Sitting by her open window,
Was a girl deep in thought,
Lost within a book of Poe,
A perfect poem she sought.
With a curious eye,
He watches her pen,
For she gives it a try,
Every now and then.
He will visit her forevermore,
In silent hours of midnight,
Casting his shadow on her floor,
Within the full moonlight.
Mysterious, nocturnal bird,
Calling out to darkened land,
Speaking such wise word,
Which I cannot understand.
I am lonely, I must confess,
It's just you, me and the moon,
You are much like me, I guess,
So, please sing me another tune.
A messenger of death,
Wailing songs of a banshee,
Has my grim reaper cometh,
Was this warning meant for me?
My soul was projected,
In the shadow of a fowl,
A raven I had expected,
Not the silhouette of an owl!
A torch carried on forever, indeed,
for the aggressive rhymer in me,
is alive again, unshackled and freed,
rising to challenge another day, I see.
As I found myself lost deep in Tolkien,
with epic Star Wars, never ending,
surrounded in a geek paradise, serene,
optical illusions before me, suspending.
Life's songs on guitar strings strummed,
an epiphany unlike they've ever heard,
euphoric dreams in my visions hummed,
as I pen archaic word after archaic word.
Artistry is born only to be my brother,
encircled this star, a pentagram made,
my day is done, I have conquered another,
as the sun slowly brings down the shade.
A Word Collage For Chan Hurst
(Cyndi MacMillan's contest)
Her smile was lopsided, crooked
And her eyes had lost their shine
In a wheelchair bound and broken
Sat this mother dear of mine
Once the one that they called “Sunshine”
Now was bowed with grief and care
Garbled speech and eyes unfocused
Made the people stop and stare
Yet in this woman there was hidden
Beauty of the rarest kind
Love for God and for her family
Love for words all graced her mind
She was brave and she was noble
Took the falls and burns and smiled
Knowing that her child, a daughter
Lived with fear so justified
People did not see the beauty
Hidden in her crumpled form
All that they could show was pity
Perhaps that is just the norm
But in her dear withered body
MS had so brutalized
Was a mother’s lasting beauty
That her daughter eulogized
Once a flower brightly blooming
In the garden of my home
She remains my flower ever
In the memories where I roam
I grew up knowing my mother was ill and that she would eventually die due to MS. I lost my Mama on March 19, 2000. I still miss her...Her name? Angel. That was my Mama's name. When she was younger, they used to call her Sunshine because of her dazzling smile....
More poems I've written about my Mama:
The strength of a man is not determined
By his muscles or his brawn
It is determined by his strength
To admit when he is wrong
The wisdom of a man
Is not determined by myriad facts
It is determined by the way
That wisdom is seen in his acts
The integrity of a man
Is not determined by his claim
It is determined by the reputation
That follows around his name
The love of a man
Is not determined by mere time
It is determined by each moment
That he makes you feel sublime
The sexual prowess of a man
Is not related to his size
It’s how he satisfies your needs
And what you see there in his eyes
The chivalry of a man
Is not determined by his manhood
It is determined by how he nurtures
You to revel in womanhood
The passion of a man
Is not his need to self-gratify
It is determined by how often
He makes the effort to satisfy
The wealth of a man
Is not seen in monetary things
But by those things that are free
That to your life he brings
The age of a man
Is not seen in the age life deals
But by the strength of his heart
And how young he makes you feel
The sweetness of a man
Is not determined by what he says
But it's determined by the fact
That you want him more each day
The humour of a man
Is not determined by a hurtful tease
It’s determined by how your laugh
When his words your heart please
A man is an awesome creation
That I’m determined to venerate
As Eve’s daughter much in love
This male wonder I celebrate.
Eileen Manassian Ghali
I write of young Timothy
A very thoughtful young man
A thinker among thinkers
He writes to all that he can
He places wonderful comments
And sees life in his own way
Things are so fascinating
He so enjoys his word play
Then there is my friend Becca
She's sweet and refined
Her comments so generous
They reveal a heart that's kind
What is more spectacular
Is the poems that she has penned
Once I get to reading them
I wish that they didn't end
I have a new friend Freddie
Who may seem a darker sort
But there is much more to him
I am happy to report
He will not sugar coat it
His comments are to the point
When it comes to honesty
He adds color to the joint
Young Anne is a butterfly
As she flutters all about
She touches many people
So I give her this shout out
Her poems like diamonds
Or perhaps even more rare
There may not be so many
They're all written with such care
I can't forget sweet Yanny
She is a lovely sweet girl
Each comment a special gift
Each word precious like a pearl
With her own style of writing
She knows how to mesmerize
She can be inspiration
As words dance before my eyes
I wish I could honor more
But I'm limited to five
The poets here at the soup
That all make me feel alive
I am thankful for comments
For all the good and the bad
If they were to stop coming
That would really make me sad
Poem of dedication contest
The October night was dark and cold,
As the autumn sun was going down,
When I recalled the legends I had been told,
About this sleepy, little town.
There were tales about the haunted woods,
They say the wind seems to call your name,
I was going where no one should,
And if I survived, I'd never be the same.
I walked through the covered bridge,
As the harvest moon rose into the sky,
I had made it around the darkened ridge,
Just as I heard a lone wolf's cry.
I walked the path of the dark, gnarled thicket,
Through the fallen leaves of maple and oak,
I heard the chirping of a cricket,
Near the hollow, where the bullfrogs croak.
Then, I heard the "hoot" of an owl in a tree,
And the "caw" of a raven on it's perch,
The headless horseman I hoped not to see,
As I passed the graveyard near the church.
I told myself I would be alright,
Just as I heard the hooves of a horse,
But, I knew I would make it home tonight,
Because there are no ghosts, of course.
Written by: Kelly Deschler
(This was my tribute to "The Legend Of Sleepy Hollow" by Washington Irving.
I wrote it from the perspective of Ichabod Crane.)
Rebecca's poetry is impeccable
I am totally blown away
By this writer of beautiful poetry
In a class by herself, Triple A
Not only is her poetry totally divine
But to hear her recite it, I melt
With a voice as soft as an angel's voice
As delicate as I've ever felt
Honoured to call Rebecca a friend
This talented very sweet soul
I'm touched by this kind hearted lady
Rebecca with a heart of gold
Rebecca's poetry is impeccable
I am totally blown away
Her voice is as soft as that of an angel
She the sunshine of my day
My loving tribute to dear Rebecca Lucas
© Jack Ellison 2013
Charmaine, the dear soul writes like an angel
Her poetry is beautiful and touching
She writes with a passion known to only a few
You'll find your heart you'll be clutching
Some just know how to create those phrases
That leave us in awe and wonderment
A natural talent that some are born with
For others it a struggle and torment
But Charming Charmaine has it down pat
It's to do with her approach to life
Definitely sways the way she writes poetry
A style that does surely entice
Charmaine, the dear lady is a friend of mine
I'm so happy to know this soul
Stands tall in the world of romantic poetry
So fortunate she's an honour to know!
© Jack Ellison 2013
My loving tribute to Charmaine Chircop
Go with the Flo, I've heard it said
Think I'm gonna give it a shot
What a sensual, passionate lady she is
Sure doesn't hide her plot
Always fires straight from the heart
Doesn't have ulterior motives
Whatever she's written is the way it is
No BS, no flowery emotive
Became attracted to her immediately
With her honest, up front style
Very appealing with no secret agenda
Maintaining her feminine guile
A gem to be sure here on Poetry Soup
A breath of fresh air to be sure
Just a wee poem to offer my friendship
As my silly humour she endures!
© Jack Ellison 2013
As my silly humour she endures!
She gave me a star by my name
Just what I’ve dreamed of for so long
There by name, a shinning star
To PM Members I belong
She gave me a star...
She gave me a tiara for my hair
Sent messages for the “Queen”
She chased all my tears far away
A kinder heart I've not seen
She gave me tiara
She gave me a smile for my lips
Brought the sunshine right on in
It’s hard to fathom such sweet care
This friendship of ours is a win
She gave me a smile
I wish for something more to give
Than this simple silly old rhyme
I’d give her what she desired
Something that will last through all time
I’ll give her my love!
Eileen Manassian Ghali
I wanted to say a very humble thank you to F J for her stupendous gift of a PM Membership. If you only knew how long I've wanted it and the reasons why I didn't get around to it....Lots of reasons. Here it is...a gift....a star by my name...by a star in my sky. :) F J....you've been more than kind to me....First the tiara and queen title...now this....I will carry this in my heart....for as long as it beats. Thank you for your wonderful friendship. God bless you!
Great Grandpa Zerbst, I wish was here
I'd like him still around
He had a herd of Hereford cows
His farmin' sense was sound
He passed away when I was young
I'd only seen him twice
But even though his life was rough
I'm sure that he was nice
At first, he had some horse-drawn rigs
To grow his crop of wheat
A tractor then, in place of them
That had a metal seat
He had a herd of ninety cows
A huge Wyomin' spread
But now a herd of oil-rigs
Are drillin' in their stead
A lot of things Great Grandpa knew
From distant Germany
But now these things I wish I knew
Are buried 'neath a tree
Something that lets you express
Feelings that you don’t wanna suppress
Something that can be of mixed emotions
Different themes and distinctions
Something that gives words the power
Of changing hearts, wills and bringing peace to war
Something that gives you your right
Of freedom of speech may you be black or white
Something that can touch your heart, fill your eyes with tears making them watery,
And that something is none other than poetry……..
Poetry on Poetry
At the Borgo Pass I met a coach and horse,
And the villagers warned me not to go,
They were worried about a supernatural force,
But I had business in Transylvania, though.
The coach rumbled along the Carpathian mountain road,
Through the lightning and pounding rain,
We arrived at an old, darkened abode,
And I thought this trip was all in "vein".
But then opened the great castle door,
And the Count bid me welcome to his house,
He cast no shadow on the floor,
Where scurried a bat and a mouse.
In the mirror he cast no reflection,
On our dinner he did not dine,
And upon my curious inspection,
He drank no water or wine.
Then late that night I awoke with fright,
As something hovered over my bed,
Then I felt a quick, sharp bite,
From a vampire who's eyes glowed red.
Then cried the children of the night,
As all at once, there shined a beam,
I awoke to see a ray of sunlight,
And realized it was all just a dream.
(This poem was my tribute to "Dracula" by Bram Stoker)
For these ingredients, check life's pantry.
But be warned: most are hard to find!
However, when mixed in a bowl most pure,
They make a 'dish' that's one-of-a-kind!
Take equal parts of honesty
And gratitude beyond mere words ;
Add to this loyalty, generosity &
Strong conviction in healthy thirds.
You'll need devotion, compassion
And kind thoughtfulness ;
A pinch of pure dedication -
Wrapped in warm trustworthiness.
Now stir in a sense of humour,
Don't go easy on the laughter -
As you'll find this fashionably tasteful,
With a tang that lingers long after.
What amazes about this intriguing dish
Is how it rises above adversity,
Due to its special resilient essence
Based on home-grown spirituality!
When of this unique creation
You have truly experienced,
Life will no longer be the same:
For it will be immeasureably enriched!
She prowls the night
with clenched jaw and pride,
nothing able to smite
her remorseless stride.
The ominous reflection of moon
shines forth from devouring eyes
of a nocturnal beauty spun on the loom
of the Creator's bid and sighs.
Grace moves her every limb
and she precedes an enraged scream
caused by ruins of a forest now grim
and held alive by all but one stream.
Her claws prophesy of vengeance
though her heart yearns for reconciliation.
Yet now there would be no leniency
for a soul's annihilation.
Now on journeys through lush valleys and ashes
she will embark
until all that remains after furious thrashes
will be the tigress' mark.
dreams or illusions of living in peace and harmony
In thinking about life's problems I didn't come undone
images still float in the wind, music of the Harmonie
The magical dream of people on earth living as one
An adolescent desire of a world with a lasting peace
let us justify a bad decision to stop sowing seeds
or are we nomadic people, living like a flock of geese
Life is following the one in front, unsure of where it leads
with ideas, seeds are sown, establishing a path to peace
Can we transcend innovations, to stop following the flocks
to learn people exchanging views possibilities will increase
listening to people and stop throwing metaphoric rocks
"Yesterday, trouble was distant life a game to be played"
Our people may be gone, but our past lets us be unafraid
My angel seems far away, but memories will never fade
all dreamers, vying in the game of life will never be swayed
I still believe and long for yesterday
for Beatlemania! contest
of Heather Ober
Attila the Hun was a kindly old soul
He raped and plundered the land
With the aid of his murderous henchmen all
A truly psychotic man
The kind of man you'd like as a friend
If you love to ransack and pillage
Hitler was another of these murderous souls
Marauding each town and village
Need more of the likes of Benito Mussolini
Such honourable leaders all
But I harken back to Attila the Hun
His exploits leave me enthralled
May seem like I've tumbled over the edge
But I blame it on dear Eileen Ghali
She poked and prodded me into submission
Could no longer dilly and dally
© Jack Ellison 2013
Dedicated to my dear good friend Eileen Ghali!
I look you up and look you over,
better days have left you far behind,
you're older, but to me you're still appealing,
yet you draw comments that are less than kind.
You're neglected, not consulted,
when an answer is required,
hidden now behind the others,
avoided, disregarded, mired.
I massage your spine with oil and friction,
restoring your luster to cherish and keep,
remembering when you were readily handled,
sought after, popular, top of the heap.
I'm so busy these days with my key restorations,
I scarcely have time, and I don't have a say,
so you'll have to wait for my deft ministrations,
a labor of love, postponed for a quieter day.
...to Charlie Hebert, with respect and affection
Wind-swept and sunburnt alone on the fairway
he fusses and frets with his lie;
he's been here for ever commanding the links
ever since you and I were knee high.
Golf is his passion, he lives and he breathes
for the chance to play just one more round,
replacing his divots, observing the rules
and keeping his feet on the ground.
Always nattily dressed he is ready
to tee up and go for the green;
the young guns are anxious to unseat old Chuck,
but he's crafty, and wily, and mean!
It's the day of the championship and he is ready
to teach these young men how it's played;
at the turn he's ahead with a three under par,
he will show them how great shots are made.
On the final hole two men are tied for the lead,
they are edgy as each eyes the pin;
Jim misses his putt, it goes wide to the left,
and Charlie makes par for the win!
In the clubhouse they congratulate the old boy on his score,
he thanks them from the bottom of his heart;
here's to Charlie then, to bunkers and to bad lies and to rain,
to another shot at glory when he climbs aboard the cart!
I'm a country boy who needs you
The first time you're washed you bleed blue
You go with all of my T-shirts
If I rip you I will be hurt
As crisp as Mississippi's air
I still will wear you with a tear
You are something I'll never share
Got four or five favorite pair
Something I won't trade khakis for
Brown as bags from the package store
Since my favorite color's blue
I want you in every hue
From the stonewashed to rigid you
When I can't buy I visit you
I'm hoping that they give me you
'Cause your fit I'm addicted to
It's like a weight lifted off of my heart;
I am no longer torn apart.
Thank God you are safe;
Everything is okay.
...inspired by a Dylan Thomas short story
A breezy day, and two boys biking down the lane
past meadows green with envy, soft as spring.
Picnic-packed and ready for the day's adventure.
They passed hikers who cried "Hey, lend us yer bikes!"
The lads whizzed by, not giving them a second thought.
"I bet them's fire cows," Jimmy said, (he had a wild
imagination.) "Nah, them's Holsteins, don't be daft!"
said John. The air was full of magic, and the sky
alive with seagulls. The ocean glinted to their right,
sparkling like the twinkle in a young girl's eye.
They hurried to their destination, breathless with
anticipation, hurtling to a Neverland they'd mostly
seen in pictures, a rocky outcrop, pounded by
the waves, a fearsome confrontation with the sea,
a playground where imaginations flourish.
“I bet there's dragons in them caves,” said Jimmy,
"and trolls and such, with fangs and fiery breath!"
“You're crazy!” countered John, (he read the Bible),
“'sides there's Jesus, He will shelter you from death
for now, make sure you're well and in good health."
Skittering on slabs as slick as ice fields,
tottering like lambs who've found their legs;
they played until the frigid water beckoned,
then splashed and frolicked, ducking from the heat.
Opening their back packs now, they settled down to eat.
It was then, the first time they'd discussed it,
Wally, Jimmy's brother, gone to God;
dead from cancer barely two weeks prior,
disconnected, laid beneath the sod.
Their tones were sullen, conversation somber.
“Is Wally with the Angels?” Jimmy questioned.
“Yes he is,” said John, “and safe at rest.”
They cycled home in silence, friends forever,
and settled in their beds, forever blessed,
the moon endowed their dreams, a welcome guest.
Discovered a new friend, he lives in B.C.
Nicknamed him West Coast Richard
Most days he's up at the crack of dawn
Like me, but he shaves off his whiskers
His poetry's creative, exceptional bar none
He's just about to publish a book
Wish him luck he's certainly gonna need it
Watch for it at your local book nook
Sometimes friends just happen on the scene
Unexpectedly enriching our lives
Richard most definitely is one of those souls
Like me he's enjoying the ride
Strange how friendships suddenly develop
Without prior notice or warning
A sincere young fellow without an agenda
Wakes up with a smile each morning
Without getting sloppy or overly verbose
I'll end this with a wish that you all
Find a good friend like West Coast Richard
Enjoy life and just have a ball!
© Jack Ellison 2012
Twenty brand new angels
arrived just yesterday.
Frightened and confused
they only wished to stay
with parents now left empty,
and shattered beyond belief.
Their babies’ precious little lives
stolen by a spineless thief
with evil in his heart,
and killing on his mind.
Dear God where are you now?
It’s getting hard to find
a reason for the carnage,
and the acts of the insane.
Can we still find eternal love
surrounded by such pain?
Now twenty brand new angels
who only yesterday did die,
and with them, too, the innocence.
Why, dear God, why?
for the Sandy Hook children. RIP.
...dedicated to the Russian poet Anna Akhmatova.
Her cranium, its bumps and hollows,
cradles secrets stored beneath,
neurons firing, never tiring
of their journeys to belief.
Thin vibrations mold, embolden,
suffuse the soul, engage the spirit
of the tortured Akhmatova.
O luckless maid! such beauteous
blush with modest blandishments
did'st flash to woo a Prince
o'erthrown, in madness' grasp!
Still-born, ne'er meant to flourish,
true love was the hapless prey,
Polonius lay cold, extinguish'd
in the Dane's misguided sway.
It drove thee mindless, to a frenzy,
death thy only destination,
borne by rippling river's eddy
to thy final resting place.
If I had the choice to start over again
What would I rather have been
A rocket scientist, a famous writer
Or a stand-up like Norma Jean!
Must've been fun to make 'em laugh
To make people giggle and smile
To help them forget life's many struggles
If only for a very short while
Now that's what I call a fun type job
But I'm sure it had its down side
Like sleeping all day and up all night
Could make a person bleary eyed!
Must've been hard in New York City
Trying to please a tough crowd
Her comedic skills are evident today
When you read her poetry out loud!
So instead of a comic, I became an artist
Kinda similar in a way don't ya think
Both creative and unique occupations
Guess we both ended up in the pink!
© Jack Ellison 2013
Norma Jean was a good friend on another poetry site!
Recently read that us male type guys
Are no longer the reigning kings
Women have taken over in recent years
Wearing that crown type thing
Taking advantage of what all that means
They rule the roost with impunity
Strong and confident and capable of leading
Us men nod our heads approvingly
Let's just see if the ladies can do better
We've botched it up good, us guys
I'd predict there'll be no more stupid wars
Imagine sending their sons to die
So raise your glass to this exiting new order
Hope we'll soon come out of this stupor
With the ladies strongly in control of things
I predict a bright, shiny new future
© Jack Ellison 2013
(Inspired by Demetrios Trifiatis' Woman's Day Poems)
At this ripe old age of seventy-eight
Thought girlies would no longer phase me
On the contrary, more now than ever before
A lifetime girl watchers club honouree
A member of the club of leering old men
They still turn my rusty old crank
Just because sometimes I fail to zip up
I'm still pretty alert to be frank
I admit at times I forget to wear jockeys
In combination with failing to zip up
The impact of these two glaring omissions
Cause a furor when playing mini-putt
Sure gather a crowd, thought at first it was me
My rugged good looks and stuff
Soon realized they all were focusing below
Guess it's better than playing in the buff
© Jack Ellison 2014
I drove through town the other day
I’ve been away so long
I closed my eyes and slipped away
emotions were so strong
The Chattahoochee glory days
still live within my mind
Amazing people shared their lives
to me they were so kind
I thank the leaders in that town
they helped us at the fork
Doc Richardson and Lafayette
Lamar and Sheriff York
The spirits of our childhood friends
still gather at the lake
Although we left so long ago
our ties they never break
We danced and sang to Moody Blues
Ole Peat Moss led the way
Gene Tipton played a mean guitar
those were the good ole days
I thought of others that we knew
who died before their time
Dear friends and neighbors to us all
some left us in their prime
My mind replayed a thousand joys
from days so long ago
I drove out to the lake once more
and then I had to go
I watched the city disappear
as we all drove away
I wiped away a tear or two
I’ll come another day