The Demon’s Shrill Cry of Dread and Horror
This tale of “The Demon’s Shrill Cry of Dread and Horror”
lives on in the mountain village of Gpeth Tor in the outlying
region of the “Dark Forbidden Forest” known for evil, death,
and lost souls. This tale passeth from generation to generation,
to the present, and still frightens all people who hear its grim
message as it sends an icy-cold chill that stabs the heart of one’s
holy eternal soul!
A young boy who just turned six years heard this tale so told
by both of his parents who shivered with a great palpable fear.
Their story of the Devil’s Demon of the Dark Forbidden Forest
mesmerized this young lad, giving him gruesome nightmares,
whereby the Devil’s Demon whispers cruelly to him in the
darkest corners of his mind and in his deepest moments of sleep!
The young boy’s recurring nightmares show him running each
night deep into the darkness of the Forbidden Forest while both
shouting and screaming his desire to see and to serve this foul
Demon of the Wild, while forsaking Almighty God in his thoughts!
This ghastly dream world each night is like morphine to his brain,
as this young boy suffers, feeling the chains of its merciless torment!
But this story of the boy is now 22 years ago as he’s progressed on
to manhood—driven to the very depths of depravity and insanity
as he witnesses nightly in his padded cell the evil actions of both
Ghouls and Ghosts who’d open up the graves of past rotting souls.
This insane young man now sings paeans with a fulsome alacrity
as he celebrates the shrill and haughty cry of the Devil’s Demon!
Does anyone really believe in happy fairy tales when Hell itself
corrupts the mind and spirit of the young and unsuspecting?
Does anyone believe a young fairy princess who kisses a frog
and says that the frog is now a dashing, noble prince?
Does anyone really understand and believe there are real monsters
who roam the maze of one’s mind crying now into a dark abyss,
while Goblins and Ghosts float freely robbing the living of breath?
The Dark Forbidden Forest of this evil lore does indeed exist, and
it lives freely in the dreams of young village children so frightened
and terrified by the dark-demonic-visage of a bile-black-blooded
Bogeyman who resurrects himself nightly in their true dreams of a
sweet innocence in the place where scars are born every waking day,
as the lid of terror is lifted open, spewing legends and tales of the
macabre stealing the very life-force of heartbeats leading to Death!
The local people of this legend in the village of Gpeth Tor speaketh
freely of shrunken heads in large glass jars deep in the bowels of the
Forbidden Forest, where the threshold of pain and absolute madness
knows no bounds of moderation, and tortured beings and lost souls
cry out loudly as the Dark One takes his due while the broken bones
of those who remain are crossed—weighted so heavy like an anchor!
Invisible and evil forces at the Devil’s command have taken control
of the Forbidden Forest, where nasty beasts with a rabid blood thirst
for torture live in the very cells of the chained and forgotten souls who
have lost their way to Almighty God and His Angels in Heaven above.
Grotesque stories still abound to the present time in this century of the
perverse and maledictory nature of this dark forest that borders so close
to the ancient village of Gpeth Tor—of what can happen to those who
dare to speak of the unspeakable, as Specters of the Undead feast upon
the heartbeats of innocent victims until they are fully consumed, and
their souls are condemned to an unending damnation and agony!
It’s been so many years since I graced my presence again in this ancient
“Village of the Damned.” Mea Culpa! Forgive me! A difficult journey!
I’ve now lost my way into the light and to the holy path to God Himself.
Gpeth Tor and its people live on into this twenty-first century as it is.
The frightful memories and presence of the Forbidden Forest are real,
and are still devouring the very living thoughts and ideals of the young.
Many moons later the sacrilege of this reality still lurks and crawls now
beneath one’s own human flesh as the divine answers to “God’s Truth”
lay, locked far away in the depths of Lucifer’s Kingdom here on Earth!
Gary Bateman, Anne-Lise Andresen, and Liam McDaid
A Collaborated Poem, Copyright © All Rights Reserved
August 20, 2016 (Narrative)
Copyright © Gary Bateman | Year Posted 2016
I’m a tree lining a country road
Along with hundreds of other
Trees in the direction of a verdant
Forest—full of scenic wonder and
Teaming with life.
All of us stand tall and firm with
Such majestic beauty and geometric
Symmetry and precision which is
Evident from the angles and curves
Of each tree and the fact we all
Practically line up in a straight line.
The simplicity and beauty we display
To the human eye disguises the actual
Complexity beneath the surface of our
Existence which could even be likened
To some form of a thought-provoking
We all represent the wizardry of Mother
Nature and the divine thought of God and
Have been an integral part of this Earth
Far longer than Mankind—and do we have
Some stories that we could share with you!
As a tree I’m nurtured daily by our Earth,
But as I take, I also give back and help to
Bring balance to Earth’s daily Carbon
Dioxide output in the greater scheme of
The worldwide environment.
And so, as a Tree, my life and function
As a living organism and an entity here
On Earth is a testament to the wonder of
Creation, and both the marvel and mystery
Of the Universe, and the omnipotence and
Divine power of God.
Gary Bateman and Ingrid Krukenberg-Bateman
– A Collaborated Poem, Copyright © All Rights Reserved
(May 12, 2015) (Narrative)
*Originally written on February 15, 2015 for my new book.
Copyright © Gary Bateman | Year Posted 2015
Slate gray streets made even darker by cutting raindrops
Umbrellas popping up everywhere, people seeking shelter
But I stayed put, wanting to get drained with the rain,
then I hear this tinkling voice that says, “Don’t you just love it when it rains?!”
I look at her wearily and her eyes actually gleam with laughter
Oh geez, this lady was my total opposite. I was brooding, she was brimming.
I power-up my go away vibes, but she was like a darned magnet…
Was I the ferromagnetic one, or was she?
She gushed on the metaphor of rain in her life, and I didn’t feel like drowning.
Listening to her amidst the onslaught was so refreshing, making me thirstier…
There we were, two drenched souls, sitting on the pavement, chatting up a storm.
Of all her descriptions of rain, one in particular stood out for me…
Pearl drops strung on silver strands …
She said, “Rain for me would be silver strands streaking an otherwise somber sky…
pearl drops strung on silver strands, broken by the heavens to share with us.
See how precious it is?” Then she continued on with the metaphor for pearls…
Her words felt like windshield wipers to me, and I could see clearly now
By then, the rains had softened, and a lone pearl drop landed on her eyelashes
-that made me look closer at her eyes… her beautiful, wise, yet cloudy eyes…
I have never looked at rain the same way since then.
For Andrea's and Susan's Silver Strands contest
Copyright © binibining P.iNk | Year Posted 2011
It came from all sides;
above, sideways, front and back. It swept
so fast as though it was being attracted
They didn't know their brains worked
like a heart; pumping in
and pumping out.
Their brains pumped out animosity,
indifference and narcissism
to their lovers, children,
neighbors, and strangers,
only to pump in a deluge of regrets;
it had wars, genocide, racism,
and religious intolerance
drifting in it.
They all helplessly knelt down,
as the dark mass came tumbling
Date of Entry: 8/27/2016
Copyright © Teddy Kimathi | Year Posted 2016
Which way leads to the
land of green white
Which way are we
A country the wicked
bears the rulership, and
the people sighing
A terrible thing sprouts
beneath the sun: a
Imps come to lime-light
by snuffing air from the
goose that laid the
The blind guiding the un
The weak suppressing
the strong-a terrible
Like the overthrow of the
gods at Mt. Olympus by
A country where also
thieves appear as men of
Land of green white
A land where the
enlightened ones are
peanuts given to them.
The masses are dogs that
eat the crumbs.
Which way to go you
Iliterates stand on
podium of power
bellowing orders as milk
of sorrow known as
dividends of democracy
is passed around.
The machine of progress
manned by the
"There is better
tomorrow" we hear.
Land of green white
where rule of law walk
The proles are sentenced
to adversity,and there
endured death-like trials.
Chai! Aru! People
dancing on thorns
whimpering as they
I see a new sun rising
from the horizon,hope is
rekindled as its rays
grace on hopeless bodies.
Look!! there soon be
Copyright © Ifeanyi Bob Ekechukwu | Year Posted 2013
Oh tree to my right how you mirror the left
Tree on the left, with great vigor you grow
When waters run dry, your roots search below
To the ends of all branches; lush fruits like Eden
Hundred thousand leaves dance in the wind
Oh tree to my right what phantom did come
Yielding fruit no more; nor vivid leaves to sway
All branches have ceased, no more but a stump
Fifty thousand leaves dance in the wind
Oh tree to my left so valiant, so true
A whip of your branch & firm grip of the wind
To the right, one seed you give; let life grow anew
Solitude tis as fire bound for a tree, a simple truth to all
Fifty thousand leaves dance in the wind
Oh tree to my right; look, now you're grown
As was, now are; from the tree to the left came your rebirth
Teeming with life & beauty displayed
Hundred thousand leaves dance in the wind
Copyright © Gallagher Goodland | Year Posted 2014
Once upon a time
She was watching the Sun
And she told her; ``Burn me!``
Then she wrote a poem
Which was so beautiful and sad
So beautiful and sad
That she destroyed it
But once, she was watching love
That resembled many dawns
And clouds over a plain field
And she felt that they became
A part of her, and for a moment
Only for a moment she experienced
Something that was whole and complete
And she thought that this particular moment
Defined her life
Copyright © Aleksandra Kovrlija | Year Posted 2013
Long ago I lost a precious thing that used to lift me up as it lifted burdens shouldered with it's way of
tender holding .How barren now that what has left it's mark to shame us .Just in a role and this acheless
rage so apt a trick it lies alone as so in many ways reaching each as it denied us. Tertiary paid in knowledge
first an icon green so paramount.Strip ped barren now and left us naught but naked thoughts of whats
spilled a path while denying everything but woe to us the wickedness to whats yet still left so easily still
Apr 17 at 3:25am · · Like · Share · Remove
Love Fast Run Far
by James P Kail Wednesday April 17th 2013
Like · Edit · Apr 17 at 3:56am
Copyright © jamesp kail | Year Posted 2013
This morning I have carefully slumbered into the bathroom to start the shower
Groggy and tired I turn the control counterclockwise to a satisfying temperature
I step inside the cubical and shiver with the initial shock of water pouring on me
My body starts to melt as the warmth covers me like a warm blanket
Worries and agendas come seeping through the shower tiles like unavoidable green monsters
Clouds of steam give a ferocious roar and the mischievous scoundrels scamper off into hiding,
Knowing that they will return once again
I’m taken to some place new
A beach with sand white as snow and the sun’s rays kissing every inch of my skin;
With the sounds of a soothing melody and a reggae beat off in the distance
I don’t recall the song but find myself knowing every word and sing along,
As my mood is calmed and contented
Copyright © Madison Mittelbrun | Year Posted 2014
The clay goes round and round, on the Potters wheel
With gentle touches, and pressures he creates what he feels
One is a bowl for eating soup, another a cup for drinking tea
Each one is crafted uniquely special, showing his individuality.
Handled with care by the Potter, while still in a fragile state
The Potter continues to mold, until it reaches a hardened shape.
And then the formed handiwork, is set aside alone to dehumidify
Slowly one by one he is joined in like company, no need to cry.
And then to the kiln to be purified, tested in superheated fire
When they're out they are all polished, to a beauty that inspires
When the Potter's done with the clay, it becomes a useful vessel
We are like clay in God's hands, with our imperfections we wrestle.
Our weaknesses, our wrong desires, at times may overwhelm us
Our lack of faith, and hardened hearts, could scheme and impel us
To be used for ugly purposes, which were not intentionally made
We ruin our fragile selves, putting the haughty ego on display.
We know the Potter does not change his immutable eternal purpose
It is us, who must submit, to doing God's will, because it's worth it.
Let him mold you for an honourable purpose!
John Derek Hamilton November 11, 2015
Copyright © John Hamilton | Year Posted 2015
A woodland path stippled with sun, hushed and quiet -
but the path I found myself on was a dark and dangerous one.
I'd been blackberrying - bramble-scratched, branch-slapped -
snapping from barbs berries fat as leeches
seeping blood-juices on my fingers.
Wood anemones opened pale hands to reach for me;
their fragrant star faces enticed me.
They beckoned, pulling me further and further away
from the world I knew and deeper into the wood.
The forest closed around me, trapping me
in a tangle of twining paths and trembling trees,
the ground layered with brown and golden leaves.
Treetops cackled with the black caws of crows,
bushes bled red berries, grasses lashed my legs.
And every time the footpath forked
I went deeper, I went darker.
Tick-tock time slowed to a crawl;
watch hands wound backwards.
The whispering wood grew dimmer;
what little light there was struck trees and disappeared.
Fly agaric mushroomed into blood-raw open sores,
ivy ropes dangled nooses from branches.
Crying was useless; my panic-forced tears were hopeless.
Moles mouldered, luminous with maggots;
rabbits rotted, their throats ripped out.
Sky turned ink-dark. Lonely wood-wild nights engulfed me.
With time, thoughts of home began to fade,
the seething forest seemed friendlier.
Trees were a tease of teal and green,
rippling with strange and teeming life.
Amber algae scorched sunsets on umber bark;
wood sorrel crept, beetles burrowed, lichens came alive.
The forest floor was feathered with ferns
and plush with sponge-soft moss.
Now and again I caught the briefest glimpse of blue,
cool and welcome as water,
and once or twice, through distant trees, I spotted
what I took to be the twinkling lights of a town,
but it was only rainbow flickers glinting on leaves.
I've been gone too long, I'm too far gone.
Faint memories of home still siren-sing to me,
but just when I think I've found the right track
the forest tightens its grip, drawing me back.
Copyright © Charlotte Jade Puddifoot | Year Posted 2011
We find life is just as such
Not giving facts precisely
And meaning not as much
Speaking in forms of reference
Searching to define what is heard
It suggestively leads us to believe
It was really meant in other words
For the analogy of something other
A figure of speech is produced for it
It is given with just so many words
Even beating around the bush a bit
There is such a variety of life about
May be why facts aren’t given to all
As some may take it the wrong way
To certainly cause their downfall
Every insinuation or symbolization
You will find several points of view
Where there are just so many others
To view way differently than you
So we must be careful to others
Of what we say or rather imply
We will be judged for our words
On judgment day when we die
Many times in the matter of love
It is not always honestly expressed
How someone’s heart really feels
Then the joy is lost and depressed
As we verify and clarify in life
Searching to find what is true
There is nothing as it really seems
The bible is full of metaphors too
God says we are to test all things
Then to hold fast to what is good
As written in 1 Thessalonians 5:21
We will then find what we should
A metaphorically speaking life
Must be truly meant to be
For when the truth is found
You will surely be set free
Florence McMillian (Flo)
Copyright © Florence McMillian | Year Posted 2015
Poetic Encryption Like Ancient Egyptian
This terror and threat to poetic clarity,
Becomes a pet rock for some poets.
Words do count for sure, but so does
Clarity unless poets put a mask on.
Encryption can be used to mask
Certain vatic pretensions that poets
Harbor, at times, when waxing eloquently
About some trendy theme or some idea
Or notion deemed as avant-garde.
If hieroglyphics were to be readily used
In our now advanced world of modernity,
Would they be viewed as:
A rifacimento? A renaissance? A code?
It all could be plain nonsense too!
Or maybe not . . .
In T. S. Eliot’s, “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,”
He enchants and captivates his readers to a rare and
Flavorful taste of vers libre, if one might be so bold,
That is selectively sparing, and yet, well-calibrated,
With intermittent sprinklings of superbly crafted
Visual imagery and eloquent tonal alliteration—
And varied meter, rhythm, and rhyme.
“Prufrock” is palpable with emotion and metaphor, yet—
Detached from a ready explanation of the delicious
Power of the words with which Eliot mesmerizes his
Readers with the devout cleverness of a Pied Piper.
One could see the eternal Footman
And hear his snicker—and be afraid;
One could roll one’s trousers;
One could dare to eat a peach;
One could walk upon the beach;
One could hear the mermaids sing;
But will the mermaids sing to him?
Only Eliot really truly knows . . .
The real Prufrockian mien here.
Are not such metaphors there . . .
To make us think?
To enchant our senses?
To play on our fears?
To be emotive?
And, yes . . .
To tantalize our passions?
And, yes . . .
To excite our psychic yearnings?
Yes . . . Contemplation is always vital!
Some poets speak in a self-tribal code.
Sometimes artful obfuscation is the real goal,
And sometimes—maybe not.
A cacophonic scramble of
Demonstrative and passionate
Words, thoughts, emotions.
All so pure and all so real,
And all in the poet’s mind!
All so exact and all so real!
Some, like the legendary Sylvia Plath,
Bring the reader to a forlorn world of
Lost faith, utter despair, and loneliness
In the midst of such a sad dream world.
Plath’s lyric poem — “Edge”
Summons readers to the brink;
Occurring one week before her
The power and symbolism
Resident in this, her final poem,
Point toward . . .
A perfection, A completion,
A tragic tribalism.
Plath’s symbology is both
Intense and compelling;
Forming its own sense of
Encryption while embellishing
A supernatural aura of immortality.
The redoubtable Ezra Pound in his
“Hugh Selwyn Mauberley,” and in
Many other of his complex poems,
Personifies a certain form of encryption
With his use of symbols and metaphors,
A mix of foreign languages, and a definite
Convulsion of syntax which makes for an
Intellectual “Rite of Passage” defying, at times,
A clear analysis and ready understanding.
Pound in “Mauberley,” writes on various
Levels begging much pre-knowledge from
Each reader while amply teasing us with:
His gnomic predilection for novel themes;
His thirst for the unexpected and unusual;
His formidable knowledge and language forte;
His array of uniquely woven word tapestries;
And his referential flair for striking aphorisms.
Pound does all of this so magnificently . . .
All the while forming imagery challenging
A reader’s sense of understanding:
Leaving a sense of syntactical encryption Writ Large!
Always challenging and never ever dull!
That is, if one’s cup of tea is reveling in the complex!
There is a profound literary sense to what some may say
Is Pound’s Janus-faced proclivity for genius and madness.
Pound will not disappoint you regardless of which bipolar
Face you ascribe to him.
Although, contrast and comparison are very important . . .
Yet, I proffer that deep thinking and sometimes actually
Being confused at times . . .
May result ultimately in a true epiphany,
Leading each of us to a spirit of greater understanding!
I end with John Keats, who has left all of us, as poets,
With his immeasurable sense of naturalistic Humanism.
Keats’ pursuit of metaphor, nuance, descriptive imagery,
And sagacious symbology reflect the highest degree of
Poetic mastery and a strong sense of perspicacity obvious
In all of his works!
Keats also uses a type of poetic encryption—
With his diction, imagery, thoughts, and verse syncopation;
He’s quite elegant with his varied and fluent thematic reveries.
They’re always a joy to decipher, while leaving us to bask in
Their powerful sense of clarity and persuasive meaning!
Many of Keats’ works reflect this form of encryption . . .
“La Belle Dame Sans Merci”
Particularly comes to mind in this instance,
As well as his famous “Ode” narratives;
And his superb Grecian epic fragment: “The Fall of Hyperion,”
Presents the reader with a veritable smorgasbord of contrasts
And imagery, and an imaginative view of the classical conflict
Between the Olympians and the Titans!
Divining the complex, chaotic, and unpredictable
In our world of arcane symbolism and imagery,
Reflect the modern world we live in today.
Poetic Encryption is indeed . . .
So like Ancient Egyptian!
Hieroglyphics, after all, form their own
Sense of imagery and word pictures . . .
Analogous to what we do today with the
Words, images, metaphors, emotions, and
Symbols in our poetry!
Poetic Encryption is so like Ancient Egyptian!
Amen! Amen! Amen!
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved,
April 25, 2016 (Narrative)
Copyright © Gary Bateman | Year Posted 2016
Oh how frail is the life of mortals
Look at how our tongue treasures the taste of food
Without oxygen we die
We sleep as though we're dead
I've seen demagogs rising and falling
History hasn't been fair to their very great powers
In our virtues, our pride lights our vice
Oh such hypocrites at heart
Oh how our desires hook us like fish bones
Into doom we gleam
Until we see our fragile weakness on Earth
True repentance is just a dream
I've seen the Light I believe
The truth of God who lived as man
His sacrifice made me free
Oh such a hope of eternity I share
Copyright © Jacob Owusu Sarfo | Year Posted 2013
No! Cut this piece here!
No! Not there!
Why didn't you cut it right?
says Princess StepSister's
jonesing for her next pork chop.
I would have finished
but you bellowed me away
in your Ugly StepSister voice
demanding from open refrigerator door
that collard greens must stop evaporating
behind your eyes.
Did you just call me a StepSister?
I'm just saying
you think you're a Whatever Princess
but you don't act like one
because, as you know,
princesses are always kind
and say please and thank you
and not whatever,
and seldom if ever bark and bite
at the hands created to lovingly feed them
for the next several years;
while Ugly StepSisters
act like whatever bullies,
talk like ballistic assault weapons.
Which is why
Cinderellas are selected to dance
with Prince Charmings,
and thereby become kind Princesses,
rather than stuck in Ugly StepSister roles and rules,
harping at Prince Charming Dads
to cut their pork chops faster,
if not yesterday.
Would you cut my pork please, in smaller pieces,
and not take your usual gimpy time, thank you?
Why of course my Princess,
I love to live your Prince Clumsy.
Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2016
Among the flowers of beauty bright,
Upon leaves of green I sight
Graceful webs of intricate fashion
Of labor and of passion.
No architect so proud can craft this shroud;
Its sticky vines of ensnaring gloom
Tell little of an impending doom.
Hidden fangs await the unwary,
The thirsty, the greedy;
Entangled vivacity thrashes about
With a dreadful shout.
The spider’s banquet is short and rich
As it savors every twitch.
No prying eye will dare to spy
On death’s descending cry.
At dusk it drops from a canopy sky
To taste the spoils from its ravenous eyes.
Death wrangles a martyr, wraps it in twine
Then dangles it from a vine.
Flowering sprouts enjoy the morn,
Marveling at the horde of spiders born.
A cloud of spiders take to flight
On currents of air lassoed
Copyright © Jonathan Bellmann | Year Posted 2012
He thought of himself
as a cartoon, a famous one
in a grand newspaper,
having adventures, one by one.
Better to be a cartoon
than to live a life not wanted,
jumping off a bridge
not being proper option.
So he grew a cartoon tummy
out of all proportion...
Better that than on the gravy train,
choo-chooing its way towards extinction.
Copyright © Julia Ward | Year Posted 2015
Last knight Eye dreamed Eye was a dragon with wings made from disdain and shaped like quaking fear that burned holes through my subconscious imaginings. Eye was gliding soundlessly thru dark clouds, thunder, and rain, while the Slayers stood below, grounded in tyranny and trying to pull Me from the knight sky...Then Eye could hear, then Eye watched thru Dragon-I's as arrows joined my flight...trying to penetrate the hard scales of My spiritual skin. The muted sharpness of the arrows' dancing ricocheted off of Me.
Then Eye cried. Not in agony or pain or sadness...no
Eye cried in echoing defiance of the oppression of blind slavery and meaningless denial. Eye belched blue and green flame and roared aloud--as loud as my Dragon-voice would carry. Eye scorched the minds of the lie-ers and self-made martyrs (there, the ones who were carrying the omission of Truth of this world).
The Slayers still stood their ground. They kept circling around and around under Me...but Eye kept pumping My neck, Eye kept beating My wings, but still the Slayers came...more and more of them...
Eye dived down deep toward their barren landscape (My Own Hunting Ground!!); Eye needed to see their torn, hated faces...Men, all. They kept their hoods drawn, their faces hidden from My I's. But their bodies were bare and naked to My Dragon-flame, naked to the force of My righteous wrath. Eye swept down closer, closer until Eye could smell the scents of their sweat and dried blood (of conquered servants before), and Eye could see, even count, the dark hairs sprouting from greasy, dirt-clogged pores. Eye could see that some bore vehement scars, jagged marks streaking across their man-flesh.
Their weapons were crude, mostly: wood axes, scythes, cudgels, kitchen knivez sharpened to a murderous edge...the only sophisticated armaments were their bows, their arrows. The bows were of blood and bone and tendon and blind fear, the sinewy string woven with acceptance of the Truth...how odd (the Truth that they must stand and fight a common enemy as a single unit, that they must stop war amongst themselves to do so)...and their arrows were bound with Hope and Reason, that Eye would die before them, that they would live on. The bows were more beautiful than the Slayers deserved to wield, but they commanded them with such grace and poise and proficiency...
The Truth is Eye, the Dragon-Knight, and the Slayers are all of mankind's fear and war and social stigma among thorns...
Their bows were the making of Truth and Love and Acceptance, only constructed and command-able when mankind will stand together and open their I's and see.
Copyright © Lauryn Jean | Year Posted 2013
"I agree," Bayard murmured while looking at the few people walking I across the street. Summer was over and the boy was beginning to get frustrated at the sight of girls wrapped in blankets of clothes.
"Bayard do you even know what I just said?" Lyel interrupted his brother's observations. "Could you at least pretend to care once in a while?"
"I heard what you said man, relax." He took the cup off of the table without bothering to turn his head. He sipped his coffee in the most nonchalant manner.
"I hope that caramel frapuchino is to your liking. It cost some people money you know."
Lyel turned his attention back to the small pile of papers sitting on the table, "Mhm how to end this chapter. Maybe I should end it with the girl confessing."
"Stop with your story for a while or two and take a look at the outside world. By the way don't forget to give that girl a body that makes the guys stare."
"No. See you weren't paying attention when I was telling you about my story. Women don't need bodies for a man to love them. Why do I even share my ideas with you?" Lyel placed the papers back inside a blue folder.
"Because you have no one else. Finish your coffee after all you paid for it. The coffee here is good after all."
"You almost did not want to come in here in the first place."
"That's because this place looks like crap from the outside."
"Anyways how was trick or treating with your friends yesterday?"
"Finally a topic that doesn't involve your lame romances. It was one of the best ones so far. We went to this neighborhood on the west side of the city. Bro you should have been there. Haha a whole neighborhood full of girls with sexy Halloween costumes. I couldn't decide wether the chick with the devil costume was better than the one with the cat costume. Man awesome night." Bayard placed his hands behind his head and laid back on the chair.
"What about the haunted houses? The candy?"
"There was this one house where there was a graveyard and zombies. This girl was too scared to go in it. So I told her I'll hold her. We all got good candy in that house."
"I hope you saved some candy for me too."
"I did. Some candy corn. I'm pretty sure you like it."
The waiter went to the brothers' table inquiring if they needed anything else. Lyel politely declined and thanked the waiter for his kindness. Breakfast was almost over and the scent of coffee was beginning to fade. There was only a few people in the shop. An old man lost in the swirling of his coffee and a young man sitting in the corner reading.
"So as I was saying. When I got home I ate some twix and kit kats, but then I found this box of chococate chips. Strange because this was the first time I received this box before."
"It must be only in that neighborhood."
"I opened it and at the top was a raisin. One raisin in a box of chocolate chips."
The sound of the bell on the front door rung more frequently as the hands on the clock tired in their endless cycle. Lyel's coffee no longer had steam. It was getting cold.
"What did you do with the raisin?"
"I threw it away and ate the chocolates. What else would I do with it? I was there for the chocolates."
"Eat the raisin. Why would you throw away a perfectly good raisin away?"
"No one choses the raisin over the chocolates man. Why would you? What if the raisin was poisoned?
"The raisin is ten times less likely to be poisoned than the chocolates since there are more brutes than intelligent people."
"Hey stop being a smart ass. Let's put this in real world terms alright. Let's say the chocolate chips are the hot girls in the devil and cat Halloween costumes. The raisin is some ugly chick in a chipmunk costume or something. Who would you chose?"
"The girl in the chipmunk costume. Looks have nothing to do with my decision."
"Bro are you serious? Even if you were insane that is a no-brainer."
"And that is exactly what is wrong with society. No brains. I'll pick the raisin over the chocolates any day and I'm sure I'm not the only one. Even if I was I'm not afraid to walk alone in my opinion."
"So what you are saying is that instead of a box of chocolates we should give a box of raisins on Valentine's day?"
"Maybe we should since people have forgotten what really matters."
The shop had more people now and people were beginning to stare at the two brothers arguing. Bayard noticed this and took the last sip of his coffee. He brushed his dark hair back and stood up. "Whatever I finished my coffee. Let's go."
Copyright © Andres Rocha | Year Posted 2015
You're sitting alone at the bar of the coffee shop and you've got the usual.
black decaf latte, today's newspaper, and that pen that smears blue ink.
It’s the same every night, that's why you come back. Monotony is relief.
The only move you've made in what seems like hours was to refill your drink.
You stare at the latte like you’re about to open a gift.
Lifting the cup high, your lips sip the heavy cream.
Tired eyes watch the frosted window and the drift
that carries the uninvited snow effortlessly past you.
The room behind you is burning loud with conversation;
The same arguments, theories, solutions
It's a sickness stuck in the same old rotation.
Like hopeless addicts, they fiend for absolution
There’s talk of Plato’s cave that shrouds enlightenment.
Others discuss Gandhi’s hidden path to the same effect.
They repeat wise men’s words in circles they invent,
leaving what’s more than a hint of ignorance to detect
The sun sets and you're blinded by a glare as you look to the skyline,
the light glows as it sits atop the trees; you look down with a sigh.
Through the window you catch the eyes of a battered man, the look of isolation and despair intertwined.
The man’s face, streaming with tears, tells a story of one too many goodbyes.
What difference does this man make, which he is or what he needs?
You’ve seen it all before; a different movie, the same old theme.
Plus, the tilt of his head and pain in his eyes speak for him of his own misdeeds
Your stare stays locked as you say out loud, “things are always what they seem.”
You have a heavy feeling bring a question that stays planted in your mind
You wonder now if you walk the very path that hollowed this man's eyes.
The thought turns into voices, the words they say are all entwined.
Getting louder now, the more you try to block them out, the more they intensify.
Copyright © Jackson Kilgrow | Year Posted 2012
She felt her own energy;
like a new universe forming. The fingers
that were rubbing between her thighs
made her adrenaline to shoot like stars, planets,
and moons parting away from each other forming a
Universe. The orgasm she experienced triggered a chain
reaction within her, that made her body to feel new and replenished.
Her face glowed in different shades of red, as she gave out a soft
aaahhhh...... from her cherry-tasting lips.
Her bed felt cotton clouds in the night sky. It was the most divine sensual
feeling she had ever experienced!
Contest: Hotsy Totsy
Copyright © Teddy Kimathi | Year Posted 2015
This poem is dedicated to my mom.
A mama robin was granted a divine gift
And she began to form her new precious jewels,
The pain she was in while carrying these marbles,
Oh how burdensome they must have been.
She did not complain,
But instead rejoiced over her incubated prizes
Soon after conception she laid her bright blue eggs,
Fawning over the glorious miracle she birthed
She prepared for when they would wake
A busy fourteen days of enlarging her home and scouting for food.
She would spend most of those days plump on her prized possessions
Her children awoke from their slumber.
Tears filled her eyes as she saw their precious faces.
As the years went on her baby birds began to grow.
She knew they would all leave the nest someday,
But she never expected it to come so fast.
“Mama. Why do you love me?”
asked one of her little sons.
“Why? Well that’s a silly question.”
“Because hun, you give me a new reason every day.”
“I love you too, mama”
That feeling she got every time she looked at her kids
Was something so supernatural,
Her love for them was never ending
Never once did she complain.
Never once did she have regrets.
Yet she sacrificed so much.
That mama robin grew old,
And after bearing ten beautiful birds,
She never once left their side.
She sacrificed her dreams for her children,
And realized her true dream
Was becoming a mama,
A mama bird.
Copyright © Brian Byrne | Year Posted 2015
Once upon a time,
some ants lived happily together in their nest.
Birds, rabbits, frogs, and beetles
admired and envied their harmonic way of living.
One day, a wasp invaded their space;
it forced itself into their home,
with its dark, scary sting and body.
All the ants ran away for their lives,
except for one tiny ant - he stood
right in front of the wasp's sting!
The wasp was irritated and amazed
by this young insect's courage.
"Do you know you are no match for me?!"
the wasp scorned the young ant.
The ant was unshaken and unmoved!
"Together we can outmatch you!" the
The rest of the ants felt the burning
courage from the young ant’s voice,
and rose up in arms to fight the wasp;
to fight for their home
to fight for their freedom.
The wasp’s sting was no match for thousands of ants.
He was carried and thrown into a bird’s nest,
where he became the birds’ meal.
The young ant, from then on,
became a hero. He was knighted by the Queen Ant,
and from then on he was called Sir Victor.
Copyright © Teddy Kimathi | Year Posted 2016
It came spiraling recklessly,
and they let it carry them anywhere
it wanted to go. There were trees,
fishing nets, a tractor, a swinging chair,
people.....anything that crossed
Neighbors who lived secret lives
a cow was so air-sick that it puked
out a boy's toy he thought was
stolen by his father,
to sell to get gambling money;
pens rubbed themselves against books,
writing stories that no one had the courage
to write about himself or herself.....
everyone could see the reality in the eye
of the tornado. Soon,
the tornado faded and left them vulnerable,
"Truth can be so messy,"
an old lady whispered.
Copyright © Teddy Kimathi | Year Posted 2016
Lying in an ocean of her own blood
drowning in her own blood.
Her lungs burning from the bullet wounds
she never thought this is how her
life would end. Her tears start to flow as
she thought of the years she spent
snakes. Her job at the BNB bank made it
easy to launder money for the Black
It was six years ago on June the sixth that
her life went to hell. Upset at the thought
of being late
for work Kenya floored the gas pedal.
Weaving in and out of traffic hoping she
didn't get a ticket.
Arriving at the BNB bank right on time.
Kenya rushed inside and greeted everyone
with a warm friendly smile.
A short while later the most attractive man
she had ever seen entered the bank. Lost
in his good looks Kenya had to find the
words "May I help you?" He introduced
himself. "Yes my name is Malik Maxwell
Williams. I would like to open an
account". "Mr. Williams please follow me
to my office". Malik was in Kenya's office
for twenty minutes before making his
departure. Kenya made it up in her mind
that she would get to know Malik on a
Written by Keith Edward Baucum aka Red
Seven aka The Green Poet aka The Brown
Copyright © Keith Baucum | Year Posted 2014
The three kings fought hard
to open the door that led to
riches and immortality. Each
one of them had a key of different
make. The door's key hole was quite
big for their keys to fit right.
Cannon balls, sledge hammers, logs,
and wrecking balls couldn't break
the door. No scratch or dent could
be seen on the wooden door!
A sage from the land of riddles
once told them they had to melt
the three keys together,
to make a big key;
they all refused.
They still stubbornly believed each
of their keys was the right one to open
the wooden door...
Copyright © Teddy Kimathi | Year Posted 2016
He could see words,
but could not read what she had written.
A paragraph was as difficult as deciphering
telegraph dots for the first time. Cluelessness
was washed all over his face.
"Honey, what is this?" he asked.
"A letter written for you," she replied.
She could tell from his face he couldn't read
the language of the heart. She had to make him
Collected every word and every letter,
minced them up in her thoughts,
and read them aloud to him.
He was devastated. The clues were all there standing
right in front of him; a suitcase and cold hands.
She was leaving him. They didn't speak the same language...
Copyright © Teddy Kimathi | Year Posted 2016
Cannon Beach, Oregon
Silver rain wrapped her flowing fingers around Douglas Firs. Ocean was the blue ballerina dancing upon the stage of sand. Finally, the rain receded, and the cloud curtains parted their fleecy flair. Full moon bloomed from night's womb, and twinkling sky wore her as an Olympic medal.
Flash after flash, Cassaro took picture after picture.
Suddenly, to her haunted horror the landscape changed.
Full moon transformed into Death's skull while stars shined as his eyes. Evening became his ebony cape, and clouds climaxed into his sickle.
Oh the sight!
Oh the sight!
Cassaro's boss Death strutted in his skeleton stride towards her. She whipped down hot whiskey and sighed as Death entered the hotel room.
"Pinstripe Mouse, I have a mission for you. You are.. "
Cassaro ignored him and drank more.
"You drink too much cheese."
"Now, I desire steel cheese," Cassaro said.
She placed the bottle down on the counter. Then, she reached in her pocket and unleashed her stiletto. Cassaro grabbed Death's bony neck and threw his ghostly presence into the hotel wall.
"Go ahead, try to de-claw Skeleton Cat," Death said as he winked at her.
She threw her knife down as if it were a dirty wash cloth.
"You need your plethora of pills," Death said.
"You need to polish your bones."
"Again, I have a mission for you. You are..."
Cassaro snatched up the empty bottle and smashed it into the wall. Shards of glass slid down, then crackled upon the carpet.
She screamed, "Let my mortality melt into mush! Let my skull sink into the sands of the afterlife! Let me be just bone!"
Death slammed his scythe into the floor with such fury that the hotel room shook like an earthquake had hit. He ripped off his regal robe and threw it into the wall where it transformed into a flat screen. His sickle shrank into a remote control. Pictures of children appeared on the monitor.
"There are twenty children this week alone you can save. If you choose to die, then they will..."
"Only if you become flesh and blood," Cassaro said as she eyed his skull.
Life surrounded him like ivy in the forest, climbing bone after bone. Cassaro glanced into his amber eyes and smiled with lace tears.
"Death became man and walked right into the history books," she said.
"The mission begins in Russia," Death said.
They both turned into steam and disappeared.
Copyright © Chantelle Anne Cooke | Year Posted 2015
It’s good to get together as friends and confreres
like in table fellowship or religious convocation
and then, enjoy the company of each other’s culture
as Italians, Colombians, Filipinos or Brazilians.
The day after Easter Sunday adds another occasion
for us Scalabrinians to be reunited at this point in time
sharing the gifts of food, life, humor and relationship
with a space for fraternity, some updates and good wishes.
Truly, it shows the spirit of oneness and fraternal fellowship
sharing the commonality of our commitmment to faith
as brothers in Christ and members of our Founder’s order,
the religious congregation that cares for migrant people.
There’s much to do and plan for what we aim to materialize
in today’s world where migration poses a huge issue
like a salad bowl with mozzarella, tomato and olive oil
a metaphor for migration that deals with human cultures.
Described in the Bible as a growing missionary virtue
hospitality as a key to open one’s heart in this journey
With fearlessness and confidence, it’s a major issue
depicting the picture of global movements raised in action.
Our days of darkness, our bickering confreres in places –
where community life matters and features one’s emptiness
in dealing with one another in our quest for human and divine.
it’s indeed a challenge and will always be a test of faith, thus far.
This helps us understand through our setbacks, pains and joys,
with friends around and those who share with us many times
those sacred stories of being called to worship God and be present
especially in the Eucharist that nourishes our souls to be whole.
Copyright © mark escobar | Year Posted 2012
Why be worried all the time ?
We're not doing the crime ?
We be fine
Why obey the rules ?
We be fine.
Parent's just can't stop being strict.
They tell us and show the strictness concern because they so called love us.
Sometimes when we are teenagers we get sick of it and fed up it was cool when we were kids for them to be concern but at our teens they always proceed to stay worried.
As long we don't don't drink
Don't do sex
Don't ditch school.
Don't break the law rules.
We be fine.
We feel in our teenage minds that they don't trust us to date so young.
Puppy love is like a form of immaturity love transform later on as real love while it grows and grows and rises.
Parent's have their rights and words to be strict.
Have their destiny's to put a curfew on us.
Have their right to not allow their daughters to be unprotective near dangerous deceiving boys and not date them.
My honest opinion is if they are going to date then they should meet a guy that is not twisted with sexual intimacy behavior and treacherous behaviors , but instead act like a decent gentlemen with loyalty honesty creativity great character integrity and a great expression.
Parent's want whats best for the kids.
They been through that stage of young age.
They know what it's like to be young and dumb.
But to me they will never release that strictness.
Don't ditch school to act cool.
Don't smoke at a young age.
Don't do drugs at a young age.
Don't dink at a young age.
Wait for the right time to date.
And accept the fact that Parent's just will never release that strictness you can't live with them then you can't live without them, because they all you got they are your role models and lastly your guardian beloved angels.
Copyright © Cmack Estevez | Year Posted 2016