the substances to keep you numb.
And let the voices take you to another place.

Beyond the madness there lies 
beauthy in pain.
And always truth.
Destruction breeds art.

I light up in a room of vacant stares
and empty lives.
To blind in addiction to know the other does exist.

In this den like some scene from a opium parlor from the west. 
Ashes hit the floor along with my pride.

This battle im losing with devilish glee.
All but nothing is left.
so in the shadows I confide. 

Sometimes wisdom can come from great acts of stupidty 
sometimes pain brings us closer to the truth 
nothing stays buried   it just lays in wait.


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Call Me Gonzo

For thoose of you who may not know.
Just call me gonzo I write the absurd for life is insane and sometimes 
it takes a madman to speak the truth so very clear.

I write for the broken vacant faces that have lost all hope.
To the dreamer who's well is slowley running dry from everyone
telling him to stop wasting his time.

I write like a endless highway fueled by whiskey and wild women 
every adventure leads to pain but life is pain and i love in spite of it.

I thirst for every unseen mile the desert my brother it's people dwell
in the spirt of the west the opium parlors and brothels spirt still linger.
I write with a hint of danger and a promise of disaster.

Im a blues player whos trying to out run the devil.
Im a outlaw riding to cross the border a woman looking to the 
empty range for my return.

I write because I breath in a world were the creative air has gone 
stale.
The bottle sits apon table and I welcome any strangers company
I just rather that stranger be a warm woman instead of a 
unfriendly amigo who is a little jelouse.

Write to be more than just part of the highways landscape.
Some may call me crude crazy insane some even vulgar and 
liar and thief.
But aside from thoose compliments.
No matter what you may call me.
Dont ever forget to just call me gonzo.