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Narrative Nostalgia Poems | Narrative Poems About Nostalgia

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Details | Narrative | |

Will You Tie My Shoes When I Grow Old

You were beautiful, 
my tiny child, 
wrapped tightly in my arms, 
close to my heart.
I listened to you breathing.
I counted your fingers
and your toes.
you cried out to me
and I loved you
with every ounce of my soul.

Will you hear me
when I cry out? 
Will you hold me close
as I held you then? 

I remember the day
You took your first step.
There was no stopping you.
Your feet gave you freedom
to explore the world
like never before
but danger lurked.
I opened those doors anyway, 
and introduced
you to the world.
Where will you be
when my legs
no longer run? 
no longer work? 
Will you realize
that I love
freedom too? 

I laugh
about that day
you first tied your shoe.
We tried and tried
to get that rabbit
in that hole
and you finally did it.
You pointed your toes
for everyone to see
how proud you were.

I am proud too, 
of my writing
and my drawing, 
of my needlework
and my cooking.
But my hands are beginning to ache
and my fingers will not bend.
I will lose the things
that make me proud
except for you.
Hopefully not you.
Will you let me
brag on you? 
Even tell wild stories
that are a bit beyond the truth? 
Will you be proud of me too? 

I waved good-bye
that morning when you left
on that large, yellow bus.
I was so scared.
I know you were too.
You waved at me bravely
through the dusty window
but I saw the water
forming in your eyes.
You came home, however, 
full of pride and joy.
You sang the alphabet song
and got most of it right.
You practiced for hours
until you could sing it
even in your sleep.

I'm afraid.
I forgot
whether I took
my pills today or not.
I forgot
if I told this story before.
I even forgot once
who you were
and it terrified me.
My mind
is my treasure
the only thing I have left, 
and I heard you make
fun of me
for not remembering
that I gave you the
same gift as last year.
Will you love me
when I no longer
know who I am? 

You came home blushing
from the glow of
your first kiss.
Your first love, 
the one you thought was real.
You talked about him non-stop.
You changed for him. You gave.
But he left you anyway
for a blue-eyed girl
and I held you
while you cried for him.

I too have a
broken heart.
The love of my life
left me after
fifty-six years.
He left me here
to live life on my own
while he moved on
to another realm
And I cry for him too.
I long for his shoulder
and strong embrace.
I feel betrayed
because he and I
made a deal
that we would never
leave the other alone.
Yet I am alone
sitting in an echoing house
with no hands to hold.

You welcomed her home today- 
your tiny baby girl.
She has your eyes
and possibly your toes.
I see you counting them
as they roll me
into the room.
You finally came
to visit.
It has been a while.

You look up at me
with tears in your eyes
and ask
almost desperately, 

"Will she tie my
when I get old? "

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On the southern side of the old cemetery, corner of Gilmore and 1st, there was a field claimed by children. It was riddled by gopher holes, and nettled with blackberry bushes where bare feet constructed cupped paths, trampled deep in tall amber grass. It wasn't far beyond a patched wire fence that hemmed my Grandmother's russet old house. Westerly whirlwinds would rattle the ragweed and seeds of the bull-thorns, that prickled our toes would race with the tumbleweeds, once tossed into rows like last winter's snowmen, the sun decomposed Traces of honeysuckle mixed with wild rose from Grandma's old arbor, which loomed in the distance A rusty old weathervane, cruised 'round, and 'round The ivy was overgrown, and a sleepy dog snoozed But, deep in the field, was a land of our own A place we called 'Neverland', our loft in the wind In the yoke of one tree, with the help of our dad a fort built of scrap wood, from piles by the shed, And by hook or by crook, I would take all commands from my brother's wild brainstorms, while his black plastic hook, assigned him the Captain, and me of his crew of a ramshackle ship, like the old storybook While I dangled in air, from the tired old swing "Tinker" my this all-boy domain.... I would push off, he'd pull me right up to the sky and into the branches, brittle leaves in my eyes...... I would fly to the depth's of a steel gray-blue sky I could grovel, and shovel, to have his approval........ for he was much older, much wiser than me and I would play like a tomboy,.....shoving doll-drums away, on those hot summer days......with red hot splintered rays in the dry summer sun, that would spotlight our play. We would play until twilight, and watch the day fade Defying all gravity.......I could see to eternity Tootsie Pops clinging to the tip of our tongues while the sun of the twilight, dipped over the dunes and the call of our mother, slipped over the moon
____________________________________________________________ Inspired by Charlotte's Contest "Places" 8/22/14

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An Escape

Have some time to spare in-between a work schedule 
burning me from the inside, out.
Wasted too much time on the computer already,
my body aches from physical inactivity.

Thoughts are racing faster than the speed of light,
the routine of modern life is trying to cage in a free spirit-
a pen for a wild horse with boundless energy,
a strong kick and large teeth.

Haven't come down to this part of the bay for years.
Not sure why anymore?
Not too sure about anything right now.
Believed I was too young to be having these thoughts,
but here they come like a booming drum beat,
keeping time with the pounding of my heart,
but always just a little louder,
to remind me how this warning isn't about to depart.

The putrid stench of kelp and dead crabs
baking in the afternoon sun,
curls up my nostrils, awakening memories of childhood....
....the salt in the sea is the salt in my blood;
we have been one since conception.
The salty, deep green rot, smells like bliss to me,
compared with the scents of over-heated wires,
burnt coffee, and industrial-gray carpeting.

Sit down on a large chunk of driftwood.
The waves aren't crashing in their usual rhythmic crescendo,
but lapping quietly like chortling laughter.
The ocean is chuckling,
laughing at my insignificance
in comparison to its almost limitless horizon 
of cruel, cold water.

A familiar pungent aroma creeps my way-
the high citrus scent of bergamot
mixed with the sweet perfume of skunk.
Two young punks are hauling on some reefer
up the beach from where I am sitting.
Can hear their youthful, carefree chatter.
The last time I smoked weed, seems eons ago now.
The smell invokes the rebel still alive inside,
giving a glimpse of who I had once been-
eyes blazing red,
mind full of humble awe
flying high above the clouds like an eagle.

The shrill cries of gulls fighting over a starfish
breaks my stupor of reminiscence,
reminding me of the hungry ways of nature-
the hungry ways of mankind and money.
Damn! My stupid job awaits!

As I make my way back,
pant legs causing the sand grass 
to sigh in dry moans and whispers,
I make up my mind to visit 
this old stomping ground more often.
In fact, I might start coming out here
on all of my lunch breaks.
Out here, the wild horse has ample room to roam,
even if for only a few moments of escape-
an illusion of escape is far better
than having only stifled dreams
and no hope left at all-

feel much better already.

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Mississippi Moments

History journeys along with its meandering flow as
a wide birth from bank to bank has eyes straining
trying to see across to the other side, far too wide.
Muddy rivulets stirred up by the river boats drift by
and my dreams become intertwined with what
I have read and the sleepy house boats floating near 
the banks that the river dwellers call home.

A huge stainless steel arch with its catenary curve 
looms gracefully nearby as a gateway of welcome,
built as a monument to Thomas Jefferson and the
pioneers who braved making their way to St. Louis, 
why it is fondly called “the Gateway to the West.”
I felt as if the Arch was paying homage to the mighty
Mississippi with its tall shadow falling on her erratic waters.

Children were waving from the banks at contented tourists 
waving back as they drifted slowly by and time stood still 
with the music of the river taverns mingling with the 
contrasting sounds of riverboat whistles, and I drifted along 
with them sensing serene pleasure into another time and place.

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Life Is What You Make It

Birth was suppose to come easier than this.
I pant quickly as I was taught, 
but it isn't helping, nor does squinting my eyes.
But again, the pain evaporates for a moment
like the tears in the corners of my eyes.
It fools me in thinking it is almost over now, and I try to relax.
But all I can think about is my mother
and how different it was for her, 
especially, since her young husband was so far away

My back aches, and once again, I look for the owner of the mysterious voice
That voice is my own...
I groan, and the doctor finally makes a quick-fire decision.
I am given a block for the pain, an incision is made,
and although I feel numb, and my mind is foggy,
I can feel someone's hands groping, 
... a tug, a void, and then...a small noise...       a baby is crying...

The next several hours are a blur
until everything is clear and I'm back in my room
on the sterilized sheets, too stiff, and too sleek, 
too fragrant of bleach, to think about sleeping.

This miracle I bore, soft as silk, with tiny closed fists, rose-petal nails
fills me with joy, with relief, with a deep pang of grief
for another time, another place, a place long ago...

I bathe in the scent of my brand new beginning ......
But my thoughts stream behind me,...... to a hope that had ended
My mother in bed, after losing her first....
So young, without child,........ bleeding red
from the war that she fought, while my Dad fought his own

I cry tears all alone.... for the grief that she owned
I so cherish the breath.....of this babe on my breast

The circle of life, starts with birth .....sometimes, death


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Occasional Snow

Huddled over that old black radio
waiting for the final announcement...
School canceled tomorrow!
Bedtime? We actually have to SLEEP?

Where am I? Is that light coming from...
No-No! Don't look out the window!
Then why-what-when and where?
Oh me oh my, the door, the front door...

Some has swept up onto the porch
And the steps, the steps!...
Breathe a deep, icy breath first
Go ahead now, look on out and note
how everything is smothered,
kind of muffled and quieted
by the blanket that covers all,
covers all but the perfect silence

Breath another deep, icy breath
Go ahead now, step on out
Step out in the yard and note
dainty, delicate bird tracks
And rabbit footprints too?
(How DARE they get here first?)

Fence posts measure how much
Wearing comical, tilted hats 
Pesky sprinkles of sleet
tease and tickle my nose...

Like a magical wide-awake dream,
familiar yet so unfamiliar...
A brand-spanking new kingdom of white
custom recreated just for me

Oh, you BAD little brat!
Will you again tromp out and ruin
Mother Nature's picture of perfection
and forever scar this eternal moment?

Oh yes, I believe you will
Hurry! Get dressed! Now GO...

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Alone in a Hospital Room - An Alzheimer's Song

Don’t you remember, love, how we danced that first night;
beneath the sun’s rays, toes dipping in the cooling sand, 
to the tune of our favorite song –
with me humming the best I could – 
(I sounded terrible, but you told me I sounded divine, remember?)
while falling all over myself, and your delicate feet; 
and you, trying so hard not to laugh as I made such a fool of myself!
Did you ever think we would go 
from being love-sick teenagers dancing on the beach, 
to a couple of old-timers reminiscing 
about our best years – our long ago days together? 

Sweetheart, please…
If there is any part of that teenage girl 
left within that beautiful head of yours…please; 
please, just look in my eyes as you once did…
look at me, sweetheart…
Don’t you remember? 

My love, do you hear? 
They’re playing our favorite song…

*Inspired by Izzy Gumbo's Solfege Contest
I really hope I did this right! :)

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The Fairground

                          The Fairground
I remember the fairground when I was a child, there
was the candy Fairy Floss machines, and you could 
See them spinning the spider webs of sugar which 
Made up the sweet delight, that children loved to eat
Then There was Sideshow Alleys with its clown stall 
With the moving heads and popping the balls into it's 
Mouth, there was the shooting galleries and penny 
Toss events and many other things to play, there was a 
Ghost Train and the Dodgem Cars and Boats, where 
Bumping deliberately was not allowed, the Penny Arcade 
With Pinball games and the Claw Crane  where you tried 
To grab a prize If you where lucky, penny slots which 
Could give you a free ball and your penny back by flicking
A lever, and now the main events, the Big Dipper or
Roller Coaster, it would leave you going back for your
Stomach, the large Slippery Dips, Hall of Mirrors and
The Tunnel of Love river caves, Ferris Wheel and the
Helter Skelter where you rode down a spiral on a mat 
But the one thing that stands out in the Fairground 
Was the giant Carousel, a beautiful hand crafted 
Turntable loaded with beautifully crafted wooden
Horses, which where all hand painted, children would
Always want to ride this iconic ride and if you where
Able to grab the brass ring, you would get another
Ride absolutely free, yes the Fairground was an event
In itself, as children would always want to go there
All of the time and even the adults would ask  their
Children to go, because inside every adult lived 
Another little child, they all loved the Fairground. 

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My Bicycle

Once I had a bicycle,
A loving present from my grandfather;
Since I was his favorite granddaughter,
He granted my wish at a snap of my finger .

Since he was so old,
A new bicycle he could hardly afford;
He took his bike when he was young,
Which I found it once at the back of our barn.

As far as I remember,
It was really so old and rugged;
But my grandpa was like Mr. Mac-Gyber,
Amazingly fixing all things all-over.

My granda was a well-known painter,
I thought he will repaint and use sandpapers;
When I surreptitiously sneaked into his hut,
He was there recycling all my milk cans.

When everything was done,
He gladly gave it to me with a big hug;
I hurriedly drove it at once,
Down the street and field with so much fun.

“My bike was real a unique one!” I thought.
So different from others in our neighborhood,
Its wailing siren was made up of a  cow’s horn,
Tubes were made of dried bamboos and corn.

Other parts were still the same,
Like forks, hubs and chainwheel set,
The rest were made up  of my milk cans,
They were pedal, brake and seatgear stem.

Handle bars were what I like  most,
Converted from the handle of his old plow;
So sturdy and so strong all I knew,
And  I can drive it  so long in full control.

However, when I travelled quite afar,
Parts were falling one at a time;
Until everything suddenly split apart,
Eventually it dropped and rolled me down.

Date: Aug. 3, 2012
( A loving tribute to my dearest Dad)

4th Place Winner (My Very First Winning Poem)
Contest: Any Poem of the Week Contest
Contest Judged: 8/4/12         
Poet Sponsor: Poet-Destroyer

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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 

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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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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My Grandfather's Grocer Shop

             My Grandfather's Grocer Shop

I was born in Liverpool - England and
I remember back to when I was a child
how I marvelled at the way things were done
in my Grandfather's Grocer shop. in the early 1950s.
I saw him getting a portion of butter and
by using two paddle boards, knock up the butter 
to form a block of butter, then wrap it up in
white shop paper, and then he would go to this 
large bacon slicer which operated by turning 
a huge wheel with a handle, then removing 
the bacon from a butcher's hook and then 
carving large slices of bacon on it, he would then
hand slice the cheese and wrap it by hand 
then give it to the customer, eggs had no cartons 
back then, so they were just put into brown paper bags,
customers would often return over broken eggs
and want replacements, if children came in they 
would spend the pocket money on a bag of broken 
biscuits, straight from the large tins they came in
as there were no packets of biscuits during those 
early years of the 1950s, the shopkeepers would 
often give free samples out to promote new products
as advertising was very rare and visual advertisements
were often seen on counters or on walls, I used to go in
my Grandfather's shop and was given a large peice 
of cheese or some chocolate biscuits as a family gesture.
I watched in amazement as my Grandfather would count 
the days takings out of the old fashion till, he would 
turn a handle and the draw would pop out, it did not even 
have push keys like the more modern cash registers of the 
time, but it was vintage in every way, my Grandfather is 
now gone, his shop has been knocked down for redevelopment 
as many old businesses went the same way but 
I will never forget the wonderful memories of my 
Grandfather's Grocer Shop.

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Her name is Lovely part 2

Suddenly a very soft and familiar voice spoke to her conscious saying “Lovely”
“Yes” she replied   
“Tomorrow you are coming back home”
“OK” she said breathing heavily
The conversation ended right at that instant 
Seven minutes later the unpredictable happens and Lovely dropped into a short comma.
A new day arrives.

Date: 01/01/1788
Ding dong, ding dong, sounds the door-bell
Lovely wakes up; open the golden windows the sun is raising
Knock, knock someone is at the golden door
She didn’t know what was going on this time
She walks all the way to the door not noticing that her house was made out of the finest
marble, and the finest gold that ever existed.
Lovely answers the door thinking is the mail man with the missing letter.
When she finally opens the door instead of the mail man was her husband with open arms and
a smile on his face.
Saying “welcome home baby” “I had been waiting for you”  


Diogenes Zuniga

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Another I Do Another Pledge

I saw death in the face of the viper
The day he broke my heart
Deep inside I know he set you free 
Sang the Meadow Lark

 Another I do! Another pledge
 The treacherous viper wore the same black suit
 He wore the colors of devil’s cape the second time around
Because strait is the gate and narrow is the way 

His face shines as he fake a smile
A sort of camera pose, 
I saw death in his face and Pinokio nose

The well-wishers whisper “no taste
 What a disgrace! , what a waste!
 A pitiful image of a man
 The pastor sadly said Amen!

I saw death upon the face of the haunted soul
The cracks in the old brick wall whistle a tune
“Thou stand before the alter another fool”

A wedding or a funeral an evening of doom! 
 The middle-aged groom
 The love, kindness in him decline.
Love is blind.

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Her name is Lovely part 1

Date: 12/31/1787
Ding dong, ding dong, sounds the door-bell
She wakes up; open her window the sun is raising
Knock, knock, some one is at the door
She rushes to the door thinking is the mailman 
She is expecting a love letter from Iraq
She finally answer the door but stead of the mail man is an officer from the army, he is
well dress and carries a small box with him and inside of the box is an American flag with
three different medals.
One medal is for being a soldier of the US Army, the second medal is for being a national
hero, and the third one, is a medal of honor for dying for his country.
She goes crazy crying out for help, screaming all out that she was expecting a baby.
“I’m really sorry” the officer says
“If there anything I could do please call me” he reached his wallet and pulled out a
business card and gave it to her.
“He was a brave man” he said
The officer turned around and left the house with out hesitation.
Poor girl was drowning in her own tears; she still didn’t believe what just happen 
“Lord please help me”, “help me go through this horrible pain” she cries out.
She goes back to the bed and tries to sleep it off, but it didn’t work out, the pain was
too much just to act like nothing didn’t happen.
She finally falls as sleep after several hours of crying painfully.
She tosses and turns all night long, sweating like crazy with massive pain on her chest 
While she was having a horrible nightmare; dreaming about the death of her husband-

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They fought the tide to own this land
A fight I did not understand
They fought the plow, they fought the drought, they fought the debt
But yet,…by God,……they owned the pride

In retrospect, I'm still ashamed
It was, my flippant pilgrimage
I had come a stranger to this place
About to step upon the moon,
A cratered space of rocks and sage
Of rolling hills, with no escape

She saw it differently, of course 
Although her body weary, worn
Her eyes were strong, ...she saw a home

   Her age was then, what mine is now,
   It had been her home, and it had been her vow
   To come again, just one more time.  

   I was thirteen, and dragged along
   I overlooked the great attraction
   I could not see the satisfaction
   I missed the light upon her face

   She saw the youth she left behind
   Her gray eyes drinking up the sun, 
   I saw the dust, I saw the bones, 
   Where she saw beauty,  I saw none .....
Nothing more than a sea of weeds, the crumbling brick, 
A place to shuffle my restless feet

But stories came, and they sunk in….
And now I view with wiser eyes…
She told me all these things back then…but now I smile,… remembering.

How it awakens in spring with sprouting grain, after brittle frost, the slush and rain
I can see how gold a wheat field grows
I shall know how a dark-framed wagon rests beside a shed, 
Quivering trees, and stiff shocks of corn
The amber of the sun-cured hay 
Milking cows, and a chicken shed
And a barn filled with horses, waiting to be fed
A lone, white farm house, with a big front porch
And how a bible rests..., next to the bed

     They had to fight to own this piece of land
     They fought the plow, they fought the drought, they fought the debt
     And yet,…oh yes,…….they owned the pride

A Memory of My Grandmother's Homestead  _________________________________________________

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Dirt and Pride

I watched them go to work each morning
A kid growing up in the coal regions
Remembering the dirt and the pride
The self respect that came from earning 
The self reliance and the sense of community
I never knew the need to knock on a door
My dad’s keys were in the ignition of the old Ford
Kids playing baseball with taped up baseballs 
Carpenter’s nail holding the bat together
And eight gloves between seventeen kids
Catcher didn’t need one
Wednesday afternoons the miners filled the bars
Sunday mornings they filled the churches
I watched them coming home each late afternoon
A kid growing up in the coal regions
Remembering the dirt and the pride
Blackened faces smiling
Another rugged hard day in, walking proud
Wrestle with the kids, family time
The important things
I watched them converging on a home
A kid growing up in the coal regions
Remembering the dirt and the pride
Mining accident, covered dishes, neighbors
One town, one neighborhood, one family
A feeling of belonging, community, our town
Clothes lines, party lines, coal mines
The dirt and the pride. TAMAQUA.

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Before spring came, in late February
to the blooming and jolly hills 
I ran, breathing heavily and frantically,
touching the perfumed blossoms 
of a solitary, old cherry tree;
and underneath it I sat writing poetry
that hadn't a perfect rhyme and beat! 
Weren't my skills marred by imperfections?    

Canaries and red-breasted robins
flew down and rested on my outstretched legs;
perusing my lines to spot their names,
and when they did, they flapped their wings in gladness!
I could have imagined their joyful words,.
if only they had acquired the gift of speech,
and deeper in their thoughts I would have reached:
to dispel the myth that they had no feelings...

After my short poem was completed,
I reached for my harmonica to play my favorite classic tune;
and being surprised by the paleness of the fading moon,
I dedicated that happy melody to her not to let her despair:
by waving my hand to make her farewell less sad, while I whispered,
" Silent moon, eternal companion of every poet,
what's beyond the realm of this universe?...
Tell us more of those invisible suns and planets! "

Before spring came to the dormant valley,
the mountains' peaks allowed the sun to melt their snows,
to create gushing torrents to feed its water to the dry and cracked soil,
which needed rain instead of harmful frost;
and I drank the freshest water and washed my sweaty face,
while fighting off the bees' stubborn rivalry!
That spring has come again to dress herself with incredible splendor,
and this discontent and wishful heart desires nothing more than being there!  

My theme is: Happiness In Childhood

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The Park

Saturday afternoon with a few moments to kill
Took a ride by the park up on Dutch Hill
My mind went back to a time and place
When I wore a little boy’s smile on my face
So much had changed since those innocent days
I drifted back through the years where a child plays
I played in the sandbox and rode the swing
Climbed the monkey bars in the Early Spring
I remembered church picnics and being there after dark
Playing cowboys and Indians with my friends in the park
We rode the sliding board and climbed in the trees
Spraining our ankles and skinning our knees
Sometimes we gazed at the stars while we lied on the ground
Or tried to see how fast we could push the merry go round
We learned from each other as we grew up back then
And drifted apart as we became women and men
We played from sun up until it was dark
The best years of our lives were spent at the park

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The Willows

Tomorrow’s times are in these eyes of mine.
Away and far my world shall part.
The Seas shall rise from their depths of deep.
And in the glow of the shadows the willows will weep.
The Sun will rise as my days still come,
The glory, the power, it is the rains with Sun.
Tomorrow’s times are in these days of mine.
Far and gone my world shall bond.
The Mountains will fall from their heights they climb.
And in the glow of the shadows the willows will shine.
Tomorrow’s times are in these thoughts of mine.
Gone and here my world shall fear.
The Lands will separate the world by Sea,
And in the glow of the shadows the willows will be.
Tomorrow’s times I know are mine.
Here it is that I fear I’m near.
My Land, my Seas, my Mountains of plain sight,
And in the glow of the shadows the willows shall shed their light.

®Registered: Ann Rich 1998

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A Understanding Of The Past

I remember summers past in the south 
and the sultry heat.
Iced tea and back porch confessions.

Making time with that first love.
The swing underneath  that old tree.
The radio playing softley in the background.

Thoose ways have long since died.
Replaced by a breakneck pace.
As were all to willing to forsake a conversation between 
two human beings.
It's all about one night stands and bragging rights.

It's like comparing velvet to burlap.
All harsh no mystery.
Where people would rather surf the internet
than ocean.

The passion of the kiss.
Is but a dinosaur that people 
view as some old silent film.

A blanket underneath the stars
Has been replaced by a encounter in a 
bathroom stall.

Upward we advance  as deeper  we sink within the
As the poet reflects  ink drying 
in he pen.

I recall thoose times so very slow.
To this sudden stand still.
Like a pile up on the interstate.
I no longer live I wait.

But the sunset still haunts me.
Along with the scent of the salt filled air.
that tree's swing does no longer stand.

As in dust and memories it's been taken with 
the wind.

The road echos  of another time.
For all that was free and wild.
Is slowley vanishing.

As we blindly advance.
I'll sit and watch the tide.
And be happy to be left behind.

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Senior Year

It began on a high note
Dreams of a New Frontier
Those dreams were shattered in Texas
In the Fall of the same year
Christmas time was solemn
Before the storm there was the calm
We saw them escalate a war
Sending our young to Vietnam
It was a vibrant time to be alive
A good invasion hit our shore
The British sent their music
Our lives would be changed forever more
The times they were “a changing”
Was it better, was it worse
There was no time for apathy
Was it a blessing or a curse
In June came graduation
The fulfillment of our dreams
The Four Seasons sang about a Rag Doll
We were introduced to the Supremes
Now that our senior year was over
And we would go our separate ways
There remained a bond to hold us
Until our dying days
Some went off to college
Not knowing what’s in store
Almost all would serve their country
Some went off to war.

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What Mattered Most

Company stores taking most of the paycheck
Days were long and hard at the breaker
It beat being down there, rats were moving
No injuries today, good news
Body hurts, but the kids will be home from school
Stop and have a few before supper
They're growing so fast, soon the hugs will be gone
Shower in the cellar, she doesn't ask for much
Don't want all that tracked through the house
Daddy's home, their bright eyes shine
Got to take care of what matters most
It doesn't get any better, mom, give me a hug
Supper was great, need help with the dishes?
Got some change in my pocket
Might be enough for some ice dream cones
Let's go kids, we'll take a walk
Stop by Grandma's house on the way
Piggyback ride for the little guy
No money left 'til payday
Got all we need. Grab a bucket
We'll pick some blueberries on the way home.
So nice. Almost a touch of Heaven
Just taking care of what mattered most.

          Life in a small minig town. Family, friends, co-workers were what mattered 
most. I'd trade it all for yesterday.

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Reflections of Coventry (2005)

“Send them to Coventry”! I often hear them say
Please send them, send them right away!
We tend to tar people and a place with the same brush
Stop, look and listen your pre-conception is under crush

Difference can tear some places apart
In such a small Coventry, diversity pulsates to the same big heart
On the outside you may say it sounds grim
But if you open your eyes it brightens an opinion that was once dim

I often climb the cathedral spire
It’s a journey that takes me higher
Why? I can see the whole of Coventry
In each corner I see a reflection of you and me

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Projected Reality

Awakened from a startling dream
Remembering the scene that dazed
A projection it would someday seem
Would speculation raise 

Flying high above the ground
She soars above her home
Previously a rented space 
But now it was alone
A Frisbee on the neighbours roof
The chimney burned coal black
She sees this almost instantly
With Dead dogs in the back.

Returning to her rented home
Remembering the dream that waked
Dreading truth and on her own
Bad feelings she would shake

Passing by her neighbours’
She spots a flying disc
No car within her driveway
And occupancy missed
Once inside with shivers
She noticed the soot
They left the fire burning
From dinner they had put
In disbelief she took a stroll
And stepped into the yard
Dead puppies strewn to her surprise
In haunting disregard

Fables they do come and go
Remembering what seems to sway
But tales of truth like this I quote
Are taken to the grave.

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Under the microscope we are under watched by a near by species

For some reason they think we are a life form that takes it to easy

Over the years we were abducted; that was a mistake the aliens became uneasy

Unique in several ways we are human and that they see we are strange

Fooling them we act very hostile yet our mindset needs be rearrange

Opening our minds they started to look, but our minds seems to weird and derange

Upset, the aliens take our species to try to understand

Freaks of nature we seem to gather with costumes and sounds of band

Old as time they been coming to our planet and this is what they found, like us, land

Unrelenting we humans seem to focus on a different path

Feelings we have the aliens do not understand what we have

Odd we are, we are the only species in the galaxy that really know how to have a bath

Unrealizable that we do adore the stars and lights in the sky

From all our studies we look up and see the lights that make our world, we cry

Only now we reason with the aliens we are fools in our world and we sigh  

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Just for Me

In the past I remember how things were so simple
When I was little my cheeks had such cute dimples
Looking back I remember how sweet I was as a child
When I think again my heart told me I was so wild
Yet, in time my simple choices was revealed as true as anyone
The reason I was the way I am today, I did things, to get done
Finishing lots of my undone ideas was so incredibly hard
So I figure my heart and choices should never hold in no bard
I never thought I would learn heart aches and pain
With such under statement I did things for no gain
I was a child who held true to what he has learned
But as we got older those kinda perspective would get me burned
When I made up my mind that people was not kind
I led myself in a confusion that I was blind
In the past I do recall that seeing is believing
So I was the one who stood their with friends leaving
Alone, I felt I did not belong, I cherish each person who knew me
I got older too see how the world works it stung me like a bee
The feeling of tingling ran through my vain
My view of the world and people who knew me was stained
Now I know they are out for their selves with no kind feelings
Life I know is just a joke because of who I hung out with seeing
Today as I look at the world it is in such shambles and astray
And rather fallow everyone I just walk away

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A Red Christmas Bike

It had been two days since Christmas
The one where the fates had granted me my fondest wish
A shiny, red, Schwinn bicycle..... a basket in the front, and a bell to ring

On that cold December night, the sky was stained by the color of trepidation
I remember my young mother leaving her warm bed at three in the morning
rousing us all with calm haste

Deep red reflections seeped through the mud-splashed window screens
as she shooed us downstairs, down the raw-grained stairs, 
not tying her robe, pushing from behind with her two hands
out onto the back porch, into the frost of the wee, early light
Then, we stood and watched the fire from a safe distance, 
as it consumed our garage.  And, my bike.

From the frame of the doorway, and the top step's narrow slat
she enveloped me in her folds of chenille to keep me from shivering.
The cool of her hand on my shoulders,
watching my dad in his attempt with a hose
warning him to keep safe,
while sounds of sirens wailed in the distance

When I looked up into her face, with anxious eyes
I remember her soft, reassuring voice 
"Hush now, don't cry"
"We'll find another one, just like it"

Then, I remember looking down, at her bare feet
turning blue in the cold


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Let me tell you a story - - -

And the story goes like this . . . ~~
I walk up the dusty, dark staircase that had been my favourite place, playing with my dolls, make believe, dreaming of meeting a prince; Wanting to grow up, but that was many years ago, many heartbreaks ago, my reason today, Grandma has left this world and all in the attic is mine. The door has not been opened in years, it creaks and groans as I push, I stand in the doorway, hesitating, finding the courage to enter the dampness; The sun filters in through a small window, dust drifts and cobwebs lace the corners, the atmosphere still and silent, like death, echoing of the past as I look about. No one else wants any of this, they call it junk, but I do, I know its treasures, passing by an old lamp, a stroller, a rocking chair, a chest of drawers and bed; Old portraits of ancestors long forgotten, dusty old things, treasures from the past, a peacefulness comes over me but I am searching for something special. And there it is pushed into a corner, an antique chest, long forgotten, it holds the vintage clothing and jewelry, and writings of the child that was me; Things I had treasured as a girl, playing dress up, pretending, making up stories, kneeling beside it, my hand touches the ornate surface brushing away dust. Slowly, I open the lid, peeking inside, everything is there as I had left it,, my eyes fill with tears, memories swirling in my head of that lonely little girl; Dressed up in Grandma's old clothes, writing stories on the attic room floor, stories that will become poems for I have found my lost treasure chest. ______________________ July 21, 2013 Narrative For the contest, Treasure Chest, Anthony Slausen

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The Cottage

The long drive is almost over
Slowly I head down the hill
In anxious anticipation 
Of what I will find
I don't really know what I'm expecting
Just something new maybe 
An overgrown path in the center of the road
Lets me know I am one of the first
I wildly shift my eyes back and forth taking in all
The beauty this place gives never disappoints
Sometimes it's a flower peeking through the leaves
Or a vine growing, maybe a new bush
Slowly I exit in anticipation of familiar scents
The cedar, the green, the lake all have their own flavors
As I put in the key and slowly turn the knob
The scent of cottage envelops me
For a second, I am at peace, home
And after all is settled, and all is unpacked
I listen, to the sounds of the forest
I try to hear the waves, are they crashing 
Or still, I wonder what tomorrow will bring
But for now, I lie still and exhale
Nothing can find me here
No stress, nothing, but peace
And a familiarness felt by those before me
I often wonder if they visit here too
But for now, I am alone in my calm
Until tomorrow, when I will explore
My favorite places, do my favorite things
If I want to 
Because here time stands still

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Good Bones

Winding around the curve of the road
the brilliant blue of the morning sky had faded
and seemed it had been left out too long in the sun......
Something,...... some new kind of threshold, waited in the November chill
We didn't know yet, just what it was, but the memory 
would be imprisoned by our young, and eager eyes
for decades, to come

We had arrived........
with an alive sense of enthusiasm and a vivid anticipation

We left our children in the car, for a few minutes
until we saw the perfect yard.....that seemed to go for miles
the hills surrounded.....and a battered, eye-sore house, somehow had found us

I remember the house half timbered
with white paint peeling on the southern side
We had been expecting nothing much,
nothing more than a weekend's new adventure
not realizing we were entering the future
while the grey haired woman, who met us there, 
produced a key, and unlocked  the door.
We looked out behind us, 
where our children were already running up and down the grassy slope
"Twin Pine Real Estate" ,  scrolled across the door of the woman's car parked next to ours

If hesitation and....common-sense had overruled
The story would end here...

I do recall.....we said it all......
"Ramshackle dump" ! ? "Good bone structure"
"Good inspiration"  "They'll think we're crazy"
"With sweat and guts......."IF ....AND....or  BUT!"
"Elbow grease"........"Dedication"     "Celebrations"

We fell head over heels........we'll... beg, borrow, steal!

We hollered out to call the children
and then brought them in.   They shared the wish, 
to own a place to call our own, a home, some land, a mountain view
our grand ideas of property....of priority, of possibility, of probability, ..of family.....
Everyone would work, everyone would reap,  
A house we loved.........a dream to keep
and years have come, and years have gone...... the place that we still call home

9/16/14  A Special Memory Contest: sponsored by Regina Riddle

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A Quiet Exit

A Quiet Exit

Poetry is disciplined

However, sometimes at the executive table
when a situation is not going according to plans
It's better to excuse yourself because of evil man

however, before leaving, relief a quiet fart
then make the exit,  gracefully glance
 over your  shoulder and smile
watch and observed who sense your present.

Ladies and Gentlemen have a wonderful day!

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Miss Scarlet was driving her car across town.
She had a meeting with Professor Plum at the library . 
It was regarding a paper she had written in the study at home.
About the life of Colonel Mustard and the revolver he carried during the war. 

Mrs. White was on her way to the school. 
She had just left the kitchen,she forgot to put the knife away. 
So she slipped it in her purse, she had colored eggs baskets for her students.
It was near Easter and she was driving to the ballroom to set up for the party. 

Now, Mrs. Peacock was angry. 
She had brought a rope to use to tie up the hole in the hutch.
Her prize bunnies were escaping, her best sales were during Easter time. 
She needed to secure the hutch so that no rabbits would escape. 

Mrs. Peacock put a wrench in her purse to secure the bolts on the hutch.
Well nobody knows what really happened  next, they can only surmise. 
All they know is the rabbit was lying in a pool of Easter eggs and baskets.
Three cars were totaled in the accident, all of the women died.

What was peculiar was what else they saw.
A wrench,a rope, and a knife, were found at the scene. 
No one had a clue as to where, how, or why? 
In the meantime, Professor Plum was in the Library with the revolver.



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Sandalwood Girl

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
        of you" 


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Summer Fun

I remember back when times were simple. You could have your milk
delivered to your door. One of my favorite memories was waiting for the
Helm’s bakery livery to drive slowly down our street, alerting us with his
musical whistle. Specially built Chevy suburban panel wagon’s, bright
and shiny yellow, contained the most heavenly scents of do-nuts and
cinnamon swirls, rolls and breads to delight the most discerning. Our driver,
we called by name, would stop, get out of his seat and come to the back to
open double doors to the smiling faces, of usually about three or four neighbor
kids besides my sister and myself. The most difficult part was trying to decide
what delicious pastry we would put on our monthly tab. Fine wooden drawers
with glass windows let colorful do-nuts peek through. We would get our usual loaf
of potato bread mom would tell us to buy, but then, quite often we were treated to
a glazed jelly do-nut or a chocolate covered cream filled éclair. Mmmmm my taste
buds tingle at the fond memories. Those succulent delights would be out of the bag
and into our mouths before we hit the front door. By the time we got inside all that
would be left would be little pieces of sticky wax paper and our gooey little hands.
As I recall those happy memories of the late ‘50’s, my only regret is that I am sorry my
children were not given the thrill of hearing “Here comes the Helmsman”, let’s beat feet!

© September 12, 2012

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Diary of a Child

I remember the land of drums I was born,
  Bedded beneath great hanging nets:
  The sound of the conch and the horn!
I remember the hounds of revolution nightly howl
  On the streets of my island home:
So now I conjure far in melancholic exile
  As might a king denied his throne

I remember my first day of school so bleak,
  A gingerbread house on Picton Street:
  Where I first kissed a sweetheart cheek!
The loud guttural yard turkeys' gobble, and matronly
  Nelly Stone with her straggly silver hair:
Reading me the adventures of Robin Hood
  Sitting back in her old rocking chair

I remember the front yard we would play,
  The annex rooms we called home:
  Living and growing and finding our way
Unmindful to extraordinary fates - to age and time -
  To long siestas in the hot afternoon:
Where beneath the corner streetlight halo,
  Late and drunk, slumped Blue Moon

I remember Down-the-Islands dashing
  In outboard across Staubles Bay:
  Sea spray waves over the bow crashing!
And watching when darkness fell the moon and tide
  Shining on bay and jetty so bright:
When as young eyes grew weary I would
  Rest at peace all through the night

I remember leaving on board port side,
  And beyond Panama Canal gate
  Swell and tempest from my cabin eyed:
I remember the cutting lulling deep sea of no return!
  Out of the Americas my voyage traces
That southern ocean and setting sun upon -
  And all my island names and places


Trinidad and Tobago

September 1990

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The shadows speak

When this boat adrift at sea
The shadows speak.
When a broken heart finds no reason
The shadows speak.

In the streets, crossings and connections
The shadows speak.
In the body that dances, walks, runs and stands
The shadows speak.

On the moon, the stars and the sky
The shadows speak.
About physics, chemistry and biology
The shadows speak.

In constant renewal
The shadows speak
Under the creeping life and love bubbly
The shadows speak.

In the wisdom of the thing made
The shadows speak.
In the consciousness of the creator
The shadows speak.

Not in death,
which is the gateway to the integration of the entire
But in death,
on the body that is matter
that it makes the shadows his place in space.

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Precious Moments

                       I didn't know hearts could speak until we crossed part
               I was walking home, carrying a heart laden with the grief of my brother’s death
                      My mind straddling from the nostalgia of our bonded brotherhood 
                      to the thought of what the afterlife would deal him.
               You were seated at a secluded corner, carrying your hearts in your hands
               And crying out your eyeballs, wishing if God could bring back your father’s life.

      Upon that lonely and rejected wood we, dejected souls, sat cursing out death tirelessly
         For taking away our beloved brother and father.
           That day, I heard my heart speak for the first time; my heart exploded in awe
             And I felt I was captured under a spell; I saw the aura of glory in your eyes.
        It wasn’t your exquisite awe-inspiring beauty that got me lovey-dovey
        But the natural calmness in your voice as you told me your stories. 
          You reminded me of the fabled Arabian princess.
       My emotions turned into Janus- one reminding me of a lost brother
       The other, quite domineering, nudging me in my veins never to let you go.
          You saw the magic in my eyes; you felt the same way I felt
             We were marveled that fate brought us to meet on a lonely path.

    With your amazing pieces of cakes you re-awakened my dead love life on your birthday
   Your cakes were brilliant; you made them from magnificent range of fruits and spices
   The smells were superb. The aromatic smells of the cakes cooking in the oven and smearing your kitchen sent us to an early bubbly romance. 
   We became lovebirds; your crystal steaming room, neatly furnished with vitality bed,,  made for only two- us, was our love nest; we enjoyed every of our love bites.
    That night, you made a tipsy cake; we dined and wined while the stars watched over us
      We sang to our ears; every single love song we played, we made ours
      We danced while we got intoxicated on our own supply
      And before our eyes the night closed its nocturnal doors.

     Under your winter blanket were two figures, glued in carnal brash adventure, wishing the moment would never end. 
       I prayed tomorrow never to come. Alas! Uninvited, the Morning woke tomorrow up
       Under the blanket, we watched the sun set.
    But tomorrow came Janus-faced; with a vice we never wished for- impassioned jealousy
       It tore us apart; pulled us away; and took away our precious moments
    But I still carry in my heart those precious moments.

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Still A Teenager At Heart

Remembering the loving days of my youth Love was on my mind 24/7 Every pretty girl that passed me by Was more gorgeous that the one before Guess what? It's still true today! Age has no bearing I am considered very old by most standards But I still feel like a teenager at heart It never leaves us, this attraction The yearning for love, sweet love When I was a young man The thought of my parents making love Was a totally foreign concept to me It must have happened Otherwise I wouldn't be writing this But somehow it seems inconceivable No! Mom and Dad? No! EEEEWWWW! Strange how we homo sapiens have evolved The no holds barred topics of today Can totally astound me Topics that were never talked about ever back then Topics that would have been considered pornographic Are now talked about freely In everyday conservation Don't know about you guys But I preferred it the way it was back then © Jack Ellison 2014

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A Summer-Colored Memory

So many memories I have are summer-colored,
like those walking-down-the-lane days recalled in various hues of green.
Green for Grandpa’s cornfields spread all around us
and green for the grass on which my sisters and I used to run and play.

Besides that color green, which prettily surrounded me through all my childhood,
I think a favorite memory would be
the colors of one lovely day spent with my family,
the family created by my spouse and me and a day our kids were young.

We lived near San Francisco. 
Few troubles plagued us then and I loved our short time in California!
One summer day at last we went to see the beach of Santa Cruz.
I don’t remember details of everything we did.
We walked along the boardwalk, naturally.
I’m sure the kids, both pre-teens, enjoyed the rides. 
Even I was every bit as excited as the two of them.
I’m sure my spouse and I took pictures, ate good-tasting food 
and watched our children doing things all children love to do.

But what stood out for me was our time spent on the beach
and how we all jumped up to greet each wave that tumbled toward us
time and time again to knock us down.
What pure pleasure in the splashes of blue that fun-filled day,
the blue of the Pacific, which chilled me at the start
until I warmed to it as the yellow sun in blue of sky above
smiled down on us.

Yes, the blue of sky and water
and the constant shining yellow of the sun:
those would be the colors of my favorite summer memory -
when times were good and we were young and simply having fun.

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From the newly opened ream of paper, 
I choose a clean sheet from the wrapper.
I mark the middle of the paper lengthwise,
drawing a pencil line near the ends – twice.
I inspect  the blue carbon copy folio, 
checking it for wear – dark like a biro .
Completing it with tissue paper – three layers to stay,
ensuring that the carbon faces the right way.

(I have been known to type copies in mirror image on the back of the original.)

I get comfortable behind my desk 
and pull the typewriter closer to the edge.
The chair I am sitting on is just right 
to allow for my forearms to be straight .
In class, we had to learn to touch type this sentence
containing all the letters of the English alphabet: 

The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.

Checking the margin settings at 5 spaces in  
and locking it into place with the leaver.
We did not have the luxury to “justify” our work 
and the end of the lines appeared higgledy piggledy.   
I count out the number of letters in the heading 
and calculate the center of the script.
Carefully I type the heading in capital letters, 
first locking the capital function into place.
I press the return bar twice, 
giving me two line spaces 
between the heading and the first paragraph.

That done; 
I return the carriage to the left margin 
and begin the paragraph 5 spaces in, 
remembering to unlock the capital function. 
The bell sounds 5 spaces from the end 
(as I had preset it)
and it gives me just enough room 
to finish the fist line 
and to break the last word
at an acceptable place with a hyphen. 

Lo and behold!
I’ve made a spelling mistake.
Thank goodness for the new invention of Tipex. 
Carefully I roll out the paper, 
as not tot lose the grip of the roller 
and using the blue eraser, 
I carefully erase the mistake
on the carbon copy –
taking care not to rub too hard 
and creating a hole in the tissue thin paper. 
Rolling it back was a trick, 
as not to lose the line I was typing on –
but not always successful 
and it ended up a fraction higher or lower. 
No mistakes were tolerated when typing documents
and we had to discard it 
and start over again....

The word “I’ve” 
has to be typed 
by rolling the paper down half a space, 
typing a comma,
and then rolling it back into the line position. 
This is why it was easier to type: “I have”,
instead of “I’ve” on the typewriter.

Hiaku poets would have loved it, 
as you had to depress the lever 
to type each capital letter, 
including “I”.
It would be ideally suited for 
Suzette Prime, 
as all text are to be written
in lower case.

The letter “a”
had worn on the key from overuse – 
the up stoke had lost half its length. 
The curling tail of the “g” had lost its definition. 
Other than these identifying marks, 
the trusty old Remington  
my father had given me,
has put me in good stead.

My old typewriter is gathering dust,
but if I want to write a card or a letter 
to a friend, 
there is nothing that beats
my Parker fountain pen,
which I use to sign all I have typed
on my black typewriter.

26 April 2013

PS: My late father was a war correspondent, stationed in Cairo, hence my love of writing.

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Weapons of Small Destruction

You used to come home from school 
grab two-handfuls of wooden building blocks 
and take one brooding look at the Lego cities 
I’d carefully constructed. 

Then, with a bit of spit starting on your mouth 
you’d begin to hurl 
making bombing noises and dancing 
your eyes shining hysterically.  

I’d scream for Mum to come stop you 
but she with her dusty apron and hair in a bun 
tired from polishing floors or scouring the oven
could only muster a shrill, “Stop that!” before
returning to her Watkins cleaning products.

You’d smirk and circle slowly while 
crushing my teddy, I’d slink to the corner 
and watch until, bored, 
you’d turn to me and say, “better clean up your mess” 
before walking away to find our mother
quietly rifling through recipes.


written in a "one-off" flow of recollection,  April 11, 2011

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Dedication to Everyone

I feel that I have found a home in this cyberspace
with full of hearts and ideas in a special place
I wonder of all the people in the world to make me smile
with antics that help me grow in every mile
I do want to say to all of the people with respect
because of all of you my mind is not in a wreck
I would lie if I did not get ideas from all of you
without you my poems would not come true
I bless everyone with care 
with kindness and without dis-pare
I hold my hands high and put them together
with this I bless you with good weather
I do read some of the poems that people put out
sometimes I feel with out a doubt
I feel the pain in the poems that some has revealed
with hopes that they can read with their mind not sealed
I smile a bunch with every word
it is like a music in my head making a cord
I do want you all to know that you have made my day
to be a better day in every different array
I cherish my time with all the people in my heart
the words flow in my mind is just but a start
I'm happy with everyone in 
with hardship that came this cyberspace makes me calm
I cannot choose five cause if I do I don't think it's right
just to tell you that is just my own insight
I thank all for helping me grow with all the poems that are shown
with faith and humor, with views of kindness this site has grown

If I had to say or dedicate my poems to who 
would be the first five who reads my poems with a point of view

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Pretty Pink Bunny Suit

You're the sweetest little duffer In your pretty pink bunny suit Guess Aunt Bea still loves you Still thinks you're oh so cute! She really doesn't realize How many years have passed You're not a little kid no more You're growing up real fast Don't have the heart to tell her Such a kindly gentle soul At Christmas every single year You play this bunny role You make her oh so happy To see you hopping round Just like many years ago You've always played the clown Well another year is in the books Maybe now she'll see you grew You're no longer her little nephew You're almost thirty-two! © Jack Ellison 2014

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Human Hyenas

From the time of creation
Adam was brainwashed into
 Believing that he was the brainiac
Behind the Garden of Eden fictions

 Women got tired of men carefree life styles
They laid back personality, they sanctions,
And Most of all they diminished sex drives
It’s too late now, it’s too late now 

Too many wrongs, not enough rights
This world belongs to everyone
Not only Your average Tom, Dick and Harry
Men and women have lost respect for each other.
It’s no longer a man’s world theatrical standards
It's more of a mad, mad world with so much mental attitudes
“I was on first; “I was here first kind of society 

Some of us are human hyenas that 
take advantage in human suffering
Not so hard to believe… but it is the truth.
however, it is so hard to swallow

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HEADLIGHTS ON DARK ROADS Timid tentative tap on her door at midnight as she lay expectantly in suspense and the hope that he would defy all obstacles to prove his love for her Like Romeo and Juliet forbidden to date as parents failed to understand her attraction to him- this soul connection to his vulnerable rebellion and his love for her As house slept she opened French door quietly to see his tall young body silhouetted silently as full moon reflected his mischievous smile and tender feelings for her That desperately longed for embrace and then door silently shut quietly with bare feet across wet grass ran to ‘borrowed’- car a joy ride for her They kissed long and deep before he turned the key and wordlessly he steered with unlawful expertise as she watched his face in awe of this audacious act for her Bright headlights focused on gravel road intense not a thinking or sensing danger that lay ahead glanced at her and winked assuring protection for her It happened so swiftly at high speed in the glare a rabbit raced in dazed confusion across sandy terrain as he swerved trying to avoid a collision for her Brakes failed as wheels skidded and surrealism spoke inevitable collision of metal and ground as he desperately focused on preventing pain for her Consciousness returned with his desperate screams while he pulled at her door which caved in disarray panicked she felt warm blood on her face -- his fear for her Pulling her out and holding her tight reassuringly saying everything would be alright while she felt no pain in her shock secure in his arms and calm for her He carried her home to face condemnation and guilt gazed at damaged face as she smiled through the grief whispering “Go home!” the truth of this night never to be revealed- protected by lies -- her eternal love gift for him (Non-fiction, auto-biographical experience from my youth) © Kim van Breda—March 2014

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the mandala with the nipple at the centre

Grogged, split into holographic shards:
Hypnogog reveleations reflect
One dreary dreamer. Divinity
staggers to recall Itself
in matter.

Is God like peppermint? I think him

more like meade caressing 
a breeze – just beyond 
the fresh whore.

Bands of succulence
orbit a soaked mind.

The mandala, stony gravel out-stations
brilliantly placed in the Logic, 
oddly so.

In the centre the most divine Creation.

The nipple more proud than unassuming
more mirage-producing
than drought.

And all around the nipple children skip
chasing fairies in the smoky glow.

All around the nipple dance children, go.
More ancient than childbirth. The cheek

of Isis swirls itself into a Promise. Food
was later, grown men (and women) don’t know.

The milk erodes its own palace. The screen
remains; like the silence in a scream.

Art only, ever in the making. The sacredness
of a breast more than Nature produces.

Some on the outer, independent scriptute.
Some more honest, after some lost inner elixir.

I say: the world would not last long without a breast.

Copyright. 2009. JLM.

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July 4, 1961

           Well HELLO MARY LOU, 

You won’t believe this but I just HEARD IT THROUGH THE GRAPEVINE that someone else was 
getting a DOUBLE SHOT OF MY BABYS’ LOVE. Right now TIME WON’T LET ME alone ever 
since I heard GLORIA saying please, BE MY BABY. I was just WALKIN’ THE DOG when I SAW 
HER STANDING THERE. She came right out and told me she would GIVE ME SOME LOVIN in 
the MIDNIGHT HOUR. She guaranteed we would feel JUST LIKE ROMEO AND JULIET; all I 
had to do was HOLD ON TIGHT. But I CAN SEE CLEARLY NOW, thanks to the warm 

I remember when I was playing the field; all I ever thought was WHY DO FOOLS FALL IN 
LOVE?  I’d give anything to get back to someone like sweet little SHEILA. You remember her 
don’t you?  OH DONNA, if your sister lets you read THE LETTER I wrote from SAN 
FRANSCICO, you know I’d be taking ROUTE 66 back to see that little BROWN EYED GIRL. 
Then maybe CUPID          can draw back his bow because until now this TRAVELING MAN 
has just been SINGIN’ THE BLUES.
I’ve got to find some kind of LOCOMOTION because WE GOTTA GET OUT OF THIS PLACE! 
Maybe I could hitch a ride with MUSTANG SALLY; you know I was BORN TO BE WILD if I’m 
thinking of asking her for a ride. Remember when you and I used to cruise down to 
SUNDAY afternoon. If it rained we kept time with the wipers and the RHYTHM OF THE RAIN. 
By the way, did you hear that BONEY MARONEY really did DO RON-RON after she drank that 
bottle of LOVE POTION # 9? I guess it is just another example of we really have to LOVE 
ONE ANOTHER because a little SUGARTIME  will go a long way towards making it a 
Poor LOUIE LOUIE  told everyone that I FOUGHT THE LAW after spending a few hours 
drinking down at MARGARITAVILLE, don’t believe him.  There are always two sides to every 
story and BLACK IS BLACK because THAT’LL BE THE DAY I’d be handcuffed by that CHAIN 

IT’S MY PARTY next weekend but it will be just ANOTHER SATURDAY NIGHT unless I can find 
a little RUNAWAY to be my DREAM LOVER. After all, what would a WORLD WITHOUT LOVE be 
like?   If I can’t hook up with her, DO YOU WANNA DANCE the LA BAMBA, or maybe LET’S 
TWIST AGAIN? We can do anything that you wanna do but LET’S DANCE to that hot little 
oldies band called THE RUNAWAYS.

            All my Loving,

*Written as a tribute to a local 50’s/60’s cover band called the “RUNAWAY’S” using their play 

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Waiting for the world to end

If you look backwards in time
you might see us

It was August
too many summers ago to recall
long after midnight
my brother and I
slipping through the valley of sleep
crawling out the window
onto the roof of the old sun-porch
drinking in excitement of the fresh night air
sprawled on a coarse gravel bed
searching the starry night
and watching for the first time
as the sky fell apart

then waiting for the world to end

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You are not my shadow but the rhythm of my heart

When rain drops pour,water splashes
i don't want to miss it,
Because when water touches my face,
i feel as if you are around

When i listen to that song,
my heart swings,
and the bell rings,
as if you are around

when my day didn't go good
and i am upset,
i think about our good times and
talking to myself and imagining as if you are around

You are not my shadow 
but the rhythm of my heart,
it skips and misses a beat
when you are around

People may think i am mad
when i am dancing and
smiling just like that
but what they don't know is
that i feel as if you are around

My strength,my weakness,my dream,my wish,
you know everything is you.
No matter if the moments we spent 
together are few 
bu i cherish your memory as fresh as a dew,
i know being nostalgic,but still i wish
if , just you are around

You know,i am smiling at the moment,
for i never know,that i'll get a 
chance to write for you,
these little incidents do
reignite the memories,as if you are around

People may come,people may go,
you may have a new set friends,
but we weren't foes,
even today when i look at the stars,
i feel as if you are around

We both were kids,not wise
enough to know the world,
but now we are not infantile any more,
and the distance between us if filled by this world

I might have been naive enough ,
or ingenuous,,as i'd like to say
But no matter how much we grow up,
i still miss you by the day and wish if you are around

This silent dedication to you,
will always remain untold,
hoping that you do feel the same,
hoping if just you are around......

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As Sunset Dusks the Sky

There's a place I go in fields nearby
Where I like to simply stand and watch the sky.

I see the trees in every season
That change throughout the year,
But I know that if I go away
They will still be there.

The streams will still flow
The leaves will still fall,
The sun will dusk the sky each night,
The birds still sound their call.

For now I'll walk this well loved path,
Let twilight gentle my mind,
And wonder as I go from this place
Of other paths my restless feet may find.

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A Dragon's Tale

Kicking up dust with my Mary Jane shoes
too many years ago now to be counted
in the darkening shadows of one bronze summer day
I was holding his hand, with assurance and trust
filled with concoctions of sugared excitement

I remember our feet crossing the plank
My Dad, (for the fourth time, with a smile on his face)
giving me a chance to back out with grace
giving me a chance to change my mind
"There's no disgrace,"....he said once again

But I was determined, insistent and firm!
How many times, had they taken a turn...
my brother and Dad....while I had to watch and yearn
standing below, in the infantile shame of the nowhere zone?

Dad finally relented, to my mother's chagrin
then took my hand,.......and with bravado...I had won!...

Sticky was the heat, and so were my hands, while we waited
that with a fidgety impatience, leading to the front of the line

We boarded the Dragon, a faceless contraption, 
that seemed quite familiar...and oddly resembled
the creation my brother had made on our living room floor 
with his 'million and one piece' erector set

A strange looking man with a sunburned face
and a head that seemed too small for his burly, puffed up size
escorted us to a red metal bucket, and strapped us in

Before the sound of train wheels began to grind
I buried my face in the arm of my Dad....
Blinded by fear,  too scared to see, too scared was me!

I know we had the ride of my life....
The Dragon, I'm sure was fierce as could be
But I was not harmed
But for the life of me....
I only remember my shaky knees, 
and walking the plank back into mother's waiting arms


Inspired by Lisa's Contest: "Unamed County Fair "

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The Penny Arcade

                      The Penny Arcade
Back in the 1920's, Americans would go to entertainment
spots around big cities like New York and Chicago, were
you could go to have some fun, these places were run
very cheaply and were called Penny Arcades, in these
amusement parlours you would find an endless array of
fun things to play, like fortune teller machines, scales to 
weigh yourself, crazy mirrors that made you look really 
fat or very tall, hand cranked picture viewers that would
run for a minute, all for the cost of a penny (1cent), games 
of skill like the flick through the loop bagatelle game, if 
you got the ball in the win hole your money was actually 
refunded and another free shot was given, then there was 
the famous crane game which had a large claw that you 
would have to manipulate into position to with prizes 
below, if you were fortunate enough you could win a
little prize from it, these crane games still exist today
but the modern version hardly let's you ever win, unlike 
it's earlier counterpart, winning seemed easy and it
was a favourite back then when things were made for fun.
Once all the money had gone we said goodbye till next 
time, when once again we try our luck in the Penny Arcade.  

Written 28th July 2013

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Serenade to Growing Up in the Fifties

When I was just a  little girl, we lived by railroad tracks;
We loved the steamy, smoky stacks, the wheels clickety clack.
On many days we would find, knocking at our door,
A hobo who had jumped the train, hungry to the core.
Hobos somehow had a way of letting other hobos know
Who, in towns along the way, would feed a starving Joe.
Mom surely was the subject of a lot of telegraphs,
Time after time, they found a way up our cottage path.
My aunt and cousin, Pam, would sometimes visit us,
And though the tracks might be blocked, Aunt Becky was nonplussed;
We’d hear her cheerful hello holler as she climbed between the cars,
We’d pray they’d have safe crossing, watching from our yard.
Aunt Becky was a lot of fun wherever she might be;
More than once she laughed so hard she couldn’t wait to pee.
At her house, we’d taffy pull or pour sweet boiled candy;
She didn’t need a marble slab, her windowsills worked dandy.
And cousin Pam was just as funny as any funny goes,
She drank purple Kool Aid and brought it out her nose.
Sometimes, the trains would bring the circus into town,
They’d stop across the street and we would watch the clowns;
It was our own, private show, a zoo animal parade,
A lot of fun for little kids who could not afford to pay.
Our pet chameleon we named Hinkie--we’d make him change his color,
And ice cream for the  four of us was way less than a dollar.
One time I jumped my baby bed to the chest of drawers,
It happened in my bedroom…all alone, I just got bored.
The Gospel of John was there, red, with a paper back;
Tore it into pieces, my little nose I packed.
It was in there good and solid, couldn’t get it loose;
I caused a big commotion, such a troublesome papoose.
Daddy sent my older sis to friendly confectionery,
The neighborhood store of stores--they liked us little fairies--
She was all excited, told about our bad nose problem;
They were in the business of helping people solve them.
“Tell your daddy, blow in her mouth, it’s easier than tweezers.”
And that is just what Daddy did to this naughty little sneezer.
The red book cover all flew out; they thought it was my brains;
I never took the Gospel in quite that way again.
There are tons of other tales I don’t have time to tell you,
Like how to get your freckles off by washing in the dew,
Of catching fireflies after dark and playing kick the can,
And having someone time us just to see how fast we ran.
We picked the bag-worms off the shrubs, our Daddy paid a dime
For ev’ry quart we brought to him; this system worked just fine.
He got rid of pesky pests and pay day made us run
Barefoot to the groc’ry store to buy up some sweet fun.
This tale sounds all perfection and that’s how we’ll let it go,
No need to bring in sadness and tell about our woes.
I think we kids were lucky, growing up back in the fifties . . .
It was a different world back then, this world is not so nifty.

July 11. 2014

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Hereith a longing

Euston Euston station
I never pass Euston station at times without feeling homesick
hereith we call it - hereith a longing
watching the trains pull out of the station into its dark tunnels 
imagining a journey out of London through Kentish town and the suburbs
but in my mind I am far beyond them
past the marches and border country 
far away to my childhood 
back to mountains castles and streams 
to the valleys of my home 
back to my youth 
five hours and forty years away 

I remember the look of Wales 
the things that settle in my mind like photographs in a family album
Wales as I like to remember it the Wales I want everyone to see 
in those days it seemed to be always summer 
the sands or the shining sea in the great bay
things of childhood the sound of breakers 
the feel of sand between my toes
plunging into the distance of the past
So I go back to Wales as often as I can
I take the train from Euston and I go home
back to my youth 
five hours and forty years away 

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The Bike

I remember it like it was yesterday.  I was probably twelve when Mr Kimball, who lived across the street, asked me if I had a bike.   I said “no”, and he asked if I would like one.  The answer was obvious.  I followed him to the cellar where, leaning against a wall stood an old Iver Johnson bike frame with two flat tires and no fenders.  It was beautiful.  Mr. Kimball said if I wanted to fix it up, I could have it.

I wheeled it home, washed it, and painted it black. My dad and I removed the tires to reveal two rotted inner tubes.  My dad said I would have to buy new ones and he would help me put them in.  It took me two months, working two paper routes to earn the money necessary, but I finally had them.  Good to his word, my dad and I put them in and used the old bicycle pump in the basement to inflate them.  I cannot tell you the ecstasy and exhilaration I experienced the first time I rode that bike.  It had multiple speeds, depending on how fast I could pedal.

I went everywhere on that bike.  You seldom saw one without the other.  I remember saving enough money to finally buy fenders.  The were shiny chrome and I thought they were beautiful.  But as is the way with young boys, after having them awhile, I decided to customize them by cutting them down to half size.  In my infinite wisdom, it never occurred to me that if I rode it in the rain, when I got where I was going, I would have a streak of mud down the middle of my back.  A minor detail.

From time to time, I would fasten a stiff card to the frame so that it would contact the spokes, making a sound not unlike a small motor.  Or at least I thought so.

That was so many years ago.  Since then I have graduated to cars and have owned many.  But I can't think of one that I liked better or that meant more to me then that old second hand bike.

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I had a dream where nothing 
was what it seemed.
It was dark and then too bright 
and all my words left my mind.
I saw a bright beam where 
everything was what I’d 
The darkness fell over the 
shadows and swallowed 
everything that was kind.
The light fled and tomorrow 
was a treasure I just knew I 
had to find.

Yesterday was lost and 
everyone stood with a great 
amount in cost.
It was sad and it was glad, but 
everyone threw it up for a toss.
Passing through time with 
glimmering bright lights,
Where were the dark lonely 

Flash-backs timing the tracks 
as most folks fell through tiny 
little cracks,
Each one flashed back on top 
of crumpling down broken old 
Then it was cold and then it got 
Today was here and being 
blotted out like a tiny black 
Flash-backs and flash-backs 
sending millions tracks of light 
to never forget me not.

®Registered: 2003 Ann Rich

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By Nightfall Luminary

The sun enlightening at the front house
two old armchair-in places by the postal —  
the vicinities were dinners in cycles’                                                                                      
parent’s table, the nightfall resembled                                                                                     
sky, —and fling butterfly around upon
spotlights lining by of sidewalk streets . . . 

Surprise was bound my moments
the primary time you’d walk
from my home . . .                                                                                                               
Stupefied, I got enacting take action about
smiled between me teethes of cheer
but, our nasty memories’ dated in dossiers
stopped all my puller-goals
and let you proceed without been
Break up, your trial my call . . . 

I could fallow your way-along
How could, you rendered that, after all?
Sudden was three question mares, my mind
but, asset wound was my heart
thou I dismiss talk to you anew . . . 

In while, along as moment I felt myself
odd, stupefied and mirthful in about
You been presented, then, you walked                                                                                
pretense front my stand sat, an armchair,                                                                                     
by the postal about 16 ft. away . . .  
stopped something in me, thy taking action
then, I felt pitifully fallowed you				
fled in the mile, by the vicinity
And street corners, —am now without                                                                                      
seen you afresh’ by gone twenty                                                                                                 
year long ago, and this whereas then! 

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A short story of my NDE, in story form Pt 1

In the 80's I lived in Anchorage Alaska. You could go anywhere and catch salmon till your arms fell off. I would drive for hours to fish in completely desolate (of people) lakes. There were several lakes that were so clear you could see the trout swimming two hundred feet down (they were 8 to 28 inches long) you could see the bottom of every lake just by peering over the edge of the boat. After several years of catching these trout that were as long as your arm, I checked the map for new and more challenging lakes. I found a lake Southwest of Wasilla that had "fingers" cut into one side of it. Each one was 50 by 2,000 foot long, obviously man made. I didn't bring my boat and planed to fish these "fingers" from the bank.

I had snapped my Fly pole running through the trees and was tired from all the the frantic running. I rigged up my Casting pole and walked out to where the water was just above my knees, between two trees 20 feet apart. 15 min went by and I figured I better change lure. My right foot had sunk past my ankle in the silt and I pulled hard to get unstuck. My left foot sunk deeper. I had been in this situation before and kept working to get at least one foot unstuck.

Almost an hour went by and the water was to my waist, I had mud to my calves and the waders were like a second skin. I couldn't move, I tried everything. By now the water was up to my armpits. I saw my cooler float by and then my tackle box (and needless to say, my life too) That's when I started yelling help. There was no body on these lakes and I knew it. I went under water and tried to dig my legs free, only to run out of air! I came up yelling help. I yelled only to hear my echos of help, I had a wife and two daughters to live for. I was done.

That's when I heard a calm voice say "catch this knife" I looked over and it was an old man in his 80's. I told him I was stuck real bad- he said, "I know, cut em off" and tossed me a knife- It was a perfect ten foot toss and I caught it! I went under water and sliced my waders from the hip to the thigh (240 bucks worth)- when I came up again he was reaching out his walking stick to pull me out. It was 5 feet too short. I yelled at him to come closer, "just grab hold of the tree branch there and I could reach it" He shook his head and said again "cut em off" and then he walked away behind the trees.

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Like Watching Old Black And White Movies

Being with family is oh so comfortable Much like a familiar old blanket Or your favourite ragged worn out old sweater With holes in the elbows One that has seen much better days But one that you just can't throw away Watching old black and white movies Thinking to yourself The dialogue and acting left much to be desired By today's standards But that was part of their charm Familiar things that your sister use to say As when there was a lull in the conversation She used to be uncomfortable with the silence And she would utter “Anyway” Know what... she still says it to this day My brother-in-law and his coughing fits Who has had asthma since he was six My dear sister was warned by our dear Dad When she announced their engagement “You must realize, he may not live a long life!” My dear Dad passed away at sixty-seven My dear brother-in-law is now eighty-six years old! To reminisce with them about the good old days Is just like an old black and white movie! Oh such sweet treasured memories © Jack Ellison 2014

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Is it a crime to dream?

Innocent childhood dreams
Full of lollipops and ice cream
Pretending to be a princess bride
Maintaining dignity and pride

Innocent childhood dreams
No longer filled with candy and flavors of ice cream
Slowly you begin to see
The triumphs and tragedies that are meant to be

Innocent childhood dreams
Replaced with ones that make me want to scream
My once protected heart
Now easily torn apart

A heart filled with passion, love and hate
Often questioning fate
So I can’t help but ponder this 
Is it such a crime to wish…
To wish I could go back in time? 

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Clear View

I can see it now even without looking that clear view above the steeply dropping 
rooftops.  That sight is peppered across my childhood memories, the open 
moorland, in all weathers and in all seasons.  Standing at the top of the road on the 
way to where ever, always a brief moment to glance at its beauty.  Be it tinged with 
purple heather, or covered in snow, sometimes missing altogether in the mists of an 
autumn morn, ever constant but never quite the same.  Beautiful, yet intangible too 
far to run, to young to drive.  Even now I long to see that view again with real eyes, 
so much so that I suspect, given the car and some time I'd find myself not on the 
moor of my childhood desires, but instead atop the hill above the rooftops staring at 
the view.

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Friday night in the Ghetto

It's Friday night 
In the Ghetto
From the dark ring out
A little girl crying
Daddy don’t hit mama
Sit down and shut up
On the walls
As neighbors threaten
To call the cops

Drugs in the hallways
Drugs on the streets
Who will that pretty girl meet
To make the money 
To feed the habit or pay
The bills or just to eat.

And still around the corner
Near the shops
The people stand 
And talk about the promise land
Its Friday night in the ghetto and the
Promise land is
The pawn shop
Fried chicken
Peanut butter and jelly.

The music from the barber shop
Makes a fellow stop
And touch fists
With a friend 
From around the way
Hey remember the day
Then out of the night air
Shots ring out

That little girl
Sitting on the floor
Playing with her dolls
Ken and Barbie
Dreaming of a time 
When she will meet her
Ken and maybe
Falls on her face
This is the place
The ghetto
And its Friday

Poem by SGSteverson
From the book"Four Pieces of a Silver Coin"
Posted 09/14/2011

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Iron Horses

I would be so excited, standing there on the railroad platform, holding my mothers hand.  I had waited for this day.  A chance to ride the train to Boston.  Impatiently, from time to time, I would lean forward to peer down the track, as if willing the train to arrive.

I heard it before I saw it.  First the dinging as the crossing gates lowered, signaling it's approach.  Then the scream of the steam whistle and the vibration in the rails.  Finally, the choo-chooing as the black behemoth slowed, and the engineer rung the bell, signaling their arrival.  Often he would wave and I would wave back.  Finally, with steam hissing from the brakes, they would stop, and the smell of coal smoke would fill the air.  

We would wait for the conductor in his black suit and hat to step down and place a stool at the foot of the stairs to the passenger car.  Even then, it was a big step and he would usually lift me under my arms and place me on the landing, then turn to assist my mothers assent.  Once aboard, I would choose our seat.  If possible, I always chose one with an unoccupied seat next to it.  By so doing, I was able to switch the seat back so that I could ride facing my mother, but more importantly, backward.  For some reason, that was part of the thrill of the trip.

Soon, we would hear the “All aboard” called out by the conductor and feel the initial jolt as the train began to move, the chugging growing faster.  I would listen to the measured click of the wheels as they moved over the breaks in the rails.  Once up to speed, that sound, like the cadence of a metronome, was almost mesmerizing, as the car swayed gently as if keeping time.

That was a magic time.  An adventure to be savored.  However, sometime in the ensuing years, those times disappeared and assumed the role of memories.  Today, I see mothers, holding their child’s hands as they wait to board the Amtrak.   Perhaps there is still an excitement there, but it is not the same. And I suspect the engineer doesn't wave anymore.

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The Trouble with Dying, is that we forget to live

    I'm deeply trouble and that maybe saying it mildly.  Of all the war's of the world, 
"World of War's", to what's been proven?  I can not comprehend.  Cann't wait to
Kill someone, "the rise and fall of mankind causes such a seperation, that the peo-
ple lost its best friend. ~Creator~ And still-after all the bombshell and the unbib-
licle need for power.  Monday morning our four (****) General call your's (Russia,
Germany, Japan) and ask him!!! "cann't We all just be friend's".  I'm trouble deeply,
from minute to the hour. ~Power~ "The Trouble with Dying, is that we forget to
live". Now it's (Tuesday) yeah-God still has the (Power).  Wednesday come, the
weather is extremily cold ~outside~ the deep trouble of my thought's bring on de-
pression-no rest for the weary soul. Why be ~defeated~ O'Weary soul, "is that we 
live and he gives ~Life~ to the many that are dying. But by ~Thursday~ they see
their zone of comfort ~inside them spiritually~ and on the outside in the "Cold". 
    The Trouble with Dying is the wage's of Sin is death", ~Creator~ the sustainer of
life rewards the Mom's and the Pop's, sister and brothers we're all destine to met him
again ~Holy Spirit~ to me he like sunshine that shall last forever and (ever)...
    The Trouble with Dying, is that we forget to live, Russia, Germany, Japan you have
made ~imprints~ in the sand. But in the nd who shall carry you! U.S.A. that include
you too. For I'm deeply trouble on this hour, and trouble is on every corner. All coun-
try that were mention "will your weapons of mass-destruction", protect you or will
you search for some hero. ~WARNING~: He or she shall-not be there for (You)..
  Saturday and Sunday, "I'm deeply trouble again but still I know that Each of us will
be dead soon, and I quest- I ques..I'm really not looking forward to it, for he promise
all will (Die).  Now that it's Monday all over again. The one who is the ~Creator~ will
not let us forget to live. Because not only are we going to be with him in Heaven. But
not only are the roads wider that leads to distruction but understand O'Weary soul
of all that are mention, but the narrow road is he pathway of peace and everlasting re-

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Narrative Qualities

Chatter; chatter; nag; nag; shut up they cry; proclaim a truce; dug beneath the 
sandy cove. 

Dermatitis dramatics; ghouls forlorn; faces exuberant in detail; wistful; smiling; 
caving; longing; sunning; words without need; need without words; immaculate 
conception. She stood; Farrell watched; gracing the parapet with parenthesis 
and parochial intent; grin overlong; foreboding yet intuitively inviting. He stood; 
Ferrell watched; pour poor swine; marital bliss; marital kiss; marital law; sternly 
facing the couple; mouth aghast; shouting down the crowd. 

“Is there anyone here who finds fault with this union?”

Farrell held his own; run they say; heir to the throne; a testament of guilt; to be so 
overly apologetic regardless of circumstance is to be appalling; it’s unheard of; 
even throughout the salient circles of silent elect; neglect yourself. 

“Arthur your wife knew too well…”

Reminisce; reconvict the perennial cyst; they kissed; marital bliss; marital kiss; 
marital law. They stood; Ferrell watched; skulking the heads of unleaven bread; 
heathen and sheathing the sickles instead; Ferrell construed pastures anew; 
skipping the scene; sauntering down a back alley boardroom. 

Farce off the elbow. 

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Holding Back

Nothing here is wrong because nothing ever could.
It has been so long,
A time that just never would!

Nothing here was ever lost because nothing was ever found.
It has been a toss,
A time that simply counted down!
Holding back the tears,
Puddles of many lost years!
Holding back my time,
I’m a prisoner with no crime.

There’s nothing here to hold because there never was.
It has been so cold,
A time for just because!
Holding back the pain,
My chronic death inside!
I have nothing to lose because there’s nothing to gain.
Holding back the strength of all my earned pride,
I’m just a moment gained with a will that eventually dies inside!

®Registered: 1997  Ann Rich 

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Chapel by the Sea

"The music in my heart is from the tolling of the bell"

I drove in silence, watching the road closely as it coiled along the rocky coastline, occasionally flipping on the wipers to remove the sea mist that gathered on my windshield.  How long had it been, I mused, since the last time I was here.  More years then I liked to think I’m afraid.  Yet still, the closer I came to the village that was my childhood home, the more a sense of belonging reawakened.

I entered the village, passing the old high school and several of the shops on Main St, most with new names and new owners while others sat dark and vacant.  I couldn’t help but feel a little sad.  This town was the soul of my childhood and I guess I had never expected it to forsake my memories.  It would somehow remain frozen in time, waiting for my return to begin anew.

I searched for the familiar as I neared the old port, only to be greeted by a today I had not anticipated.  I was home and my home was no longer there.  Then I heard the bell.  The mellow chime called to me, like the voice of an old friend.  I drove with haste until arriving at the little Chapel by the Sea. 
I stared as if seeing it for the first time, savoring the weather beaten wood and frosted windowpanes.  The sturdy steeple urging me to enter.  As I stepped into the dim, cool interior, it was as if I never left.  I was that kid again with shined shoes and slicked down hair that came here every week to profess my faith.

  The silence was overwhelming as I slid into a pew, letting the nostalgia of the moment wash over me.  I had found my anchor.  For all my absence, it had waited for my return and, wrapping me securely in its embrace, seemed to say "welcome back, I've missed you.

Bob Quigley
September 24, 2011
Written for “The Church by the Ocean” contest

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ELVIS my impression

                           This is my impression of Elvis Presley 
I was vey lucky to be 16 in 1956 when Rock and roll came into existence the greatest music of all time and for all time, this is what it all met to me.

Elvis was the big bang to creating music like the big bang was to creating the universe
Before Elvis their was no rock and roll, no music, no dancing 
His look was unique
His movements on stage were unique
His voice was the greatest like nothing ever heard before
His songs started the greatest music craze in the history of music rock and roll
He looked dangerous 
He looked like he was having the best time of his life on stage
Elvis didn’t give a damm who wrote his songs black or white
He was the first entertainer who did it all before anyone else did anything
Both men and women loved him
Elvis was a mans man
Elvis was a ladies man
Elvis was a gentleman
Elvis was a Christian 
Elvis was a momma’s boy
Elvis was respectful of his fans
Elvis was just one man who changed music forever in America in 1956 
When Elvis sings you have to smile, to tap your feet, clap your hands, move your body, and come alive
It’s 2013, 35 years since Elvis died 
He is still the major Icon of the music world
Elvis is still the most worshiped singer and entertainer in history
Thousands and thousands of fans visit his home each and every year
Elvis didn’t smoke or drink
Elvis became an actor but could have become an accomplished actor with the right people and advice around him
Coronel Parker was both good for Elvis and bad for Elvis
Liberace taught Elvis how to dress with flash
Elvis had his own way of moving on stage when he sang no one has ever duplicated his signature moves God know how many tried
Elvis served the country he loved when he was drafted into the army no complaining 
Elvis asked fro no special treatment while in the army 
Elvis loved the woman and the woman loved him back
Elvis was the greatest entertainer of all time
Elvis met his tragic and to soon end to his life he was only 42
Elvis was hooked on prescription pills and that’s what killed him
No one could tell Elvis what to do many tried all failed
The music died on the day Elvis died
It was so sad that Elvis felt so all alone so much of his life that is what fame does to you
Elvis was the King
No one else will ever occupy the Kings throne
Elvis loved to sing gospel songs no other entertainer of rock and roll ever did 
No entertainers star shines brighter or ever will
You can ask any great entertainer and there are hundreds and will all agree Elvis was the greatest entertainer of all time
No entertainer in the history of music ever had a first year success like Elvis had
I saw Elvis in Las Vegas in 1972  when the music started and you knew that Elvis was soon to be coming on stage the excitement and the anticipation in the room was over whelming and beyond compare everyone in the room was mesmerized

This is my remembrance of Elvis Presley

Dennis Davis
March 15, 2013


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Walking To School

I was standing in my dining room, drinking a cup of coffee, staring out the window the other day.  Across the street is the school bus stop, so for a brief time, each morning there stands a collection of young students, mindlessly milling around until the bus arrives.  Of note is that this is winter time in Maine.  Temperatures in the teens and twenties are the norm.  Yet, there stood at least two boys, wearing parkas and, to my surprise and chagrin, shorts.  What is the matter with kids today.

Then I thought about when I was a kid and how my mother would always be concerned that, when in my teens, I never buttoned or zipped up my coat.  Didn't bother me near as much as it did her.

Where I grew up, there were no yellow buses.  We all walked to school.  In the summer, it was fun to jostle with your friends, sharing lies and tall tales with each other.  But in the winter, it was quite something else again.  Mom would dress us in the kitchen.  Padded snow pants over which she would pull on and snap up a pair of rubber boots.  They were called galoshes then.  Next came a scarf over which a frayed but warm coat was buttoned, all the way up to the neck.  Lastly, my prized leather aviator cap with shear-ling lined ear flaps, and of course, the requisite mittens, which when very young, were pinned to our sleeves.

Our books were carried in an old green book bag, cinched at the top and thrown over our shoulder, or more often then not, swung around or dragged during our school ward journey.  Funny how I remember all this , but I don't remember ever being cold, even when my face was apple red.  It was just something you did.  If you weren't going to school, you would be playing outside anyway.  Winter was subjective.

So when you hear the stories from your grandpa about how he used to walk to school in waist high snow and how the trip was uphill, both ways, you may want to think back on the fun you had, and how much those kids across the street are missing.

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Dance of a masquerade

There at the market place
Onlookers gathered singing the masquerade’s praise.
A visible ghost about to get loose-
Held by its companion, from fleeing like a wandering goose.

The masquerade yearns to dance
Swaying like a drunkard it needs this one chance.
Bells hung on its cloak
Cane in hand seeking a ferocious stroke.

Gloves strapped to the hand
Gins poured as libation for the gods of the land.
Cane drums banging rhythmically loud
Acrobatic flips to amuse the crowd.

The atmosphere was livid
Revealing steps so staunch and sordid.
Soon whips like rain were loosen
As the masquerade’s companions get crimson.

Hats or caps are being despised,
Whips were used on those chastised.

Ara Orun; a progeny of the heaven
Veiled by its cloak from mortal haven.
Grumbling incantations strange to our hearings,
Offerings first before the masquerade find its bearings.

Songs accompany the wailing drum-
As the air was dozed with burukutu the black man’s rum.
Jolting back and front towards the musing crowd
As the song grows eerie loud.

The masquerade sways like a possessed
Shouting to the crowd; “you are blessed.”
Buttocks gracing the sky,
Hands spread like a bird ready to fly.

Is this man or spirit-
Whose charm had enslaved the street?

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Monkey Business

I once got myself a monkey
(God knows what breed his was).
He was black, with dark, big eyes--
A devil-thing you could never pass.

Pearly-teeth shone in his mouth,
When you but pleased this thing;
We'd get-along well together,
(Me thought we could do with some training)
And, I tried teaching him
And taught him little tricks,
But my word! The poor thing,
Got rounded in the basics:

A few things of course, took him time,
While others, he could never learn:
Like when I said,"Sit Marcel",
He'd start to jump up and run...!
(Which wasn't quite the big deal,
For he was still learning what to do)
At least it was better than
When his filth I found in my shoe!

I coached him about 'toilet-culture'--
Taught him where men with a pot always rushed;
When that one day, on missing  my spects,
I found them only being flushed...

Nonetheless, we glued well as pals,
But for a diner's calamity:
When I ask him once,"Get me that rice",
He sat on the tray and chose to pee!

He sought a perch upon my head
So I always had unkempt hair;
He'd sit, digging deep and hard,
I don't know for what thing up there.
(A small cheery, childish thing,
He'd always place himself with me)
But if he'd not torn my favourite shirts,
I say, I'd be much, much happy...

We used to talk as great pals: 
He'd face me then, and play his part,
Although upon losing interest,
He'd slap me, scratch me, and cut me short!

This training and all friendliness,
Sure made each grow fond of the other
When I realized, he had to leave somehow
(Leaving  me to shrug and shudder):

As a final mischief of his,
He'd got himself in a dirty puddle,
Then placed himself in the cupboard,
Disturbing order to a state of muddle...!
When that I asked him to get down,
He looked at me somewhat askance;
As if he knew what it was--
The unpleasant thing that had come to chance...

The grin on that face I was to miss 
I know--the parting was like Hell...
He knew not what would change for us,
I still miss good ol'Marcel...

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His Nameless Horse

The last horse my grandfather had
he shot one spring morning behind 
the shed in which his nameless horse

had lived in for many years. It was 
April and chilly, with peach trees in bloom.
It was an old horse, its backbone

sagging like the roof of an old farmhouse,
and it still wore its matted coat
of winter hair, its mane coarse

like a spray of dried weeds, its hoofs
ringed with tufts of knotted hair,
bits of caked earth and dung.

Its tail fell listless from its roughened
rump like a cluster of bailing twine
that hung from a ceiling hook.

It was the last morning of its life.
My grandfather entered the shed
and led the old horse to the back pen.

I followed behind as I hsd so many
times. But that morning the old horse
walked with a limp – an infected knee.
Behind the shed a group of men
stood pressed against each other 
with faces drawn like mourners.

Then I saw it, the familiar rifle
leaning against the weathered shingles,
the small red box of bullets next

to the butt. And I knew. I knew what
the old horse did not. In dread I ran
back into the small shed. I pressed

my hands hard over my ears, and I
waited. Waited for the shot that
would bring the old horse down,

the old horse I had befriended,
talked to morning after morning,
had fed pieces of carrot and

apple to; the gentle old horse whose
mane and tail I had often brushed,
the nameless horse I had brought

fresh well water to on hot afternoons,
and fresh shavings I spread over 
its stable floor. And I waited. And I knew

what the old horse did not. And when
the shot rang out, my knees buckled
and I jerked as if the bullet had entered me.

I fell to the ground and groaned
and cried, and I kept my hands hard
against my ears, shaking my head

as if to dislodge the sound that filled 
my head and amplified. And I heard
the old horse let out a sharp cry

and felt its hard fall rise through
my knees, as it collaped on itself, 
its knees buckling under dead weight.

What hurt most that morning was 
my grandfather’s casual treachery –
not so much as a pat on the old horse’s

shoulder, not a word of farewell, no outward 
sense of loss or sadness, no tears. Only 
a cold guiltless betrayal, it seemed to me.

And they roped the dead horse
to the tractor, the small hole in its
forehead still leaking blood like

a liquid red ribbon. They dragged 
its body to a secluded corner of the field
grown thick with greening yarrow

and new shoots of goldenrods, 
the men following behind, silent 
and solemn, to where the earth 

had already been gutted open, waiting 
like a gaping mouth to swallow 
the horse’s carcass: a large meal 

that would take years for the soil 
to digest, leaving only a small depression
and a stench of rotting flesh

escaping slowly through a growth
of prickly blackberry, purple vetch 
and swarms of buzzing insects.

The men stood silent and watched
the dead horse dragged and fitted
into the open grave. 

Then, to my surprise, my grandfather 
removed his hat and stared pensively 
at the nameless creature he had killed,

the horse he had known for most 
of his old age, the horse that had
served him selflessly. He stood there

wiping his eyes with the back of 
his hand, saying nothing, looking
at the dead horse, and walked away.

Certain men then took up shovels 
and began to fill the hole, the others
following my grandfather to the house, 

talking in whispers, as if they had 
witnessed the burial of one of their own, 
one they would never see again.

And for as many springs as they might
live, they would talk about the old man’s 
horse, the horse without a name, 

the harmless creature they had come
to watch die on a chilly April morning 
when peach trees were in bloom.

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Stunning Armadillos

Trees still shade the road
where Gramps and I once rode
in his old green car -- I drove --
on dusky early evenings
in my fifteenth year.
We stopped, as he insisted, at every spot
where an armadillo scratched
among the tender greenery
in ditches.
I was dispatched,
with Gramps' strong wood cane,
to kill a pesky armored creature
by striking hard, once, upon its snout.
Gramps waited in the car,
called encouragement or condemnation:
"That's it! Hit him hard!" or
"Can't you do a damn thing right?"
He knew I didn't like to kill
but was determined to toughen up
my softness.
That hard old man was not accustomed
to being crossed or contradicted.
But part of him was tender,
and he had a sense of what was right
in the bayou country of his day.
How could I tell him that I hated
killing just to please him?
Often, I killed, then killed again,
although, at times, I'd miss the snout
or be slow to follow up,
and permit an armadillo to escape.
Sometimes, I'd temper force with moderation --
I'd stun the creature, grab the tail,
fling it far into dense bushes
to revive and live another day.
My grandfather eyed me darkly then,
but often kept his peace.
He gave me the treatment
I gave those stunned armadillos.
Could he have felt the same
toward me as I toward them?

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The Original Ozark Cafe

  (in John Deere green)

The décor paid tribute to an American icon,
a way of life that built this land.
Did the owner's ancestors farm nearby,
his memories the reason for the John Deere green?

Green everywhere: tablecloths, wooden posts
trim strips on walls, wind-chimes and hanging plants;
not garish or overpowering, but subtle, and pleasing to the eye.
Ceiling beams were lined with strings of Christmas lights,
every bulb in John Deere green.

One old children's hand-tooled saddle—with sheepskin lining
and a cinch made from woven rope—sat astride a dividing rail.
A small shaped mirror near the door, wore a horse-collar frame.

John Deere tractors adorned an entire wall, 
displayed on shelves, in framed photos and metal ads, 
reflected in large mirrors—evenly 
spaced— on the opposite wall.

Locals ate, took no notice. I was enthralled, and ordered
biscuits and gravy, my mind full of memories
of life on the farm, in John Deere green. 

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She was born long ago in the sunflower state
And although my own feet have never been blessed
to set, not a step, upon the dry prairie grass...
she would spend many days, sharing stories and dreams

I would watch as she told  me, with glistening eyes 
I pictured each message, while I quietly listened....

Some might have seen it, in much different hues
but the Kansas I've seen, was from Grandmother's view

It awakens in spring with new sprouting grain
After brittle white frost, or slush under the rain
I have seen just how golden a wheat field might grow
I shall know how a wagon, dark-framed, work at rest
Waits by a shed, and how two horses will stand
Waiting  and grazing where the fence-line might bend

I can see quivering trees, and stiff shocks of corn
The amber of the noon, and the warm sun-cured hay
Milking cow barn, and the old chicken shed
And a barn filled with pigs wait to be fed
A lone, white farm house, with a big front porch
And how a bible rests...on the nightstand, next to a bed

How harsh the weather, how the Chinook wind shakes the roof
And how fast a family gathers, into a cellar when tornados are due
And the sound of a meadowlark, and a hot wood stove and coal black soot
The kindness of folks, and the loss and heartaches
And the smell of roasted chicken, and bread as it bakes

In this place of her birth..... is the scent of the earth...
I see the brown and green
I see what she has seen.......yet only through her eyes
As I stand by her side...under a Kansas prairie sky....

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When we come to the point in Life where the number of days behind us far out-number the reasonably expected days ahead, then the wisdom we’ve accrued should be useful to others who follow.  One of the challenges will be in finding the tools through which to impart and relay what we’ve learned, in some useful array.  One possible avenue is: Rhyming poetry.

We who are in the process of counting those remaining days don’t have all the answers, to be sure, but we may have one or two which might “pave over” some rough spots for others – which we, years before, passed across.

No man stands alone, neither as an island nor an all-knowing wizard.  It is our duty, simply because we at one time drew breath, to put as many stones in the roadway mankind has continued to construct, as is our ability to do.  No payment or recompense is sought or expected.  Rewards come at the very end of each individual journey:  Someone else may use the roadway we helped, in some small, humbling part, to construct.

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He Left These Here for You

Granddad saved change under the paper in his dresser drawer.
We never dared to look and see how much he had to share.
He saved it there with a purpose; to give when I was there.
For a nickel I would comb his hair; a quarter bought a shave.
He loved to give me money; I loved the way he cared.
A playful sort, he loved to laugh; he always teased and joked.
There was endless time to play with me; that’s how my granddad was.

My granddad grew a garden, the prettiest one in town.
I would help him plant the rows of corn.
Three seeds dropped in each hole that he made.
Row after row, together we worked our way down.
And when the work was completely done, it was time for fun!
A shave, hair comb, and a pedicure would make him fall asleep.
Grandma brought bright red polish to decorate his feet!

When he'd wake up, I’d sit on the floor, knowing what was next.
He would bring out coins from his dresser drawer
And laugh about his toes…  (A tradition as my grandmother knows.)
He was always amused while I counted all of my loot.  
He would tease and laugh and taunt.  To me, he was number one!
At age eighteen, while in the Army, the horrible message came.
Granddad had died from an allergy; life would never be the same.

I tried not to cry, like I promised him; I could not bear the pain.
He loved me so and I loved him.  I felt so alone.
How could I go through life and never hear his voice.
I must go on; we had talked of this; even now, he still is missed.
I didn't go home for many years; when I did…he wasn’t there.
Emptiness came over me, and an ocean full of tears.
Then, Grandma took me to his drawer… “He left these here for you.”

© July 9, 2011
Dane Smith-Johnsen 

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Under May's Emerald Sky

Who remembers, is it only me?
One emerald morning in the month of May
Spread upon a kitchen table 
Paste made of flour, scissors, rainbow crayons 
Pretty paper doilies and….
Mama letting little hands
Create surprises, of cone shaped fans… 

The memory shrugs so many years away
Where innocence, was cut and shaped
Into bright-sprigged paper cones
Such sweet accomplishments, each our own

Then quickly running out the door
To pick spring beauties, one by one
Fresh Lillies of the Valley, wildwood fern, 
Gathering them, heavy on their stems
Sweet and fresh as morning dew, 
So filled with springtime, filled with bloom

Then paper cones were flower filled
Small bouquets of sweet perfume
Then down the dusty road we trudged
Side by side, with grins of pride
No greater pleasure as a child
The thought of bringing someone smiles

Timid knocking on a neighbor's door
Calling “Surprise...Surprise! Look what’s in store!”
Our little legs would run fast, down the road, 
Behind a tree, where we would hide
And watch them find this flower prize
Must not....get caught.....must not get caught!
And we were taught
That bringing light to someone's eyes
Was worth a lot !!
Under Emerald May Day's vibrant skies

For Tracie's Contest: "Flowers or Stones"...."May"

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The Hidden Haven

What is held beneath the hidden haven is such a mystery.
Looking in and looking out never a dream and never a doubt.
Souls in need for mercy to plea a soul driven just to be set free!
The hidden haven remains such a mystery all throughout.
Obscuring what life is really all about and drenched in all of its diversity.
What is held beneath the hidden haven can never be known.
Many more tears are yet to come,
All hidden where we all begun,
A need to be loved with a place to belong with a chance to grow!
The hidden haven remains a dark mystery that’s all alone.
Concealing what life has really shown,
Omitting my every attempt to reach out and truly be done.
What is hidden beneath the hidden haven is between me with you.
A clear moment with your brightest light,
All given and laid before your eyes very own sight.
The force of strength will carry us through!
The hidden haven remains a mystery with the life we will choose.
Provoking the battle that is prepared to fight,
Crushing the life you always knew,
The hidden haven can never be known.
It is hidden!
For it is deep!
A soul that absorbs life alone,
A moment forbidden,
But held forever in my keeps!

®Registered: 1997  Ann Rich

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Breathe, memory

Breathe, memory© Theresa Rossouw
Thumping in my chest, beating the drum of seconds gone by. Time erased, passed and spent, I am left wondering where it’s trickled to, where it went. 
Precious breaths, race through my lungs, inflating my bosom, pumping the oxygen, life force, life, through my being, my heart pumping, my mind a spring blossom. Fresh my thoughts and my vision, seconds of pure precision. 
Hard my head reels as memories flood in, behind my eyes, the motion picture plays. Seconds and minutes, days. Pounding into my spirit, the drumbeat of hope and the thread of love. Every heartbeat a final bow, at time's sweet surrender to end.

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To the Siren of the faraway seas

I once thought to have the world within my grasp, that all I needed I already had.
I once thought to be unable to feel more happier than I was while you were around.
Only way to make it better, was to change our worlds of ones and zeroes to contact of the flesh itself.

Even though I realized it, I choose to deny it. I was sorely mistaken about you and I, and this and that.
You smiled when you lied about your feelings.
"I cannot give to you more than this" you said with an evil smirk while observing me from afar.
The smirk, was it real or imaginated?
I do not know, and I fear I will never know, my mind play tricks on me once and again.
Misleading me to believe, like it allowed me to believe in your words.

Words... Amazing how powerful it can be, use it well and one can find pleasure, use it well, and one can find the demise of the soul.
leaving an empty husk behind, like you left me. An empty husk longing to be filled, once again, with the colors of joy.

Coming from the other side of the world, I felt your words and disdain like piercing cold knives straight to my heart, once warm, now cold, since you left.
And following your words you went away to never come back.
Along with you, went away also the joy and happiness I dared to thought to be eternal, a sweet lie I was telling myself...

Even today, after so long, I still think about you and I, your mesmerizing gaze that made me forget and float, your enchanting laughter and the warm and soft touch I told myself that you had.
Touch that I will never feel, laughter I will never hear, again, and eyes that I will never meet, again.
When you left, I was torn, between love and hatred. Now the hatred is gone and the love morphed to friendship, which I would like to share with you.

The Mauritius girl, will my words reach you?
I guess they will not, but I like to hope, to dream.
Hopes and dreams, the accessories of the weak...
A weak being, that I am, a being to be filled with fake bliss, five by day.
Three by the sunrise and  two when the diamonds imbue the skies.
As like that, the curtains shall rise and fall before my eyes, at each passing empty day.

And so I live on, even if that means to not have you anyway I can... The only way I can...
For now, I just wonder, if will I ever find it again while I live? The joy and wonder, I mean.
I ask this chair, I ask the other me on the looking glass and I ask my shadow.
I guess these are the only companionships I will ever have until I meet my final doom.
My shadow, my other broken me and this chair and my memories, of you and I...

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' Knock - Knock Jokes ... ( Quirky, Yes )

Aahhhh, The Quirky/Idiosyncrasies of MoonBee

Knock, Knock …
Who’s There ?
     Icky …
Icky Who ?
… Never Mind, I’ll Come Back Later …

Knock, Knock …
Who’s There ?
    Juan …
Juan Who ?
I Don’t Know, What Do You Have In Mind ?

Knock, Knock …
Who’s There ?
    Hula …
Hula Who ?
Yes, When I Was Young …

Knock, Knock …
Who’s There ?
   Toodle …
Toodle Who ?
  … Ok

Knock, Knock …
Who’s There ?
   Bye-Bye …
Bye-Bye Who ?
Look Lucy, We Found Ricky !

Knock, Knock …
Who’s There ?
      Nu …
Nu Who ?
Well, If You Know Who, Why You Ask ?

Knock, Knock …
Who’s There ?
     Woo …
Woo Who ?
… Ok, Who’s In Trouble ?

(The Obvious-Obvious, One)

Knock, Knock …
Who’s There ?
     Who …
Who Who ?
Late Night, Huh ?

Knock, Knock …
Who’s There ?
    Yu …
Not Me !
Yeah … Yu !

Knock, Knock …
Who’s There ?
    Yu ! …
You Who ?!
… Hi …

Knock, Knock …
Who’s There ?
     Yu !
Naaaaa, Naaaaa Interested !

Knock, Knock …
Who’s There ?
    Boo …
Boo Who ?
Wait, I’m Not A Bill Collector !

                               Knock, Knock …
                      Who… who oo ‘s  There ?
                                  Sue …
                           Su suu sue, Who ?
            (but then Door Opens, With A Crash
               Double-Barrel, Points Out, Blasts
     The Knocker Runs Fast, as Voice Shouts Out Rash
“ … Sue That ! and Don’t Come Back Talking ‘bout Whiplash”
          And The Man Sits Back Down, To Finish His Glass

                                 - - - - - - - - - - - -

              Oh, Darn, I’m Out Of Egg-Nog and Jack D
               Now, How Can I Make My Moonlight-Tea
             Well, It’s Back To The Market, For MoonBee
                                       He He He ! …

                            Have A Great Day, Y’all …


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The Hobo

Time's moments takes it's toll
 adding gravitational pull
To a body, so weighed down
 His chin can touch the ground
With pain visible on his face
 He lives sans his wit, and grace
A life of selfishness, his crime
 now sentenced, to a duel with time
And time's blatent tenacity
 plus it's control over eternity
Reminds the man how much it's cost
 for him to realize what he's lost
So he wears time's final wrath
 As he walks life's thorny path
All alone without a friend
 He walks the path to journey's end

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The Eighth Wonder Of The World. ( Motion Pictures.)

" Scream, Ann, scream! Scream like you've never screamed before!"
     I saw their eyes, wide like turkey eggs
     for his bombast had provided us sneers.
     Just what is it he expects her to see
     that would leave her shaking, in tears?

 " Have any of you ever heard of..Kong?"

    There it is! This is it! The man's a fool!
    He's off for a film so they'll be thrilled!
    This ship is a tramp, not proper or trim.
    He'll wind up getting all of us killed.
   " All hands on Deck! All Hands on Deck!"

     She's gone! Oh my God! She's gone!
     Now what do we do? Hand out the guns!
     Is there enough bullets for them all?
     I still wonder: are we the only ones?

   " Come on! Who's going with me?!!"

     I can't believe the size of it! The size!!
     It's a mirage! It must be a nightmare!
     It's carried her off out in that jungle!
     My hands feel cold. We'd better beware.
     I might be lucky. I'm staying behind.
     I  shot it. I know I did!

   " I tell you, skipper, this Kong is as big as a house!"
     I slip up by Denhams' side to hear about
     Kong and these dragons and there's more!
     I thought those things were dead and gone
     Suppose one of them comes to this door?

   " Kong's Coming! Kong! Kong!"

     I heard the gong! Oh my God! It's Kong!
     He followed Driscoll and Ann right here.
     We've taken up arms! We've bolted the door!
     I wish I could be somewhere and not here.     

     He's In! He's Loose! Run! Run!
     EXPLOSION! I turn
     Kong stops. He staggers.
     He's down.
     I hear Denham shout:

   " Come On. I Got Him!
     We'll teach him fear! We're millionaires, boys!

     I never slept all those weeks back.
     Gunshots and whips from the hold
     It's a mistake to bring this thing back.
     Denham is foolish and brazen and bold.

     I shipped out right after we docked.
     I pour another shot, look out to the sea.
     The mate just told me the news
     over the wireless:
     Kong is loose in New York.
     I wonder where Denham is...

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My Scars

We were both 16, we shared many firsts with each other. First girl I ever kissed, First person outside of family that I told "I love you" to and we took each others virginity. We were both young and foolish but to this day I still say I honestly loved you. The day you told me you never cared for me the day when you told me it was all just a game was the day I cut my first scar into my arm. I knew you longer then my own brother. We were best friends grew up together, we even got a house when we both left the "nest". Those were the best 3 years of my life we became brothers we became blood. The last day we ever talked is the saddest day in my life, even to this day I cry when I think about you walking away. The scar you gave me stands out from the rest, it's deeper and longer then the others. You were my star I gave you everything I had. I would of walked through the pits of hell just to see your smile. I thought you were the one, I thought we had a future and would be together forever. But one day I came home early to surprise you with this ring, yes I was going to ask you to marry me. When I walked into the house my heart was shattered and blown away by the wind. The image of the two of you is burned into my brain I did not say a word just dropped the ring on the floor and walked right back out the door. The pain of the knife cutting into my arm shocks me out of my thoughts. I watch the blood begin to drip onto the floor this makes 13. 13 scars on my arm

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To Emptiness

Part I:

I stand here looking out across the land;
So vast and yet is covered by one hand.
I turn my head and gaze up at the sky,
Through endless heights that spiral up as I
Turn round and hear them coming from afar,
But never knowing what and if they are
The ones who, from the web of time, were spun
As I see that my journey has begun.

Part II:

I stand upon a mighty post up high
And look upon the world below.
Across this world I cast a critical eye
And ponder all that you don't know.

They all are sanctimonious as they
Preach things of which they never thought.
They teach it all but they have lost their way;
Within their dreams they have been caught.

Stop wasting time and turn your thoughts instead
Towards the thing we know for sure;
Awaken blinded minds within your head
And you are wiser than before.

Part III:

I have emerged from in this life
To see the light of darkened skies.
I leave behind both love and strife
And whisper all my last goodbyes.

I spit into the eyes of those
Who have helped me to realise
The things in life that no one knows,
When all we see and hear are lies.

You look at me but who looks back
Behind dead eyes; forever closed?
Your mind is still under attack;
All happens just as I supposed…

From when I realised the truth:
Ongoing death is greater than
The disillusioned dreams of youth;
All left is just one empty man.

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Rhymes Of Darkness

                        Rhymes Of Darkness

When we were children we where taught nursery rhymes,
And they use to make us happy. Rhymes like London Bridge
And Ring-A-Ring-A-Rosie - these all sound innocent to children.
These rhymes had a more sinister theme, for example, the 
Rhyme London Bridge Is Falling Down, was actually a fact back
In the 19th century in London, where the bridge on the river 
Thames was slowly sinking at a rapid rate into the water, making
It unsafe to handle people and traffic. It was at the verge of 
Collapse. Thus the rhyme London Bridge Is Falling Down,
Meant that if it were to collapse, people would drown and die.
Another rhyme goes back to the plague of London, where people 
Wore face masks  to prevent catching the black plague that
Was brought about by the growth of the rat population. When 
People caught this disease they would hang wreaths of posies 
On the doors of the sick people, and that later produced the rhyme
Ring-A-Ring-A-Rosie, referring to the black plague of London.
'They all fall down', meant that they died from the disease as there 
Was no known antidote at that time. In the end the fire in a
Bakery in Pudding Lane caused the destruction of the plague
And pestilence, and London and it's people were eventually
Saved. Yes, these events created nursery rhymes that children
Have heard through the ages and have loved to read for fun.
They will never know the sinister side of these nursery rhymes.

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Nothing is more delightful
and simply remembered by a sweet word...
than a walk through a green forest,
to find a remote spot on a low hill
and put those daily worries to rest;
the anxious eyes long for that vision
of a last, unforgotten season: 
the gentlest rain which brings
a familiar fragrance from other lands...
when spring hides its flowers!

Whenever the lonely poet dreams,
his unerring hand is quicker that  the flowing streams:
the distant vison of his flourishing thoughts
is carried to unseen places; 
and all he wishes is to feel  a sublime peace...
when spring hides its flowers!

The wishful child ,led by his mom ,searches 
 the leaf-covered paths with a sorrowful glance,
even the robins and blue-birds can't confort him,
 or give him some kind of hope for his unleashed whim;
and will he relish the joyful promise of each year,
as a gentle hand caresses his blonde hair...
when springs hides its flowers from his zealous eyes,
and one of those adolescent dreams unexpectedly dies?

I, once, was like him:  curious,cheerful and so restless:
seeking surprises in unexpected places...
finding myself in front of simple wonders
that couldn't  be perceived by the adult mind,
as if they were another mystery, not the creation of God...
when spring didn't hide its flowers!

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For hours
her whole world was 
hunting for rocks at the
banks of the shallow
narrow river that runs 
through the canyon behind
the house.

On her knees,
wrist deep in the
icy current, she
sifts through piles of 
polished stones, 
searching for the 
perfect little pebble.

She slips the pebble 
safely in that pointed place
in the pocket of her jeans.

Down the path, 
she's conscious of the
precious cargo, 
digging her hand down
now and then.

At home,
she reaches in
with her fingers, to
pluck the pebble
from her pocket
and she places it
on a shelf
with the others.

That evening,
stretched under the covers,
tucked and tight, and drifting,
she dreams of 
skipping stones.

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When I was young, I had these dolls, in various guise and shapes,
The first was been the simplest; in it no single garment
or any ornament embedded, but only made of clay and heights four inches,
“Imperfect doll!” I exclaimed and clothed the doll in scarlet dress.
The second doll was only made of scarves of woolen rags in many color set and 
“Imperfect doll!” I exclaimed again, and dangled some trinkets on its neck.
My third doll was more ornate and made of wood, which was slightly rough,
But its face and clothes were not alike from me; but of Japanese in a kimono
with a sash of obi around its tiny waist and wooden sandals on its feet,
“Imperfect doll!” I said, and furnished it with gesso.
Then my fourth doll was made of ivory, and clothed in simple bulk skin,
“Imperfect doll!” I said, and adorned its clothes with lace.
And my last doll was made of bisque from Germany:
fair-haired and fair skinned, until I noticed, some hairpiece fell as I untangled,
“Imperfect doll!” I exclaimed, and put a bonnet on its head.

And then I grew and see much of the world; more than my dolls, more than 
Like a woman I met, who’s very fond of costly suits and polish gems
only to make cover of her unwanted aspects,
“Pity!” I said, “she hides her imperfection!”
Then this bachelor who’s tired and aged, but still aspires for lofty aims,
“Alas!” I said “he’s blinded much of his imperfection!”
And to this lady I knew, who’s young and fair but lost a man she dear,
and grieves to him excessively, with no more time to stare and glad to other 
“Alas!” I said” she mourns too much her imperfection!”
And for poor man I knew, complaining day and night to his misfortune,
“Alas!” I said, “he hasn’t done a thing to his imperfection!”
And to this dying man of severe illness, reproachful to his fate,
“Poor man”, I said, “he ought to know that death is not an imperfection.”
And lastly, when I meet someone who grief or find no peace and happiness,
“Alas!” I’ll say, “you ought to see that life is made of many imperfections!”

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The Stages of Life

I rise in the morning
like a bright new flower
crawling, staggering and falling
like the leaflets of a ripe flowers.
With my four wek limbs
and my toothless mouth
sucking and pulling the nipple of her breast
and feeling her warmth.
I rise in the day
like a healthy young bird
running, jumping and singing
like a matured bird.
I rise in the evening
going back to my early age,
with weak body, my grey hair
and the wrinkles that show the age.
My two limbs can no longer 
give the support without a staff
staggering, falling here and there
till i say "adieu" to the world.

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I recall them days that i lived
at the east coast of Kenya
then a college boy

We lived at the hostels near customs
in a place near an animal orphanage
Hallers park- near Bombolulu town

Where coastal s loved to partake
sweet palm wine straight from
the palm trees all over the region

Me Georgie and Jackie
then best of buddies
went to try out the wine

Started out on the real wine
before they offered us 'cham'
claiming its oil from the palms

First taste i know its locally distilled spirits
very potent and lethal.. i edge my buddies off
but despite.. they decide to partake the spirit

back to the eatery Jackie now eating 
from the dinning table apparently those
who partake palm oil don't need plates

Jackie following day too sick cant  attend classes
we did-int tell him the secret that me and Georgie
threw up all we drank from our delicate stomachs

Brave Jackie held it in and Memo had to comfort him
..Sorry Jackie you have malaria fever and your so sick..hic..
we dint let go that twas the palm spirits haunting our Jackie

lewis k NYAGA

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The First Time I Rode a Horse

Big hands taxied me up
to the seat
I took for a cradle

on a back already bent
and filled with rutted lines and bite scars,
his hair was still brown
but in spots, 
where the skin panicked for cover,
age sprang up like the General’s venerable gray

and He stood there laughing with the crows
about how regal I looked
with a toy whip in one hand

but how I looked 
   was unimportant
as we moved my smell bled through
and two aggressive rings flared
and figured me out-
a few more feet and I could feel the unsettling shift
of unhappy weight beneath my reach.

So I held fast
to the great Van Dyke brush
(its fibers and bristle 
magnetized from front to back)
with a handle carved
from thick muscle, 
that clung for life to the bones 

but He did not notice
the flex in the gelding’s arcing neck,
and He must have sneezed, or blinked,
through the vital twitch 
that shook 
and dissolved into
hyperbolic, bay curves:

when it upset the Dauphin’s new throne
with a weak kick,
everyone was surprised.

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The Times

                                             There was a time
                                             Transcending times
                                          Remembering a time
                                           In a town like yours
                                              A life like mine
                                            In a world for all
                                           It seemed so simple 
                                                Mother Earth 
                                              Larger than life
                                              green fragrant
                                                azur sky's
                                              Rivers running 
                                              Anglers hoping
                                            oceans bellowing 
                                            Everything was
                                                than life
                                              Your love
                                               Our family 
                                             Our friendship
                                             A time of plenty 
                                              So it seemed
                                             Has the world
                                             Maybe we have
                                             Perhaps is just a 
                                                 Or is 



                                               All rights reserved
                                                   A camacho jr. 


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A city made from nothing,
on a lagoon with shallow waters
to keep the invaders away ;
still today those bell chimes ring out
to remind everyone of her victory
at Lapanto...when the ships
brought back the banners
of the defeated enemy!

Venice's splendor is seen everywhere...
 even in San Marco's Square,
 swarmed with pigeons and visitors, 
 where the Venetians' genius built 
 a splendid Basilica reminiscent of their wealth
and power...making Venice:  the Queen of the Sea!
 Down the Rialto Bridge and the Bridge of Sighs,
gondolas row...carrying visitors and lovers;
the artists seek  inspiration for their works,
while their stunned eyes are delighted by beauty, 
which pulls them out of virtual reality!  

Intrigue and mystic fascinated 
many a devoted soul,
and the entire city echoed
with delirious voices breaking
the silence of midnight;
violins and lutes played in palaces 
and in gondolas on the Grand Canal...
did anyone stare at the brilliant stars?

A masquerade was an invitation to love,
all disguised themselves behind a mask;
many were seduced by passions with haste...
as Venice revelled in their merry-making,
celebrating a glory that knew no ending;
and when it declined, it was deserted by all! 

Venice's splendor seems eternal,
not diminishing through ages;
her fame ever-increasing and each stone
can tell a different story of people
who partook of her greatness,
leaving a legacy we regard as our own...   

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A Memory of Snow

It's the first snowfall of the year
And it takes me back....

I remember the first time I rode her in the snow,
So afraid she'd slip.
She didn't want to go out
But we both needed some fresh air and exercise.
Her ears laid flat when she saw the saddle.
She was not impressed.
I think she had hoped I was just bringing a treat.

The snow wasn't deep.
A few wayward snowflakes, stragglers,
Were still falling.
So I saddled her and off we went.
Avoiding paved roads
Where she would be more likely to slip.
We stayed to the dirt road running past the house
And a few familiar trails.

I believe she aimed for low hanging boughs.
I was covered in snow in the first twenty minutes.
My punishment for this silly idea, I guess.
Soon her ears picked up and her step became more sprightly.
She, too, was getting into the spirit of it.

Only an hour, then back to the barn.
No falls, a couple minor slides in footing
Which she handled like a pro.

There I brushed her down
And she attacked apples with a renewed appetite.
The next day the rain washed it all away,
Except for the memory.....
                 it remains.

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Another Saturday night with her friends

Where the floor meets the wall,
She stands in her usual spot,
Craving a cigarette,
Observing, processing, psycho-analyzing,
Another Saturday night with her friends.

Their forced civilized exchange of small talk, 
Boasting, intellectual competitions and back handed compliments
Vainly covers the tension of secret love triangles,
Unspoken resentments, jealousies, and
Bruised egos until the alcohol takes effect and
 people start going to the bathroom in groups.

That is when someone puts on jazz album,
And suggests a game which
brings out the "realness" in everyone:
They tell stories, make confessions,
Share moments of tenderness before
Declaring war
Shattering several expensive wine glasses and 
Dissolving into fits of hysterical laughter or sobbing
a fight is taken outside 
a couple is having sex in the basement, 
 and someone is vomiting  in the kitchen waste basket.

Except her,
Lightly buzzed by some cheap white box wine,
She will  comfort and offer sage advice to
the  histrionic  and  the clueless
which they will soon forget or dismiss.
Refill the pretzel and chip bowels,
Break up a fight between two romantic rivals,
Pour countless whiskey shots and shake 20 mean Vodka martinis, 
Nurse the drunk and clean up the mess in the kitchen.

Years from now, these alleged group of friends will
Rewrite this night filled with fun and merriment 
Where the drinks, drugs and conversation flowed,
and the fire never died,

While she will accurately recall every detail and wonder
Why she allowed this group of sparkling, beautiful, broken  people 
To cast her as their resident 
Unpaid therapist
 Keeper of secrets
What was her incentive or her reward?
Beyond their peripheral acceptance.

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Bountiful Interactions; Plethora of discussions;
Oodles of gossiping; certainly with those
Precious ones known as ‘Friends;

Those were the days at school – 
Innocence at zenith;
T’wos fun chatting over phone then;
Doing the Tittle-tattle about teachers,
Adoring those cute classmates;
Nostalgic are those moments;
Those moments with “Friends’

Then entered college, Innocence abridged;
With newer friends; 
Conferring extensively on careers;
Unrelenting analogous trend; 
Talking and gossiping; having a fantastic time;
College ended and so did friendship;

Work came anon, Innocence lost;
Extra mature, extra busy;
No time for friends, no time for anything;
Yet a thought about friends enduring within;
Suddenly again; 
Recalling those wonderful moments with friends;
Alas! Have no hint how to get in touch;

Technology popped in; 
Email, chatting, orkutting;
Reviving our friendships;
Reminiscence of school and college;
Wonderful are those moments;
Moments that we spent with friends;

Back is our friendship;
Back is our chitchatting;
Back to our old times;
Precious are those moments;
Nevertheless all those feelings remain unchanged;
Undoubtedly now shall emerge;
Better moments, Fun filled era;
Needless to mention;
Friends are forever.

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“come fluttering words, come drifting words to me…”

               A Rambling Poet

A mere housemaid awakens before morning light.
Eyes wide, she bolts upright to the bed’s edge, as if late for work, though she 
never is.
Another beautiful day to labor away. 
Polishing silver all day has its advantages.
Each piece polishes to a looking glass, each a porthole to her dreams.
As she stares into the final polished vase, her weary face transforms into the face of 
a lovely, fair skinned maiden.
Soft red lips highlight her perfect cheek bones and straight nose. 
A simple pink ribbon holds her long, auburn hair in place.
Sparkling green eyes and a happy smile portray her excitement as she admires her 
floor length pastel summer dress. 
“Oh my, It’s time for my evening stroll,” she reminds herself.
Twirling once, she heads out the door leading to the apple orchard.
Barely noticing the orchard’s beauty, she strolls toward the stone steps leading to her favorite place, the stone rose garden.
Making her way down the steps, she immediately notices someone has placed two arrangements onto the platform from the stone cabinet.
As she bends to smell the flowers, she accidentally brushes some petals off, sending them floating to the platform and moss covered stone walk.
Closing her eyes, she lets the essence take her back a dozen years to a young girl 
planting pink roses with her mother.
“There’s not a lot of room to plant,” her mother would say.  “Two inches of soil between all this stone is what we have to work with.”
She opens her eyes to find herself staring into the polished silver vase.
Her tired, smudged face reminds her it’s time to go home. 
Something different catches her eye in the polished looking glass.
Her long auburn hair is no longer neatly bundled under her cleaning bonnet, but held in place by a simple pink ribbon.

Randy Steele
July 25, 2011

"What Is She Thinking?" contest

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The lush hill towered over the quite town mostly built with big rock;
it had three tall church towers
with different distinguished styles: Gothic, Renaissance, and Baroque...
wondrous was every sunrise!

Oh, their loud bronze bells could be heard ringing
through the vast, sun-washed and peaceful valley
sorrounded by mountains that reached a sky so dazzling...
then the clock-tower stroke each hour so precisely!

The summer's aroma was kind of strong and irritated the eyes,
and it almost got me drunken as aged wine does;
and I ran to the lush hill thinking of finding a treasure
in a cave that the invading Normans might have hidden in there!

But to my surprise, only frescos of martyrs were discovered;
all the while, that treasure was in front of me:
Nature opening up with its magnificent beauty!
It took observation and reflection for the rare gifts it rendered.

Whenever I ran to the lush hill, either morning or afternoon,
I was astonished by the humble faces of saints showing no demise 
for their persecution and carnage by beast such as ferocious lions... 
as those pious faces looked to Christ for comfort in their doom!

Their image made me much stronger and believer in the Shepherd
whose sheep never was lost among grunting wolves waiting aside; 
and every mystery revealed, it grew to teach me not to be afraid...
when profound silence arrived bringing delights to an innocent child. 

Oh, lush hill...keep my image of young boy intact even after I die;
let it come alive when sheer curiousity arises and tantalizes...
to make me climb that lush hill again for the heart to fantasize,
and 'though my health may not be as vibrant as then, I must try!

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Gasoline Alley

He could crease the trousers of a flathead V-8 
                             with military precision...
         at the pumps 

wiping away bug splatter,
polishing holes in the windshield,
staring at summer-tanned curves
peaking from barely-there cover

he intoxicates on gasoline fumes
and cheap perfume over-applied.
Testosterone and estrogen
rage, one to another.

She feigns indifference,
giggling want-you,
tossing curls, instinctively
planting desire.

         a tuneup for two.     

He humps over the shiny-fendered ford,
caressing spark plug holes,
each cylinder begging for his touch,

while she
fills his back pocket with her warm soft hand


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Mourning by Kenneth Morales 8th grade

At a graveyard, looking down at
the grave. In deep emotional pain.
Hoping that, that one person is in
a better place. Last few weeks
for her have been hell. But everybody
gave her a blessing and 
then she passed away. Now she's 
with God, looking down on me.

Love you grandma.

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Living on the Edge

“Wow, life”! 

Always in the proper order organized and determined to stay intact.
Step by step rules with regulations and all judged with such strict order.
And all of this is what’s focused on me?
My, My! What a revelation in front of me a definite soul searching moment indeed.
Walking the plank I can see death before my eyes and visions with just way too many lacks.
I step further in to grasp this concept presented so directly in front of me.
Ha! A life with nothing but clearly lots of undistinguished metaphors!
My, my living on the edge, 
Risky it may be but it encourages the will in me to succeed!


Ruled by the throne of ethical, morals, and values,
Condensed all into one challenging the best of my integrity!
Step by step an opinion is drawn or the matter disregarded at hand, 
And all of this challenged by me!
My, My! What visions are in front of me a time to expect the unexpected my constant need! 
Playing Russian roulette with a loaded gun, firm and adamant I maintain all of my dignity.
Pushing further for results to stimulate an aura I capture a much higher demand!
My, my living on the edge, 
Risky it may be but it examines these laws that strive so hard to be!

“Wow, life”! 

Expectations meant for perfection encourage the best of me over and over again.
Step by step blueprints are calculated, analyzed and specified by the finest details.
And all of this is what’s focused on me?
My, My! What examples are set before me a moment to test my own integrity!
Sink or swim? A desperate moment I recognize and exemplify as purely sublime.
Getting closer and closer to the seed itself the core is mine to unravel and reveal!
My, my living on the edge, 
Risky it may be but it’s argumentative from all that I can see.


A yes or a no, but never a maybe and all before my time so it seems!
Step by step a path has been laid before me all engraved in gold or stone.
Most definitely a challenge for my authenticity!
My, my what a grip on me, a chance to acknowledge what it is that I believe?
Suffocated by these laws that be, I’m caught in the rapture of my finest dreams.
I step further in to grasp the concept presented so proudly before me,
A challenge I care to defy on the Royal Throne!
My, my living on the edge, 
Risky it may be but I know what I believe and I truly believe in what’s in the best of me,
And that my friend is strictly my authenticity!

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The crumbling down of the Berlin Wall finally 
ended the Cold War as a defiant Reagan challenged
Gorbachev as his famous words were spoken mightily, 
"Mr. Gorbachev, tear it down!"...And he shouted them with rage, 
while the heavy sledgehammer cracked it from the other side;
and a divided, lonely city still felt its utter demise.

On November 9th, nineteen-eighty nine, Berliners of both sides
tore down the humiliating wall which had separated them,
and with sledgehammers and bare hands they frantically
stripped it of every brick that prevented them, for a long time,
from sharing what the neighboring countries enjoyed;
and what was most desired by them was national unity.

Today is another day of remembrance and profound reflection:
when the two Superpowers agreed to end the plague of a city
that couldn't breath and prosper as the other European cities;
and remembering Reagan's words thundering behind that tall wall,
convinced a socialist regime to comply and bring back the harmony...
everywhere there were delirious shouts and many shed joyful tears.

Humanity, don't put the blame on an entire Nation for the horrible things
done to another race:  their Dictator was coarse, evil and vainglorious
as many were, have been and still are throughout World History;
and to seize power, it takes a tyrant who loves bloodshed and condescends dignity!
Wars are won by intuitive generals maneuvering their troops and warships...
before there was the sword, later the cannon and airplane, now technology is supreme.

If folks are denied freedom in all its various forms, tear your wall down
with all the required tools, halting the evil-doers despicable deeds,
and still be able to defend your vision of liberty, so defend it with alacrity and write
an ode or a ballad with an allegro tempo and remember Reagan's words
by unfurling your flag to cheerfully welcome your kindred who were exiled;
use the same words he spoke to unlock the closed minds so intramural.

Where there was bitterness and sadness, now there's irrepressible joy
and the streets and boulevards are open to all who were given a boundary,
and as it was anticipated the Berlin Wall had to be taken down to establish democracy;
celebrate Berliners and enjoy the fruit of your labors, your spirit will not down,
reminiscing the separation and grief that was caused by a socialist tyranny...
remember Reagan's words when you recall your divided city at the beginning of each dawn.  

Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci

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Alan Jackson

Travelling to Reno, Nevada

Sitting in a diner in Reno, Nevada; my cousin Ray and I sat and ordered chili for two. Ray got up and went to the men’s room. Who walked in when he left was Alan Jackson (country singer.) He sat down next to me and tried to pick me up. Told him with a straight to his face I’m here with my cousin Ray. Ray came back and sat on my left side. He said to me in my left ear, you know who he is. “No I don’t, I said.” Told Ray, he tried to pick me up. Ray said go out on a date with him. I told him no I have high principles. Just because he’s famous I really don’t care whom he is. Ray and I had lots of fun even when he kept poking fun at my high moral values. Whenever are you going to get the chance again? “Told him point blank who cares?” These dang blue-eyed bandits don’t do anything for me. Did it once and I’ll never do it again. Ray said, “Look Tess you’ve got the looks and all, have you not noticed you’ve turned many heads.” Who cares, I’m here just having lots of fun with you cousin. There will be other times.

Two years later went to Nashville with cousin Ray and my best friends Al and Penny. We sat down and got real comfy with ease. Then they decided to get up and dance. I sat and watched them, then two guys came towards me; one had sparkling blue eyes, the other had blue eyes also. I didn’t say anything, just kept nursing my drink. The guy with the pale blue eyes said do you know who I am. Not really are you a country bumpkin. “Yes my partner here is Alan Jackson and I’m Vince Gill.”  I've met Alan before in Reno, Nevada. They said we’re looking for two women for dates. I’m not interested, well you’re mighty pretty and all dressed up. Still not interested anyway I’m already with someone, can you please leave. I never date blue-eyed men and that includes you two. They both left and then I heard Alan say, that was the third time that woman said no to me. A flicker of a light came to me, oh ya, he tried picking me up when I went to Calgary for a concert. Guess some men never learn. When I say no, I mean no. When cousin Ray came back he asked me what’s up. Oh ya, Alan Jackson tried picking me up again; that man never gives up.
Well Tess, you’re a mighty pretty woman and fine cousin to have. So doesn’t give them the right to try to pick me up. Ray and I always try to make it to Arizona or Nevada every two to three years. Always seem to go on the same route. So maybe we’ll have to take another route so we won’t run into them again. 

Written: 10/10/12

This is not a fictional write. My friend and I went to a concert in Calgary. After the concert we went to the Pallisades Hotel, which is what I may say that the higher class people go to. We both had entered in lounge and sat down to order a couple drinks. In walks this real tall blue-eyed man, he sure gave me the twice over if you know what I mean. My friend Loree said that man looks mighty good to her. So you go out with him, he's not my type. But Tess he's looking and aiming to get to us. Oh my what do I have to do, put a towel around my head so men won't look at me. Of course Loree just laughed. 

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The Boy Who Loved The Rain

Let me tell you of a boy,
A boy that I once knew;
This child once lived in Illinois,
Close to where I grew.

He always loved to play the games
Of Tag or Hide and Seek,
But he'd always play in rain,
And that's why he's unique.

I guess he liked the thunderstorm
And how the lightning struck.
He would run around the barn
And stimulate his luck.

One time, I guess, was his last run
As he went out to play,
The clouds that droned had hid the sun
And took away the day.

The lightning flashed and hit the grass
With so much bearing force
That people ran inside, alas, 
To dodge the bullet's course.

The boy stood out among the wheat
That grew inside the field.
He waited for the rumb'ling beat
That shook the grinding mill.

Finally he raised his arms
Into the sky, so unrestrain'd
And shouted all throughout the farm
That he was there to greet the rain.

That's when the final strike release'd.
That's when the boy had all his nerve.
And as the thunder pounded east,
All the people would observe

The death of one who loved the feel
Of water from the sky.
We buried him out in the field,
A tomb he'd not deny.

That's the story of a boy
A boy that I once knew;
This child once lived in Illinois,
Close to where I grew.

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Ristorante Le Tre Sorelle


My favorite spot in Italy, and perhaps anywhere, was Ristorante Le Tre Sorelle 
in Positano. It was at the bottom of at least a hundred stone steps, just on 
the right, and right on the beach. A hundred steps seemed like ten, with 
delights for the senses on every step. Chic bikini shops with tan young clients, 
tiny pastry shops, ice cream vendors, mini-galleries, and lone musicians, all 
bathed in the soft bright sunlight of the Amalfi Coast. 

Le Tre Sorelle had affordable pasta and a priceless view. Between 
checkered tables and cobalt sea marched the ancient beauty of humanity in 
every form and state. 

Over espresso, we created names for people in this parade, to suit our 
fancy. “There is Mr. and Mrs. Cold Obtrusive boring Mr. and Mrs. Kind 
Receptive.”, we might say, or, “There is Mr. Old Fat Rich failing to interest 
Miss poor Young Georgeous.” Sometimes we would separate our unwitting 
victims into “should wear bikini”, “maybe should”, and “never should” 
classes. We made up other rude categories depending on how much wine 
we could afford with the affordable pasta. 

The challenge of youth in Positano was to find a place to sleep for free. 
Step one in this quest was to find a pretty girl who also had a hotel room. Step 
two was to persuade her to share it. Step three was to sleep on the beach. 

But the beach was duly patrolled by the Beach Patrol. So the trick was 
to dance in the last-open disco until everyone, including the Beach Patrol, 
were too tired to care. Then with luck, we could borrow some fisherman’s 
boat cover for the night, until the fisherman went fishing. Still, this meant 
one or two good hours of sleep. 

Besides, at sunrise, we could swim in the sea and chill ourselves awake, just 
long enough for the first espresso of another beautiful day, at Le Tre Sorelle. 

In spite of youthful nonsense, the crushing beauty of Amalfi, both human 
and stone, pressed it’s lovely wisdom deep inside our souls. 

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When I was young, I had these dolls, in various guise and shapes,
The first was been the simplest; in it no single garment
or any ornament embedded, but only made of clay and heights four inches,
“Imperfect doll!” I exclaimed and clothed the doll in scarlet dress.
The second doll was only made of scarves of woolen rags in many color set and 
“Imperfect doll!” I exclaimed again, and dangled some trinkets on its neck.
My third doll was more ornate and made of wood, which was slightly rough,
But its face and clothes were not alike from me; but of Japanese in a kimono
with a sash of obi around its tiny waist and wooden sandals on its feet,
“Imperfect doll!” I said, and furnished it with gesso.
Then my fourth doll was made of ivory, and clothed in simple bulk skin,
“Imperfect doll!” I said, and adorned its clothes with lace.
And my last doll was made of bisque from Germany:
fair-haired and fair skinned, until I noticed, some hairpiece fell as I untangled,
“Imperfect doll!” I exclaimed, and put a bonnet on its head.

And then I grew and see much of the world; more than my dolls, more than 
Like a woman I met, who’s very fond of costly suits and polish gems
only to make cover of her unwanted aspects,
“Pity!” I said, “she hides her imperfection!”
Then this bachelor who’s tired and aged, but still aspires for lofty aims,
“Alas!” I said “he’s blinded much of his imperfection!”
And to this lady I knew, who’s young and fair but lost a man she dear,
and grieves to him excessively, with no more time to stare and glad to other 
“Alas!” I said” she mourns too much her imperfection!”
And for poor man I knew, complaining day and night to his misfortune,
“Alas!” I said, “he hasn’t done a thing to his imperfection!”
And to this dying man of severe illness, reproachful to his fate,
“Poor man”, I said, “he ought to know that death is not an imperfection.”
And lastly, when I meet someone who grief or find no peace and happiness,
“Alas!” I’ll say, “you ought to see that life is made of many imperfections!”

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The Bestest Thing

The bestest thing I ever did was to give a girl a kiss 
I was just a little tyke and don't know what I'd missed 
She was only five years old and I a grown up six 
The bestest thing I ever did was to give a girl a kiss 
Her hair was blonde and curly and her cheeks a rosey red 
The wonder of something exciting and new danced inside my head 
I don't know why I did it I guess something inside me clicked 
The bestest thing I ever did was to give a girl a kiss 
When I kissed her, and on the lips, my temperature did rise 
I felt my stomach turn upside down and I wanted to take off and fly
What a tremendous, fun feeling, when I saw her wearing a smile
OHHHHHH yes! the bestest thing I ever did was to give a girl a kiss

David Gary Pennington 

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There was a great English novelist I truly admired since my vibrant youth,
and his name was Charles Dickens; and his classics I read and revered.
He wrote many memorable novels, and one of them, filled with truth,  
was: "A CHRISTMAS CAROL", which he splendidly narrated...
as those London's bells tolled above a foggy, busy Avenue. 

Entered in Brian Strand's contest A Literary Love Affair                             

Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci

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A Modern Travesty

I Did Not Consume My Exquisitely Delicious Boston Cream At The Local donut shop on East Colonial Boulevard For Breakfast This Morning While On My Ravenous Way To My Place Of Employment .

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The Poets Dance

Paint pots and magic at the stroke of a brush, it’s the power of a picture for the lovers in lust. The splashing of water and addition of choice, it’s a musician’s beat, and the poets to rejoice. Hungary caterpillars and the ladybugs dance, it’s nature’s festival and the Devil’s mischance. The warmth of summer’s night amongst a starry sky, it’s the sparkle of lanterns drifting up to Shanghai. The poets and the dreamers smear ink to the page, it’s lyrical fluidity entwining a white witch’s sage. The smells and the colours are a carnival of love, it’s the power of family, drawing joyous tears up above. Live in these moments and build memories to keep, it’s time for our picture before we lose it to sleep. So take my hand as we enter the tent to the light, it’s an entrance to happiness and it’s just to your right.

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Tuesday Night Poker

On the occasional Tuesday night,
with my mother at work
and my sisters and I 
in our pajamas,

my father would invite over
his brothers
and his friends from the lumberyard
to drink beer and play
five card stud.

I was allowed 
to greet each player and 
watch the opening hand.

Each man would arrive with something:
a sixer of canned Budweiser,
a bag of potato chips,
a metal band-aid box filled with nickels and dimes.

Benny, the stout and jolly lumberyard foreman
with his thick skinned paws and naked lady tattoo 
on his forearm,
would bring chocolate bars-
the king-sized ones 
from the candy aisle at the supermarket-
for my sisters and me.
He was like a blue collar Santa.

Uncle Guy brought his good luck charm-
a Canadian nickel.
Not knowing that it was not uncommon,
I’d be allowed to hold it and study it,
intrigued by the beaver.
My uncle would place the nickel on the table
next to his vodka on the rocks
and fresh deck of Pyramid lights
just before the first hand was dealt.

Uncle Buddy, with his Magnum mustache 
and light blue eyes,
would bring his laugh-
a hearty hoot of a laugh that would be heard,
although somewhat muffled,
through my bedroom walls
long after I brushed my teeth and was sent to bed.

I’d hear the snap and fizz of beer cans being opened
and the jingling and jangling of growing pots
as I lay in my bed,
wide awake with the caffeine from Benny’s chocolate bars.

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Feel The Past

An eyesore in the community as progress takes its toll.
Windows broken, rust on the old metal frames
Vacant, dust filled, old broken file cabinet in the corner
Taking a walk through it, I could feel the past
Wondered how many lives this old building touched
A way of life for so many 
Security in a weekly paycheck
A faded time card on the floor where the office was
Dust covered wooden desk
A monument to the industrial age
A table with the boards curved from age
Where people ate lunch, talked, laughed, cried
Discussions about the kids, sports, politics, shop talk
Feel the past? Yes, days gone by, good days
Boards rotted on the loading dock, a rusted hand truck
No ventilation, no complaints, an honest days work
Clipboard hanging on the wooden beam
Can’t you feel it? 
Shuffling into the parking lot, lunch cans in hand
See you tomorrow
Kids waiting for Dad to come home, supper on.
Just another day.

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OLD CROAKER spun me his LONG AGO tale

A friend of mine
Different time
Showed this youngster
The Spirit of being kind
Gentle Breath
His turn-of-the-century walking cane
Told me of his adventures
as a sprite lad through many pain:

"When the folks could afford
we would travel in my father's Ford
Dusting the roads between here and Maine
Perhaps an overnight stay over the borders of Canada's Plain
Life in the car
Home on the porch
Picnics and A&W root beer
Sun would descend over a quiet family near
But,daily routine was not always swell
Battling Turmoil of our own inner Hell
Brothers would fight and swear
Grandma,shaking and shivering over there
Ma and Pa would mediate yonder far
At early dusk,these would be put back in the Jar"

I listened to his story that he told
Surviving the years,
The Hardship,
and the World's Cold
His voice began to change
A tone of sadness that chokes
Still to entertain children who will sit
Listening to an old man's tale that evokes

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So unappreciated, abandoned and unglossy 
you seem among other ordinary chairs  
with a less classical and unadorned design, perhaps
in the famous style of Queen Ann...
but silence can't reveal much, distrustful and sad friend;
then...start to talk about your history!

How many solitary and unhappy folks 
have relaxed in comfort while they lay into it gently, 
fearing to make those feeble legs crack;
and being one of them I must apply
the minimal tension deriving from these manly arms that
allow the blood to flow from my elbows.

I'm waiting for a reply to ignite this imagination,
but your stubbornness grows much impatience
in me, to force you to speak with me and clarify my confusion;
if this small house, so vibrant with sunlight, isn't your favorite place,
would you mind telling me where you would rather be...
possibly in the halls of a medieval castle, where you'll hide in obscurity?

Don't wallow in bitterness, begin talking to me;
what will benefit you to hide yourself under the cloak of mystery?
Not telling anyone of the greatness you've seen,
not feeling the touch of human hands...letting in the sun's sheen?
I'm very curious of how they treated you within those thick and dark walls,
have they ever protected you from the invaders blistering cannon's rounds? 

Before I stand up and desert you with disappointment,
I should honor you with an ampler and kinder compliment:
you've never attempted to stop me from dreaming, 
from seeing, through my fantasy, all the places you have been;
and now won't you talk to me and finally unfold that secret without hesitating,
because silence can't reveal much...when misery won't allow you to speak!  

Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci

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War World II was raging over this
southern Italian town* spared by a miracle...
a deluge that suddenly occurred: 
a night of blasting sounds, of rising flames 
as American planes bombarded its buildings;
the Nazis fled to occupied Naples.
In the North, the Fascits were executed,
as the Dictator Mussolini himself was. 

The farms could not be furrowed deep and neat,
fear hung over the farmers' shoulders;
and wheat couldn't grow abundantly to make bread,
and brazen women to a distant granary they went, 
risking their lives to grind the wheat kernels;
they were no young men in town, or the older ones
who had gone to war for a concept so deceptive.
Many youngsters and soldiers were kidnapped by the Nazis, 
to be taken to Germany as prisoners of war...who would have 
challenged the Third Reich, or disobeyed?

Old women with handkerchiefs on their heads, weeping loudly
and mourning the tranquil town it once lovely and happy, 
and their cry was too bitter and inconsolable to be hushed;
now, even bread was taken away from them,
damning the cruel Duce, who had betrayed them for vanity...
why did he bring prosperity to Africa, not to Italy?
Why was his ego so manipulated by Hitler's cleverness...
that he could have conquered peoples and lands?

Ruins and dead kindred...a scenery of dread and abomination,
and the lively memory of begonias on their sunny balconies 
brought a sweet nostalgia in an hour of horror and death;
and gathered among the crumbled walls, their rosaries  
recited with graceful whispers, gave them 
the strength and the courage to desperately grieve:
"Peace, o beloved peace, have you overlooked
the kindness of such humble and honorable spirits?

Darkness brought the silence they had sought under the glittering skies,
to hide the ugliness of the war in their gloomy shadows,
never to reveal the devastation of their town;
and with the new sun rising, hope would have been 
renewed in the sunrise's lasting glow.
They would have seen those wheat golden kernels 
bend under their heavy weight and bow.... 
and heard themselves saying," Mercy, o mercy
of our righteous God, let prosperity abound...
as the misty rain slowly comes down!"   

Southern Italian Town:  Baiano

Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci

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The Fantastic Voyage

Living on the edge was a suicide way before my time!
A soul spread wide open with a spirit that truly believes.
Walking on water and backwards with life that glares over the sunshine!
The fantastic voyage rides the high and almighty waves of the greatest seas.
A voyage to never-never land right where I know I will always want to be.
True uninhibited expression is my addiction all within myself.
A soul climaxing in the exhibition of capturing all of the free empty space!
Walking the planks with the thrill of excitement from what’s consumed as it’s felt,
The fantastic voyage is aimed straight for that perfect little happy place.
My voyage to never-never land is where I know I will always want to stay.
Unpredictable with such balance is my mystery out there all on its own.
My soul opens and wills me to explore the depths of all that is real or such.
Walking the tight rope and looking down with my talent so proudly shown.
The fantastic voyage is never enough but is always over by too much.
My voyage to never-never land is where I know I will always want to feel what I touch.
Deep within the depths of all the deepness is where my connection is found.
A vibrant soul with brilliance magnified by a common need that has just got to give!
Walking narrow ledges with confidence and truly the one that has got to be proud!
The fantastic voyage gained my moments in time that I can say were actually lived.
My voyage to never-never land is where I will surrender standing on top of my deadly ground!

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Situational Awareness Is The Undying Key

Disregard for effect
In the eye of the beholder
We sit in dire need
As the looks grow colder
Abandoned out here
At the horizon’s end 
We sleep all alone
With nothing to defend

The dreams come
But at what cost
When the lack there of
Has found us lost
The heart grows fond
In times of resistance
For reality lost touch
And with it our existence

But is that enough
To stand all alone
For solitude draws deep
Turning expressions to stone
The deals are dealt 
And dreams fell short
Where do I go from here
When every step I distort?

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The Mayfly is up on the Kennet by M.A.Meddings

The Mayfly is up on  the  Kennet,
Well it’s Whitsun why wouldn’t it be?
There’s a fine downstream breeze,
And  the  fishing’s with ease,
Do come as you used to for me.

The Mayfly is up on  the  Kennet,
You ought to come down for a spot,
If you come on Tuesday,
I’ll meet you at Newbury,
The weather  they say will be  hot.

Last Friday they started at lunchtime,
Just a few duns  to  begin,
But at twenty past eight,
Yes, really that late, 
‘twas as prolific as I’d ever seen.

The large fish you lost just last season,
With the ‘Rats Cat’ you left in it’s Jaw,
Came at me this morning,
Without any warning,
And god help me, forgive me I swore.

On Wednesday Julia’s brother,
Fishing on Shermans  they say,
Got his limit by teatime 
And whilst in  the  meantime,
Julia got me as well by  the  way.

In  the  long grass out along Gunters,
With the  middle  cut Hatch at it’s side,
We made love for hours
Amidst summer flowers
And  the  fishing is useless, I tried.

The emergence will not last much longer,
One more week is  the  keepers best guess,
But I’ve enough of  the  fishing,
 for now I’m just wishing,
That Julia will wear her new dress.

She has ruined my season for ever, 
Her tempting is all plain to see,
Just because of her eyes,
And of course her fine  thighs,
There’ll be no more fishing for me.

So The Mayfly is up on  the  Kennet,
Please excuse my disdain and aversion.
For Julia’s Smile,
 has detained me awhile,
I’ve a much more enthralling diversion.

Now the  Mayfly is up on  the  Kennet,
The  emergence is all fast and hopping,
On the  Park stream today,
I got my own way,
Julia’s gone off to do her own shopping.

But as  ‘the ladies’ go dancing  at Whitsun,
Julia flashes her eyes up at me,
It is not my physique, 
That she chooses to seek,
But my Fly box, for a pattern you see.

I taught her to cast just  this season,
Her delivery is coming on fine,
She got a leash just last Tuesday,
And another on  Thursday,
Now  for  romping  she hasn’t the  time.

But now  the  Mayfly is up on  the  Kennet,
There is one thing I continually wish,
That Julia’s beguile 
Would detain  me  awhile,
And I ‘d taught her to land her own fish. 

The End 

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Stepping through its beaded door
was like walking into a time cloud, 
whiffs of marijuana and hashish pipes
lined up by color in the cabinet 
to the right, behind which stood
a hippie and his girl, with beads
and long hair, who lived in the VW van
parked in the rear, the one 
splattered with colorful peace 
signs like the psychedelic posters 
on their store’s walls, glowing
under the hidden black light. 

Nirvana was a safe haven, 
offering a calm which transcended 
my fifteen-year-old my psyche, 
magnified by the freedom 
to wander through without shoes 
or purchase, unlike the neighboring stores 
on Union Turnpike in the heart of Queens. 

The place exuded the potent energy
of my love generation. I wish 
there was a store like it here  
in my new neighborhood, but I suppose 
I’ll have to settle for the natural health 
food store, which offers the same sort of claim. 

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First Love

A collection of love letters in a heart shaped box
that I kept for many years,
reminding me of the times we met in secret,
and moments we spent in your loving arms
wrapped up like a gift in your embrace.

I have never forgotten your smiling face,
and your romantic charms,
or the butterfly kisses traced on my lips.

We parted in youth going our separate ways,
I thought of you often for many days and lonely nights,
wishing you would of stayed from memory to reality.

All I have left in this red velvet box,
with satin lining ,and emotional thoughts
are those wonderful times  of remembrance.

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Two years ago I left New York,
to find my luck somewhere else,
and in Waterbury, Connecticut I settled in a ranch-house,
which overlooked middle-class homes
groping on verdant slopes;
the night stars may have shined 
a little brighter than in Manhattan,
without a trace of pollution or smog,
but  the harsh winters made me dream again
of living in the warm streets of wonderful New York!

As I step out of my car into Fifth Avenue, by the entrance,
old acquaintances welcome the sweet return of a New Yorker;
and unto Columbus Circle I run toward Central Park:
it used to be my park, and my dog loved it by barking lauder,
and over little bridges I jogged as he chased me fervently;
there was no day in which I felt want to escape from this city! 
Here all neighbors met and chatted with a kind of stylish accent...
that all tourists love and find it extremely attractive!

When I look up...there the Empire State Building 
is one of the wonders of my glamorous city that never disappoints anyone;
even night can't put it to sleep with its gloom;
and holidays always decorate it with spectacular lights:
like the yellow-bright daffodils that begin to bloom...
as happy faces greet the sweet return of a New Yorker...
driving on the Brooklyn Bridge bound for the New Jersey shore!
O greatest city, let me begin to write an ode that your people will sing!  

Other cities are certainly beautiful and captivating as this one,
but none of them can spark inside that something so special...
the breath-taking view of the sky-scrapes in the August' moonlight,
the gracious waves of the East River and the ships that glide up and down the harbor;
and in this spot I met my sweet-heart with eyes like a Virginia sky, and hair
so soft and as red as the cheeks of a stuttering, drunken man!
Lady of a mysterious night, you vanished as the summer'
dawn erupted from the ocean's deep to forever preserve your delicate beauty! 

Copyright 2008 by Andrew Crisci

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The Power of Love

The power of love holds the battleground. 
Nuclear blasts from sea to sea. 
Wait and you will see!
Begging, kicking, and screaming:
Pleading, “Give it to me”!
Standing on God’s ground, defended by the armor and shield melting.

The power of love holds the mystery.
Things are never as they seem.
Do the means meet the extremes?
Where, how, when was I?
Wondering if it was only a dream? 
Standing on God’s ground, defeated by the lock that obtains that key.

The power of love carries the only prayer.
Time to come and be done.
Soon you will be the one.
Dead, black, despair:
Hoping, will someone hear?
Standing on God’s ground, lost in the dream in which you begun.

®Registered: 1998   Ann Rich

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Hopper's painted a sober couple
with an unamorous sentiment;
two lovers with faces too distant,
with hands not touching, not feeling...
just being realistic and sensible,
reflecting on a tomorrow that was coming.

The exterior colors are of a depressing dark,
and the interior ones are mixed with bright
ones...with an ivory tone consuming their sober faces;
why are they staring into nothingness, sensing sadness?
We can't feel what they feel, or hear what they hear,
but their thoughtfulness is as intense as the evening' whisper. 

Theirs was an era when Elvis was the undisputed king,
and his music was played on an old-fashioned record player;
perhaps his blues were the ones they loved to sing,
but the pretty boy from Tennessee was much younger and happier than they ever were,
not wearing a blue t-shirt, brown slacks and a classic hairdo,
and he rode in his red Chrevolet with a style that was envied by everyone in Hollywood. 

Hopper's theme should have been much livelier than this,
not as morose as his summer's evening melancholic portrait;
and who could judge him for expressing himself in a such way?
Perhaps it was a realistic scene he had experienced with his fiancee,
observe the artist's rendition of the unpleasant mood he was in...
and shouldn't have he painted it with a more intimate and amorous sentiment?

Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci

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Yellow Butterflies

In the corner of my eye,
Ah, ‘tis just a yellow butterfly!
A swarm of bees on its tail,
And whipping in the wind with a trail!
Gallantly afloat and drifting in the air,
A cardinal bird it did meet and then a bear.
Flying through the leaves of a tree,
And circling across the roaring sea!
The yellow butterfly zips on by,
Flying low and then flying high!
Through the winds it did sail,
Gallantly afloat a great big whale!
A swarm of yellow butterflies came to share,
The journey of flying from here to there!
Yellow butterflies were everywhere for my eyes to see,
And I was dancing in the winds when yellow butterflies started chasing me.
© Copyright: Ann Rich   2006

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My Memories of Fried Chicken

Memories of my mother and grandmother
 and there fried chicken…

First was my grandmother killing 
the chicken, with a broom stick and bare 
hands (won’t go into details, to gross)…?

As the chicken flopped around the ground
 for awhile bleeding out my grandmother 
would get out the gas burner and prepare 
the boiling water, then the chicken would
 take a nice hot bath, so the feathers
would come out easier…

I watched my grandmother plucking 
its feathers then searing of the pen feathers…

One thing I didn’t like was the smell
 of the wet feathers and the seared pen 
feathers, awful…

After all the prep came out the cast
 iron skillet, Cisco, the floured, salt
 and peppered chicken…

Time seemed so slow when you
 could smell the chicken cooking, but you 
knew dinner wasn’t far off, for by the
 time dad came home from work, washed
 up dinner was on the table…

The deliciously fried chicken, side
 of vegetables and the mashed potatoes 
with pan drippings gravy, 
Oh, soooooooo goooooood.

I am sure making myself hungry…


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She is a widow, never wanting to marry again, never defiling her vows, 
her five children have moved to other parts of the United States;
and they seldom visit her, except on the very special season of Christmas,
when she adorns her home with garlands and lights to honor the Child Jesus...

Her name is Amelia, a petite lady from Andalusia,whose passion is writing poems,    
and her Spanish accent is somewhat heavy, but the words are clear and precise;
on long summer's nights she speaks of her native land...meadows covered with camellias, 
and tells tales of Columbus and the Conquistadors with feathered helmets...

She was quite beautiful in her younger days, daises in her dark, lustruos hair, 
and sea-colored eyes that resembled the Mediterranean Sea, which brought her nostalgia;
and she often wore a folklorist costume of stripes of bright orange and yellow like her flag,
and now she's confined to a wheelchair looking sad...who has camellias for Amelia?

This past spring I planted a dozen of camellias plants in the empty and barren lawn,
hoping they would bloom when she would stare at the huge Atlantic Ocean;
and with eyes as sharp as a youngster, Amelia would see her beloved Spain, 
and those lush meadows covered with camellias to bring her bitter-sweet pain. 

In the quite hours of an early August' morning, Amelia rose to say her prayers,
and with the rosary in her devoted hands, she peaked outside and surprisingly smiled;
a beautiful garden of camellias appearing in front of her joyous eyes... she was so delighted,
but she couldn't go outside and caress them, but thought to herself, " Someone cares! "

Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci

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' Jennie - Pennie (My Big Sister)

Everywhere I Look … I See Jennie
Short, Red-Hair and a Smile, So Bright and Pretty
Jeanette … my Older, Big Sister… I Wish I was More Like Her…
        … My Dear Jennie … My Sweet Jennie …

Treated me like I was Her Baby … That was Jennie
Helped me to be a Real-Lady … Just like Jennie
Taught me how to Share and just how to say my Prayers …
        … Jennie … Great Lady Jennie

She was in Her Early Adult Years and I was Young Too
… when Mama Left… There was nothing, We Could Do …
            … Cancer … is not a Loving Word …
        I Wish It Had Been The Last I’d Heard …
                … Oh Jennie … Loving Jennie …

In that Cold-Clinical-Room … Lay Jennie
She Would Be Leaving Soon – God ! … Not Jennie !
She asked me, ‘Did She Fulfill … God and Our Mama’s Will …?’
        Yes, You Did Jennie… I Said You Did Jennie !

… She was in Her Late, 40-Years, but Still, Much Too Young To…
… Like when Mama Left… There was nothing, We Could Do …
                     … Cancer … is not a Loving Word …
                    I Wish It Had Been The Last I’d Heard …
                           … Oh Jennie … I Love Jennie …

When I Wrote This Song … I was Missing Jennie
God … We Can’t Believe She’s Gone … I Loved Jennie
        Jennie-Pennie … You Kept Your Promise…
                  Mama Will Be Proud of Us…

… May Jesus, Call Jennie … When The Time Comes, Please Call Jennie
          Lord Call Jennie … Lord Call Mama … and Then Lord Call Me …

            Jennie, Left Loved Ones... February 29th, 1992 …
          I hate Leap-Years Now …. ‘til I Leap of Faith to You …
                     … Cancer … is Not A Loving Word ! ! !
                             Will It Be The Last I Heard ? …

                      In Memory of my Beloved Sister

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It's so mild in the quite suburbs
with rain falling in October,
and unable to sleep, I face 
insomnia for certain;
rain, keep on falling and let me hear
that steady, pelting sound on
the closed windows....a melody for
the saddest song should be written.

I must choose the right mood,
a minor scale to match this melancholy,
and a slow tempo growing into a crescendo,
and I could even throw in a scherzo;
and transport it with a C Major to smooth
some sadness out of the melody,
which tomorrow somebody
will hum, or whistle by learning the easy tune.

Hoping this song will be a hit,
thanks to the falling rain 
in October for the sudden inspiration...
when I couldn't think of anything else!
Wishing the rain would stop at six,
so I could see the rising sun across
the eastern sky and listen to the lark
that built his nest under my windowsill.

It's past sunrise, and the shimmering clouds hesitate to leave,
and with nothing to look forward to... I must believe
that the rain falling in October, 
can teach me the game of solitaire;
and pinned against my warm pillow,
I don't have anything to share but sorrow!
Flap your wide wings, friendly lark and repeat my song,
note by note; and without a lead sheet, I can't play it for very long...

Copyright by Andrew Crisci

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I lived my youth without many friends,
yearning for a departed father so selfless,
renouncing his children for another woman over-sea,
while my mom resigned to her fate;
lamenting and denouncing his terrible mistake:
and she worked hard and prepared delicious meals,
even her outlook on life was fantastic,
but something was missing from that lovely face...

Mother, oh wonderful mother, I sympathized
with your pain and wish it would have disappeared,
so you would have enjoyed, once again, life in its splendor;
mother, oh wonderful mother, even love dies
when one is deceived by a false affection,
and father broke his promise and faced retribution...   

Mom loved dad from the day she married him,
and remained faithful 'till she died whispering his name;
I stood by her bed-side and couldn't console her sadness,
or fill that space with my insignificant presence:
by that remote glance, I could see her retracing, with joyous eyes,
her happy past with daddy delighting her with his funny words
while strolling down the quietest road scented by daisies,
as blue-jays flew over their delirious heads... 

Mother,oh wonderful mother, you gave me the enduring will
to withstand any storm:  to survive and cope in this hell, 
while living honestly and godly among thieves and sinners;
to despise prejudice with its ugly ways and be cautious
not to give in their demands when luck could have ran out on me!
I live with little, and though I desire finer things,
nothing stains my clean hand and be judged by man,
because life complements me with the trust of any friend...

Copyright 2008 by Andrew Crisci

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A Flickering Flame

Ah, a flickering flame with shadows on the wall,
With glimmering lights rolling all around!
I will remember them all!
A flame so high,
But a flame so low,
A burn out in time!
A linger much too slow,
A flickering flame,
A moment that I claim!

Ah, a flickering flame where light covers dark and dark covers light.
With glimmering lights bouncing all over the walls!
A vision of true sight!
A flame so unpredictable,
But a flame so respectable!
A flame hard to know,
And one that can’t be controlled!
A flickering flame,
A moment that I gain!

Ah, a flickering flame showing dim light within its own domain.
With shimmering lights reflecting a glare of golden visions burning too bright!
How very well maintained!
A flame so harmless,
But a flame much too careless!
A flame too passive,
And one that’s way too captive!
Ah, a flickering flame,
A moment that I’m holding with no shame!

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One Fall Evening

Rhapsodic melodies from shadows depth
Are the sounds in the darkness before me,
As the owl, loon and crickets sing:
“Come out into the night we implore thee.”

A harvest moon bathes me in a luster
That stirs my melancholy soul,
As I wander about the autumn landscape
On a leisurely evening stroll.

Cool moist air permeates all things
That surrounds me in this rural scene,
And the smell and sound of rustling leaves  
Makes it all so very euphorically serene.

And so realizing the importance of 
Divinely regulated conditions,
I am once again reminded of the reason,
For cycles such as these
Are quite necessary you see:
That is why they are called “Seasons.” 

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The Bag Lady

In the fall of the year leaves arrayed in copper tones 
crunched underfoot,  the crisp air collided
with the inner heat of her face.

The metal cart grew heavy as she smiled up at the trees,
the air, and the faces of the passing Automobile Riders.
She laughed aloud as the squeal of brakes
and the smell of burning rubber approached a changing light.
"Hurry up to wait!" she shouted.

With the walk light  she crossed,
turning to pull the cart over the opposite curb.
The sidewalk grate beckoned her tired feet home.

She thought of a world walking ...
when horse power meant trotting feet and flowing mane,
when bells hung from wooden carts jingled down dirt roads
and greetings were called to muffled figures passed.
When the air was fresh with sweet smells from apple orchards or bread baking,
while the sound of birds claimed ones' attention
in between the silence of the day.

Now, picking through the treasures of her cart,
she chuckled, speaking to the warm air
rising from the grate, "Wonder who lost these fine woolen mittens?
and looky here, someone dropped a whole bag of bagels!"
Perhaps they had too many things to carry ...
too many things in the fall of the year
as the leaves dried away.

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                            Pristine shores, their past erased by tidal grasp
                         Summer days, diamond sand and burning solarays
                    Observant camera eyes retrieve...photographic memories
                                        Sleepless nights, city scapes, 
               Its tourists' sights from vantage heights until daybreak
      City nights, secret rites, which darkness keeps,some cities never sleep
  Souvenir photographs telltale of passions veiled by distance strangers keep
           Enticed, foreign tourists reap culture shock and natives... paradise
                                Multi-culture, t.v. hype and nostalgic tales
                    Cheap sex and narcotics, black market products sales
                                  Gather souvenirs inexpensive and rare
               Day travel here and there, no tourist sight unspared
Tried and true, even old world culture is new,  remaining modern cultural affair 
             On an ocean shore jewel lights invite, which no one dare ignore
                              Earth's grand wonder...the city by  the shore

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Watching the Moon Grow

Night after night I sit to see the Moon shining over me.
Watching its shield unveil a bright night I can just sit to be.
For each night gone by a star shines so bright,
The more and more I sit here this night.
Deeper and deeper I think tonight, 
“What if” I had no sight?
Watching its gleam covering more than a lot,
I just sit to see it shine its big light.
For each hour gone by the moments are sought.
So more and more I sit here deeper in my thought.
My mind farther than my further with what this glow has brought,
“What if” the man in the Moon was never sought?
Watching its shadows lurk in the glow,
I sit to see if he will finally be caught.
For each moment gone by clear nights I’ll now know.
So more and more I sit here watching the Moon grow.
There’s just so much to see because it covers over me.
I sit here night after night because it’s just such a true sight.
I give it quite a bit of thought because “what if” all of this was not?
For the more that it comes to glow the more and more I can watch it grow.
There’s just so much to know because it covers me with its tremendous glow.
I sit her with thought after thought because I have more than your lot.
I sit here night after night because “what if” there was no true sight?
For the more I can just come to see the more and more I can just sit to be.

®Registered: 1998   Ann Rich

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On the first day, I was born
Bringing joy to the household
Of my parents.

The second day, a toddler
Learning to go from one place
To another

On the third day, a schoolgirl
With the wide world of knowledge
Spread before me

The fourth day, a young woman
Newly aware I’m unique
Female person

On the fifth day, a mother
Sharing myself willingly
With four children

On the sixth day, I was old
Reviewing my achievements
Seeing, they’re good.

The seventh day, the threshold
Of death, looking ahead to
Temporal life

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The Sun on the Horizon

Honeydew on the grass sparkles with life as the Sun comes up shining.
Way up yonder the Horizon’s preparing for its glorious arising.
Purple, blue and gray radiantly come together and all stand out alone,
Way up under this great big earthly dome.
Bird’s shadows fly at distances, yet each distinct by their flocks belted,
And each disappears away in colorful misty skies where all of them roam!
Beauty in foresight is clearly seen on this perfect unthought-of day, 
Even to my own likings of a surprising.
Too compelling just knowing that all days are counted by,
Each exact group already individualized by being numbered!
Foliage secretes from its many branches of trees per several hundreds.
All with there own story to make known to the unknown.
Consistently re-budding as season’s change to each one that is now arising.
All seeming to prepare for that God-awful battle called Armageddon.
Years pass on and still the Sun comes onto the horizon.
Life’s at a standstill, yet, steadily ticking with the hands of time to carry on.
Nothing can be done to stop the cycle of our Earth’s creation.
For every beginning there is and ending as it is to see 
Dawning is “The Sun on the Horizon”!
Be thankful that you have this very day,
For the Sun is rising upon the horizon,
What a wonderful liaison!

®Registered: Ann Rich  2001

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Summer Tale

Daytime,sunshine...crystal clear
burning through clear blue atmosphere
Tanning laserays of light
Ignite solar candled lantern aisles by night

Silent meadows and sheep grazed pastures bare
Summer's yield matching colors grown in pairs
Travelers' eyes steal glimpses of the ancient surreal
Clever celestial timing ,ensures summer's perfect weather

Past summers remembered
My skin sunburned tender
Its old age hastened ,its healing's slow,yet I've patience
Horizon gaze ,wading shallow shore waves
cold and curing,my sunburn tamed
Sand impressions proof of my presence
Vanishes as saltwater tides retreat
Forming rythmic swells, cleansing sand,fine as snow,each grain unique 
Potential their essence
Each memory ,an impassionate impression
Resolves imaginitive questions
Sacred memories remain life's essence

An unresisted inclination to explore
its endless trails is ignored
by wiser travelers who retire near crossroad trails
each day's passage,treasured memory for nostalgic tales

Blond sunlight through graying skies pale 
Dark as dusk,sunlight's cloaked in an expanding veil
As distant thunder grew near,cooling air held an odor of ionized rain
As electrical glimmers lit skies dark as eve which shadowed verdant plains

Camera eyes skygazing dusk to morn
Canvas skylight's color transformed
Night darkness followed ,silence filled this vast woods hollow
Heaven's light shone pale through eve's black veil
Pearl moonbeams and crystal starlight invite
Passage through dark meadow trails
An ancient summer tale ,
Eyes photographed evenings past

As morning passed
Harsh molten light shone through thinning cloud mass
Burning fine white sand ,each glass

Verdant flowerfields ,summer's pretty yield 
Camera eyes steal as autumn's shades are revealed

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Ripples in the Sea

When I see this Moon and gaze deep into the stars,
My mind wanders as I search for where you are.
Looking up, looking down, this enormous Sea is where I can now be found.
Standing alone at the Ocean’s edge and hearing its roar,
My heart pounds and aches for so much more.
Gazing deeper and deeper out into this vast blue Sea,
I can gather myself with this soul that was given to me.
Ripples in the Sea are all that my eyes can see.
One by one they collide with force to touch what was given to me.
Infinity with the depths of this Sea, 
This is what the Moonlit Ocean conveys to the truth inside of me.
Standing alone and afar from the depths of this Sea,
Ripple by ripple captures the every breath that I have inside of me.
Oh how they carry every single thought away from the insides of me!
Reflections of our Moon spread across this glimmering Sea.
Endless and endless ripples!
This vision I know I will forever see!
I hold my breath and carry a true smile, 
Searching for that last ripple to reach its hundredth mile.
Alone I stand at the edge of this Sea, 
The depth of this Ocean covers over me.
I wonder and wonder can I truly hold what was given to me?
So if ever in search for that which you know you believe,
Please remember that I left me standing with the ripples in the Sea.
One by one they collide crashing directly into me.
I stand with a force that was given just for this person that lives inside of me.
Come to me! Please touch what is on the inside of me!
Feel what has been given just for the love of me!
So if ever in doubt for that which you truly know you believe,
Look deeper and deeper out into this incredible huge Sea.
The ripples one by one know you will believe.
They touch, they feel, they hear what is left standing out by the Sea,
And that my friend is the life that God had already chosen for the soul that lives inside of me.

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A flash of lore
A contour of light
A shadow of awe
A birth of flight

A leap of faith
A hardwood stare
A tongue smitten
A signature of air

A game to envy
A will to win
A court to rule
A child of the rim

A legend of ball
A shoe of flight
A world palmed by
A swoosh named Mike

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Another Memory

Summer day and a few minutes to spare
Take a swing around where the old school once stood
Finding only a parking lot and a tear in my eye
Another memory destroyed by progress
Pep rally in the school yard
How she smiled in her innocence
Laughing all the way to the corner store
Pinball's in the back room
Lucky dangling from the corner of your mouth
Two for a nickel to play it cool
Running Scared playing on the juke box
Maybe tonight in the park
Another memory fills my eyes
Dancing in the auditorium
Drifters singing Save The Last Dance For Me
A soft kiss with Goodnight Sweetheart Goodnight
Heart pounds. See you Monday
Walking those halls with her books under your arm
Passing notes in the classroom
Detention again. Oh no! Hitch hiking home.
Back on the bus in the morning. No Smoking!!
Prayer and Pledge. A new day starts
Sadie Hawkins Dance? Yes, I'll see you there
Bobbie socks and pedal pushers
Just another memory.

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Texas Lunch

The Texas Lunch lies in my memories
A corner hamburger stand
Just a counter and standing room only
For the best burgers in the land
Now Texas Pete didn’t hail from Texas
From Greece came he and his wife
They came to work for the American dream
And for a better way of life
They had a genuine love for this country
Working hard to make their dream come true
And raised a respectable family
Doing all that they could do
There wasn’t a man in town who didn’t know Pete
His personality had a lasting effect
He earned more than just a living
He earned the town’s undying respect
Whenever I walk down Broad Street
I look over where it used to be
I can still see the Texas Lunch
In the back of my memory

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The 70s Envogue

A yellow neon smiling face
a mismatching emblem of tacky taste
his collection of retro mood buttons is nothing
wild yet they celebrate '70s' fashion style 
with black saccarine ink smiles
and vacant black oval eyes widened in suprise

Relaxed fit blue denim jacket outlasted its time
beneath an ironed creased silk butterfly
collared shirt,paint splatter patterned
resembled spilled dye

Plaid squared on its reverse 
side,its cool fashion perk
unbuttoned wide without dress tie
instead an imitation gold chain stained 
his tanned neckline
the '70s state of mind

Matching blue denim,butterfly,bellbottom jeans
its gold silk embroidery glittered and gleamed
its timeless seems, more resilient than they seam

Dazed eyes gazed through glaring plastic,gold framed shades
its lens,black mirror glass reflect an era past
retro's envogue and '70s fashion everlasts

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Stones in the Wall

Of many, the stones in the wall have different sizes with different shapes. 
So many there are and each specific with their very own color.
The wall is long with the many miles of stone that support it and strengthen.
What a vision to see a wall that long, because of the many miles this wall has made.
Built stone by stone and layer by layer, yet clearly by the hands of amateurs! 
Old these stones in the wall are, for time can only damage what is already weakened.
Enduring the test of time are endless miles of broken down stones along this old wall,
Chipped away on the outside, but still standing sturdy and firm maintaining a delicate core!
Enduring such strength, for they are all very well defined by their evident and only weakness.
An endless wall of old broken down stones and still they will stand strong and still so very tall.
Miles of evidence from darker times for sure by their obvious structure of neatness!
Beaten and battered these stones are and still they maintain such a strong and sturdy core!
There are many weakened stones along this old broken down wall,
Yet it stands distinct and firm with its battle against its only known weakness.
Individualized by one is the other occupying the many miles of this wall from so long before.
What a vision to see a wall that strong, beaten and weakened only by its evidenced neatness.
Broken down stones hold this old wall and each one with their many different shapes and colors!

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She thought that she was over you completely
but apparently her guess was so wrong,
For you she still had a lot of feelings
feelings that after all of those years still remained strong.
She married with the hopes of escaping your memory
and with the hopes that another man could take your place,
And now she finds herself still being haunted by your sweet memories
she has realized that there is not another that can take your place.
She thought about you both day and night
and she had found that her heart still missed you so,
She knew that still loving you was not right
but she found it so hard in completely letting you go.
She knew the fact that you had long ago moved on with your life
you had some how managed to start anew,
she had known deep down inside her heart as well as in the back of her mind
that there could be no way of ever replacing you.

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On this blessed shore,
every gate opens wide around sunset and dawn,
and the foreigners flow waves rolling along;
all movements and images sketched
in linear prospective as if reality didn't exist,
permitting subsistence not to evade
from the sublunary harbor draped in aqua suede.

Many explorers from the Old Word
paid her a visit on slow vessels loaded with necessities,
in the hope of finding precious stones and gold;
and Columbus succeeded in his quest,
and all of these he brought back...
a new frontier was discovered and millions
flocked to these friendly shores with empty pockets,
but with dreams that would have made that young nation great.

On this blessed shore,
all are welcome if their character is good,
and the desire to get wealthy, with persistent sacrifice,
is reflected in their undisputed honesty and endurance;
Emma Lazarus wrote of these immigrants in her immortal sonnet,
which the wretched, the impoverished and the persecuted cannot ignore...
Read it again, doesn't it ask your libertarian souls to devour it more?

On this blessed shore,
peace dwells at a tremendous cost,
soldiers have gone to foreign lands to fight, 
so that it may never lose its God-given right...
to spread it beyond its bounderies for all nations to admire;
and the proud citizens sing their national anthem to enhance its worth...
how can a Nation, guided and protected by God, not rejoice in its freedom? 

Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci

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Silent as night's presence with ancient peace I'm blessed
summertime,burning heat magnified stress
my brained tamed by '60s narcotic dreams
the key to time capsule memories

Spiritual void,trading city noise for quiet flowering plains and blue grass 
meadows lost in floral pedal 
camoflouge I detour and dodge its poison ivy
climbing lively
rolling hills where time kept still

Deaf silence night's present...nature's dharmic lessons

Concealed knee deep in verdant poppy fields 
and narcotic flowers...many kinds
where ripe orchards soured into wine
patient curiosity filled passing time

Slow night,poppies bloomed in pearl china moonlight
Pale stars cast broke through black overcast 
New visions...brief surreal psycotic doom
Spent day watching narcotic flowers bloom
gathering flowers for keeps
my hunger cured by an orchard's reap
until twilight stars littered summer's night far from home
tomorrow's journey...unknown


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The Visions Blend

Sitting all alone in deep thought, I am a world away.
No Sun, no Stars, and no wind!
My mouth can not speak the words there are to say.
The visions blend carries me to where it never ends.
My God I am here and I demand to stay!
I am here, but gone to where I begin.
Nights and days have come and gone and are now decades away.
No life, no air, and no death!
My God I am alive and dead on this very day.
I am gone, but here with my journey’s quest.
The gift of life is mine as I catch my last breath.
My heart can not hold the words there are to say.
Looking deep into this world where I have come to stay,
No love, no hate, and no sin!
The visions blend carries me to where it all ends.
I am here, but gone to where I begin.
My eyes can see the words there are to say.
My God I am gone and I demand to stay.
Time and time my thoughts have traveled my days,
No time, no light, and no pretend!
The gift of life is mine all over once again.
My God I am dead but alive on this very day.
My ears can not hear the words there are to say.
I am gone, but here absorbing the visions blend.

®Registered: Ann Rich 1997

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Longing For A Home

Windowed eyes stare out
to the rainy road
as I walk in my London fog coat
down Anytown streets.
Passing table lamp gleam
brings a catch to my throat.
How is it with the lives
within these warm nests?

The comfort of the glow
shining on manicured lawns
beckons to my heart.
What plays are played
within that house ...
or that one there?
Is it really a Home or
only an empty shell
with my longing installed?

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The Great White Shield

Held prisoner under His Stars, 
I have fallen under the shadows of THE “Great White Shield”.
At a distance, those shimmering lights covered over me.
Built on THE highest plains, I stand parallel even when His rains come down.
My wall stands tall as my fate is promised and sealed.
I see my passage through time as I hold sturdy to my only God given ground.
I am all that I know I can ever be.
Confined by a little world where all that there is has been lost or found,
My bleeding wall holds my “ ALMIGHTY’S Great Armored White Shield“.
Balanced with time even when His rains are pouring down!
It stands to serve and to protect the best of the living me.
Layer by layer it builds with the strength it has lost or found.
For, I am all that is genuinely real.
Conditioned by my endurance, His Stars my eyes still can see.
Ruling the way that I move, His existence is wrapped tightly and I abound.
Parallel on His plains, a sturdy wall I did gradually help Him build.
My wall protects the only person inside of me.
I secure my only ground as I hold onto His “Great White Shield”.
I am all that I have ever truly found.
When the rains pour down on me, 
I stand atop of all His battled ground.
When I am all with my realest deal,
I am all that can or will be found.
When I am all that I know I can ever be,
I carry a strength that alone I can build.
I am the carrier of my Almighty’s Great White Shield”.

®Registered: 1998  Ann Rich

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We had both been...
through hell and back together
We had both vowed...
we would be best friends forever
During times that were good...
we shouted: "Victory is ours!"
During times that were bad..
we were there for one another during the darkest hour
When her name was being slandered...
I was there to take up for her in her defense
When she felt that life no longer had mattered...
I was there helping her to see the silver lining once again
But when she became "Ms. Popularity"...
I found myself being kicked to the side
It was in her space I was crowding...
she had other new friends standing by her side
There was nothing that I could say...
without her flying off the handle at me
Over and over right before my eyes...
she was gradually slipping away from me
I never had anticipated...
that she would hurt me so bad
I never had anticipated...
that she would go out of her way in making me feel so sad
I was no longer good enough for her...
I could tell because it was written all over her face
I had to finally learn...
that I had finally been replaced
To this very day...
we are living much separate and different lives
To this very day...
there are times that she comes to my mind
But so many years I have learned...
that the past of her I must leave behind
It took so many years for me to learn...
that she had never been a friend of mine

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Morning Glory

First light's crystal bright 
the rooster clock strayed 
sleeping through summer days
Passing slow in my old age
Jewel eyes blinking wide
blurred blind,eyes wincing hide
imaginitive high,closed eyesight
safe from morning light's
glare and artificial air

Narcotic vision offers spiritual distance from an invisable 
world changing without notice , sometimes without rational motives

Heatwave summer beyond the horizon thunder
Skin burning yearning effervescient rain
cool gray days eased sunburn pain
and dire thirst 
everydays the same almost rehearsed
walking dirt road paths through verdant fields
passed summer's yeild
cleared my mind bothered by old age
immersed in introspective gaze
yearning yesterdays

This existential path is dharmic bliss
stayed stoned on '60s narcotics
glimpsed the otherside...died

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The Wagon Train


The fire burned warm and brightly,
    As the little band of wagons were gathered close and their animals were 
tethered tightly.
The ladies sat about preparing meals for the coming day,
     While the men folk took on chores there wasn’t nary time for play.
Scouts were still out and their water was getting low,
     Restricting their selves was the only way to go.
The wagon boss was talking on changing their course,
      Said things ain’t looking good, best we prepare for the worse.
He said I know another way but it’ll be harder at first.
     But about a weeks ride south there’ll be plenty of water to fill our thirst.
Bright and early next morn the little train pulled out,
    Changing its direction added miles there was no doubt.
As they slowly plodded on the desert took on a new look,
    But the sun still shone brightly in the day they all cooked.
The third day in the scout came riding up,
     Said it’s a good thing ya’ll changed directions as he reached for the cup.
He said the last three water holes were only sporting dust,
     Real early next morning the old scout lit out said he’d find water for it was a 
He strapped a couple of small kegs on an ole pack mule,
      Took along a shovel in cased he’d need a tool.
Less than a day out he was taken by surprise,
       Found an old dry creek bed that had just been on a rise.
There stood a solid rock basin as full as it could be,
       He plopped down and drank his fill then rested for a moment by an old 
mesquite tree.
He filled up the little kegs then he headed on back,
       When he caught up with the train he told of the water and said there were all 
kinds of animal tracks.
Next day they made it there to this little glory hole,
      And rested up for a few days and then took off to their destined goal.
 You just hope for the best, 
       And make sure your guide knows the way west.
There is no guarantees whether you make it or not,
       The trip out west you’re either wet and freezing or you’re dirty and hot.

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The Little Black Dress

Ah, the dress that has been
 around for a very long time…

Although, every woman has one…

You never know when you need it,
 but it’s always there, hanging in the 
closet when that time comes around…

A string of pearls around the neck,
 and you are ready for anything…

Thank you Coco Chanel for the 
timeless “Little Black Dress”…

By Sandra Lea Hoban

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North bound train
Canadian land
Byways and the valleys
a time in quiet that may be found
Treasures of the Forest
Cars on a busy stretch,this afternoon
Later in the evening
I'll gaze upon the old man of the moon
A tourist touring
The splendor of Province country
The conductor is pointing out scenic spots
Still riding the rails
in Summer's time of Thunderstorm hails
Be as it may
I'll return to Boston somehow
some day
The children will be grown
nieces and nephew shake this hand
Knowing forever,
their favorite storyteller is now home

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left behind

This whole place is set ablaze. 
Smoke is filling these lungs. 
I'm looking for the fire escape. 
The sirens ring aloud. 
I can't make out a single face in the crowd. 
Where are you? 
You said you'd never leave me behind. 
Where do you hide? 
I can't breathe. 
These fumes are looking to take the life out of me, but still i push to make 
my way out. 
Forced to crawl as the flames reach for the skies. 
How desperate i am just to find you. 
I scream your name as i make my way through this burning building. 
Struggling as this structure tries to make its way to the ground. 
It's going down! It's going down! 
Searching for you, my eyes blinding by this haze. 
I'm trying to find my way out of this maze. 
Where'd you go? 
You said you'd never leave me behind. 
I'll make it out of this alive or die trying. 
I hear the siren's cries. 
Pushing forward trying to make my way through the door. 
I don't know how much more i can take. 
It's getting harder to breathe with each breath that i take. 
Save me. 
This is exactly what it seems. 
Trying to survive as this fire tries to baptize me. 
Get me out! Get me out! 
You said you'd never leave me behind. 
I scream your name in one last attempt as this fire consumes me. 
I'll never forget your smile as much as it haunts me.

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Opening Day

With breathless haste and trembling hope 
Comes April's long awaited day. 
Flannels fitted, cleats are cleared. 
Bats all polished, heroes cheered. 
The rosters set, the lineups made. 
Dispel all such reproachful pain, 
Of past defeats, these thoughts remain, 
Avenge those days with plans well laid. 

Green pastures accent early mists; 
High skies with soaring hearts abound. 
Impatient folk with childish joy 
In this Cathedral gather 'round. 
The banners flapping overhead 
To worship at the shrine of sport 
As music from the organ run 
To see a legacy is won. 

Appease the gods with humble prayer 
To bless this grand auspicious day! 
With golden echoes sweet shall call 
The anthem to begin the play. 
"Play Ball!" The shout goes out to all. 
Ten thousand voices rise and fall. 
The spirits lift to heaven's gate 
To root and share a common fate! 

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Just Because

Just because, 
I really thought I was!
I was coming and coming,
Holding nothing back!
I could go anywhere,
I could go running!
I came unlatched.
I just really can not compare!
Just because,
I just really knew it was!
I kept going and going,
Holding nothing back!
I went showing!
I was unlatched
I am just really glowing!
Just because,
It really was,
It was here and now!
Holding nothing back!
I go proud!
I am unlatched!
I am just really now!
Just because,
It really was!
But gone forever!
Holding nothing back!
I went clever!
I became unlatched!
I was prisoner, 
Just because 
I really was!

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I thought I would stop thinking.
Not until I was gripped in thinking.
Thinking of what I have thought,
i lost counts in memories.
Therein I remembered,
The fear of thoughts is the beginning of thinking.
But, why should I stop thinking?
When thought emerge without thinking,
and thinking springs from thoughts.
To think is human, to stop is death.
When I stop thinking, and then check my body,
Check my pulse, check my heart and thoughts.
Check my life may be checking my soul.
Either flying or in a gathering to commune in heavens
Associating with Angels,
Angels on guard.

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Time Travel

                                       Timetravel reading diaries 
                          of distant relatives' lives once mysteries
                  become souvinir memories of vanished places
                          lost loves and estranged freidships

                                      Travel the changing world
                   kindred neighbors move,visit old home towns
                       aging treasures where dreams are born

                      Relatives trading stories of new family ties
                                           perfect marriages
                             Passing lovers seiance romantic
                                 Grandchildren raise children 
                     play in flowered fields once playgrounds

           Familiar questions echo our own childhood curiosity
                Wiser with age,kinder hearts with experience
         Parents are keepers of children's forgotten memories

                          Past photographs keep memories alive
                                          Sacred kinships end
             Fond memories and promises could never mend
                 Find new passions,new love,new life begins

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The Burning Veil

My eyes were opened to a bright red burning veil.
Sun scorched and Moon dried,
It was fried!
But, I brought it some water in a crystal blue pale.
The more it burned higher went the scale,
God knows that I at least tried.
There was just nowhere to hide.
But, I wasn’t about to fail.
I put the veil in the water and made it wet.
I held it to the Sun and the Moon to air dry.
The veil melted and glowed where it was set.
It was sparkling and made me want to cry.
Perception had been weakened to what it really should be.
At least, that’s what the burning veil conveyed to the truth inside of me!

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On granpappy's farm,in Arkansas
Picking cotton was the annual chore,
Recording the rural life,he saw-
Scraping a living ,on a small wage
A tender story..of coming of age.

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Walking on Water

I turn my back and look the other way, 
My shadow is a bliss you hope and pray!
I’m walking on water at the stroke of midnight,
Searching for the hope of a breaking daylight!
Everything’s just so incredibly beyond bright!
Closing my eyes to a brand new day,
Shutting down inside and feeling everything just die.
My thoughts surely would make you an empty man inside!
I’m walking on water in the shadows of daybreak,
Searching for the hope of my lost and alone faith!
Everything’s just so outrageously beyond great!
I close my mind to the brand new light of day.
Closing my eyes and just walking away,
But my shadow you hope and pray will surely stay.
I’m walking on water at the peak of nightfall,
Looking for this huge magnificently clear waterfall!
Everything’s just so enormously beyond tall!
I close my eyes and I begin to pray.
My thoughts could surely give hope to all,
For I walk on water on each and every day!

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Docked by Time

Celebrating the glare that glows,
A reflection of you creeps in.
The glory of high rank again!
Somebody you do not know,
But a sacrifice all the same!
Docked by time with a name!
Riding the high tides,
A fear of you sets in.
The smile of pride again,
Somebody you hide,
But a sacrifice all the same!
Docked by time playing the game!
Laughter with the fame you claim,
The sound of you drifts in,
The look of confidence seen again,
Somebody you remain.
But a sacrifice all the same!
Docked by time is such a shame!

®Registered: Ann Rich 1998

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The affectionate mother, whom I loved has long left
her earthly dwelling to flee
to a Paradise extrasensory peaceful;
and surrounded by angels,
she tenderly flashes an effulgent smile and looks upon  
me and whispers many prayers
for a son whose face is her total resemblance!
And in me her noble soul lives with a sweetness,
which has made me forgotten that there's death...
by rekindling that maternal memory! 


Before I go to sleep, I reflect on my day that has passed without dire...  
by staring at a portrait, which makes her facial expressions
seem so real like when she eloquently spoke, glimpsing into tomorrow;
I'm wishing for tears to fall, but none do...too numerous tears
have her child's eyes shed to empty themselves of their sorrow!
Why cry and induce more mourning...when glory has awarded her a halo?
She endured much, and said little, to strengthen me with her example,
and will harsh winters lash me with their furious winds, no fright...
no discouragement can overwhelm me and make me shiver and tremble;
violent storms extirpate trees, fears won't uproot what I extol!

Extraordinary was her motherly love: intense and insuperable, 
to build me up when my confidence was down and I refused to have fun; 
and if I felt miserable, she mollified my misery, grief and sadness,
to never let me lose my momentum, to miss out on a great, indelible moment!
Showing my mistrust intensified the tone of her vocal chords...
low esteem wasn't another kind of modesty, just a lost milestone!   
Secular and firm...and yet divine, was her faith emboldening me;
emerging in the form of a lovely rainbow to brigthen my obscurity!
I longed for affection, hoping it would have been long that love so tangible,
which still guides my footsteps to rekindle that maternal memory!

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If Ever I Should Have to Wonder

If ever I had to wonder, 
I would simply wonder why our paths were even destined to cross.
Obviously, I have so many things I have to wonder, 
Because my love carries the strength of steel and an armor of cloth!
No doubt that I will think of the many things that could always make me sigh.
But I know that I’d forever wonder why so much pain comes with an inevitable loss?
“Tis a soul for a soul and one cast out with your solemn moment of pride”.

If ever I should have to wonder, 
Indeed I would have wondered where?

Where is the beginning and where is the end to this forsaken way of life?
Where does all this “hidden truth” lay and why is it that I’m still standing and I can survive?

No doubt that I will think of the many things that I could always compare,
But I know that I’d forever wonder how much warmth there really is out there to share.
Brought down from sorrows below my beliefs have become my sacrifice.

If ever I had to wonder, 
I’d simply wonder where?
Where do we go when we go away and why is it that we even have to leave?
Where is this truth and why should I be the only one that will produce my beliefs?

No doubt that I would think of the many things that could always make me instantly care.
But I know that I would forever wonder why there’s so much hope with all of this despair.
‘Tis a soul for a soul and each is in such a constant dire of eternal need”!

If ever I should have to wonder, 
I’d simply wonder why this was all even meant to be.

Why could you not see the power and the glory that God has invested in the life of me?
Obviously so many things to have to wonder because love carries so many will’s that fizzle 
and die.
No doubt that I would think of the many things that could always make me sad and cry.
But I know that I will forever wonder was it I, the one who has been received?
But most of all I will forever wonder what is it that you, as one, really believe?

© Copyright:  1998   Ann Rich

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Gondoliers navigate these old canals
that saw much joy 
and cherished glory;
go and tell about your trades
and mischievous love-affairs,
when voluptuous women
enticed your many travels
and drove you into flaming passions... 
Lambent lagoon,
impeccably domineering,
but impoverished by a loss so great...
that even the Saint Mark's bells toll in regret!
Lambent lagoon,
your lost treasures weren't lavishly spent;
they are still here hidden by sturdy walls,
and cherished by people visiting
a city trapped in its magnificence,
unable to admit its decadence...

Proud and handsome gondoliers,
row your gondolas under the splendid bridges
and sing of a glorious past
that will never come back;
these streets,squares and canals
that marked its sudden rise,
also lamented its quick dawnfall...
with the sail-ships anchored at shore!

Lambent lagoon,
I rejoice in your indelible glories
and express grief for your losses;
but your greatness is still recaptured...
to comfirm an aura so unconcealed
by the appearance of the glimmering moon!     

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A Blessed Season


Sitting out in the back I felt the cold north wind blow in across the lake.
   Nearly a spiritual moment as my breath it did take.
The summer had been long hard and hot.
   As I patted my wife on her hand as she lay on the cot.
The firewood has been all chopped split and put in its place.
   Ready for another winter to snuggle and embrace.
This is the time of year I look forward to so much.
   Like the feel of a warm blanket as winter sends us its touch.
Like a warm cup of cocoa to soften the nights.
   Or to sit by the fireplace with its embers so bright.
To reminisce of past days and the glory we find.
   Of loved ones that have past and their memories left behind.
Life has been good as I drink from its cup.
   I’ve enjoyed it to the hilt since I was a pup.
And as the snow gently falls and white glistens the earth.
   Remember before too long spring will return offering all a renewed birth.
Always enjoy what you’ve got and give the blessings to God.
   Praise Him with honor and love as through this life we must trod.

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Everything was so spontaneous 
and beautiful in my younger years;
a young heart reaching out to adventurous dreams,
making them as real as his imagined schemes!

Climbing a grassy hill,
pushing forward to reach mountains,
and discover hidden treasures
that lay in darkness for centuries;
frescos of saints in spacious caves,
a statue of an Archangel
guarding the dusty altar
as he thrusted His long spear
into the woeful Devil!!

Spring was a stunning sight of fireflies,
so incrediblly cheerful and thrilling,
when the impetuous wind
scattered the small white flowers
of a clustered viburnum
over the acient town of Baianum...
where I spent my younger years,
cherishing the liveliness of adolescence!

Coming down steep cliffs
towards early evening...
when the sunset was ablaze,
serenity was never felt so deeply;
and as weary as the canary's song would be,
it prompted me to sing!  

In my younger years,
all those days weren't a passage through brevity...
they lingered on like they were enraptured by eternity;
If  I had foreseen the misery of my misfortunes...
I wouldn't enunciate the loss of their affinity,
or the vitality of my unrelenting footsteps:
when I crossed,so unhastly,
 that magnificent land called, " Italy! "

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Her Name was Nappy Monde

An ancient form of flattery
Enchanting was the scenery
Surrounded by her slavery
As her Master showed her ‘round.

To keep it clean was simplified
No need to keep the grounds.

To work in shelter clean and warm
She began to feel forlorn
And stepped outside to pick the corn
All nature not a sound.

To please the Master amplified
The barking of a hound.

A splitting pain and aftershock
She looked up from her picking spot
A man she formerly knew not
Had whipped her to the ground

A slave and not a person she
He called the Master down.

Confused her mind was racing
For no longer she’d be tasting
All the goods that now are wasting
In the kitchen where it’s found

No longer she’ll be favoured
The Master’s bitter wrath she crowned.

Now fated to the feeder
Her eyes gazed upon the greeter
A lady new and not so meagre
Would cause her a weary frown

Another damsel bated in
Her nervousness well-found.

Not plain she entered into bond
not a penny she had conned
She heard him whisper Nappy Monde
Her now adopted noun.

Her boundary now the walls within
No need to be outbound. 

For Thrice he bought a lady
Once named Donna then a Sadie
A carbon of an act so aerie
Walking in a wedding gown

His first wife was a Nappy
His psyche banefully unsound.

Then the night he left to visit
Finally rose to rest his gizzard
Up to meet the wifely wizard 
Who’s spell was painfully profound

To walk alongside his young Nappy
To worship saintly skin so brown.

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The Destructive Hands of Time


The old Spanish mission had fallen down from neglect.
    Where it once taught of a different way, and housed anyone from the noble to 
the derelict.
Now it houses only varmints and things that crawl in the night,
    A place where man at one time could seek sanctuary when weary from the 
They were lighthouses in the most barren of spots,
     A place where troubles were brought in hopes they would be forgot.
This one had fallen because there was no water at all.
     The river stopped flowing and was the reason for the fall.
For without the water no crops could be raised,
      And it couldn’t support the animals which needed to graze.
The river itself had been a grand site to behold, 
      Teeming with fish and attracted all types of wildlife that was the story they told.
They said a quake must have happened the only explanation they had,
     And from the looks of things it must have been bad.
Artifacts of all type still clutter the ground, 
    From broken pottery to arrowheads can be abundantly found.
Outback of the mission an old cemetery is found.
    Such an uncaring looking place where no one ever comes around.
I found a date scratched on a stone that read sixteen forty three.
    Maybe a marker on a grave left in hopes someone might see.
A sad and lonely place that has been forgotten through time,
     Letting such an historical place go unattended should be a crime.

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As I entered, she was already speaking.
"But I opened my eyes, yours were 
closed like a sleeping child's.
The movement of your lips proved otherwise.
My heart caught up in my throat,
it was sublime."
I couldn't stay here, weak knees
locked legs, propelled me out the door
that shut silently behind me. 

Inside dark hallway, my shaky
legs gaining confidence.
Myriad doors open at my passage.
Their lights briefly caress my face,
stubbornly I move on.
As all things must this hall ends.
And I stand silently cursing my foolish soul.
The door before me opens grudgingly
as sigh passes, cross threshold. 

In this room, spare décor 
bearing the effects of entropy
in a thin divide of dust.
I am not alone.
My eye's reveal nothing. 
Yet my skin flushes, my body
filled with the intoxicating scent
of your neck that summer. 

My mind calls to flee,
as the dust resettles around
my seated form. My hand 
absently sweeps clear
a spot beside me. I gaze to my right,
and I see her face again,
her rose hewn lips silently
form, "I trust you."
The words still make me cringe;
however, could you place
value where I myself do not?

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Tea with Gran,her muffins supreme,Bath and change and hair brylcreamed.Stroll 
into town to the pub in the square, our gang always met there.Checking the football in the 
Oxford 'green un'.Trad jazz with Donegan,Bilk or Collier or maybe the ballroom 
bacchanalia.Skip,hip-hop or jive or more sedately to the Friday Five.A swift half of cider in 
the Bodega bar,happily none of us could afford a car.Dropping a shilling in  the snug juke 
box,choosing Haley and Elvis,then unorthodox.Bought tickets for the coming live shows,Eddie 
Cochrane,Cliff and Shadows.Later, the last waltz ,about to begin,if you were fancied ,it 
showed in her coy grin.Requesting a date took a little courage,so glad my choice that day,led 
to marriage.

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A stone font and white duck found it renown
This ancient saxon hill-fort town-
Growing to wealth around its four squares
With regular markets and seasonal fairs
Buying and selling sheep,cattle and mares.

Tribute to my hometown Aylesbury

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The Tire Swing


He gazed across the wind swept meadow
To a lone  tree  standing there
Its jagged,  silhouette  surrendered 
‘neath a sky more fiery embered
His flaming hair, which crowned him then.
But--- it was neither tree nor sky
That stole his youthful eye.
It was
The tire swing
Whispering,  promising,
“ With-me,  you can fly ! ”

The boy lept across the meadow
Like a deer panting for water,
Till at last
He climbed aboard his dream.
His round,  black,  holed
Flying machine.
Then,  holding tight, and bending to and fro
With all his might
Began to drive,  began to  glide 
Against The sinking sun
It was night outside

Across the starry, littered sky
Beneath the moon’s soft lullaby
Ascending ever higher
Make believing he’s a flyer,
He smiles,
As he tips a wing.

He is an aviator.
He is the sky king!
And all because of one
Old tire swing.

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Yuletide Memories

It didn't seem so long ago that Christmas brought a warmth
A sense of belonging and a spiritual joy
A time for the family, a time for neighbors to stop in
Traditional events unchanging from year to year
A sense of continuity, a warmth from within the heart
The old black and white TV had its share of snow
Alistair Sim played Scrooge and 
There was a Miracle on Thirty Fourth Street
Bing sang White Christmas
It wasn't a Holiday, it was an event, a Celebration
The Birthday of Jesus, the Star in Bethlehem, the Angels
There were Shepherds, Three Kings, a Nativity scene
Silver Bells playing while shopping downtown
Strangers smiled and said Merry Christmas
A genuine feeling of good will.
No other time of the year brought this kind of joy
In spite of low income there was an abundance of food
Cookies and egg nog were made at home
Presents could be opened after church, not before
Children laughing, giggling in anticipation
Heat coming from the old Heatrola in the parlor
Neighbors sharing the good times
Kids playing on the floor in the living room
The smell of pine and spruce in the homes
A time of joy, a time of laughter
A time of peace on Earth.
Merry Christmas Everyone. 

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Massive castles laying in ruins
on barren,steep hills
where fierce battles were fought,
and the dwellers were fraught
as the armies began to advance; 
those are the places
that still tell a story when stillness 
is able to take us back... 

Meadows swarmed by fragrant daisies,
extending themselves to infinity
were the intimate and secretive spots
of the prince and his lovely princess;
a tranquil place where the young poet's hand
wrote those passionate lyrics incessantly
on parchment to perserve his thoughts
in places that still tell a story...

Narrow streets paved with stones
overlooked by flowery verandas
where lovers whispered their secrets
to the stimulant and silent moon;
words never stifled by unpleasant noises,
the perfect  place to emanete 
their dream,in penumbra,to be gone soon...
without the perceptual illumination so complete:
to remind us of plain people indulging in sensuality
in places that still tell a story....

Celestine sea bringing home weary ships
that discharge the agile bodies of sailors
welcomed by an anxious crowd
at the illuminated and breezy dock;
sailors who rode the tempestous waves 
sometimes fearing for their lives in turbulent time,
fusing together to confront the outcome courageously
in places that still tell a story...

Verdant hills and mountains
hiding remanents of ancient temples,
decaying columns without a roof
emitting an indignant mood: 
a nostalgia for their glorious past...
still in the delusion of thier grandeur;
who can still hear the hymns sung gleefully
in places that still tell a story?

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Tapestry of Life

Driving along, the road staring back at me 
mid afternoon sun warming the windshield 
I discover yellow winking in a sea of green 
buttercups bobbing in the wind, catching my eye 
momentarily taking my mind away to busier days
filled with peanut butter sandwiches and Kool-aide and laughter 
the children running through the yard towards me
stairstep offspring, my little imps with
ruler straight bangs reflecting honey gold and bronze
smiling, voices bubbling over, melodies dancing
like water in a brook, constantly flowing
their saucer eyes wide with wonder, twinkling merriment
proffering sweaty hugs and sticky kisses 
I reminisce as the miles pass
the years fly through my wandering mind
amazed that they were so quickly gone I realize now
making a turn towards another kindred home coming into view
the scenery moving ever slower 
my mind catches up as the car stops and
a blur dashes down the steps, crossing the lawn
mother fast in tow to keep harm away, greeting me
I stoop down and open wide my arms as 
boundless energy leaps towards me with exuberance
"Gramma," is hailed, as chubby arms surround my neck
kissy sounds and huggy noises echo as I pray
"Thank you, God"
knowing that He guided me to this very moment
weaving another thread into the rich tapestry of life.

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British Punjabi (2005)

Though I was born in the UK and I knew no more
In my dreams I heard my grandparents calling me to their door
I visited Punjabi and it lit my heart
This was me, a place in me where I found my part
Know I can see me as a whole
British Punjabi, my identity is in control
I met family I never knew before and they are a reflection of me
Funny, we live so far yet have parallel lives just to continue our ancestry. 
Unity just by sitting on the floor to eat
I am humbled to walk bare foot on the street
My village that struggles in a war and it is home today
I don’t feel torn; I know where I fee at peace and where I should stay 
I feel comfortable being inside of me
I am a British Punjabi 

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The first colors of Fall

Today I saw the first colors of fall
reminding me 
Summer isn't endless after all;
As the leaves slowly land
they take with them 
the best Summer I ever had;
the double date to Six Flags
an outdoor movie for charity
and a few blockbusters at the Multiplex
having fun seeing friends
visiting everybody;
Swimming all day at the pool
going to Baltimore to watch Tool
and of course the trip to Ocean City
wouldn't trade that vacation for anything
yes today I saw the first colors of Fall
but my memories will keep 
Summer 2007 endless after all

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I got a date!
Must not be late.
I said come for tea.
She said yes to me.
Making myself smart.
I made a start.
Hear the pounding of my heart.
Arriving early, I had to wait.
Better early than late.
I waited longer than you can know.
Trying not to show.
My misery and woe.
She never came.
Women are all the same.
Never date them again.

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The Magic's Blend

When looking at me what is it that you know you can see?
What does your self have to say to you about the soul that lives inside of me?
Can he see what it is that’s deep inside the back of my eyes?
Or is he the ultimate from behind the promise of my only surprise?
Maybe it’s not what it seems in the beam of this ray of light,
Or maybe he sees his visions glaring in this blend much too bright.
Yourself or you which is fool and which is wise?

Up and away we go riding all of the waves that our eyes can possibly see.
Coiling loosely and simply falling free.
My breath captured with my body soiled from the scent of the bliss inside of you.
Magic blends heating the layers of gloss that keep shining me all of the way through.
With my body hot my blood trembles beneath the feel of my bared and wet skin.
I’m all up inside of this glare feeling magical as it completely blends all of my needs safely in.

When looking at me what is it that you think you know?
What does your self have to say to you about the feel beneath the touch of my skin?
Does he see this glare of light with his visions sunk or just anchored by a strange hook?
Or is he the ultimate from behind the beams when they will only burn shining on dim?
Maybe it’s not what it seems when you’ve really, truly and even squarely looked?
Or maybe he sees these beams blending when his visions are adapted too his all time low.
Yourself or you, which is friend and which is foe?

Up and away we go calming the almighty of the highest seas.
Completely loose simply aiming for free.
My breath taken and my body covered with the scent of the blissful buried treasures in you.
Complete subliminal excellence in the magic that keeps shining me all the way through!
My body glossed and gleaming as my blood quivers in the light of this heavenly vision’s blend.
I’m up inside of myself soothed as the magic warms what is deep beneath my bared wet skin.

Yourself or You! 
Which has vision and which is dim per glares in the currents of “The Magic’s Blend”?

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Besides the oceon's kingdom 
lies a splendid land where the heart 
is made happy to its core,
and the soul finds its own freedom
to venture itself...despite of fright:
like a volture that has a need to soar!

There I spent the indelible days 
of that unhappy youth and tasted,
with much bitterness and delusion,
the first bites of  reality 
that started up a controversy...
youth is meant to be lived up
to one's fancy and be entirely free
of obstacles,worries and sadness;
mine was just the contrary...
a boy obeying the father's strict rules:
harsh rules demanding obedience,
never bending to show affection!

Sad to say that my mother's brave heart,
sheltering me from his insensibility,
split up it up between the two:
deciding,with thoughtfulness,
 which one should own it completely;
and as torn apart as she was...
she devoted her entire life to imbue
my child's thoughts and recall them
whenever I was susceptible to boredom!   
Now, as years wrinkle my skin and show my age,
I'm reminiscing the unsurpassable strenght
and love she demonstrated in her courage!

Besides this continent's bounderies...
where fearless men challenge its tides, 
friendly faces loom like shadows
seeking that friend who never spoke of inner feelings
and hid the an astounishing secret from them;
and if they think, I have forgotten their kindness...
when I was scared and needed comforting words:
 no,I have never stopped thinking of them!

Throughout  my journey,the only face
I recognized was that of somebody
folowing my footsteps...not to make me trample,
to spare me the agony of mistakes;
its shadow could not be seen...
was there a misleading perception so imaginable?
Through joy,hardship and dire...
I moved forward with one thought in mind:
not to sway my attention and lose my grip
on the captain of a lost ship!

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39 Lomonossov St., Kiev 252101, Ukraine

A horde of weary eyes
at the false fountain of youth
in demo against
the fading of the majestic night;
their hushed voice vibrates against 
my seat, as I enjoy the skyline
while the silver moon, secretly
sips my ice-cold compote.

That strange looks 
somehow touch
my own sadness, humming 
with the cold breeze of gentle wind 
and the yelling of sweet Babushka;
I know…and they know, she is right;
it’s time for all, to come to term
with her final whistle. 

She’s the night watcher. Her gate 
of ephemeral solitude, 
is soon to be locked; no other entrance, 
unless one takes the risk, creeping 
like vine to reach the terrace;
but it isn’t easy, ‘cos yesterday morn 
crushed eyes blocked the doorway
that made Babushka scream, for help.

Thou, I never gave her headaches;
she’s really worried seeing me  
on the edge 
of the rooftop, while 
reading Pushkin, as the squadron 
of night worshippers, whining
at the false fountain of youth, 
‘cos of unfinished home-works.

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And That's The Way It Was


When I was young I had a bad temper.
   As mean as a dog you could not make me whimper.
Fighting back then was more like a game.
    Even when you fought you were friends just the same.
Something to do to test your skills.
    To see who was best in this battle of wills.
A fisticuff thing that was all done in fun.
    No one ever got so mad they went for a gun.
At football games there was much rivalry.
    A fight maybe two then you would walk away and just let it be.
The idol back then had to be James Dean.
    Them old pointed toed shoes with our hair slicked back that was making the 
A nickel bottle of pop with two straws I can picture it all.
    Cruising the town with a carload of kids oh what a ball.
I remember when telephones had letters instead of numbers in their prefixes.
   Remember when you got sent to the principles office to get licks?
Remember when you just got am radio and 45s was a record?
   Oh , Calgon take me back, what about the Bird is a Word?
Penny loafers, if you wanted to date you had to talk with the girl’s father,
Slipping in to the drive-in in the trunk of a car, a bar of candy was a nickel.
This has got to be continued

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A gal & guy,Rogers & Astaire
Hollywood's strictly come dancing pair,
Escapist glamour,without a care-
On  diet of beauty we once were fed,
With long-legged Ginger & top-hatted Fred.

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In a rural country vale
Aylesbury's forgotten tale;
A steeplechase from memory gone
The four mile hunt from Waddesdon.

Twenty  weighed in at the White Hart,
The old windmill the place to start;
Riders,famous and well-heeled
Racing across ditch and field.

Each carrying twelve stone seven
The starters flag dropped on eleven;
Across brook,spinney and the Thame
Seeking the prize pot and fame.

In long furlong field the leaders showed
To the roars from the turnpike road;
The well backed grey became the toast
As he raced clear to the red flagged post.

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Minute by minute,I saw my preciuos
existence slip away with the speed
of a stupendous shooting star across
a promising life...yet so unfulfilled and hollow;
wasn't my birthright relinquished
to an undeserved punishment and sorrow?

Why wouldn't anyone be resilient and
alleviate my agony and atrocious pain...
to confront a stark and unfair fate?
I can remember the unjustified hurt
clinging to many unacceptable exscuses;
and weren't there spendid dreams,
flourishing amid lonely and uncertain days,
wanting to ascape and become real?

Years by years misfortunes made me
give up all the incredible joys,of a naive boy,
that I longed for desperately;
I straddled to neither please life nor me,
to see reality wrapped up in mystery
constraining my neutral pesonality...

Breath by breath life allowed me
to live by its harsh teach me
unlearned lessons and I paid the highest
prize of all; and was it really worth
putting my trust in that confident voice,
and neglect the purpose of my strides?

Looking back,with regret,
on a wasted childhood that made me lame
by a blunt destiny;
languish and lament
impoverished my sentiment:
chocking me with their final,implicit word!

I decided to assume 
the role of dreamer without dreams,
to take on the appearance of winner:
relying on vague assumptions
that turned me into the silent weeper,
who watched its thin shadow loom...