Things that seemed poetic were always sad,
though I yearned for sparkle
and my dad's guffaw, which never came.
Familiar things were always drear --
repeated motions in the same old game.
There were only distant glimpses
of budding spring, fleeting views
of daffodils. The strongest
poems dealt me death and dying.
Yet I always hoped, never went under
to gray despair, always dreaming
of a garden of love that we could share.
But those forbidden delights faded
quickly away; the only reality
I understand is the ever-looming
and final one. Nothing's changed.
The strongest poems deal death and dying.
Copyright © Leo Larry Amadore
My Dear Enemy
Here I am
In full armor
My quill is full of arrows
My bow is taunt and ready fro battle
My horse is pristine and shiny black
I am your enemy
As you are mine to the death
I shall take my bow and arrow
Pierce you through the heart
My king shall praise and honor me
For many battles so well fought
I know I have to shoot my arrows
To save my own pitiful soul
My dear enemy
I just long for you to know
Every arrow, every drop of blood
Every soul that must depart
Due to my fine skills and sharp arrow darts
I die along with you
I know not who you are
Yet a weep for your lost soul
I imagine other times
Maybe we would sit for tea and cookies
Laughing over words of glee
You and I so battle ready
I am sorry for all the battle scars
The blood that flows so deep
Every arrow that leaves my bow
I am sure it too, also weeps
My Dear Enemy
I prey today that before the dusk
One of you will have a finer bow
My heart no longer has the will
To fill my quill with arrows so
Today, I let one of you end my day
No longer can I live on this way
All my fine arrows fired
Have finally been on target
My Dear Enemy
I love you as any man
I have only love for humanity
I pray one day
Our Kings and Queens shall feel this way
As off the battle field, I am carried away
Copyright © arthur vaso
I saw a death shadow in the eyes of my infancy
a soft mercy with calm blue fancy,
in childhood, when free will asserted it's wild supremacy
we sang of star charriots and laughter loyal to hyperactivity,
I see a death shadow in the prime of my ascendancy
outlining my temple of truth, whistling thy words of wizardry,
I hear It like the madness of morning's ending,
I taste It as if from the burning breast milk of a Dragoness,
I see It in the bleeding smile of my heart's kindness,
I speak to It when love's luster unlocks the lunacy of loneliness,
I feel the humble shade of It's jade justice in a world hot and hustling,
My death shadow has a surface sweet with patient purpose,
It is not rough with forboding frost that frights the fight of flesh,
rattling the scythe of doom and cackling for cataleptic crisis it does not,
It is not a grim God or a greedy Goddess, no taxing terror trumpeted,
It has never been an angel of escape or a demon of dour delirium,
when suffering becomes a seduction of brute beauty I share in it's wise joy,
my death shadow follows the desperate yet disciplined form of my body battle
through life's plethora of coy poisons and possessive passions,
marching along side me with martial grace, sculpting my face with lion spirit -
Copyright © Justin Bordner
In churned up soil the poppy rose
On top of death, still steadily grows
And in our minds we see the crosses
That lie in rows and count our losses
Blood that drips from tiniest bloom
Beloved children, lost from the womb
Their essence blown upon the earth
For infinity, will show their worth
And so they marched by decree
A war they fought, so we could be free
The poppy, how we remember them now
So in silence we do reverently bow
One single day, just once every year
To remember all the horror and fear
To give thanks and praise, to those in need
Who saved us through unselfish deed
For so young when they said goodbye
With no idea that so many would die
In Flanders Fields where poppies grow
Innocence, now lays buried in each row
For those that did return safely home
Their spirit lost and so had flown
To fly away among the peaceful skies
With friends and larks with carefree eyes
In the thunder hear the roar of guns
Calling to all our native sons
Arise, arise, from sleep once more
For once again, there will be war
In Flanders Fields, the poppies grow
They cover our loved ones, buried below
Like a blanket, they protect all within
From a world that is ravished by sin
More souls will join them as the years go by
More wars will be fought, as the lark does cry
More fields will be filled, with our dead
And poppies will mark their graves in red
"Lest we forget and more shall die"
"In Flanders Fields our loved ones lie"
Copyright © Bernadette Langer
Is this a poem?
I will let poets decide
I read here, words and prose
How is it possible
Such ingenuity, over and over
Expressions of the heart
Bitterness sits in the cold
Lovers shedding words
Lost souls attacking verbs
Poets in mourning
Deep and emotional losses
Opening the gates of heaven
For the bereaved and forlorn
Poets who dance and cry
Add some spiced rum and tears
Poets who ponder why?
Poets who offer comfort
Random words of the charitable order
Poets who cannot compose
Yet they are more poetic
Brutal exposure of the heart
Is poetic in its own right
Painters of poetic verse
Who disperse art like candy
I bow my head
In honor of you all
My last request
When that dark omen of death arrives
There shall be a poetic funeral
I shall write nor speak no more
Of lovers and poets
Drunk with words
You all, hoist some cheer
I wish to be surrounded
As all of you
Copyright © arthur vaso
We talked at length
The hours we passed
The life you lived
Oh the horrors
So many men's live snuffed
Oh Arizona, a dedication
Whose souls be at rest
Amidst oily scum
And so many others
Sightless eyes watch
The world in disintegration.
Yes, you’ve seen
Many unimaginable horrors
Those only Man can inflict
You’ve grasped my heart
I watched you whither away
A hero by all accounts
God rest your soul
Oh gentle man.
God rest ye gentle man.
My heart aches
With your passing
Now I have your cherished one
She that you know
Rested in my heart
For years and years and years
The one that tended you
All that time
Oh yes, that woman of women
She is in my arms
Forever… my very first love
The thought of whose love
Brings tears to my eyes
Just so you know…
Semper Fidelis... you are my hero Donald Canan,USMC, WWII veteran Western
Pacific... he told death to get bent. May God Rest your soul.
Copyright © Michael Santner
Light splashes on windowpane…
Leaving nothing behind
No pattern or trace…
If only those tears
Anguishly wept for you…
Upon your deathbed
Had washed away…
Cleansing the pain
That even now abrades my spirit…
Copyright © Charles Fuller
As the clock ticks on,
tiny fractures of death
seemingly invisible, superficial
yet they run deep
S h a t t e R
Copyright © binibining P.iNk
Alone in loneliness
Amid forever nights
And these four walls
In faint, whisper soft your name
I beg out loud to the nothingness that remains
"Please not another nightmare, no more storms"
But, answers are merely glimpses of light
Filtering through the pane
Cast empty shadows on the wall
Of places where you used to be
Eyes wide open
Now asleep, afraid I am to fall
Trapped within this never ending dream
I cling to all the memories that I have
Spinning me closer to where you were, in parallel on the edge
The thoughts, like imaginary rubble, comes tumbling passed
A fire for you still burning inside
Why can’t I let go of the tragedies last
And silence your unrescued suicidal screams
Or is it only the rain falling faster as it taps harder, and harder upon the glass
Or is it of your wandering spirit
Haunting with its vindications
Of "why’s" I can never seem to grasp
All this amidst lost stares into black windows
Where gutters overrunning, burdened by the strains
And I swear I see your reflection
Among the flashes, tracing out illuminations about your face
And for the first time
You are noticeably absent of all the worldly pains
And your lips releasing out a comfort that for so long I've been seeking
As I hear the words echo within my stormy heart "That where you are everything is okay"
Copyright © Michael Smith
You think you’re alone out on the range
Sittin’ silent under starry sky,
Just a marvelin’ at the universe
And wonderin’ ‘bout that ol’ question: why?
You shake your head at worlds of worry,
Knowin’ it ain’t often that you’ll find,
All the answers to your queries
Beneath the clear black sky and pine.
You wonder if we rose up from mud
And walked straight and tall upon this earth—
Or was it all created in a moment—
A conception that gave us true birth.
Are we all no more than those monkeys
Evolvin’ slowly down life’s long line?
Or is there more to earth and heaven
Touched by something truly sublime?
We keep on punchin’ clocks and cattle
And tryin’ to get through each new morn—
But is there more to life than dyin’
And will we somehow be reborn?
All the cattle know my hard proddin’
As I lead them along time’s sad way—
We live for but a flashin’ moment,
As we watch life go by in one short day.
So make the best of trails you ride, cowboy—
Each tomorrow is both yours and mine—
And gaze long at stars in that vast sky
Placed there by intelligent design.
Copyright © Glen Enloe
So words become; the order of the day
and order of the day becomes
the soldiered meaning of all work and play,
the ever present, beating drums.
Then words become; the lure of the lie
and liars lure every son
with shadows of gold 'til they all but die,
to retire, to be, to be done.
And then, once again; the words become
the order of every day
to sleep, to awake, to be dead and done,
'til all words fly, ever away.
Copyright © Tom Hitt
No longer at desk the typewriter has been given
it's final rest.
As he cant recall the day or year.
The once strong mind is closed the body
but a museum or tribute to what once was.
he his home but locked within himself.
Vist's from thoose who once knew the man
are like people viewing a body at a wake.
he calls from within the shell for for release.
Yet his lips will not move his voice never sounds.
Inside he burns for the chance to run as the river
chases the sea.
To be the man they never knew and the one he
could admire and both despise.
The page sits in typewriter like a willing
eager lover in bed.
Waitting in stockings that cling to delicate thigh.
the tears escapes it's minds prison.
He thirsts for it like a drunk for that morning drink
of whiskey waitting hands held togather trying
to keep from shaking.
He sits as a painter without hand.
watching the most beautiful sunset fade without
a chance of ever capturing this moment.
The ink is drying he feels it everyday.
Soon he hopes like the dust that does gather
he will be swept away.
Copyright © John Patrick Robbins AKA Gonzo
I do not know?
While walking through a hospital one day, a veteran I did see
He was in a wheelchair with both legs missing, and he did it for you and me.
I turned around a corner and down another hall
Only for my eyes to behold a family who has lost it all
A five year old cried out,"Why did daddy have to die?"
The mother held her son closer while she greived and began to cry
The mother of that young Marine, who had fought over in Iraqu
Wandered why her son so brave, didn't survive the enemie's attack
The father of that soldier, hung his head to cry
He was a retired soldier himself, why couldn't he have been the one to die?
His heart broken sister, sits in shock and tries to deny
The death of her older brother, he was killed and don't know why
A few days later, a family, everybody all dressed in black
Went to the funeral of a twenty-five year old who too our bullet in Iraq
The Bible says "thou shalt not kill." and "Love your neighbor" too
Maybe our soldiers aren't doing what's right, but they still take your bullet for you
They sleep in foxholes, and eat in trenches, and do all that they know to do
They rest in the sand with no comforts of home and they take your bullet for you
The restless nights turn into days, you wouldn't believe all they go through
THe rest of us sit at home and gripe, and still they take your bullet for you
The next time you hear a 21 gun salute, don't condemn as others do
The next time the taps are being played, remember, they took that bullet for you.
Thanks, Veterans for your sacrifice.
Copyright © Brandlynn Young
When I am Colder,Older and then alone...
I will collect the sky on my own...
When the art has faded and the days then fade-
when everyone has gone away...
I may finally see what never was saw
.....ahhhhhhhhhhhhh............... the quiet sky
The unlit room which bares my end...shows the flashes of my pains my joys and sins.
This life has been a strange one since the curtains were drawn
These paper and plastic figures have clouded the dawn
I was once younger,foolish,and obsessed with truth
Now I am bitter,sour,dour faced with my heart under shoe
The children were all searching or lost in a crowd
All weeds in a garden...growing vile and foul
Though beauty was sold it never came true
Obsessions and vanity have traveled safe through
Materials and poison and everything lost
have been burned in the fires or lost in the frost
I stand face to mirror tearing my being apart
Winding thoughts of love,pain,god,and art
As the sun sets and the darkness grows
I too shall follow this pattern in tow
Death has a friendly hand and a pretty face
She has given me comfort as I leave this place
The wars have occurred,humanity's lost
Souls have been burnt in the fire or lost in the frost
Day was Life,Night is Death
And the latter has given counsel on my final steps
Copyright © Winter Wallace
Stumbling Through a Bewildering Maze,
Of Thoughts and Dreams, He Finds Emptiness.
The Over-exhuming Haze of a Comfortable
Life Exhausts Him, And He Sinks into Himself.
Words From His Brief Interactions Are Destroyed
By Him, Not Absorbed. It's Killing Him.
Water From His Dusty Satchel, Glints as
He Spills it onto His Lap.
-You're Losing it -
He Feels The Stares From Countless Eyes,
And Shrugs it off with Solitude as his Shield.
You've Become The Guy Your Parents Used
To Tell You To Avoid in The Street.
- You Wanna Hurt People -
He watches the Cliques of People Enjoy his
Insecurity. No-one Takes him Seriously.
He Picks The biggest Guy, His Shank, more
Powerful Than His Fist, He walks towards Him.
- It's About To Go Sour -
His Feet Crunches Aeons Beneath Him, And
Stamps Out His Future Genetics.
The Shank, Concealed in his Sleeve. Here it
Comes, This Was his final mark of Respect.
- His Veins Pump Hard -
The Adrenaline Sends Tears to his Eyes,
And Weakens His Legs, he'll Fight or Cry.
The Shank Slides Like Threading Silk Into
His Victims Stomach, Eyes Locked.
- Control it, Stay Calm -
There Was To be No Assistance, Retaliation
Was To be Swift, and Effortless.
He Smiled as They Withdrew Their Weapons
From His Chest.
- Fall To Your Knees -
Choking on Muffled Screams, behind The
Blood and Mucus Filling his Mouth.
- Close your Eyes -
The Light Seemed To Bend in and out of The
Dark patches, It hit his eyes, and blinded him.
- This Makes Sense -
His Face hits Sand...
Copyright © Conor Jordan
I do not know?
Nobodys home so dont knock apon the
No need to empty the trash or sweep
To many bottles of booze mixed with
Notes left apon the wall.
Stained souls as the blood
Pictures far from center.
Trophies from the road.
Bones collect were memories
A long term vacation guess there's no
need to sign a lease.
May dust greet my bones.
Until I rest in peace.
The mask is but a facade.
Cracks in that perfect image.
All true art is flawed.
They know the person who is
Time traps the mind.
As love brings only agony.
Failure cast's doubt as old truthes
give way to new lies.
As the sunset bids farewell.
With it the story dies.
A fraction of myself I have yet
The pain is now transferred to
Reflection to late so may it rest in
Copyright © John Patrick Robbins AKA Gonzo
Here I lay, awaiting my death,
Counting down to my final breath.
My mind is so full of regrets,
Overwhelmed by my many debts.
Through the years I lost touch with friends,
And the wound this caused never mends.
My best friend died six years ago.
Until last year, I didn’t know.
Lord I wish we hadn’t lost touch.
But I guess I’m asking too much.
I just wish we could turn back time,
So that I could undo this crime.
But some seeds we cannot un-sow,
With one hundred breaths left to go.
And before I get down to one,
Lord I’d so love to see my son.
He hasn’t come to visit me.
I wasn’t a good dad you see.
I asked far too much from the boy,
My demands took away his joy.
He just wanted to have a say,
To navigate life his own way.
And isn’t that everyone’s goal,
To become our own unique soul?
Once upon a time it was mine.
But I let my dad redefine
The person I’d grow up to be,
‘Til I couldn’t recognize me.
I wish I had each of these back.
Then maybe we’d both be on track.
And perhaps before life is done,
I could say goodbye to my son.
Happiness was all my boy sought.
It’s a goal that I once forgot.
To become a clone of my dad,
I gave up the dreams that I had.
And now here I lay in this bed,
In eighty four breaths I’ll be dead.
And the trauma of my regrets
Is drenching my body in sweat.
I wish I had followed my dreams,
Sailed my vessel on different streams.
I wish I hadn’t worked so much,
Or let it cause me to lose touch,
With friends that I had long ago,
A son I never got to know.
And now I have run out of time,
With just me to blame for this crime.
And my guilt will join me in death.
I’m down to my last sixteen breaths.
I never thought I’d die this way;
All alone on my final day.
And as my last breath fills my chest,
I am still unable to rest.
For the spirit never forgets.
Death cannot erase my regrets.
What happens next, I can’t say.
You’ll see for yourself one fine day.
Death is what the journey begets.
Last breaths are no place for regrets.
Copyright © Mark Spencer
I'm half-way through this one..,
and long before it becomes one,
I usually erase the
I chose to call a poem.
But after a while, one thinks,
That like energy,
the truth radiates in spurts..
That continuity is a daydream,
That all growth is involuntary,
That not all coincidences are coincidental.
Like things, people too die,
and, that just like the root of a negative one,
One too, was an imaginary i.
Copyright © nikhil kshirsagar
Pigeons flutter in the park
eating refuse from the grass.
Noon comes; the hours pass.
Leaves fall; the sky grows dark.
Silence reigns throughout the park.
A crumpled headline, a forgotten toy,
lifeless, do not hear a far-off bark.
In the park, not a single little boy.
Midnight comes; the hours go --
soon, the sky begins to glow...
morning breaks, and with it, sound.
In the park begins the morning round.
White skeletons of benches -- slats --
in all the wintry parks of Age
fill up in morning. Deserted flats,
each with the aspect of a cage,
become an unused, waiting gauge
that measures dull and wasted years --
floods of loneliness -- rivers of fears...
The weak and battered, pallid crowd
which, daily, parks ingest
speak in muted tones; but loud
is the message all suggest.
The clangor of the beaten Belles,
trampled in the slime of years,
entreats the mind to plug its ears;
yet, if it will, it hears...
memories, perhaps, keep active still
the shriveled and the loosened flaps
that are the mouths of all the Bills --
reduced to gray and ugly gaps...
Down the graveled pathways come
children bent on carefree play.
Belles, though silent, are not dumb,
nor will the Bills forego their say.
But warnings fall on ears too deaf;
around are eyes too blind to see.
And so the tots, too young for Death,
play on and on till time for tea.
Day after day after day
children come and children play.
Pigeons flutter in the park;
Leaves fall; the sky grows dark.
Once more, deep silence claims the park.
Midnight hours come and go.
The sky again assumes a glow.
Wind stirs dead leaves to rustle.
Starts again the aimless bustle
of the battered, weak, and infirm-eyed:
those whom living failed -- who died
but still must play their signal role
of unloved, friendless, unhailed Old;
who gather daily in the park
to envy tots their vital spark --
the hope, the promise in their eyes --
before it fades, before it dies.
But tots at play -- the young, the bold --
must laugh and sing -- cannot be told
that youth's not long and Time is cold.
Time devours -- a ravenous beast --
and men are the courses at his feast.
Some he swallows in their prime,
On some he waits too long a time:
these rancid morsels, Time's midnight snack,
explore their memories. They hie them back
to that old moment, deepest black,
when they first dared to know -- and first said --
that Time's the master all men dread.
(Please read The Park -- Part Two, which is a continuation of
this poem...due to space limitations)
Copyright © Leo Larry Amadore
The 18th of December was her last day;
she neither knew the date nor cared to.
Gathered at the hospital, keeping vigil,
we couldn't overcome her fright, or ours.
The pain, too great to be driven away,
was only "managed" with IV drips,
needles stuck in bruised appendages --
bony things -- arms and legs, hands and feet.
Above the medicines and washes, we sniffed
her scent, which, more than her yet familiar
face, to us identified our mother --
a smell we never would mistake
for any other. It went quickly
as her body cooled. The rouged and pickled
carcass they displayed was more a statue
than a person. We planned to bury her
with homely tokens, like an ancient mummy:
a family photo, a brooch she liked,
a pink hairbrush, and the brass bell she rang
to call her keeper during her last years.
But, when the time came, I could not bear
to have her leave so finally;
I took the bell from her metal box.
And, now, I ring it -- not to bring a keeper,
but to recall my mother on her birthday,
and on many dark days when I need her.
Copyright © Leo Larry Amadore
The time will come...Then, let me lie easy in a box of natural pine
And please, no bouquets of store bought flowers will I want
Give the money instead to a soup kitchen, they need it more
A flower from your garden or the fields will do just fine
I'd love music; if there is I will hang around a little longer
Just listen as the soft breeze blows, I'll be whispering good byes
Should it rain that day, I'll dance in the puddles as I did as a child
Filled with excitement as cool drops rivulet down my face
As music wafts upon the wind, perhaps I'll frolic bare feet in lush green grass
Perchance it'd be a sunny day, I'd twirl in fields of golden wheat
Then anxiously, run to the whitest of white, sugar- fine sands
Stand on blue green ocean's edge; be teasingly chased by crested waves
Suddenly, I'd realize that I have all eternity; that time no longer has claims on me
I'd stand upon an ageless boulder; feel the vibration of rolling waves
All the while laughing as the ocean sprays cool mists gently wash my face
As I await the awesome moment - the grand reunion of light to light
For Paula Swanson's "When" Contest
Copyright © Annalise a.k.a. Audrey Haick
Strange shadows on these coral walls
stay hidden from the setting sun,
yet creeping through the shafts of amber light
drag behind them to the high parapet
a cloak of utter darkness.
Fierce defended, now are none:
no frightened men to urge the heavy cannon round
no shrill alarm or battle cries;
the end of this, as every other day has sealed
a silence now complete.
Once we held here, on this foreign shore,
the fortress of our childhood dreams
and all the world’s assaults
seemed nothing then;
an ocean breeze would cool the hurt of falling
and bring sweet scents to pick us up again.
Across the bay the dhows set sail upon a rising tide
their canvass spread against the purple sky.
We watched their leaving long ago
but you are gone away now, gone to sleep
and no injured soul so left alone
can wait to watch them home again.
Yet I will stand, a little or a while,
and will not fear cold shadows rising
nor while breathing yield the fort to them;
in every breach I meet your laughing eyes
and feel the warming of remembered suns.
Copyright © Florian Beauchamp
Alone and detached
void of all feeling
I ponder the past
that caught me at last
darkened cold stones
crushed by gravity
divided ten fold
memoirs of horrors
dying this death
lying to fate
haunting seeps over
my ghostly gasps
this coffin of roots
choking my cries
clawing at rocks
I curse the dirt
Copyright © Mitch White
Sometimes the memories won’t fade
All the places we have seen
All the prices we have paid
The memories of the happy as well as the sad
The people we’ve lost
The friends that we had
Some memories just seem like a ghost
I always lost everyone that I loved the most
The wind would just carry them away
Along with my tears
And my ability to pray
I wonder how far is heaven from here?
How many more heartaches
How many more tears
I wonder how far it is away
Because I have so many things that I wish to say
To all the people that I loved and I lost
I’m not even tripping
My heart paid the cost
The reaper rode the river in a bikers disguise
I’ll never forget the fear in my mother’s eyes
As he drug her under and then let her go
Through my four year old veins hate started to grow
My eyes were blind my ears were deaf
After that I forgot
There was anything left
Karma is like poker for it is bound to luck
When I was just a boy
God through me under the truck
Of all the things in life we feel
We are all bound to God’s will
Passion is a doorway between love and hate
God is the dealer in the game of fate
Our place is not to question why
For if we do our faith will die
The deeper we hate the deeper we love
I was gifted wisdom by the Lord above
Every gift comes at a price
A world of experience behind my advice
Every smile holds a lifetime of pain
Nothing that happens should happen in vein
It is our choice that which we do
Know in your heart these words are true
The harder we fall the further we climb
No ones life is totally sublime
Illusion after illusion will be offered to you
But only the living word is true
The living word that beats in your heart
Will keep you safe as the world falls apart
Through the pain of a boy watching his mother die
It’s never to late to kiss the sky
A man of faith who could never give up
Please come break my bread and share in my cup
By the time our journey is through
I’ll share all I am with you
Hopefully somewhere in my words you’ll see
---Untwisted is truly the way to be---
Copyright © Michael Jordan
The voices grow louder,
Intensifying with emotion, anger lining every aggressive word.
My insides squeeze tighter as the vitriol poisons my mind,
How does such hostility exist?
As the sound of hatred deepens,
The feelings strengthen their grip, like a vice,
So tight, I can no longer breathe
All the negative emotions I have ever felt, fill me,
Threatening to overflow.
So long have they been banished…
Enough. No more!
My mouth opens,
An earsplitting scream of pain and suffering shatters the silence,
Sobs of sorrow and grief wrack my body,
Murderous shrieks of anger and hate,
Wretched cries of self-pity and self-loathing,
Poison the air.
Now, free of these emotions.
But the monster still exists
Within the dark depths of my mind.
Copyright © Anastasia Papanicolaou
Within the forest’s dream of night’s true fright
shadows twist obsidian trees torment,
the cypress writhe in blood moon’s bright delight.
The hunter hides his nascent lust for might
and so the doe flees by man’s bow unbent,
within the forest’s dream of night’s true fright.
The cypress writhes in blood moon’s bright delight,
bedevil not the finer soul, repent,
the destined deed, must feed, man’s plight.
With deadly skill, fletched shaft sheers frosty night.
The horned hart does fall in wonderment,
within the forest’s dream of night’s true fright.
And torment flows in drops of crimson sight,
distorting right and light with man’s intent.
The cypress writhes in blood moon’s bright delight
Into the holy water blood rings light
for life is all and death is but dissent,
within the forest’s dream of night’s true fright,
the cypress writhes in blood moon’s bright delight.
Copyright © Debbie Guzzi
As I lay me
down to sleep
I pray the lord
my soul to take
if I shall die
before I wake
please watch me God
all through the night
and wake me and my loved
at morning light
please help me
with the endeavors I seek
please send me a soul mate
in which I can keep
please grant me the serenity
to know right from wrong
and be able to lead
strive to overcome
please keep my spirit strong
through the issues
that toil in my soul
I aspire for diamonds in life lord
and all around me
I see coal
I aspire to turn things around
for I feel my wishes have fallen
upon deaf ground
my heart has no voice
they struggle to hear my sound
I pray to be taken
away from my daily
battles, that humble
although compared to others
in the world
its not much trouble
to me, I feel
my spirit is caged
and yearns to be free
King of all Kings
in your image, you
you already know
each single step
my individual thought
you divinely bound me
in mothers womb
my existence you sought
bless me with the
chance to be
the person in which
you hoped for me
to soar like an eagle
dipping my talons of success
in life's sea
grant me an optimistic attitude
for that is the key
Amen to Thee
Copyright © Heather Hill
A childs innocent eyes should never know this place.
Blood stains the soul.
News reports flash another soon to be lost face.
She was just heading home unsuspecting of the danger.
In a world she should not know.
The veil of innocence shattred many will be affected by
the sick act of a stranger.
broken is the body tossed like rag doll into the
trash alone in her cries.
Taken so many with her as the innocent dies.
The evening news plays a mothers plea.
Hope is all they cling to as time does pass.
Prayers asked of many but it's outta the
hands of you and me.
What is a story on the evening news is a life
stolen from the hearts many held dear.
To know this pain is beyond understanding
it exist's on the edge of hell in the constant season
known as fear.
A perfect innocent face.
Should never exist apon posters.
Missing to only eternally haunt the
Do monsters exist young fearful eye's ask seeking
protection as helpless to answer the question.
you havent a clue.
And with eyes cast with regret.
The parent with a heavy heart most reply
yes they do.
Copyright © John Patrick Robbins AKA Gonzo
Saint Blackheart walks the Autumn streets and smiles with diamond eyes;
She's well-aware of what you think, but listens to your lies.
Confess your deepest fantasies or never look her way --
She's free with random kindness, though she won't have much to say.
Saint Blackheart seeks the shadows for the secrets they impart.
Her life's a patchwork puzzle made with jagged shards of art --
Impressionistic paintings on a canvas dipped in red;
She dances like a demon for the angels in her head.
Saint Blackheart loves the twilight and the elemental rain;
She'll stand and watch you suffer, yet she senses all your pain.
A soft, Franciscan echo making up a primal scream
Can hurtle from her crimson lips and dart from dream to dream.
Saint Blackheart lives in solitude among the ancient trees --
You'll find her there within the mist, but never on her knees.
Her hands will offer nothing which is not her own to give;
And though you wish to die in peace, she may just let you live.
Saint Blackheart will not weep with you or wipe away your tears,
Yet she may catch their crystal hue and treasure it for years.
She'll lay a little flower on a long-forgotten grave --
A tribute to the tortured soul she never tried to save.
Copyright © M. Teresa Blaylock
As a child, I wished
I could refill
With old grits and scrambled eggs
And raise sons that bled to death during night-labor.
I thought this would resurrect souls
Six feet below
By the black holes
When I prayed, I cursed
The Angel of Death
For not committing suicide
Or at least aborting Murder.
After God found me,
I helped found a new Garden of Eden
The Venus flytrap
That feeds off a human's flesh and last breath,
And releases non-essential elements
That even suffocate
These acts of kindness
In hopes of being found guilty
Prevention of murder
And eventually being
The life-after-death sentence.
Copyright © Victor Kwansa