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Narrative Places Poems | Narrative Poems About Places

These Narrative Places poems are examples of Narrative poems about Places. These are the best examples of Narrative Places poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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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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Pride of the Motherland

Riding an elephant
Down the narrow trail looking triumphant
Scanning the golden landscape
Like Hannibal with enemies in flight
Sight from a lofty height
King of the jungle moving
With lioness by his side

Climbing Mount Kilimanjaro
Guides by my side with packs on their backs
Some paths steep with rocks
Boots slipping below our tired feet
Beautiful birds in unison flight
Moving with terrestrial light
Stunning sunlight summit on the peak

Praying in an Ethiopian Church
Preserved in rocks built by humans’ hands 
Never touched by conquest plans
Protected from the invaders’ footsteps
Queen of Sheba and Solomon’s nest
Touched by Arch of the Covenant
Mary, Joseph, and Jesus once slept

Eating yam, sipping palm wine, and tasting milk
Freshly squeezed by experienced hands
Taste of life in the mosaic grassland
Sustaining and soul refreshing
Cradle of humankind adorning
Invaded for its gold, riches, and human capacity
Birth of life on earth with tenacity

Respecting its living and arduous journey
Essence of life once was and is again to come
Riding a camel across the hot Sahara sand
Once wet now dried, exported gold from Mali…
Treasures from the hearts of once African empires
That which was, is, and shall forever be
Africa the birthing Motherland
We still love and respect thee!


Seventh Place Winner
"African's Pride" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Adeleke Adeite
June 30, 2010


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Tea Leaves On The Bosphorus

Tea Leaves On The Bosphorus

Seated at a table by the stirring water,
My eyes absorb the shore of Asia.
Minerets and aged worn stone
Stand haphazardly along the banks.
Istanbul is a lady with secrets
She'll lure you with her unrevealed virgin beauty,
Then seduce you with her ancient lovers.

Grilled sardines filled my charger
Fish pulled from the strait just minutes before,
Lay garnished with parsley and mint .
Red pickled turnips and warm flat bread
Are the implements that help feed me 
And scoop up the humus,
Turkish nourishment for my soul.

The empty plates are cleared by a handsome waiter
With dubious intentions I feared,
But I was flattered none the less.
A bowl of yogurt was placed before me,
And my admirer arrived with a comb of honey.
He held it high above the creamy cloud and let the heavy ochre
languidly pour atop the milky whiteness of delight.
After his seduction,he left me alone to my pleasure
As I lapped at the sweet and sour heavenly temptation,
that parted my lips and elevated my being.

As I recovered from my rapture, two eyes caught mine.
The heathen that destroyed my diet approached the table uninvited.
He pulled up a chair and sat down across from me.
In his hands, a cup.
He offered to tell me my future.
White, small, as fragile as an eggshell with the top lopped off.
Within was a dark tea with floating leaves.
In a chivalrous attempt at English conversation,
He handed me the libation and the offer to read the remains.

I, alone in a man's world, unmarried, and of a certain age,
Did not need encouragement and I accepted his offer.
I drained the tea in one gulp and returned it to his hands.
He placed the cup in one palm , then turned it upside down,
Allowing the remaining fluid to drip out around the cup and onto the table.
Once the cup was upright again he studied the leaves, then he spoke.

His voice was soft, at times , unintelligible
His reading was honest, and truthful, and painful.
His prophecy, amusing, and entertaining
His vision and it's accuracy were astounding.

Fifteen years later, the leaves delivered on their promise.
Long fluid lines inside the cup foretold of a marriage,
To a man who  would cross a sea to find me.
Two shorter drippings were the children that now delight me.
The  tea ring that he was able to complete around the cup ,
Was the warmth of a love that would soon envelop me.

Tea, anyone?

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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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King and Queen for a Day

We bound down the stairs, out into the light-of-day, and into the blue of the
misty breezes, heavily laden with the smell of wild sea salt roses that grow in 
perfusion along the winding road, that bends and turns in gentle lifts and dips to 
the other side of the bay, where it crosses the bridge and rises up and winds 
away, over the hill.

Overhead the seagulls screech and glide over the ocean spray that washes on 
the rocks on the lower banks behind our house along the Fundy Bay, where we 
run like the wind through the fields of fresh cut hay and make our  way to the 
rocky mantle below .

There in the volcanic plateau, worn smooth as glass by the constant rolling 
weight of the ocean, is our pool, known by all in our village, as ‘Lizza’s Bathtub’, 
created by the eruption of the earth’s inner core, millennia’s ago.  

We slip into the still, salty water that has been warmed beneath the blazing sun, 
and float with the perry winkles and tiny crabs and  listen to the sound of the 
ocean, that roars beneath us as it leaves in the receding tide, while we drift 
away, in our minds, my little brother the ‘King’ and I, the ‘Queen’ for a day on 
the ‘Fundy Bay’.

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The Wedding

Wedding Night in Raqqa



Cyclonic violet vision


Etheral and immortal


She swirls her sand baked torso.


Evoking the initial collision of primordial seed,


Swathed in gossamer purple veils,


Writhing to the stomping and clapping


Of jeweled ankles


And henna stained hands.


The tribes have united for my wedding to their son.


I ,foreign and naive, swoon to the power


Of ancient rhythm and verse,


Ripe, fertile gestures,


Pregnant with  throbbing pulses


And scattered beats of flailing arms,


Bleating tongues, spinning robes.


A cacophony of incessant chant rose from the dancing women,


Growning louder, feverish in their pleasure


And the nearness of release.


I join in the dancing.


They swath me in voiles and lead me to the center


I dance, and I succumb to my wedding night in Raqqa.

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written 28th June 2013

The place downunder, I'm happy to call my home
 if you plan on a visit, here's somethings you do "need" to know

Kakadu is a place 'you' need to take the time to see
 such magic you will never won't to leave

But...if your arms "outside" the boat...
It...WILL end up down, a crocodiles throat

 Ayres a must place to have on your list, simply this you can not miss
As the sun descends watch it's colours change, you'll be mesmerised by 'pure' bliss

Coober Pedy...for those slightly intrigued with the underground
 for it is here, a quiet town where all there house's are found can still find gold
Well... so I've been told

I recommend...."you" don't swim in the oceans at the top end..
 surrounded by oceans.... the rest, feel free to  jump in

"BUT" if you happen to see a 'fin' I highly 'recommend' you swim

With nights call..'when' offered pull up a chair, grab a beer and relax
 there's just....'one small' catch 

Don't ever be the 'first' to fall "asleep"
 Aussie's find 'extensive' pleasure in an innocent prank when asleep

Enjoy your stay....and from the Land downunder we 'all' say "G'day"
 and look forward to seeing you again, we know you had a great stay

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Summer Scent

Summer scent is the smell of freedom
where we can escape the flavor of boredom
so we plan to have our vacation on the beach
where we can relax and fresh air is within our reach

The warm wind tenderly embraced my spirit
I felt excited on this first visit
on an island where refugees can find paradise
an island where spending time is wise

The dulcet breeze gently kisses lush green trees
and the mirthful sun smiles over the vast seas 
Where surfers play with gigantic waves
and are not certain on what road it paves

The fluffy clouds are smoothly sailing 
the birds are singing and harmoniously dancing
There are butterflies that are colorful in hue
like enchanted fairies changing colors from pink to blue

I need my sun block, it's time for swimming
the tables are full because later we're all eating
Ladies are smiling to many cool surfer dudes
Children are hungry seeing delicious exotic foods

I picked a shell that whispered peacefully in my ears
and we built castles that we fancied over the years
out of the small grains of white sands
and all you need is helping hands

God was really great in creating splendid wonders
that were loved by all especially the nature lovers
There are numerous oceans that are aquamarine
and abundant trees and grasses that are green

The brother sun was slowly hiding
because the sister moon was coming
I guess it was our time to pack
but there will come a time for us to go back

Go back to a place of leisure and freedom
where you'll not taste the flavor of boredom
It would be hard for us to say goodbye
because truly we will come back and say Hi!

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Tallahassee Driving

upon hard grey streets of asphalt I drive
through morn’s muted orange glow 
white headlights shine, red brake lights blink in time
with changing signals red, yellow, green
disoriented city visitors a hindrance to the flow
why at seven a.m.

now stopped two cars back waiting for green
a woman in a minivan ahead primps methodically 
striving in effect to give herself a perm.
the man beside is engrossed in the news
early edition of  today’s tabloid spread over the wheel
will he know when it’s time to go

behind, a husband and wife, I assume
each talk animatedly on their phones
while obnoxious unrestrained children carouse 
a movie playing on the DVD
an ancient pickup stopped in the suicide lane
right turn flashing “let me in!”

green, the light changes, yet still we wait
one, two, three and horns start to blare
shaken are they from hypnotic states
virtual hair salons, libraries, and phone booths abandoned
traffic moves once again in earnest
until the very next crowded intersection.

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Upon Assateague Island freedom runs,
And its hooves stir the Atlantic ocean.
Wild horses gallop on long, sandy shores,
Defying the controlling ways of man,
His shameful need to dominate and tame,
His short reins, sharp spur and saddle too tight.

They munch on saltmeadow hay and beach grass,
Heads lifting and lowering as they eat,
Grazing on abundance, gazing at sea.
Often they stretch their necks and paw at time,
But they do not regret their history.

A shipwreck left them stranded and alone,
Fighting to survive far from what they’d known,
Those sheltering prisons, those filled feed troughs.
Centuries pass, nature changed their stature,
And they became shorter, tougher, wiser.

The herd is separated by a fence,
Dividing Maryland and Virginia,
Isolating descendants that canter.
Bands of ten sing songs on their home ranges,
Heard in the nickers of mothering mares,
Echoed by the proud stallion’s whinny,
Repeated in the bleats of wilful foals.

Summer’s mosquitoes send them from the marsh,
And they frolic in the cool, soothing surf.
Then fall pledges the bliss of bite-less days,
Breezy nights, a reprieve that restores strength.
When winter nears they amass to thickets,
Chew on shrubs and gather against the cold.
Spring is filled with freshness and greenery,
Permitting them to return to the marsh,
Inviting the bands to chew on new life.

Beauty remains there for all to witness,
Though we must stay our distance and be kind.
What is wild should be appreciated,
And we, the corralled, have obligations.
Leave them to rear at limits, let them be,
And let them remind us of poetry.


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Family Camp

It was a special time of life
With my children and my wife
In a tent among the trees
At a place called Camp Louise

Sitting around a campfire Friday night
And the big old moon was shining bright
Putting marshmallows on stick ends
Just sitting, talking with some friends

Telling stoories about an old black bear
Trying to give the kids a scare
The stars were shining high above
A time filled with laughter and with love.

With our energy all spent
We crawled into our tent
The bags were musty and the tent was damp
But we loved it there at family camp

In the morning right after daybreak
You could find us boating on the lake
As we moored the boat along the pier
Right behind the shed, we saw a deer

Two more days of playing in the sun
Fishing, hiking, having fun
Plenty of food and a campfire at night
For a few days a year, the world was right.

Those days are gone and our children grown
We wonder where the time has flown
But no matter how far apart we'll be
We will always have that memory.

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I found myself shedding a tear at a train seat upon seeing the sights leaving the Wellington city train port to Woburn.
I don't mind being called a sentimental freak, if I could just have any describe more than I can the beauty that leaves 
one more than enamored, bewildered and perplexed. How is it possible for nature to marry humanity and vice versa? 
How does it happen when the city buildings lay backdrop to the turquoise waters of the pacific ocean and vice versa? 
How does its waves recognize no rules to follow on where it comes and goes or the wind for that matter? How does the 
birds play so freely as if happily almost touching the great body of water, back to air, then back again to the base 
surface of the waters? How does the water vessels cruise peacefully with some other ships finding their places like 
home amidst the many other small boats around? How does the sun give off its summer heat amidst the windy air? 
How did I end up being in that rugged train witnessing all the massive spectacle of beauty in a country a million miles 
away from my homeland? Tell me why I should help myself to a silent tear.

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Autumn Evening

Tonight I found friends
Not in human form but;
In the land, sky and nature.
I strolled along a country road,
Taking in what the 
Good Lord bestowed.
The sunshine, green grass,
Birds of the air.
One could almost hear
Our Father's voice in the
Gentle breezes.
A deer ambled 
Out on the road,
Not noticing I was there.
Thoughts of Him that put
Us both there.
The locust sang their
Songs in the trees.
The glorious afterglow
Of the evening, as the
Sun bids a farewell 
Good Night.
Oh, thank you Lord 
For friends like these.

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The People's Voice

The people's choice, not the people's voice,
this is what I hear in a country so lost.
Who do we elect to stand for what's right,
how do we know they will, when they are out
of sight.
Ron said it best with his poem, "ReUnited,"
and he can count on me, to always, be right
beside him.
He touched on life, the war, and death,
and he tells America, don't be led.
God made us equal, at least in His eyes,
we never have to stand for deceit, and lies.
We can lie down, and take what we get,
or we can join hands, and stop this regret.
Silence means acceptance, and no one cares,
but how can we let them betray us, do we dare?
I'm with Ron, stand up for what is right,
polygraph them all, on T.V.  tonight.

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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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Pacific Bay

Fog rolling in,
Making the sea go a gray,
Kid’s body surfing all day,
In a cold pacific bay,
The children are laughing,
To the sway,
Of the ice cold waves roaring away.

I hear my mom calling to me faraway,
To come back to shore,
And stay.

For I was tiring in this pacific bay, 
Because of the numbing cold,
That could not let me stay, 
In the icy water of this pacific bay.

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Literature was pursued
by the greatest individuals who ever lived,
and they left us works of unsurpassable wisdom;
human emotions have always been the same, 
and this can't attest to the fact that they will not change anytime soon,
but the freer we are, the further we go up in our balloon.

The richest heritage of Humankind
is found in the written word, which is heard often and not really understood;
where would we be today without the plays and sonnets of Shakespeare that were quite sad,  
or Dante's famous canto, not excluding superb works by modern writers?...
During the dark ages, monks translated books from Greek and Latin into common languages;
as the barbarians destroyed everything found in their path, civilization did not end.

Tragedies of famous people attracted the lucrative minds of poets who had heard of them,
thus embellishing them with their vivid imagination and present actual facts...I follow in
their poetic footsteps, writing down stories that have recently happened, or occurred
before I was born; and with ideas as interesting as theirs, I continue in that tradition
without envying their unaging expressions and distinguished style, but by aggrandizing them.

Literature has finally found its merited place in History, unlikely a hundred years ago,
more people are voraciously reading, and keeping the writers busy by admiring
their sensational works, making comments of encouragement to boost up their optimism;
and to theaters they go and spent an entire night to listen to drama and scoff,
laugh, or cry when emotions intensify by the sconces of the electric lights; and cheering,
they applaud the richest heritage of Humankind on stage, and are captivated by its scenario.

Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci

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The Singer (Narrative Dialogue)

The singer looks at the now empty stage
His voice guarded deep in his warm throat
Shielded by a high neck shirt he wore
Singing with passion from down within
Rehearsing day and night until it’s right
Blended rhythms and notes run the scales
Clinging in smoky night clubs like a shadow
Getting your pay with crumbled dollar bills
Go from gig to gig if it makes you whole
Your songs will make them dance and spin
Like a magic spell being cast far and wide
Allow your words to heal wounds and scars
And when you have earned your keep
Collect the spoils from your conquest sweet
Gobbled champagne and fancy caviars
And your heart beats crashed musical chart
Find the singer who was once loved
The brilliant heart that once lived in joy
Consider yourself a singer without a heart
Who has traded his soul from the start
As it ends the conquest will lose its spark
Come to your senses and stop this slide
You may be witted and sharp as a tack
Don’t get eluded and slip—stay on track

Comments:  This is a narrative dialogue poem.  It sets the stage one may 
probably find in a conflicting situation. It develops into a complication, reaches a 
crisis then falls into a resolution.  It displays connections, alienation, 
disconnections, and a turning point where a change takes place between a 
protagonist and antagonist. The ending brings about a resolution after a 
dramatic point has been reached.  Give it a try one day, and I will give it a review 
for you.  It must be very interesting and relates to real life.

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                     A TRAGEDY OF PRIDE ( hubris)

In the Arctic nights the jazz born North Lights sound
with a music of their own. Fair winds ferry fragile birds--
take to the skies in search of sympathetic warmth profound

while white breathless silence magnifies each sound as it is heard
and few venture forth, like bears they dash to find a haven
where they can hide until reluctantly the sun has stirred--

But, there is one jay bird who is not one of nature’s craven
creatures-- Waiting for a spring call from his mate, he hops into the hungry snow
to dance a dangerous dance in icy morning with the ravens.

There is a God flung magic that dashes high above the haughty human know
among the ancient secret kingdoms of the mystery sky--
And there it is that Wisdom’s Word is spread by wing and wayward winds that blow

their way in worldwide splendor and intricate magnificence that defies
the mind of man.  It is a truth that dalliance in vanity is inborn---
Man or bird, into the nature of some spirits-- it low lies

and becomes incited when grand fame or imagined glory has been shorn
by another .  And , so-- in Persia when the Prince of Peacocks heard
murmurs of the razzing ravens and the sassy sparrows high sky airborne

a proclamation that the World knew now there lived a peerless bird--
plucky-proud, surpassing the peacock -- Jay magnificent with a spirit daunting, a weight
of valiant blue in shades escaped of double rainbows, color-blurred

who bedazzled all nature’s eyes and winds of ear, that judiciously beheld each trait.
The peacock, no longer Highest Prince of Birds, screamed a terrible and cosmic sound
of jealousy.   Ignoring all the glory that still made him great--
the vain and foolish peacock fell-- stunned and breathless to the ground.

Victoria Anderson-Throop  2012 ©
Written in Juja, Kenya
Bird is Stellar Jay, common in Valdez, Alaska

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The Depths Of Hades

I have seen the depths of Hades!
And it is not a place of tranquility; 
Neither is it a place of rest, 
but a place of unending cursing, 
and the gnashing of teeth is everlasting.

The multitude was too great to count -
Souls served as fuel for the unquenchable fire.
Hot coals were the bed for this place,
and flames covered Hades as a blanket.

Before encountering this beast,
a very long fall takes place -
Into a vast and immeasurable darkness.
There is no point of return!

Guilt, pain, sorrow, 
and hate obscures the minds of the afflicted.
Their eyes are blinded by their unclean conscious,
and regret is all that is left.

My heart was shatter into pieces -
To see hell boundaries expanding so rapidly!
It’s mouth is wide open,
and in the top fangs - 
Were Inscribed two words: “ETERNAL - PUNISHMENT”

The scorching fire,
the burns, the sores, and wounds,
and the desire to die is a punishment too great to bare.
But the greatest punishment of all -

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The Median Death of the Red Delicious

“God bless us all when the door is shut behind us, 
only then will we breathe our first breath,
and awake 
from the long dream…”

Forging past the indisputable summit onto the 
shelf of the perfect medium (ah, ‘tis noble here!)
he sits, contemplating his balance. He does not sweat. 

The winds breath breaks upon his predestined neck, 
bestowing the gift of lily white scent upon a lapel that’s 
stiff, yet pliable – just stiff enough. A 72 degree sun 

shines its neutrality, (fueling his desire for nothing at all, 
just the concept of sun giving heat, like a heartbeat, 
unnoticed in its certainty) upon his stagnant face. 
He is wearing his favorite pants (soft, worn jeans with 

a little give, but not enough so that he forgets to hold 
in his stomach), and from the ample pocket, he takes 
an apple. It is a Red Delicious. Not quite living up to its 
name, but unassuming and secure in its redness – he eats. 

It’s not the best apple he’s ever had, but its good enough. 
The vultures, native to this coveted desert waste circle, 
vying for the core of his Non-Delicious, yet edible fruit. 
And as he Bites into the last white taste of just fine, a glint 

of sunlight flashes briefly – like infinity within dreams, 
off of the vultures black eyes. And all at once he knows – 
everything is. The death birds orbit the terracotta desert 
peek (red and inviting in its dry and unforgiving reality), 

the bird turns away so fast after catching his eye, 
he forgets that he’d ever seen its pulsing recognition. 
The forgettable sunset mollifies him - sedates him,
pacifying his every forgettable non-movement.

It is then, when the last dripping light of day descends 
behind the obvious rock mount; the definite edge 
of darkness falls. Shadows creep slowly and quickly
across the terrestrial rock spine, (engulfing its redness

in its totality) leaving just the remnants of burgundy
skin between yellowing teeth, and a deafening black desert. 
As the sound of raucous wings and ripping jeans dominates
the guttural desert - the vultures take their coveted prize.

*Reposted for Deborah's Something Wicked This Way Comes, Wickedness Contest. :)

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Soul of a Son, Life of an Addict '

There in a small town in Mississippi, a very poor family of (7) seven are yes struggeling but are yes abound. Jimmy the youngest of them at now 17 tell his father that he wants to be a Preacher The desire to teach is a privilledge that he inherited from his Uncle, and nowat that prunitive age he goes to his uncle (home) town. The soul of a son is one thing, but the life of a addict is another. My Brother, my brother he sit's down one day and listen in on one of his uncle's lectures as this friend of Jimmy is being lestured too.  You don't need to be weak at the knee's in this stage of dealing with certain issue's and as he comes to the end of his lectures he himself (jimmy) is in need of some "tissue". Jimmy is a member of the debate team(at school) one of the student is this friend, who is dealing with crack-cocaine habit that he just began doing for about a month now.  So this-this-ss partic-ular day jimmy takes him to see the preacher (his uncle) after this young friend said to him, "help-me". {I believe you can be of some help}. "Don't be afraid to seek God as your first step".
So after the two of them have elaborated over the matter for and hour, Jimmy feel's a
need of concern, so they leave together.  My Brother-my brother. "Life of an Addict",
will carry you places you never thought you'll be and keep you in situation's and you
will never be free.  Free to enjoy (life) and freedom from the depentacy of drugs
and living on the streets!!....
 These phrases becomes a part of the mindset in one's attempt to go forward with the
"Power of Prayer", and the belife of knowing you're not a "Coward".  "Soul of a Son",
is to surrender your all onto the source of everything(Faith).  And "Life of an Addict",
is knowing that God places people in your life to possitivily restore your faith in your-
self.  So when life throws you a "Nippy", (storms) that is when you're not to give up,
because the enemy wants you to think that you are always running on empty!!.
"For he is everywhere (Jesus) even there in this small town of Mississippi".

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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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A missive from the damned to whoever have a little time to spend with this nonsense - Page 1

And so, I have made up my mind, once more.
I have decided to depart, to bid this husk farewell.
In order to do that, I must save coins if I desire to save myself.
For with it, I will be able to buy my ticket out here to a more blessed realm or the eternal void. Either way, I will be winning.
I mustn't, any longer, feel the starvation of affection and no more I shall be fed by the crumbs of fleeting joy they toss at me.

Thoughts of finishing are always in my mind, flooding it, making hard to go day by day, making hard to sleep, to have hope.
I fail to see where the hope is, I like to think that it can be find inside of one's heart.
But even so, I think I am mistaken, and when I glance at myself in the mirror, I quickly lose any spark of what could-be hope.

With the aid of the metallic sling, I shall leave this husf behind, heavy with its sins and sorrows, to no more nourish hatred.
For it does only to hinder my advance towards elevation.
With my metallic sling, I shall pierce, first, my heart, where lies the sorrow, then, my mind, where resides the sins.
Whilst the life in me start to wane, regrets I will not have, when my consciousness fade, my spirit will be no longer be trapped inside this imperfect cage of flesh.
Being free, my spirit shall roam far and beyond to, before, unseen places by men, to  untouched places by men.

Another day,someone inquired me "Are you happy now?" and for that I just said "Yes". How else could I have responded if not with a lie?
How could I tell them that I yearn for a premature closure in order to stop thinking and feeling but I also yearn for love.
"I am not absolutely happy, as per say, but I do suffer less when I am asleep" I could never say that to anyone...

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It won't be long now, and football will rule,
those die hard fans, and there are quiet a few.,

One wrong word, and they are ready to fight,
can't miss this, grownups acting a sight.

They get painted all up, looking cute for TV,
the true fans stand out, ready for all to see.

Soon, very soon, football will rule,
so don't be on the wrong side, if you scream out boo.

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Summer Waterfall

Deep in the woods I hear an angel's lyrical call.
Tranquil and serene, a majestic summer waterfall.
Where the oaks and wildflowers shade the creek,
reflections fall to earth from rays of destiny,
refreshing my soul and setting my spirit free.
I smell the aroma of rain mixed with the paradise breeze.
Tranquil and serene, a natural wonder and rainbow of peace.
A cascading sparkling jewel,
above a wave rippling whirlpool.
Upon the wind rides the angel's lyrical call.
Tranquil and serene, a majestic summer waterfall.

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A New England country dance
In a 'contre' version from France
Evolved in a solo line-
From Connecticut to Maine
This style found worldwide fame

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The Apple City New York

While listening to Schumann’s “Arabesque” 
and “Fantasiestüche” for the Mozart B flat Sonata,
I feel the warmth and love that’s powerful within;
a moment of instrospection, a source of intervention.

I live in a wonderful country, beautiful and well-known;
its historical significance and cultural diversity,
define those experiences with charm and closeness
that make something special how New York stands now.

The Statue of Liberty with its wide attraction to many,
a perfect landmark that speaks volumes about migrants;
as a gift from France that took a long voyage to arrive
between two countries there’s friendship and assurance.

The Ellis Island Immigration Museum is just close by,
where photos and experiences of the early immigrants
are showcased and memorialized as treasures of the land
so interesting that makes everyone know how they were.

In all five boroughs from Manhattan to the Bronx, Queens,
Brooklyn, and Staten Island, there’s a look of sheer delight;
great attractions and endless events scheduled for all seasons,
breathtaking sights with Broadway theatres and the brightest -
Times Square that has always been a rendezvous for tourism.

Oh, city of New York! filled with everything that one can claim
a known place in the world with so much to offer to all
like London in England, Madrid in Spain, or Milan in Italy;
all these cities have world-class shopping one can be interested in.

There are great places for dining, culture, tours, and transportation,
subways are convenient for everyone to explore Manhattan
with a number of museums, galleries, and centers for all promotions
like entertainment, history, arts, culture, music and literature.

Delighting audiences of all ages has got the Big Apple has,
it brings you up to date favorite and famous big-screen moments;
artistic and entertaining performances such as musical extravaganzas,
sci-fi fantasies, romances, sweeping epics, concerts and many others.

Trendy boutiques, funky cafes, velvet-roped nightspots and delis
are some places full of culture that one can probably explore;
their stories and history provide us with vistas and attention
Truly, places of glamour, excitement, entertainment, and much more.

Oh, city of New York it’s a great adventure to explore this, so far,
its fascinating neighborhoods with a variety of cultures involved,
a great experience, an enriching reality with multi-ethnic groups;
with legendary history that celebrates and shapes humanity.

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Midst the mulga and the gidyea out beyond the old Paroo 
runs a road which leads to Yowah and a great place it is too. 
Where the populace is smitten by an urge they can’t withstand: 
Its the lust to find the queen of gems, beneath a timeless land. 
With her tantalising beauty and her taunting, twinkling eyes, 
Its the radiance of this desert child her lovers highly prize. 
Suitors come from every walk of life, from countries quite diverse 
and she keeps them courting tirelessly exacting quite a purse. 
And the charm of her charisma casts a spell they can’t escape, 
so they’ve built a little township there amid that red landscape. 
Quite relentless is their quest to toil,  a constant ritual, 
and they love their leisure moments like their Opal Festival. 
Chris and I were asked to join them and present our bush verse show 
through the festival proceedings and replied, “We’d love to go.” 
First we entertained the children at the school there for a spell 
then our host, Gwen Burney, took us for a tour that went down well. 
We were shown the local opal fields and dug for Yowah nuts, 
then we lunched and watched some golfers sink some rather dubious putts. 
But the opal bug had bitten and we sought a licence out, 
for we planned to do some noodling or at least just poke about. 
But the torture of the digging with just handpicks proved too tough 
and we chucked the towel in quickly as we’d simply had enough. 
Down in spirits we decided to search out the mulberry wine 
there at Roy’s, not far from Gwen’s place, which was said to be real fine. 
After scoffing down a sample we were feeling mighty good 
and old Roy was sympathetic to our plight and understood. 
He produced a bar and shovel and a bottle of his brew, 
then we headed back to noodle with our outlook all anew. 

Well we dug and sipped and dug and sipped, oblivious to pain 
and the next two days we carried on and did it all again. 
We were up each morning early and sat cracking all our nuts, 
though our hands were full of blisters and a mass of little cuts.  
We were both now surely smitten and could not resist her will, 
for the bug had surely bitten and we talk about it still. 
Yes, its tantalizing colour and its taunting texture’s fine   
and we’re flamin' well addicted to Roy’s home-made mulberry wine. 

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Willow's Bluff

An eerie little poem for your enjoyment. 

It's fiction but inspired by a little cave I found this weekend on my woodsy walk ;)
(minus the ghostly whispers!  "OooooOOOO!" heheh) Also a bit of a message in this one. 

Willow's Bluff  (Part 1)
    by Amy Swanson   2.9.2009

The other day I found myself
restless and ill at ease, 
so I thought I'd take a walk
forget my cares in spring's warm breeze.

The forest was so beautiful
and trees, once dead, were turning green
I couldn't help but marvel
at life's mysteries I had seen.

I started on the well worn path
and thought I heard a sound;
it made me jump, I turned to look,
but no one was around.

The sunlight streamed so gloriously
upon my tear stained face
my heart felt light, forgotten cares
just being in this place.

And then it happened once again
I know I heard a noise!
I stopped now, to investigate
This hidden, quiet voice.

I wandered off the walker's trail
into the woods much deeper
I chanced upon a darkened cave
... and the cave's gatekeeper.

A mystical sight to behold
unearthly glowing light
it rose a bit up from the ground
then faded from my sight.

I made my way into the cave
mysteriously dark
and there it was... that voice again...
slowly I embarked

My flashlight shining at full force
was still not bright enough
to counter with this deepening dark
I'd found near Willow's Bluff. 

I heard the eerie whispers now
quite clearly, in my ear
first one, then two, now several more
and though my pioneer

spirit got me into this,
I felt that it was time to flee!
I turned and ran the opposite way
the voices though, were still with me!

I thought I knew the way back out
I tripped my way along
my flashlight flickered one last light
... I found that I was wrong...

somehow my turns had led me
down a path I did not know;
I turned to walk the other way -
but there was no place left to go.

*continue to Part 2*

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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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6 a.m

It is time to wake- 
After being bludgeoned by sleep.
A quick brush 
And a quick wash
Off to the bus-stop in a quick rush.

It’s another day 
To work for a pay
Loose soap lather-
Sticking senselessly by the tip of the ear
And white Vaseline still to sink in the hair.

This life is a rush
Get late and get fired
No one cares if you are tired
Or couldn’t spare the time for a notch.

Brown suit,
Black trouser
Loosened zipper
Man! You are a walking sleeper.

We all filed-up
Looking like men heading for the concentration camp,
Yawning helplessly from an unfinished sleep.
This city life,
Is just a life of strife.

We hop on the bus,
So eager to seek solace in its confines.
Heads hanging loosely,
Snoring trumpets at its crescendo.

11 p.m

Free from the day’s toil
But held captive by Lagos traffic.
Sweating and panting from heat,
Squeezed like a crumpled note at the back seat.

Dinner on third-mainland Bridge,
A stick of gala and Asala*
With a bottle of water to quench the hunger.
It’s business time for the street urchins
From Iyana-oworo to the bridge that links Alapere,
They disguise as beggars-
Or hide in the shade of dark like scavengers
Watching out for victims to prey on.

The day weans itself away;
Broken down vehicles,
Long tankers stealing the lanes,
Pedestrians ignoring the bridge,
Hawkers shouting their wares,
Tanker horns blaring like hooting train.
Six to Eleven of our lives
Stolen by the struggle to survive.
Office pressure and less leisure,
Street madness and no cure.
Traffic Thieves,
Problematic Passengers,
Howling Hawkers,
And Lazy-ing LASMA**
All add to this insanity.

* A Yoruba dialect for Walnut 
** LASMA reference to Traffic Officials of Lagos State

© Ayinla Muyideen Adeleke

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Willow's Bluff, part 2

** continued from part 1, please read that one first **

Willow's Bluff  (Part 2)
   by Amy Swanson     2.9.2009

The whispers getting louder now,
my screams rose silently
trying to escape my lips,
my arms now  beating violently!

"Let me go! What do you want!?"
my mind's voice now demanded
of the whispering captors
who somehow held me, stranded.

The pressure of the moment
held me paralyzed with fear.
Oh how I wish I'd stayed away
and never come in here!

Tightening around my chest
and whispers growing still...
my mind was racing frantically,
my body felt a chill.

And then... a human voice... a light...
the sun gentle and warm...
my eyelids fluttered... I awoke,
completely safe from harm.

My husband leaned down close to me
and said "Are you all right?
You took a spill and konked your head,
you gave us all a fright."

Confused, I nodded slowly
and my eyes turned toward the river
the path I'd taken in my dream was there...!
I felt a shiver.

"Yes, yes, of course, I'm doing fine,
don't worry about me.
I'll be right there, you go ahead,
but first, there's something I must see."

I saw the path, still beckoning
it looked as in my dream...
a little further down the way
...the same unsettling theme.

The cave stood eerily in sight,
but I did not venture in.
A million questions to my mind,
this journey from within.

What did it mean? and how
could I explain what I had seen?
I chose to bury it down deep
and call it ... just a dream.

They say that only fools rush in
where angels fear to tread
walking down an unknown path
can lead straight to the dead.

One thing for certain, deep inside
I know this was not fluff -
so if you find an unknown path...
beware of Willow's Bluff.

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My Grievance

I did nothing to you
I did my job
I worked hard
You didn’t help me
You had me 
At work until 7pm
Nightly for the first
As time rolled on
I started getting better
And you kept pouring
Showers of stormy weather
Giving me letters 
Stating false information
Doing everything
You can to wreck 
Tried to fail me
In observations
Boy did you
Dish a lot on my plate
I could never
Believe that one
Could relay
So much hate
Maybe I made
A mistake 
In wanting to succeed
The whole time
I stayed on my knees
You will be charged
For malfeasance
This is only
A fraction
Of my grievance.

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Mineral Baths - Saratoga Springs NY

Mineral Baths Saratoga Springs NY

She covers her private 
parts at the bath house. 
Mineral water fills a tub, 
centuries old. 
She feels cold until 
an old Women hands 
her heated sheets... 
now, her skin covered. 
Brought her clips to lift 
her auburn hair. 
The sheets cooled as the 
tub, now filled. 

A stray cat 
peers into the window... 
purrs, kissing glass. 
The old Women 
removes the sheet, takes  
the hand of a young lady 
as she carefully 
steps into aged porcelain. 
Tiny bubbles 
surround her skin. 

A soft pillow for her head... 
Now, relax. . . she tells herself,
dreaming of the 
cat kissing glass. . . 
alone, at last.

Nancy Duci Denofio

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My Birthday Wish

I sit on the floor and wait from dusk to dawn, for a new day will soon be reborn. I count all 
the blooming flowers, and count down the long hours, while mum takes her shower. 
Today's the day, for it's my birthday. I hope I get A car, or A guitar or maybe even become 
A movie star, but that's asking A bit too much of me. I walk around singing out A loud, 
acting proud feeling as if my heads in A cloud. To my surprise I start stumbling over my 
words and begin mumbling. Maybe mum just forgot about me, or are they just hiding the 
presents from me? I walk through the hall, with my head dragging looking at the floor, 
and go to bed with my heart feeling torn. It's getting late and I can no longer wait. I turn 
off my light, and close my eyes and cry having so much things go through my mind. I 
drift to sleep but then I see, mum walking in my room in the middle of the night with A 
light. It's so bright. She raises my heart like A kite, taking of it flight and she says, good 
night, and turns of the lights. She raised my hopes high and then shot them out of the 
sky. I break down and cry, it feels as if I've just died. No one remembered why today was 
A special day for it was my birthday. I look at the sky and wonder why? I light my candle 
and close my eyes, tears dripping down onto my thighs, and I start to whisper in my 
mind. "I don't want A car, or even A guitar. I don't even want to become A movie star. I 
just want to be free of this disease called poverty, I just want people to stop running away 
from me. Free me of aids so I can stop feeling afraid. Stop me from being poor, so I can 
afford to stop sleeping on the floor. Make me smile for there is no reason to smile, but 
please make my life worth while. Take me away from Africa, for all I see is people being 
raped and all the kids hearts filled with hate, I'm loosing my faith for I am living each day 
even though there is nothing to live for". A Tear drops on my candle, And puts out the 
flame I whisper in pain,This is "My Birthday Wish"
We wish for luxuries that only money can afford. They wish for water for they are poor. 
People need to learn to smile, for kids living in poverty have A legitimate reason not too. 
Be happy for what we have, and never complain for what we don't have.
- Wiko Te Maru

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We used to rent a very old house
for our summer vacations, it was built
in the early fifteen hundred by criminals
who roamed the Atlantic Ocean for gold and diamonds:
roof, windows and doors reminded us
of a dark house that pirates frequented
in the could imagine 
how many treasure chests were there with one 
of them watching over them most of the day;
and had he gotten drunk, they'd have dumped him
into the Ocean! Those pirates were merciless:
life meant nothing to them as they pillaged and killed.
There was no air conditioner,
and we left the windows open,
so we could sleep comfortingly, but here and there
weird sounds were heard turning into a human voice,
" Child, wake up and come with me...
I'll tell you a pirate's story you haven't read yet,
the one that actually happened when I was your age."
His red face had marks that only swords could have carved;
his pointy nose as dirty as a kid playing with mud,
his teeth rotten and yellow with a horrible stench.
" No! " I screamed, but my scream no one could hear
as he pulled me off my bed and dragged me outside.
" Why are you afraid of me, child? I mean no harm!"
And as he said those words, I looked back and worried
about my family inside that unlit, haunted house...
with a subdued sob, I agreed to go with him and hear
the story he couldn't tell anyone, thinking he was mad.

Written by Andrew Crisci
for Gail Doyle's contest,
" Stranded Or A Ghost Story Of Your Choice
Any Horror Movie "

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A Special Place

Running memories
of a place in which
one walks and talks
in hushed tones.
Still, subdued, restrained
within a spirited energy
moving down rows of mystical bindings.

smelling musty on a rainy winter day,
passed through portals
where grandiose granite
lions guard the way.

Grandmother took me the first time.
I sat, at four, in a lemon yellow chair
as my feet touched the floor
(that had never happened before!).
Given a card on which the letters of my name
would be a magic wand,
I carried home treasures.

The Libraria.
A sanctuary grew as I knew
the joy of an explorer
within tales of other times,
other wordy worldly places,
as from meticulously managed shelves,
a perfectionist in me was bred.

The Library
evokes change in all.
With grown-up pretense left behind,
curious inner child faces abound -
eyes wide, heads cocked to and fro,
knees bend down, or arms stretch high
in search of knowledge, dreams, drama, escape.
The child in me will always find
spiritual wonder in this,
a special place.

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A big hurray for the Yankees
for their stunning victory,
and a parade of confetti
to celebrate their twenty-seventh win
in the World Series on 
November sixth in New York City.
Fans tossing shredded paper they saved in their offices
for that unexpected event, revel in their triumph, cheering up
their heroes whose faces glow with glory from Battery Park
to City Hall as they ride down, " The Canyon of Heroes"... 
and all the streets seem a scenery of snow as Bloomberg
honors them with his poignant, thought-provoking wit!
The cheerleaders dance and the band wearing
their famous, colorful Scottish skirts,
don't mind the nippy weather...
what a joy to pay their tribute playing
their happy, memorable tune for 
a great team who fought against the odds. 
The crowds can't get enough
of their charisma and these rejoicing players
accept this honor with smiles...
and they know that there are
many more to come in the near future,
so let's cheer and hail our handsome champs.
A parade of confetti tossed down by fans
weeks before Thanksgiving Day,
when the jubilant, vibrant city forgets
all the worries to indulge in a carefree day,
revving up its passionate spirit and be jolly all morning...
a celebration indeed for every fan engaged in fervent hailing.

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Cirque de Halloween

"In this town, everyone's waiting for the next sunrise."

Gather round children of every age, wouldn't you like to see something strange?
Come with me and you will see.
Let us set the stage, for this is Halloween.

Whispers hum in the wind. (I am the clown with the tear-away face)
HALLOWEEN! HALLOWEEN! the crowd chants.
Master scares and creeps.

This, our circus on Halloween.
Don't be late now, for after the show, everyone's waiting for the next sunrise.
This is Halloween.

"Life's no fun without a good scare" we sing.
 "I am the wind blowing through your hair; I am the hoo? when you call "who's 

I am the one hiding under the bed, teeth grown sharp and eyes gone red." my friend 
sings as the rest of the group sings the pumpkin song. 

"La, la, la la la, la. Life's no fun without a good scare! La, la, la la la, la. THIS IS 

As the song ends, it is replaced by the eerie tinkling of a music box; slow and scary.

But, hey. That's what we're here for; the scares.

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The murky rolling waves subject
to the whims of the February's wind, 
far above the secluded lighthouse;
the roaming aircrafts vanish through thick clouds,
leaving behind a trail of hazardous vapors...
but the geese and seagulls can't continue their existence!  

And still the sea offers them its promise,
a distant shore untouched by man...
by his greedy ways and incompassion,
causing the extinction of many species;
my reflection is based on fact :
we can't survive without them!

The stylish wild birds engage,
as if striken by a sudden rage,
in their frantic, daily dance over the marina,
as I listen the melancholic lyrics of  " Nessun Dorma "...  
the exquisite area of Puccini,
which comes alive through the extraordinary voice of Bocelli!
 At four the fog thickens and shrouds the shoreline,
the brass lampposts light up with reluctance...
to shy away the presence of any ghost; 
I, in transitive joy, hide my treasure beneath the tides,
hoping someone will find it  and remember my work... 
long after my thoughts will be no longer alive! 

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'The multi-hued beauty'

Situated on the Southern tip of Africa Where two oceans meet, lies my country of birth A rainbow nation is what we are called With eleven official languages and many diverse cultures it is not difficult to grasp why... Skeptics said we would never make it, against all odds we did, Apartheid part of our history a history we will never forget, A history, we certainly should never disregard. The budding King Protea, The Blue Crane takes to flight and the Springbok that leap over meadows just a few of South Africa’s jewels...

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Trumpets sounded loudly towards dusk
as they did in ancient times,
to warn all warriors of an imminent battle,
there I saw throngs of angels
with glorious Jesus in their mist....
a thick book was opened by Gabriel;
below, Satan was waiting for the condemned souls.
A huge crowd looked up gleefully
and was raptured as He called out their names,
I waited and waited, but there's was
no mention of mine through those pages;
could have Jesus, so perfect and just,
have overlooked, or forgotten to call it... 
I wasn't wasn't called!
I looked inside to scrutinize my non-so-spotless conscience,
and guilts of past deeds surfaced instantly
as the remains of a ship-wreck floating on a turbulent sea;
and to realize this tragedy, it took plenty of tears!
I wept and no one heard me, but Lucifer was hysterical and joyful
to have won and ready to torment me in Hell.
Oh, no...did Dante describe it well, if he had never seen it?
Horror, fright, despair, darkness and crackliing flames
were the awful feelings and eerie images of that vision too ambiguous.
I fell on my shivering knees and cried out:
" Lord didn't you promise from the cross,
 "You will be with me in Paradise, today?"
"If you forgave the Good Thief, why can't you forgive me?"
There's was no reply from the Savior whose blood
had the power to cleanse all inequities with His sacrifice...
I called out again with a frightened, louder voice,
"Lord, my Redeemer, have you searched for the other stranded sheep
which can't find his way back; is he stuck in a shrub with thorns?"
I looked around and all the raptured people followed Jesus,
leaving me behind as Lucifer laughed and danced down below,
but a terrible thought came to me, " Was I going to be his next victim, 
and allow my flesh to eternally burn in that abyss called Inferno?"
The first shadows dimmed the orange-colored sky,
I started to yawn and suddenly I fell asleep. When I woke up,
I saw Christ, the Redeemer and King, leaning over me softly saying,
" I haven't forgotten about you, Andrew...I wanted you to feel
the disappointment of not being raptured and saved;
even an imperfect person like you can enter my kingdom, if his heart repents.
My sacrifice is enough to wash your past and present sins with my shed blood."
My awe and disbelief surpassed the realm of my reality...
yes, indeed I had another chance for redemption and salvation! 


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...this is so intimate of time, as a first kiss of time close of soul, so near, so dear of heart beat, so precious a rhyme that flows so intimately,
deep of time, down by the Crystal Seas...
...this is so intimate of dreams,
dreaming reality,
as the Crystal Sea so reveals of destinies galore,
destined as the night light of the moon-glows of starry eyes,
upon the waters,
...seeing tranquility upon the waves...
watching to the depth of a dream,
and a sun-rise
being so true...
for underneath and within this a moon-lit poem of starry night eyes, down by the Crystal Seas, a vessel sets sail upon the deep...into a kiss of dawn...
Sea to shinning Sea.

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I do my best but
It's still not good 
enough for them.
They compare me to 
something Im not nor
Will ever be.
They may be adults,
but they shall not
be better than me.
They yell and scream
and I flee.
This presure they put 
on me hurts.
It's a burden 
of pain.
I want to leave, 
I want to flee.
To a place where peace
is always near,
And love is never
To far off.
With womenm, children,
And men laughing.
Where love is home
and home is soul,
And soul shall be home.

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NATURE’S WAY Once there was a wealthy town Up north near the China sea In a hill and forested area However, the inhabitants were divided tribes They have a very bad and distinct attitudes and habits The natives were hypocrites Crab mentalities Each one aspire or pretend to be the wealthiest That nobody wouldn’t want their neighbors unsurpassable In terms of their jewelries and material possessions. One day, the skies became dark It heavy rained, lightning and thunderstorms for a week There was a couple asking for shelter was never accommodated Until suddenly a big bang was heard And in the early morning That town vanished, and a lake appeared From the deep, deep bottom You can surmised the church is within And the live fishes wore their gills with earrings And at one side of the lake we can find Three old trunks submerged upside down A manifestation that a town was submerged Like a boat was capsized. Thus, it is nature’s way of wrath To punish the excesses of the inhabitants.
Dalila G Agtani Entered in a contest sponsored by: Francine Roberts Contest Name : Nature Tale Written on 10/2/11

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Island Escape

It’s hot. Twenty eight degrees.The bronze tanning oil drips ever so slowly
aside my nose. I adjust my position on the sand and wipe my eye. 
I sigh and catch my breath on the heat. 
Eye stinging and I determine the oil’s flow and lie on my back. 
I hold Last Tango above my head to block the sun. It protects my eyes 
and I read on. Anthony pushes on in the book. He cycles the Seven Hills of Rome.
Boy it’s hot for him too.

Reflecting upon his loves his life and fame he rides then stops at a sleepy village
restaurant.I reflect the same but not on the fame but on my loves and my life 
a priest and a wife. Here I lie with naked forms all around and I cannot feel
the same way about it as I use to.Beautiful women strut up and down the beach
yet we all seven friends here lie nonchalantly reading or swimming.We play football
and sun bathe.This Spanish Isle does let you forget. It’s doing it now!

I feel the sand between each toe and I forget. I still do not believe the constant clear 
blue sky. My divorce now is disbelief. I can get through it by the energy here. 
Oh this heat drips.You sip a chilled white wine in your restaurant. 
I can taste it now Anthony as I read your tale. As you reflect in your biography my 
mind drifts to my daughters and the one-sidedness of the story they were told. How dare she. May be one day they may ask me what’s your side of it father. Or never.

Wow, a naturally carved swimming pool of walled volcanic rock at Ocean’s edge. 
A pleasure to swim to dive and to float away those painful memories and to 
step ashore cleansed. Thank you to relations who now care so much and 
friends who give me company and help me through. I step ashore upon the hot sand.
This tanning oil needs replacing and I am well aware that life is
speeding away from me. I must look the best I can for the duration and 
oil up for a new life full of possibilities. If I could only sip that cool white wine of yours.

And Anthony: He cycles away from the wining and dining to go home to his 
new wife. Open your box from twenty years before and see what your old wife
has sent you. As for mine: In twenty years’ time she will send me no mementos. 
It is not in her nature. No sense history or appreciation ever evident. 
No free spirit there. In twenty years’ I will say Thank You Island. Thank you 
Anthony and all for helping me through and I promise I will return to you again in 
twenty years’ time. You can be my box. 

True reflection ( Jan 2012 ) Ian Foley.

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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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Sonnetina Sequence-THE RIPE ORCHARDS

September has come
and the ripe orchards
abundantly display their delicious fruits:
peaches of delicate rose,
and cherries of deep red!
Teens, with their empty baskets, 
anxiously run to pull them 
off the drooping branches;
and one of them yells,
" I have gotten the first one! " 

What a gleeful celebration for youngsters 
about to return to loved-and-hated school
with their band-new and heavy backpacks;
and they will write about these harvest's moments,
and wait with exciting eyes how their writings
will be scored by their teacher, and if someone 
should cheat, points will be taken kids,
squash your curiosity and kindly behave!
All of them did their best in writing poems without rhyme,   
poems of a harvest with an aroma so fine!

The hot afternoon reddens the faces
of all the experienced fruit-pickers,
and these struggling young ones
can't speed up to their pace!
" Hurry, Jack...let Susan help
you with your over-loaded basket...
everyone has finished picking and gone! "
What a humorous remark that
even makes the sullen and tired sun 
smile...when his duty is coming to a sudden end!

Happily they trot out of the orchards, singing nursery' rhymes,
sustaining the heaviest load they have ever felt ,
not to let their baskets drop and give the watchful squirrels 
a chance to snatch some of the tempting fruits away!
And as they look up, dusk makes its appearance to scare them away!
And as if they were chased by unleashed dogs,
some fall, some run for their useless drama started by fancy!
Much fun they had, but unhappy about the bruises on their knees,
at least, they had one consolation: all the peaches and cherries they could eat!
And they laughed at each other, no one could ever forget about their fright!

Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci

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They dug a pit in the clay
To mark the Millienium day,
Creating five large biomes
To house earth's plants in global homes
A new Eden,living in glass domes.

Tribute to the unique Eden Project,Cornwall,England

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Sitting in a room
Filled with darkness and gloom
Only I wish
To leave here soon

Yet locked are the doors
The sound touches the ear
A sound of devilish laughter, and terrifying roars
Is all i can hear
Where am I?
Where have I gone?

Is this place where
I truly belong?

Not sure of the path
My soul has chosen
Hazy and unclear
My thoughts seem frozen

Everything seems
Like one large test
Despratly i need
A good nights rest

Yet the sound of evil
Is knocking on the door
Can they do anything
Possibly more?

I'm at a crossroad
with two seperate paths 
Yet which shall bring
a reason to live once at last
Judged by everyone
Criticized by all

Still i am standing

Still walking tall

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I'm driving down Eighteent' Avenoo in Bensonhoist,
I am having a wallear for a hero; I jeet
nothin' yet, and metballs sound great
but I don't wanna wait on line...
like deeze nice kids from North Carolina!
I tried to jump the line, but duh big guy...
a mean-looking man yells,
" Get back on line, weisnheimer... I don't like doze
kinda of guys...yuh're just another customer! " 
I am so hungry I could jeet a big cow,
an' wanna give him a piece of my silly mind!
"Oh my god...he makes me mad!"
" Yuh got a lotta nerve, buddy! " I yell back...
" Don't yuh mess with a goomba! " 
" Oh, my god...I sound like doze guys from Duh Sopranos... 
I wanna no drama, just my meatballs hero and go! "  
Duh tall, chubby man stares at me an' says," Listen to me,  
don't yuh tawk to me like dat! "...
" Yuh think...yuh're so special!" I axeya
in a nice way, so go back to the' wait like dey do!...
" Do yuh understand? "..." Someone tell me...whatta I'm gonna 
do with an idiot like dat? "
" Yuh still laugh at me like I am tellin' yuh a whacky joke! " 
He freezes my words...I can't tawk;
and with a huge hero in my hand, I run back to my scash!


I'm driving down Eighteenth Avenue in Bensonhurst,
I am having a craving for a sandwich;
I haven't eaten anything yet, and meatballs look great,
but I don't want to wait in line...
like these nice kids from North Carolina!
I try to jump the line, but the big guy,
a mean-looking man looks at me and shouts,
" Get back in line, wise guy...I don't like those kind of guys!"
" You are just another customer!"
I'm so hungry I could eat a big cow,
and I want to give him a piece of my crazy mind,
but the tall, chubby man stares at me and says, 
"Listen to me, don't you talk to me like that!"
"You think you are so special! I asked you in a nice way,
so go back in line... and wait like they do!"...
"Do you understand?..."Someone tell me...what I am going to do
with an idiot like that?..."You still laugh at me like I'm telling you a crazy joke!"
He freezes my words...I can't talk;
and with a huge sanwich in my hand,
I quickly run back to my old-beat-up car!

 Entered in Debarah's Guzzi contest, " Dialects make the world go around "

Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci

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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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Have you had or seen teenagers,
who abused drugs like marijuana
and became truant and unruly?
That same teens could be 
exposed to temptation again,
if they worked in a hospital,
where the supply of medical
marijuana is kept in glass cabinets.
And we think that modern vampires
are fiction as Drucula's legend seems;
there are indeed doctors and nurses
who will steal blood to satisfy their urge,
and if I have revealed this...
do you think that I am crazy?
If the FDA approved it,
what would the consquences be?
It will certainly diminish the acute pain in patients,
or make everyone around them get high?
Our streets are swarmed with pot heads,
who are hit daily by cars, because of unclear thinking;
and those who drive cause many fatal accidents...
others die of an overdose in filthy corners,
their lifeless bodies are spotted in small towns and big cities.
Is it a good idea to make it legal,
or will it endanger everyone in public places?

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I wandered around for years
in odds and ends
not knowing what to do with myself
unchartered territory just waiting for me
to discover
undecided in which way to go
open road to freedom
impulsive escape driven 
by extremes in nature
erratic in behavior
in the spur of the moment running away
from the mundane routine of existence.

A change of pace from everyday rat race
always in a hurry to get ahead
on the highway of life
searching for a new scenic route
through small towns and quaint little shops
worth exploring along side streets
with windows rolled down
music blasting out loud
enjoying the view of the countryside
a smile on my face feeling free
from the city lights of shades drawn in boredom.

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first PART of DRUG warning FOR your KIDS

I am a differeent incarnation of  a poet who garnered a lot of praise for writing a poem on a 
subject matter a lot people thought of  consequence, as do I.  So  if you took my advice and 
showed my other poem to your children, cool, and now let them read about how to do what 
brought six of my friends down in eight years…..I’m telling you dudes the s**t is deadly… 
Little Johnnie or Tommy:


Those are the breaks
For making mistakes
That’s how it goes
When weeds slay a rose

Look you all
because I’ve got something you probably don’t care to hear
But I have vehement verbiage I want to voice
I want to tell you people that I’ve been places that scare even Satan
Imagine that, 
The father of fear
Making hs own fear clear
I’ve used items you all think are totally benign
A baby’s pacifier, an eye dropper, a medical needle , and a thin strip of paper from money
If anyone had any dollar bills left
 …………because the end of the eyedropper is a bit too thin to hold the needle without what we 
called a “collar” 
It was more like a noose
That which we called a “collar” made to bring us relief

Oh, and this I never knew back then, 
but a lot of shirts come with cotton on the back of a button.
So if we didn’t have cotton to filter out the particles that may clog your needle we’d use the 
back of a button, a cigarette filter or invent something with junkie ingenuity.
And then you need a hairpin and a bottle top from a soda
And you use the hairpin as a handle for the little frying pan you cook the dope up in
I’ve seen people shooting dope in  bodily areas you may not believe
Because either he or she had no viable veins they could find
So they shoot it in incredible places such as under their eyeball
Between their toes 
All in an effort to make certain nobody knows
The genital area is excellent but mostly for a dude
Chicks don’t have as many places, and much thinner veins

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Upon a donkey he rode,
Into a city he carried his load,
Palms were scattered upon the ground
Loud voices praising,all around-
Hosanna,Hosanna,was the sound

Full story @ Mt 21:1-11

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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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Invisible Music

My ears are ringing, singing
to the tune of invisible music
as I fall into bed after a
short, scalding shower after a
long, exhausting night of dancing at the clubs
after I left the game with that beautiful,
beautiful young black-haired lady after
I spirited her away from her friends in an old sedan
after I called to see if it was okay after
I spent an agonizing hour eating in silence in a
restaurant with my friends who all had dates
after she called to say she couldn’t come,
her little sister needed her, her friends were coming over,
after I thought we’d set our plans into stone
after we spent hours on the phone talking the night away
after I had asked her to Homecoming,
after I had first laid eyes on her,
after I had changed my schedule from Film
Studies to Creative Writing
on a whim.

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Same Time, Same Place...

Same time
Same place
Different color
Of the face

Same K-12 system
Same university
Different college
Who gained 
More knowledge?
Who excelled?
Who got more hell?

Same job
Same school
Same students
Same certification
Different degrees

Who stayed 
On their knees?
Both of us
Yes, indeed.
Who achieved
Well let’s see!

Same time
Same place
Different color
Of the face
I made it 
By God’s grace
You are 
A Satanic disgrace.

You are the
Face of hateful
I settle for
None of your
Fallacious foolishness
And malicious mediocrity.

Same hometown
I keep it real
You a damn clown
God’s giving you 
A furious frown

A lazy witch
Probably born rich
Living in the sticks
Killing nature’s beauty
Just to get away
From people like me
An earth killer
Fake teacher
And destiny stealer
A true thriller
Makin fake scrilla

I worked hard
While you pressed bricks
Storing awful ATP
To make sure
You got the best of me
And people from my 

My adenosine triphosphate (ATP)
From glycolysis in my body
After Krebs cycle
Gives off love
While yours come
From hate
We’ve had the same bodily
Processes similar chemical makeup
I just have more melanin
You act the way you act 
Because of your grandfather’s mistakes

 I hate to see your fate 
If you don’t change
You are devilish
And deranged
I know your game
Your name
We’re from the same turf
You and I 
Are carbon based products
One tries hard daily to be just
So that when the minister
Says ashes to ashes
And dust to dust
That I get the reward
I deserve
You got my reward
I still work hard
Detests the enemy

It ain’t fair 
That we walked in the same place
Respect you received
And hate slapped me in the face
Walking around with on your face
Did a dissertation on me
If I looked like you 
With my knowledge 
At 23 I would have had
Ten PhD’s.

Girl please you got the nasty woman disease
Get on your knees for the right reas’
Pray to us Jes’
Save me from being a real bigot
And sometimes on the sly
Help me to love you
And all your creatures
And accept diversity

You need help with that dirty blond hair
Pony tails sticking in the air
Depicting your true savior 
Not mine that will catch the one’s
That are still alive and in Him 
Up in the midair.

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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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tension in the muscles
where the strain takes place
places where the sweat
where the sweat accumulates 
deep breathing
heavy lifting
escaping only in ones mind
making my way carefully
far from this space

Details | Narrative | |


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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Rockfield Road

 Rockfield Road
A blend of northern grasses fields 
a forest of homestead trees; the saplings, 
long overcome by maturity, bear witness
to the prayer of Native sons; to give back 
what you take from Mother Earth.

In the midst of this green-crowned bark, 
a sacrificial altar of oak remains; 
its once tall spine gives strength
to the walls that house my children. 
a beauty lost to hearth from need.

One over-populated crab apple, 
draws deer at dusk and dawn. 
Thank God for a pre-set Mr Coffee, 
and a strangulated teapot 
for morning routines, 
worked in first light,cease, 
as the four-legged creatures near. 
I smile, as the collective intake 
of breath is held and released
without accompanying speech.

Breaking the moment to be on time
for artificial satisfaction, 
is not the legacy I choose 
to leave my children. 


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Voices Rose Beyond the Sea

A song she carries in black locks,
Her treasure brings their ship to dock.
Transparent to the deafened mute,
To eloquent a note to loot.
Set to mesmerize the men,
Fixed upon this maiden gem.
So caught up in her melody,
Forgot a cast beyond the sea.

A drink to her!
Another round!
To satisfy,
A lustful hound.
So beautiful,
A girl so fair;
Like mermaids,
In a water’s lair.

Tonight they’ll empty Davy’s fears,
And bask in heaven’s light and tears.
To smell the lavender and blooms,
A rare treasure sure to lift the gloom.
To drink and sing their past regrets,
tomorrow’s day brings toil and sweat.
For death awaits in lines and sails,
Their true mistress - the sea-bound trails.

Another drink!
And fare thee well…
A tale of wonder,
Sure to tell.
About this night,
Her song will swell -
Above the open sky,
And dwell.

They sailed from Nova Scotia‘s Pier.
The jealous ocean soon brought fear,
As waves as tall as mighty oaks;
Did crash into their fishing boats.
The mast did crack and slam her deck,
The men all struggled soaking wet.
Then voices rose “Farewell to thee,
Our maiden…” then sunk into the sea.

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Speaking from the podium, to thank 
all for my Poet Laureate Award;
overwhelmingly glad to receive it
from the hands of a famous critic...
I discern how the audience loves my lyric!

I have never spoken so openly
about the idealism and realism of my poetry;
and they are listening, focused on my lines
recited softly to them with emotions and tears,
and their positive response is my reward. 

Applaud me for creating new rhymes and rhythms,
poetic words inspired by the wilderness of frontiers,
by the truthful insights I expressed with my momentum;
unlikely other poets, who are perpetuate in memoriam,
and lie into tombstones never having been given honor.     

Entered in Brian Strand's Poet Laureate contest

Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci

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It  was not an endearing place, a storybook place
With little cottages and
Loaded fruit trees from which apples could be casually filched, 
Nor were there  sparkling streams for pushing hot feet into in July, 
Or even grassy parks where the dog and the kids could romp 
And old men sit and smoke pipes.
My childhood England was industrial, dark  and dirty, 
And instead of the skirl of bagpipes or the weeping of a fiddle, 
There were the round-the-clock sirens and   
Whistle-changes of factory shifts 
And the clash of steel loads being trucked to the docks.

It threatened to suffocate me,
To imprison my mind between slabs of coal and pints of brown ale,
And when I walked the streets in search of meaning I found nothing
Except a weekly cycle of  movies showing how real people lived.

I emerged from  it and never returned  -
And quickly forgot its worthless heritage of coal-dust,   and
Found real places and lived a real life far beyond the horizons 
Drawn by the schools of Gateshead.
Now, however, in the silent moments of creeping age and grown children,
The steep streets pitching down to the teeth of the Tyne
Gnaw into my fattened mind and reach to the bones of my brain
Where the smell of coaldust still lingers -
And always will.
And I feel again the empty  places,  the dark places, the places calling 
My name in a strange dialect I have long abandoned.

Somehow   they seem less  cold and uninviting:
Their song is not off-key;
And the  horizons drawn by my own hand 
Seem to merge together in that blackened townscape.

God forbid I should ever end up there for good;
But I hear its siren song  and cannot shake its 
Foundation stones free of my structured life.

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


Gateshead is an industrial city in northern England.... imagine  Akron, Youngstown, Toledo, Essen, Chemnitz, or similar towns, and it will give an idea of Gateshead.

River Tyne is the river on which Gateshead stands, now a pleasant waterway , then  more like an open sewer.

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A Glimpse Of Heaven!

I was whisked away to Heaven;
It truly must have been a dream!
How else could I be writing this,
And telling you what I had seen?

The streets are transparent gold,
I can't believe my eyes!
It's as though I am floating,
In the heavenly skies!

The multi colored city walls,
Are made of precious stone.
And everywhere you walk to,
You are never there alone!

Everywhere you look to see,
Are God's people big and small.
Most amazing to me is that,
I knew the names of them all!

Overflowing with great joy,
Were those with whom I spoke.
No one was in pain or crippled,
Nor even a heart that was broke!

It wasn't lit by sun or moon,
But by God's glorious light!
I have never before seen,
Such a beautiful sight!

Then in the light's midst,
A humbling figure I did gaze!
Jesus my Lord and King,
Falling to my knees I offered Him praise!

I was overwhelmed as,
Jesus took hold of my hand!
Welcome home He said to me,
And then He lifted me so I could stand!

He gave me a hug,
And we began to walk.
I listened intently,
As Jesus did talk!

We came to a stop,
And I looked at His face.
I said "Thank you for the cross,
And taking my place!"

"Thank you for sacrificing,
Your blood and life for me.
So I can stay here,
With you for all eternity!"

Inspired by God
Neal A. Carl

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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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It jinggles
In our pockets
Feeds the hungry
Heals the sick
Asked for
From the poor


Is a 
Passing thought
Thought put to action
But when you
Act it on me
I'm not going
To be a pawn
In your Games
Games of greed


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Untitled #203 / Logan

Logan’s such a beast
he mowed over me at least half a dozen times
when we played tackle football by the tracks today
“If you’re such a beast, run over there and stop that train!”

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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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The Old One

I was passing by a college that was building brand new dorms
Improving the quality of life above the current norms
I stood a while and watched, the construction nearly done
A magnificent sight but I kind of liked the old one
The old dorm stood behind it with plaster on its walls
And she held a special feeling for the kids who walked her halls
I asked if I could take a walk through, why, I didn’t know
I could swear I heard the voices of the students long ago
They had walked these halls sharing their laughter and their tears
And lives were touched within these walls through the passing years
Maybe I was foolish, but before I stepped outside
I sat on one of those old beds dropped my head and cried
When I sent my kids to college, I said work hard and have some fun
And if you get to choose your dorm, then choose the old one. 

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In Moses' Footsteps

And God led Moses to Mount Nebo
for his lush, new domain to survey,
in the riches of the Promised Land
among valleys of trees and olives.

Where birds in the sky soared free
and wild beasts roamed the land
along the dales and rolling plains,
Moses by his God was blessed.     

There he lived in that quiet place
wider than mortal eyes could see,
right in God's bountiful vineyard
till the day death took him away.

Yahweh was kind to Moses.

Eons have passed since that time
and here this pilgrim now stands   
where Moses once stood in awe
to view what God to him bestowed.

But what do I see?

Barren earth of rocks and boulders,
parched, lifeless, ugly to the eyes;
craggy peaks and harsh wasteland,
uninhabitable ravines and canyons.

Yonder out to the north the Golan,
once Syrian, now by the Jews own,
just like the serene lake of Tiberias:
grabbed, annexed and conquered.

In the western haze is a mighty river
whose waters once swiftly flowed,
blocked by a concrete Israeli dam
away from Jordan where it belongs. 

Far west is the ancient city of Jericho
where the Lord warded off the devil,
no more than a strip of old Palestine,
fenced in the West Bank, entrapped.

Lucky Moses and the chosen people
for by God from their bondage freed!
cry, Palestine, cry,  a homeland lost,
long overdue your awaited messiah!

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Prone,lying side by side
Lapped by an ebbing tide,
Together upon passion's ride-
In love's embrace enlocked
This watershed,no longer shocks.

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Most of us are too quick to judge
not knowing anything about a person,
and distrust is the outcome of ignorance
capable of setting us apart  from civilization;
first gather the facts, not useless rage,
and the belief that anyone can change
draws ourselves to a truth so unknown...

Hear all the words they speak, use intuition;
do they convince you to continue listening,
or throw you off with idignation?
If that voice sounds too unconvincing,
and can't confirm the answers you're expecting,
come up with questions that are pungent:
transforming those ideas with a thought,
and always believe that anyone can change...

Empires have risen, giving the obsolute power
to fearless men who were made into legends;
some were deserving, but most were tyrants of unclemency,
and did shameful and cruel deeds:
torturing or killing anybody who used to dare;
are we learning something from History?

When Attila the Hun rampaged Italy,
Leo the Great...the courageous Pope,
persuaded the savage king 
not to sack the city of Rome; 
and he also believed anyone could change: 
that any heart, with all its brutality and rage,
could replace its rampant fury and grim
with human compassion and mercy...

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Stalkers select an object to desire,
Then they plot and conspire to
take control of their victims' lives, by
following them, sometimes dressed
in disguise, cleverly trying to infiltrate
their private matters by turning into
insane, mad hatters,
Lurking, watching, waiting and if zany,
attacking, because their pre-conceived notions
have taken on their own life,
Their fantasies begin to play on their minds,
and in an unguarded moment their stalking
becomes a reality...........

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Night club lights dimming low
The pianist  taking his bow
Play it again....Sam -
Across the smoke-filled room
A haunting ,tinkling tune.

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Some mental notes about the poor

Every time I pass by Flushing, Bedford, or Lee Street in Brooklyn
I see Jewish people in complete uniform; most of them in black color,
their faith and loyalty to the Book of Torah makes me reflect
about my own relationship with God, along with my own people.

It’s become a reminder for me as I connect my own journey
to the mysteries of being called to serve and witness to faith;
certain things to develop and deepen along with inner longings
fidelity stressed by the Gospel marks the sign of being one of them.

Discipleship is truly costly as one invests his whole life in it,
there’s a radical shift of lifestyle that follows like a measure -
gauging that genuineness in dialogue with life and other cultures;
needed as a fundamental criterion to carry on God’s mission.

It’s in this way that some highlights of my faith enable me
to see beyond the texts of the Holy Scriptures, images of truth
that convey love relationships with people particularly the poor.

Being open to welcome some wounds and other afflictions
in today’s world where everyone competes with other factors
amid strong forces of secularism and cultural impositions
on life’s situations where the Lord’s teaching dwells.

Although God doesn’t give us all what we really want,
but he provides us with certain things we really need;
it’s a familiar wisdom, a continuing hope as Christians
that his great love for us is often reiterated in many ways.

A priority to “be mindful of the poor”  and have love for them,
an attitude with an evolving deal of surrender to God’s will
no matter how rough the roads will be in reaching out to them
reference to the poor connotes a constant clarion call for all.

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'Twas on a sunny day in May
Along the banks of Fundy Bay
When I met… my dearest Anthony

From a distance…I could see
His rugged frame…and symmetry
And the glint of Irish eyes…of bluish green

With manly strides… he lingered there
Along a path of grasses… where
The sun reflected on… his golden hair

And with a glance… he stole my breath
I could not still… my heaving breast
With every step he took… I nearly died
Overcome with… such profound emotions… that I could not hide
'Twas in that magic moment… that we fell in love
Blessed by heaven… and the angels up above
And with their keeping…we were married… in the month of June 
Underneath a pale misty silken silver moon
We built a house… upon a hill…that overlooked the harbour
With a winding path… to the door… that walked… between the arbour
And there… among the sea salt roses… and the ocean breeze
We lived and loved and raised our family

The years went quickly sailing by
Sometimes we laughed…sometimes we cried
But through it all…we never left…each others side
For…we had that kind of special love… that never dies

A love…that asks the reason why
I stand upon our path and cry
As I look out to the ocean...where you lie
So overcome… with such profound emotion… wishing I could die

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vignette-THE BIG MATCH

Interval over,the shamrocks,had their say
Two tries blew the reds away-
Fear of winning led to mistakes
Until O'Gara's drop goal
Lifted every Irish soul

Memo: Ireland won the Rugby Grand slam yesterday 21st for the first time since 1948

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Poverty through the eyes of a missionary

I was head over heels in love with certain mementos I keep,
they’re like my precious treasures unknown to everyone;
a place where I used to keep them were hidden in my room,
a kind of sanctuary, a private locus sealed with continuity.

I had those stamps collected from different countries and places,
post cards, books, key holders, rosary beads, stampitas, and photos;
they reminded me of my visits to these places where I’d been to,
living memories, collection of souvenirs with values deep within.

Significant places like my home country where my faith began to grow,
along with a diversity of cultures that truly honed and enriched me,
meeting those peoples and experiencing their individual differences,
made me a real person; vulnerable to the needs and issues of being sane.

Across the length of years that I’d spent in keeping those mementos,
some friends, relatives and family members contributed in my own,
as personal stuffs, memoirs, or proofs of having truly been in those places;
from the bottom of my heart, I thank them and indeed, a big difference.

With my constant mobility, however, as one called to serve with migrants,
there’s difficulty to keep them all, carrying them with me wherever I go,
hence, I thought it best to give them away and share with others who like them;
be a simple missionary with nothing much as Christ had told his first disciples.

It’s part of of my religious vows to put into practice what poverty means;
detachment may mean a lot and it embraces nothingness, renunciation –
of one’s will that reflects his agenda for the present and future that holds,
all gets the bottom line - ‘vow of poverty’ in the context of my religious calling.

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City down south where fresh chill of every morning awakes to consciousness my likely to break into action bones
I have come from a place where the sun shines all year and time long for which it never tires out of giving heat; direct 
and ardent, often scorching heat. Here I feel no heat from even the brightest sun for the wind blows cold that always 
whiff the face as if saying "awaken the sun in your heart, your inner warmth inside which forever burns and now let it!"  
So I smile and embrace the cold air in response saying "Thank you... I have let it from the time that you said Hello."
The everyday greetings of the trees never fail to please my eyes. I have never seen such lush and vibrant colors of 
purple, pink, white, yellow, orange, and then from the daring dark of green to a subtle tint of yellow to gold. It all speaks 
to me… depicting moods of everyday lives changing by the seasons and every moment of life.  My mind raises to the 
many seasons I long to see and experience and I feel very much alive.

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I'm Just What Your Looking For

since the year of 1952 the city of st paul Minnesota holds
their annual treasure hunt the king and queen of snows
goes out to a city park and hides a medallion worth
10,000 dollars if you are the winner and your carnaville
button is register with the st paul pioneer press
which gives out 12 cryptic clues and this little medallion
could be wrapped in just about anything from diapers to cookies 
and the frigid weather here just may make you want to just
stay by the fireplace and sip on hot coco with family and friends
even lucky finder gets to ride along with the king and queen of snow
in the closing ceremony of it's torchlight parade
also watch out for the vulcans krewe for they like to dethrone the king
and leave you with a black smudges across your sweet cheeks

Tribute To The Winter Carnaville

Carnaville runs
Jan 21-31 

Also Entry For
Carolyn Devonshire's
Christmas In Your Town Contest

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Who could forget what happened on that unsuspecting and sunny day,
when no visible clouds drifted over the Twin Towers?
Little after midnight, the cool rain adds to the melancholy 
of the descending angels; and I join them in prayer to remember the tragedy! 
This should be a day of remembrance, not of hatred for the ignoble acts 
the wicked committed, but would God accept unkindness instead of merciful deeds?

They called it another day of infamy,
and like Pearl Harbor we were taken by surprise;
that was an attack aimed at the military,
but on September 11 the terrorists attacked the civilians!
It seemed like lightning striking down sturdy trees,
and then fire broke out with smoke trails of a thousands feet;
" O my God! ", every employee screamed...quickly running down 
the stairs engulfed by fire...causing an indescribable chaos everywhere! 
" Take my hand, I will lead you to safety! " the firefighter said to the coughing woman. 
" Hold onto my arm! " the policeman yelled out to the frail man,
who had dropped his eyeglasses and couldn't see! 
Every firefighter and policeman acted like them, rescuing many without fearing death;
and hundreds of them, that awful morning, never returned home alive...
what a tragedy for their families that watched in horror and couldn't help!

Who wouldn't remember the courage of their noble and willing hearts?
And furthermore, who wouldn't engrave their valorous names on plaques and monuments?
Up above, by the gates of Paradise...Christ and His Father awaited them to accept their souls;
while archangels surrounding God's throne, sung hymns that humans couldn't sing...
those hymns that all the earthly heroes will sing with them when Heaven mourns again! 

Their portraits, pictures and memorabilia hang above the fireplaces,
and on the decorated walls of the victims' homes, precincts and firehouses;
how could anybody take them down as they were worthless items?
Prize them more than gold or diamonds, o friends grieving that tremendous loss even today;
don't hate those who caused you sorrow and unbearable pain, be forgiving and show mercy...
as God does toward us; o friends remember your heroes for their valor and sacrifice!  

My poem is dedicated to the victims and survivors of the September 11 attacks on America.

Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci

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Someone very close to me has hurt me me badly,
vile words have come out of that vicious mouth,
condemning me of many unjust deeds,
am I to remain silent and defenseless as Christ...
while I'm lashed and stripped of dignity?
More bitter than a lemon, which has never enough
sunlight to sweeten the juice within it;
I have endured evil and have learned how to be patient,
not to fight back with the same viciousness.
O, hurt me again, I will not say anything...
a saint can be martyred for his belief,
but never he will be tortured in the next life!
He holds my weakened hand tightly,
giving me courage, keeping me safe; 
I look to the Heavens and glory is mine!
I am not as bitter as a lemon anymore,
forgiveness has taken long to come...
to make me realize that my agony
is nothing compared to the reward awaiting me!
Every angel smiles and welcomes me with joy;
every gate is open for me to enter freely,
and I wish that person could feel loved and be like me...
walking towards God to know how kind and forgiving He is! 

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Desert Rain

Beyond horizon canyons
the sun cloaked in an amber haze
casting colored shadows 
across steaming sandcrete 
baron since an ancient age
when oceans filled its expanse

Cloud evaporation cooled sweat cleansed skin
burning like hot blood
mixed  with dirtand sand,fail to form mud

Mirage shade stretch and fade invisable
yearning these is trivial

An ancient tale offers solace
its wisdom warped like an evesdropped story
infused with myth, its promise
"The heavens shall rain oceans shall fill desert plains"

An ancient burial grave
the desert's captives tortured desperate
thirsting yearn raining skies blue as ancient times
growing gray as storms from miles beyond horizon canyons
shadowed by skies dark as night

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A choirboy from Tupelo
Soon saw his fame grow,
From a gospel sound
To world-wide renown-
Ends suddenly in Memphis town.

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Birth II

Sultry San Francisco September
     enveloped hours of labor.
Hot, searing waves of pain
     moved around and down
My mound of naked flesh
      pushing as a tide with no ebb.

Into the dank, dark North Beach hotel room
     came two men dressed in white,
Blurred in their motions of haste
     by my sweat-filled eyes.
My nakedness was covered by a cool white sheet
     floating down with a caress.

Three flights of stairs met us
     as they carried the stretcher down
Out into the concrete furnace of Indian summer.
     Tourists standing staring watched
My mouth open in a triumphant scream:
     "The Baby ... the baby is coming!"

Moments later, siren sounds filled my mind
     as his body brought the crowning.

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The Morning After

Sitting by the window at the Njogu-ini Hotel
I see my new people stream by
I can see them but they can’t see me
The window is a one way mirror 

So, this is how they look like 
Ordinary, though filled with immense purpose 
From this side of the window I can still feel their energy 
They are a people focused, a people determined
That is what it on the offset seems
But I know if most of them could be stripped within 
Much of what is common where I come from will be seen

They do have their fears
They too are enslaved by the system
They too do have their heartaches
They too have their poverty

The city may be defined by tall buildings 
And the streets lined with beautiful cars
But I believe astutely inside
They who mostly pass on foot outside 
Are victimised by the sites
Cars they can’t afford to buy
	Houses they can’t afford to rent
	The tall buildings are traps for their hard earned cash
	The supermarkets are large and their windows are lit bright
	Their purpose to lure and aptly tap
	The hard earned cash of my new cosmopolitan family

I pity them
Yet I adore their energy

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The magic of Christmas

So colorful and festive
that Christmas brings to us;
preparations abound elsewhere –
with gifts, kind thoughts and generosity.

Young and old alike share
what Christmas means to them.
A celebration of faith, an act of life
shown with love and loyalty to God.

Mammoth crowds emerge on the horizons
shoppers found in malls, post offices
and other retail stores.
Like a magic, they meet in different places.

It’s a season suffused with life
pregnant with meaning
and significance.
Like a magic that draws us to reflect
Christmas means for all ages.

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Ben Ja Min

on Jan 17th 1706 Benjamin Franklin was born 
became a printers apprentice 
established the first lending library
was known as an uncommom comman man 
that taught self in science and inventions

Benjamin Franklin 1706-1790

Also Entry For Brian Strand's   Vignette
A Literary Love Affair Contest
         GL All

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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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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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dressed as a lady in waiting
You come unto me
In the myst of the night
The river so bright
The moon shines above
smiling on the stars
The tide roars in
almost speaking in voice
On the sand 
You approach 
Through a cloud of fog
First your legs
Then your arms as they swing
Followed by your glorious body
with a mysterious smile
You come upon me not stopping
We are engulfed
Waiting No more

Peter LeBuhn

Copyright ©2005 Peter B. LeBuhn 

Peter LeBuhn 

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A young rogue named Finn
Ran away with an escaped slave,Jim,
Down the river on a raft
On the Mississippi this tale was craft-
Encounters & adventures,fore and aft.

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Jeter Derek: the legendary champ
led the Yankees to a sensational victory,
defeating the Phillies
at City Field in the 2009 World Series!
And the crowds revelled
from their stands;
and he waved his hand,
and smiled proudly,
holding and cradling the championship trophy...
driving all the ladies wild! 
Jeter Derek made history 
by planning a clincing game,
over the opponents to break Lou Gehrig's record...
and all the thrill glowing on his face,
was also a thrill of mine!

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A visit in Munich, Germany

What a sight to behold! A home to immigrants,
a spectacular city rolled with a wealth of arts!
predominantly Catholic with its many facets
its historical resonance and genesis of existence.

While it’s a welcome contrast from other countries,
there’s evidence that it’s replete with triumph and fall;
just after Bolzano, Trento, Rovereto, Verona Porta Nuova, 
Peschiera del Garda, Desenzano della Garda-Sirminione and Brescia.

That from Milan Central Station the train arrives in Monaco.
Indeed, I was so impressed to see the main city
its combined history and culture; a satisfaction
just on the horizons they gave me an enormous impression
to the so-called civilization that München defines its soul.

Churches can be found almost in every corner
with their baroque or lavish rococo architecture, 
some artifacts and gothic designs in some parts
in the eye of the beholder, they’re indeed a treasure.

People from all walks of life converge at the epicentre
the bustling footpaths, crowded shops and restaurants
with families from Dubai, Abu Dhabi and Pakistan
Asians or other Europeans in common desire
this place holds a promise for future and families.

Germans in general, love to drink and hang out with friends
a place like Hofbräuhaus where huge crowds can be found
a good description, the best picture to recall.
Deutsch, the language spoken but difficult to learn
gave me an impression of its beauty in articulation.
With their conventional greetings like in many other cultures
respect is the by-word along with courtesy and reason.
like the Olympic Park, Marienplatz, Nymphenburg palace, 
English Garden, Königsplatz and many other sights
They’re beautiful places steeped with history and connection
to the people of München who love their own culture.

I may not be keen about other European cuisines
however, as  a person drawn to taste them all
with a sweet tooth I couldn’t resist a typical German version
of the American pancake served in the morning
kaiserschman, its name and it’s common to all.

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An air ace on a training spin
Fell out,survival  seemed so slim
Seconds from death,his world falling in
He landed by chance on a Camel's wing-
Then managed to wrestle his way back in

Note:Inspired by story of Graham Donald's ,WW1 flying ace,pilot of a Sopwith 
Camel,in 1917,fell out with no parachute(a deliberate policy  by the high 
command at the time!)on a training manoevre later landing on its wing at the 
bottom of its loop,regained the cockpit and landed the plane safely.Truly a 
magnificent man in a flying machine.

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My Day

                                                      Morning Sweet
                                                     The sun to meet
                                                     exit the dawn
                                                     enter Late AM
                                                     Feeling better
                                                    Sipping tea
                                                    Hellos to my neighbor
                                                   The work,Today,to be done
                                                   Filling the Tank
                                                   Commuter conversations
                                                   Fixing the contours of the tie
                                                   PM is approaching
                                                   An IHOP for brunch
                                                  Meeting with Personal
                                                  Punching out at 2
                                                  Returning to suburbia
                                                  Watching the Plasma
                                                  Lathering off
                                                 Going to sleep

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Immersed in the Jordan,flowing fast
In readiness for an awesome task
The Spirit descended like a dove
This man here is my beloved-
He still baptises from above

Full story at Math 3:16/17

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The Graveyard

The wind seemed colder that December day,
as I walked among the graves marked with
marble so gray.
Some had a story carved for all to see,
while others were just marked, Rest In 
Pictures of the deceased, were on a few,
as I looked a little closer,
to see how many I knew.
Then in the distance, 
I saw a crowd,
another loved one to be buried,
then my head I bowed.
Old graves stood out,
their markers so tall,
darker than most,
like shadows at nightfall.
Sad to think, some had to die so young,
but way back then, not much could be done.
Strange it may seem,
to visit the dead,
but facinating to me,
on the life they led.

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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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I Got Scared (2005)

He came in with a mask and pretended to pull out a gun
I paused in fright
It was just a big kid having fun
But the fear was at my expense
I smiled it off in defense
I don’t like to show my fear
Otherwise I’ll know what would happen next time they are here
The fear we live in, they haven’t a no clue
Next time you mess the joke will be on you
People around here don’t like clever dicks 
They will beat you at your own tricks 

Another idiot messing around in my shop! Hillfields, Coventry the root of all evil!

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That familar brown-eyed boy
climbed the cliff the balmy hill
with his reversed red cap
and if it slipped off,
he'd pull it down his fair
strends of curly hair
while he listened carefully
to the cardinals's notes...
to memorize them in a melody
that he heard through the air!

That familiar brown-eyed boy,
passed by my open window
each afternoon after school
with his heavy pack-back,kind of small,
making him sweat and stoop;
he smiled and waved his hand at me...
his name was Andre,the gentle kid,
and he came from a modest family!

That familiar browned-eyed boy
whistled when spring came,
shouted with thrill
when the first snow fell
and ran outside of the warm house
to build another smiling snow-man!
Did you ever wonder at all,
what made him so happy?
Whether it was:  a bird's song at sun-rise
or an unusual,humorous game...
whatever it was, he had never told
his secret to anyone!

That familiar brown-eyed boy,
came down from the shady hill
when the tower's clock stroke six;
on his way home,he looked at red sky...
amazed by what his eyes had seen,
and tell his mom what a great noon it had been!   

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Sitting at the V.A. Clinic

in wheelchair
with a number tatooed
across the back of his hand.

Three rows of numbers.
Were you there?
His head is bowed into
hand/arm resting on the chair.

Bowed head
sparse white of hair
were you there?
Holocaust man reading.
In boots now he is
the lumber man,
or cowboy man ...
were you there?

Old velcro tennis
shoe men
in the optometry clinic
waiting for glasses
while they

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Alexandre, the young alpinist from a southern France,
attaches crampons to his tough climber's booths,
to ascend the dangerous ridges of Mount Rose,
and with the same ice axe, he climbed Mount Everett!

Copyright 2010 by Andrew Crisci

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Another On The Way

Seemed all was perfect,
in her carefree world,
an only child,
this perfect little girl.
Spoiled to perfection,
nothing she lacked,
a life to dream of,
everything right on track.
Graduation came,
the top of her class,
the gifts were many,
and so much cash.
She told her father,
I want to be a nurse,
but there is something else,
I have to do first.
So she joined the service,
she wanted to serve,
all her friends thought,
she didn't have the nerve.
Up in the ranks,
she started to climb,
such a caring person,
so hard to find.
Then overseas,
she had to go,
her future about to change,
but how could she know.
Into a hospital,
to check some charts,
she had no way of knowing,
someone would capture her heart.
When their eyes met,
she knew it was love,
a feeling like no other,
sent from above.
Now her father,
is tickled pink,
his baby's coming home,
wearing a ring.
Now she is busy,
nursing all day,
the twins are a handful,
and another on the way.

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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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For the past three days,a torrid summer 
scorched the windy bay
with an intense heat that
discolored the lustrous,wild grass;  
even my light skin is turning dark,
resembling a blood-hungry gladiator
who fights for one reason only:
to earn freedom or die
in the arena where
people recite no prayer...  

A feeble father and a robust son
pull out of the flowing and glimmering water
the fishing canes wriggling in hazy air; 
this narrow beach adjacent  to a lovely town,
is the safest haven for birds fearing captivity 
and some traveled quite a distance
to find it without resistence or compromise;
my birds aren't found in a confined cage,
because they have never been subjected to rage...
they fly between sky and sea!  

Ruddy,bare-chested men
standing on a roaring yacht,
as the parching heat
from the middle-sky's sun, 
makes sweat flow from their skin's pores;
they ignore the inabriated teens
dancing to a heavy-metal beat 
while they throw pices of meat
to a barking canine 
that has seen nothing
but skeletons of shell-fish,
realizing his desperate wish!   

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Irish Woman A.D. 100

Timeless island woman,
I am the daughter
of the sons of Mil.
I am Badb, Derdriu, and
Medb queen of Connacht
dancing in our fertility festivals'
flickering firelight.

I watch my warrior go
naked into battle
with sandals on his feet,
the torc I wove golden at his throat,
sword and shield in hand.

I listen for the distant
possessed scream of his warp spasm
(a fearsome howling from the throat
and bulging of the face)
that with the screech of pipes
will bring defeat to our enemy.

I sit fiercely smiling
holding open my parted vulva
in anticipation of
coming home passion.
I am sheela-na-gig
Celtic god.

The inspiration for this historical piece is from a photograph in
Thomas Cahill's "How The Irish Saved Civilization" published
by Doubleday 1995.

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Road trip

A number of times have I got lost,
trying to follow the direction of my destination;
with my map guide that serves me right,
to trace the streets and exits to make.

It’s a kind of familiarity with the place,
through navigation in the pipeline and outdoor;
goes evidently as the result of what it means,
to be on the road and be glued to one’s destination.

A passel of drivers speeds in the express highway
others drive like snakes along the way
with hardly considerations to those who drive behind them;
It’s lack of courtesy and insensitivity to those who care for safety.

Changing lanes in a safe way to do it,
accelerating in a normal speed required;
these are ways that a driver can make,
as he drives freely with caution and courtesy.

There are times when roads exhibit traffic congestion,
especially when it rains and everybody has to be careful;
flooded roads cause delays and commotion,
anger and irritation, impatience and exhaustion.

My own experience while on my way,
to pick up somebody in the airport –
like in JF Kennedy, Newark or La Guardia;
there’s always a need to allow a space 
to wait as flights may be delayed.

With a sense of humor this is gonna be of help
to someone who may be caught up with regret;
While on the way it’s a question of being careful,
focused and attentive to the signs of the road.

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April decorates Nature
with snowy festivity...
to resemble a season so wintry;
will the unwelcome snow head for the shore?

The very disappointed skies gleam unpleasantly,
and the saturated earth weeps in agony;
who commanded the wrath of the tempest...
when winter supposed to be laid to rest?

The snow's showers cover the budding hills
quicker than the gelid rain of winter;
far and away...hope is illusory and brief,
and the questioning mind deflects its early coming!
Does this season have a late beginning,
or is it caused by an unknown factor?

April has smothered winter and hasn't protected
the trees, flowers and plants from frost;
almost everything has perished in its ferocious course,
and the desperate farmer deplores an harvest so scarce!

Inside is so cozy and warm, the gusty wind
is heard through the fireplace that retains the heat
of the crackling logs underneath;
some folks cherish moments like these!

April decorates Nature
quite beautifully and impressively;
brutally or unfairly...
it becomes an inevitable rapture!

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Hush,is that a knock upon the door
A guest who is seeking more,
Someone perhaps come to dine
A feast together would be fine-
Conversation in fellowship divine.

Fuller story @Rev 3:2

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I love my country-I love this land,
Her mountains and deserts, aint' they grand,
Her oceans and prairies-the great skies of blue,
As a child I loved the trains, and oh! what a view.

This country has been good to me, and my family too,
We have never been hungry or had a reason to feel blue,
I have lived in seven states and travelled many more,
Yes, I guess you could say I'm American to the core.

I'll tell you about some of my favorite places,
Many of them have wide open spaces,
Niagra the Falls, the mountains of Colorado, the oceans blue,
When I think of how lucky I am, the tears fall down like dew.

I love the prairies of Texas and Kansas, too,
Wheat fields waving in the breezes make a great view,
Oklahoma is a light in my life--I love that state,
Yes, I'm American through and through, now isn't that GREAT!

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Village of Delphi

Serene the sleepy village appears,
houses perched on steep hillsides
overlooking deep, forested gorges
among a sea of silent pines green.

Shops and stores face each other
across its narrow, one-lane street,
where grizzled men sip their ouzo
in some tavern’s outdoor benches.

Oh, just to commune with god Apollo
high above those lofty Grecian peaks
while clouds kiss the mountaintops
and the wind to the trees whispers.

Coming to a little place like Delphi
nestled amidst breathtaking beauty
where time stands so perfectly still
is to touch the face of the Almighty.

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The jewel in the White Star line
Bedecked in luxury,so fine,
Yet lacking smething in design-
Colliding with icbergs unseen
Sinks slowly to a haunting theme.

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Vampire Moon (1)

On Bourbon Street in the vertical rain,
In the dominance of shadowed domain,
Where the swamp gas reeks of a distant death,
Faint and remote like a dying breath,
Steam rises up from the cobbled ground,
And dreams misplaced are seldom found.

The rats in the quarter bristle and dart,
Conveyors of plague from an evil heart,
And the legions of dead stay where fell,
Whilst the ringing out of the handcart bell
Sounds like a warning from far away,
A signature tune for judgement day.

As fog wreaths the streets like a living shroud,
A vampire moon breaks through the cloud,
And dogs with rib serrated skin
Howl at the sky and the wailing wind;
The lord of damnation stalks the night
Eyes of blood lust burning bright.

The cathouse sprawl lies silent, still,
The whiskey bars no longer fill,
The hulls of ships tied at the dock,
Creak and groan and gently rock,
And all the oil lamps cease to burn,
They gutter out at his return.

On Bourbon Street where walk the dead,
Eyes of blood lust burning red,
Comes something wicked, black and cold,
Which human sight should not behold,
With pallid face and razor-teeth
And vampire moon to stalk beneath.

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In A Place Far Away

His wounds are deep,
hidden, where no one sees,
almost invisible,
as his eyes plead.
Alone without a home,
he lives on the street,
another victim,
the cold air meets.
Stacking boxes,
to block the wind,
layer after layer,
and another night begins.
Back alley fugitive,
as he rambles for food,
once a hero,
in these boots stood.
Time now his enemy,
although once his friend,
as the visions come calling,
once again.
Somehow overlooked,
simply cast away,
but the number he recites,
to this very day.
Minds can escape,
but only for awhile,
as he fondly recalls,
those days gone by.
Daylight comes,
as it did yesterday,
but he is stuck in a war,
and a place far away.

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The White House

broken down
withered chimney
hidden stories within
lost loves in this tragic place
a tragic fire took many lives
the white house
may not be alive today
but neither are the owners
for this a place in history
in my lonesome life
the white house in my memory will indeed be sacrificed

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Those sweaty and uncomfotable days
seem to have lost their intensity,
and glancing far into infinity
can be done with more clarity;
storms are much rarer to stike
and fling their lightinings
to warn us or cause some fright,
when we wish to see a rainbow so bright....

Summer is ending quickly,
but the slowly-moving sail-boats 
aren't anchored in the quite harbor:
they're sailing safely
on calm waters,where no ship 
is ever brought down!
I'm reluctant to leave so suddenly,
and not contemplate the sea-bed 
as flourescent as light,
when I passionately write
another poignant poem
 which won't be lost to oblivion...

Some of us seek only leisure,
I seek a relation with creation...
not doubting who made it
and if controversy intervenes, 
I look deeper into persuasion:
there'll be no thought left
unobscured or unexpressed before intuition;
and you should be amazingly glad to hear...
uttered words that are not silenzed like secrets,
if attribution is not there!   

Summer is ending quickly through dismay...
as blazing days discern their shortness,
but the dazzled and flamboyant swams stare
and tranquilly float soutth-wards of the solemn bay;
what I enjoy now,can be retold or relived
through the poems of other poets,
mine are still waiting to be discovered...
to be claimed without much fanfare!

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In Atlanta airport

While taking a stop-over
my timepiece ticks . . .
meant to stand up already 
to enable my entry to the aircraft.

  It seems passengers abound
  with their carry-on bags
  Men and women alike
  in a hurry to get inside.

Other gates seem busy too
calling passengers to board.
Some have problems to resolve
to get a seat and be part of the group.

  The weather holds no promise at all
  that those aircrafts can fly soon.
  Rains and thunderstorms
  threaten all kinds of transportation.

One, two, three . . . counting the time of waiting
no certainty as yet.
While everyone shows restlessness,
conversation via mobile phone takes place.

  Some seem quiet and unperturbed
  Some read, eat and chat with others.
  It's a real experience, another episode
  that describes procrastination
  of any flight scheduled to take off.

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Castle of Dreams

As I lay my head on my pillow, my eyes shut to the world, I
feel a "presence" of another world calling out to me. I open
my eyes and see myself dressed in purple velvet and
walking along a moat of wild flowers and tall grass. I hear
sounds of trumpets and see soldiers riding in on majestic
horses. I look up to find myself amongst a castle grounds,
with towers peeking out of the evening mist. Once again, I'm home...home at 
Raglan Castle.

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Another Ava Adventure

On a modern playground out by the Bayou
no see-saws, no merry-go-rounds to be seen-
Too dangerous, I'm guessing as we head to the swings
and I push her to the tops of the trees
I sing. And sing:
"Yellow Bird...
High Up In Banana Treeeeee"
( I never pretend to sing in key but belt it all the same)
She loves it, swings higher, asks me to sing again and again.
Then it's on to the jungle gym and slides, slides, slides.
Today, the structure is a hot air balloon 
and we run like mad bandits, pushing silver buttons
and letting air out.
"What's our altitude?" I yell
"400" she answers back in a panic
I push the silver screw on my right and let some air out
"We need 180!", I say, "Tell me when we reach 180!"
When we finally avert that disaster, she looks out of the spy glass
and low and behold, we are about to hit a tree.
A palm tree no less, and those things hurt!
We both quick steer to the right - in unison.
Then, unexpectedly, our battery runs out.
I didn't know hot air balloons ran on batteries,
but she assures me they do - and she happens to have another
in her back pocket.
We finally find smooth sailing
and have a chance to look out.
Pristine blue sky.  Sun taking every edge off the Bayou's breeze.
Apple green grass and trees with limbs bending every which way-
not trimmed, not sculpted, just allowed to grow wild and perfect for climbing.
It's with heavy hearts that we land our balloon to come back to reality.
For a while, she tells me that the whole contraption is out of our hands
and can't land back down on earth - We're heading North North North!
Cold country!
But, after the five extra minutes we spend in the air, she agrees to go.
"I love you", she says.
"I love you too", I answer, "Thanks for playing with me".
She smiles and we leave with plans to conquer the big climbing tree on our next adventure.

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Foundling in an equatorial land
By African apes,raised by hand-
Swinging by rope,from tree to tree
Finding lost tribes,living free- you & me.

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Football Fever is here in the South,
rivalry is what it is all about.
Two teams together that begin with an A,
which will have victory today?
Eyes are glued to the tv screen,
with every play, here come the screams.
Stands are full, can't hold anymore,
strangely, I thought I heard a roar.
The Tide is high, up to an elephants ears,
it's Alabama Football, again my dear.

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In the summer of twenty-nine
All the wirld seemed just fine,
Paper chases,wihout a care..
Next minute flying through the air-
Ripples echoed everywhere.

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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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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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An Artist's Eyes

As the picture is painted on a canvas so bare,
my words begin to create a silhouette, that I may share.
Stroke after stroke, each mark is placed,
forever an image, has a place.
No colors or shading, no waters, or oils,
only words from my heart, as my  passion boils.
Feelings revealed through an artist's eyes,
placing each one, where it fits just right.
Spiritual, nature, people, and times,
all captured in a message, of a painting that rhymes.

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An attack of this magnitude
was completely unforeseeable;
and who thought that an unguarded city
had to feel that sense of solitude...
through an urealistic exodus so undiscernible,
and later reclaim its struck territory!

What we not the superb Twin Towers: 
the pride of the wealthiest nation on earth,
towers that can be rebuilt in years;
it's those lives that enmity cut short!
And they tried to disorientate us,
and disrupt our ingenuous and lively living
by spreading unrest and choas
with absurd and infernal thinking!

This infamy is so ineffaceable
from the mind of the unfoolish,
fair and reasoning man with greater intellect...
that it becomes so inexplicable;
a shameful act not condoned by civilization,
confirmed by unsympathetic sentiments!

What we lost truly irreplaceable
by every imaginable remedy:
its the worth, the comfort  and the unbroken joy, 
which dazzled in the NewYorkers' eyes...
making their days so livable! 
What we eternally
carved out into those shining stones:
bearing glorious names to withstand time itself1


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Some have never felt the need
to sail on...far beyond their boundaries;
they had comfort and a good life
and enjoyed delectable banquets,
but others had to struggle for a loaf of bread,
and survive in the mist of poverty!!!

Those were the travels of the deprived men,
leaving, with the deepest regret, their own country
to face hardships,unacceptance and bigotry;
and from the offspring of these misunderstood men,
were born individuals who would shake and change society!!!

They worked long hours in mines
trying to catch a breath beneath those dusty caverns,
and when they came out they only saw a thousands of stars;
many built skycrapers, tunnels and bridges:
getting burned by an inclement sun, and through persistance,
they  had the honor and joy to see them shine!!!

Some have taken for granted everything
they were provided for...
not striving to get ahead in life;
living comfortly in their cosy homes and mansions,
standing by and ignoring the pains of the laborers       
along with the evils of their world;
they did not speak on their behalf...
feeling they were more powerful!!! 

And will God, open His arms of eternity,
look down on them and have a bit of mercy...
when they are approaching His gate?
We all came from two perfect parents 
who were as sinsless as angels,
but did not obey and fell from grace...
are we making that same,incorrigible mistake?

The travels of the deprived men,
left their intact trails where they went;
if some deny this fact to themselves,
is because they refuse to knowledge
they walked tall or existed at all...
and brought  a greatness so unimaginable!!! 


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The sun was high
Throats were burning dry,
The wagons circled round,
Hearts began to pound-
It's too quiet....was the prophetic sound.

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Vignette-RAIN - CHECK

After the thunder has rung aloud
Through the rain & dark cloud
A shining rainbow there will be-
A covenant between God & thee
Witten in the sky for all to see.

Full story @ Gen 9:14&15

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Laundromat, 9:12 P.M.

Sixteen unique individuals
sit on sixteen washing machines.

As they make small-talk
they stare at sixteen dryers, all in a row
chugging and churning to the same hum.

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Around the line at Riverbend
And off the bridge into quicksand
Raised later by many hands-
Brushed & dusted,still very neat
Back into service,a story hard to beat !

The train fell in the creek in 1891,rescue then proved in vain
Four years later it was raised frpm 100 feet deep with little damage thereto.
Waste not want not in those days!
We could learn much from this approach in this 'green' era

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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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Yearbook for the Blind

Silence has taken it’s toll on me
A breeze sifts through the light fabrics of my shirt
Stalling time
In the yearbook for the blind.

Creeping upon me is the quiet of the air
Forever captured in never-ending scenery
The soft daylight reaching through to the reader’s sensitive fingertips
Miniature lush green leaves of miniature trees forever held in place.

I stand frozen in a memory
Smiling an anxious smile
Cooly hooking my thumbs with the belt loop
In a yearbook for the blind.

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The Day After Thanksgiving

It's the day after Thanksgiving, and all across town,
people getting up early, shopping malls bound.
Sleigh gassed up, and purses are too,
don't forget those credit cards, what ever you do.
Sneakers on the feet, gotta move real fast,
sales start early, the goodies won't last.
Santa will be waiting, perched high on his seat,
screaming children, and after this, he is sure to be beat.
When, from a store close by, someone began to shout,
they will sell you a gift, but there is nobody to wrap.
Some started fussing, where are the elves,
not too many toys left on the shelves.
Ho, Ho, Ho, came a familiar sound,
I will do the wrapping, somebody help me down.
I gained some weight during the year,
eating real late, and drinking the cheer.
So, let's get this season started, with laughter please,
just look at the presents, and all the beautiful trees.
Ho, Ho, Ho.....Merry Christmas

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A kingdom of the Gael
Lying well outside the Pale !
Subjects of an Ardri Lord
From Clare to Kerry
And Cork to Waterford

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Winter Retreat

Once the beach was my favorite place, 
but now the mountains, I make my escape.
The cool crisp air in early Fall,
this is Heaven, and my name it calls.
A little retreat way up high,
My refugee is almost, where the birds fly.
As Winter comes howling through the great Pine Trees,
I know this is the only place for me.
Snow covered mountains that rise to the sky,
and down below a frozen pond lies.
Smoke from the chimney, gives a cozy hello,
telling your neighbors, you are home once more.

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The House on Sycamore Hill


The old haunted house upon sycamore hill,
   Is the scariest place with ghosts for real.
You can hear their screams and crying out,
   You’re welcome to look if you’ve got a doubt.
No one can last the whole night long,
   Staying in that house from dusk till dawn.
The last one who tried his hair turned white,
   And he didn’t even last one hour into the night.
The story goes Janey Freedman was caught by her husband having an affair.
   He came home early and caught Tommy Stickmen there.
They both pleaded as he took dead aim,
    Tommy pleaded that they’d done nothing wrong and there was no shame.
The shots were fired and the deed was done.
    Then he shot himself with that same old gun.
Janey had hired Tommy to do a portrait painting of her for her husbands birthday.
    They were discussing the details and the price she would have to pay.
Almost eighty years have passed since that horrible night.
    A cursed place with those souls crying out for some one to make it right.
The place is still for sale,
   If you’re not scared of all these urban tales.
It’s really quite nice least the outside is.
   If you want to see the inside don’t ask for me please ask for Liz.

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The golden leaves fall off
the cherry trees groping 
on the steep cliff,
the tall marabous lament...diving
in dark, shallow waters 
their racous cry announce
the arrival of winter on the reef... 
while the poet dreams!

The lost kite has flown off
a kid's hand that waves to its friend,
shrikes wait on pines' brenches
for their prey to impal on thorns;
wagtails stand on rocks
being watchful and trustless of them,
living in danger is not staying alive...
while the poet dreams!

The jumping mouse scurrs
from scrub to scrub crushing their leaves, 
as daylight haunts his footsteps;
food is scarce by the waterfront,
so he scampers back to the underground,
to return when everything turns dark
and finds no one endagering his search...
while the poets dreams!  

The blind,white-haired man is led
by a retriever that's so attentive,  
as he guides him to an empty bench;  
he can't see or perceive a fall's sunset:
like other cheerful eyes bedazzled by light...
while the poet dreams! 

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Admirable Skies

I sit here under the stars, 
And I wonder.
Does anybody really realize
The gift of a crisp, cool night's plunder?

The skies kind of remind me of life.
Day or night, things are changing.
Come rain or shine,
The clouds are always rearranging.

So remember, step outside
And the scenery dost not expire.
So live your life as if you love it,
And maybe you'll give the skies something to admire.

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My Favorite Soup

Sometimes we meet people,
and they become friends,
the kind that will always,
hold a special place within.
I am so blessed,
because of our Ciber Kitchen,
the aroma here is,
poems, thoughts, prayers,
and distant eyes, that always listen.
We worry about each other,
even though we never met,
yes, I call this friendship,
about the best you can get.
I scan the menu, each and everyday,
searching for my favorites,
who add something different to say.
This place is so warm,
and always open all night,
even on Holidays,
the talent is so bright.
Seasoned just right,
from every corner of the land,
my friends of the kitchen,
adding thoughtful ingredients,
Soups own special brand.

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Witches' Poem

Bubbling brains
brew remembrance
of witches' world:

Don't speak of it.
Don't talk of wealth or spend your coins.
Don't tell them what you know
   of herbs and salves and healing balms.
Don't offer to soothe, to care,
   to be a physician or
share women's knowledge
for it threatens power.

In their ignorant fear they will
pick and tear the flesh
they've branded with a hot iron and watch
as you burn.
The rack, the garrote, the gallows
greet your christian-lived soul with
flames flickering towards
thousands and thousands
of open mouths screaming ...
God ... oh, God

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Merry Christmas, and Happy Holidays to all,
may your days be many, and your disappointments
be small.
May you walk hand in hand, with the people you love,
enjoying each blessing, that's given each day, while
making new friends along the way.
May your smiles grow bigger, and your frowns fade away,
bringing new happiness, where sadness once lay.
May this year end with a song in your heart,
and new one begin, with joy from the start.
May poems be written, by the old, and new,
for they are our connection, in this place called Soup.

Merry Christmas Friends.....

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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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They are destroying your creations,
the geen fields are burning
and blazes rise high;
the blackened town
has turned into ashes...
a devastated gost town
where once life
thrived with foot-steps 
and engines running!

They are destroying your creations,
barren vallies, mountains and lands 
where birds found their home so thrilling,
but forced to flee within minutes;
the scary arsonists also fled,
not to get cought or get burned
while scurring and panting! 
Weeping hearts and saddened faces
are overwhelmed by devastation...
who can understand their frustration?

They are destroying your creations
with torches and evil minds;
beauty is something they detest,
the smell of burnt makes them powerful;
how can they destroy the wilderness
that gives them life without chargiing a dime?
How can they stand back 
and watch this happening
while others are suffering?
If they are the devils' accomplices 
in this horrendous spectacle,
they will surely pay fully for their harm!

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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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Now A Day Talk

A long time ago, in the wild west,
the worth of a man, daily put to test.
Fields to plow,
and crops to raise,
while defending his home,
Shooters, and gamblers, made their way,
robbing the townsfolk in many ways.
Some panned for gold in the high up hills,
women could not afford fancy frills.
Hitching the horses to a shabby old wagon,
dogs running behind with their tails a wagging.
Card sharks betting, come sit right here,
bring this fine gentleman a drink my dear..
Dance hall girls with their painted cheeks,
claiming the money you worked for all week.
Loggers cutting the trees to sell,
many died young their hearts would fail.
How did they do it,
living was tuff,
now a day talk, we can't get enough.

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Laundromat Sonata

Thump, thump, thump
must be sneakers in the dryer.
Clunk, clunk, clunk
washers changing cycles.
Musaks in the laundromat
make it impossible to read that
novel which had you spellbound,
but you brought it and found
the metallic clattering kachung, kachung
of the change dispenser
(souding like winning slot machines)
is not music to read by.

Thump, clunk, kachung
Wet mops that are hung
to drip on the pop-splattered floor.
Running, yelling kids or
zonked-out junkies bid
for your attention.
Attention!  Attention!
We're doing laundry in here,
this is not a reading room
with soap overflowing,
and the clothes still wet
after the dryer ate your last cent.

Thump, clunk, kachung.
Lets get finished with this chore
and get the _ _ _ _ out the door!

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A Different Dance

Dancing with the devil, some do it everyday,
never thinking once, they will have to pay.
Fast dance, slow dance, and some all in a line,
dancers of his music, eyes closed so blind.
Poison is the brew, that some hold in their hand,
over indulgence of any kind,  may destroy a mortal man.
Give your burdens to the Lord,
His hands are big , and strong,
and when you sing His praises,
you'll dance to a different song.

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Rhinestones That Sparkle

Night time is their day,
as they hurry and find,
someone to comfort,
then leave them behind.

Motels, and hotels,
and sometimes a car,
trying to survive this day,
some wish on a star.

Rhinestones that sparkle,
they stand on the street,
some are just children,
wanting to be free.

Can they go home,
why did they leave
too old for their years,
but not for their tears..

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Clint's trademark,an actor's rule-
Spagetti westerns were his part
Defining a niche with his art,
A Fist full of dollars,was the start.

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Trouble In Paradise

Turn on the news,
oh, not again,
how depressing,
will we ever understand?
There's trouble in Paradise,
and it's right before our eyes,
inflation, devastation, and
gas getting so high.
The wars, the pain, the tears,
the neglect, the emptiness,
the loneliness, the confusion,
the menace, the greed, and the 
elderly not getting what they need.
Low pay, high rent, utilities gone crazy,
high taxes, perverts on the prowl,
whose fault, fingers pointing, tempers flying,
a good dose of depression, when we get up
in the morning, and before we go to bed.
Yes, we have trouble in Paradise.

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A night on the town
The rain came down,
Put up the brolly-
He was having a jolly...dancing
And singing in the rain.

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An orphaned Victorian child
On the streets,running wild
Fated to share a workhouse cot
Asked for a second helping from the pot-
A life of crime becoming his lot.

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Shall We Sit

Shall we sit, and talk for awhile,
or maybe use this time to accomplish
something worthwhile?
Shall we busy ourselves with task at hand,
realizing a difference can be made with two 
strong hands?
Shall we listen to the cry of the needy,
shaming the wasteful, showing signs
of becoming greedy?
Shall we take notice , we can't blindly stand,
while things are getting too far out of hand?
Shall we become a voice as one,
seems these days,
nothing will be left for our daughters, and sons.

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They couldn't stay the course
So they built a wooden horse-
Out from tunnels in the ground
Freedom,was their cry,
But ,so many were to die.

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Grew to manhood on the river Tay,
Writing poems ,most every day;
His diary of a dying man,left
Telling observations, for all to see.

Tribute to William Soutar

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Coming Home

In the small town of  Bethlehem 
where Joseph and Mary came by,
I kneel down to pray and worship
on the spot where the baby slept. 

To Nazareth’s rolling hills I come
to knock on the carpenter's door 
and in nearby Cana I sip the wine
gathered from among its vines.

I wash my feet in the river Jordan 
where John sanctified the Lord, 
asking to be cleansed of my sins
on its flowing, life-giving waters. 

Aboard a boat in the Sea of Galilee 
in spirit merged with the fisherman,
I cast away all my woes and cares
to place my complete faith in Him. 

Just as Jesus fought with the devil 
in Jericho's foreboding mountains, 
I gain full strength and inspiration 
grappling with my own temptations.

I walk the streets of old Jerusalem
and in Gethsemane's olive garden; 
oh, just to set foot in the Holy Land
is to be home where it all began. 

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A uranium mine was big brother's plan
The locals resist as best they can,
From Orkney to Oban-
Vicitory inspired a piano piece,
Rebellion obtained freedm's release

Peter Maxwell Davies-Farewell to Stromness

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They heard the Spirit call
To send Barnabas and Paul-
Good News proclaimed without fear,
The Gospel of Christ ,for all to hear;
Antioch gentiles, the frst to driaw near.

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Vignette- IN A GARDEN

Asleep, under yon olive tree
Disciples one,two three;
A flicker of torches in the breeze
Then,betrayal with a kiss-
Could thirty ducats be worthy of this.

Full story @Mt 26:36-50

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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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Jephthah the judge,from Gilead he came,
With this difficult word found long-lasting fame-
For those upon the losing side
He devised a cunning plan,
Asking of his enemy,to pronounce it if they can

Note Full story -Judges 12:6

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A vaporetto upon the sea
A love departs that could never be-
Tears trickle down  face,
Mahler played at his slowest pace,

Scene from Death in Venice

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His fast had lasted forty nights
When the tempter came into sight;
If you are divine he said
Change these stones into bread-
Upon the scriptures Jesus fed.

Full story of the vignette @Mathew 4:1-11

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Over a bottle of Stolichnaya vodka
And slices of kalbasa…. and cold breeze 
Of first September, you proudly spoke to me 
Of Lenin; we sat beneath the apple tree.

I disagreed not, with your thoughts
Neither, I agreed. It’s just I had no time 
To argue, nor speak about him right now, 
For my mind was fixated. A green apple

Teasingly, hanging above our heads; 
Come on, discussions…later, I childishly beg
As I kept lusting for the sweet juice of temptation; 
Tempted I was, it took me only one jump, for 

The fruit of my fleeting desire; 
Still, you refused to stop, talking 
About the great proletariat, who cares? 
Me? Hmm, nope, this green apple’s juicier 

Than what you’re telling; I wiped the thin dust off 
With my long-back shirt. Then, I opened my mouth 
To bite it; But, a passing, scraggy Babushka yelled:
“If you eat that apple, my son, you will die!”

Without asking her why? I threw it. 
Then, my friend Ruslanchik said: 
“Oh, I forgot to tell you,
We’re only 100 km away from our black history!”

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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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The're heading north for gold
The last great rush unfolds
In the sub-artic winter cold-
Along the Chilkoot trail
Many thousands were to fail.

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Election Day Blues,
what do we do.
Is there a candidate,
worthy, and true?
How do we know,
just by what they say,
nothing accomplished anyway.
Same old, same old, 
put me in,
then stand back,
and watch me grin.
The Pledge Of Allegiance,
what do I do,
I represent only a few.
Did you serve your country,
this needs to be addressed,
one of the many questions,
we must ask.
Maybe I'm wrong to think this way,
but I want America to grow,
not fade.

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They stayed within the city walls
In one accord,& each for all,
Pending the Holy Spirit's call-
Wind and fire fell from above
Filling them ,with gifts,& love.

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In a garden where fruit was free,
A paradise in which to be,
One tree was,just to see-
They did partake,eyes opened wide
That day,innocence,forever died.

Full story of this vignette @ Gen 2:16/17 & 3:1-24

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They went to the city with high hope
With what they saw they could not cope,
Until a man drew alongside-
His exegesis could not be denied,
Their hearts burning within,eyes opened wide.

Full story @ Luke 24:13-35

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Unseen Tears

My unseen tears keep falling,
his eyes to blind to see,
what else is it, I can offer, that
he has not already taken, from me.
Years of planning, and wishing, my
dreams fell by the way,
but one more chance I've been given,
I have learned from all my yesterdays.
My wings are ready to take me,
to a place of comfort, and peace,
a place he is not welcome,
my new dream, he will never see.

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The cheers had died away
Friday brought another day,
Again,the crowds gathered for their say-
Cries of hosanna became...crucify...
On a tree,they left Him to die

Full Story @ Mt 27:17-31

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Flora found fame with  a simple tale
Of rural poor,in town & vale;
Recording family life,page by page
Whilst a clerk for Royal mail-
Now modern classics of their age

Tribute to Flora Thompson 1876-1946 English author of Lark Rise to Candleford,
Still glides the Stream and Heatherley

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Afloat ,in a small boat
a sudden levant arose,
each disciple in fear,froze;
A command-Peace ,be still--
The storm submitted to his will.

Full story of this vignette @Mark 4:35-41

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Summer's Cimax

The yellowing sunset dances across the waves,
as another day silently falls asleep so moon beams 
can play.
The echo of thunder barely whispering afar, as the wind
sweeps so peaceful revealing a star.
Sailboats still glisten, with sails set for home,
saddened at the thought, another day is gone.
Tourist seem happy to be out tonight, and
they will all be back again, at mornings first
Misty is the surf, with its salty taste,
stinging the skin that today's sun baked.
A coolness is coming, the season of change,
summer shall climax once again..

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Fallen is the middle wall,
In two,the veil is torn,
Now emnity has no call-
With Him,our corner stone
No longer,we,forlorn

Full story @Luke 34:45 & John 19:26-30

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He heard a voice from above
Words of Jesus ,filled with love,
His eyes were then opened wide-
Upon his life he heard the call,
The day Saul was to become Paul

Full story @Acts 9:1-22

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Blind from the age of three
In his heart,music, set free-
A concierto exemplar,
Fashioned for a make it sing
Memoria..... to a still-born offspring.

Tribute to Joaquin Rodrigo 1901-1999  Concieto de Aranjuez

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Wine of multi nuanced flavour,
Many coloured & aromas to savour;
Final judgment,always in the taste,
Swirled & swallowed without haste.

Bottles,magnums & jereboam,
Bouquets,hints oflemon & jam;
Tempranillo,Merlot jostle in a throng.

Wein,germanic,labelled methodical,
Whitesunsurpassed & gastronomical;
Top of the list,Bernkastel Moselle,
As aperitif or with food,just swell.

A trinity of champagned,sherry& port,
The last from political pressure brought;
Once England's larges wine import,
It remains,Stilton's best escort.

Beaujolais,loved by the ligh-hearted,
Crushed from Gamay fruit so red;
Perfect to quench a lngering thirst,
An annual race to the import, first.

Sparkling,still,filtered or fine,
None can surpass Rioja's reserva wine;
From Ebro at a thousand feet,
Oak aged,ripened after summer heat.