She hummed the dawning of the day
while spry hands bounced babies
Wielded a spatula with expeditious
movements flipping pancakes onto a plate
Folded napkins at place settings
She was in full swing at noonday
as brisk hands folded lunchmeat and bread
into sandwiches Smoothed the creases
from pages of homework Kept the iron
moving in a pendulum motion over
the mounds of spanking clean laundry
She talked with her hands
gesturing wildly with excitement
Administered slaps to unruly kids with her hands
She took all gossip with a grain of salt
Tossed a pinch over her shoulder
with a cupped hand just in case
With reverent hands and nimble fingers
she daily turned the pages of the good book
unerringly finding the appropriate Bible verse
Now a smattering of age spots dusts her smiling
frail countenance aglow through paper-thin skin
And mother folds her twilight hands
Copyright © Monterey Sirak
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
Copyright © Eileen Manassian
A Tribute To Peter Duggan
What can I say as tribute to this great man
the kindness in his poems just beams out
His great love of Nature, family and life can
cause my heart to rise up and sing out!
First, I saw a man writing with a sweet soul
with clear flowing waters in his stream
Writing about good and even about life's toll
never lets up on heart and mind's dream!
Rivers he knew just like his own huge heart
a man of passion that danced with glee
Yes, he wrote with gold right from the start
honorable man, great poet he surely be!
Love of all life, family and his darling wife
Peter ran a path I dreamed of as well
Never one to mince words about past strife
he inked the page, often giving it hell!
Poetry seemed melted into his Aussie blood
sweet verses he grew as Nature's flowers
Energetic and valiant, no stick in the mud
his poems were all like Spring showers!
Nothing more to say except tribute is sincere
would love to meet he and family some day
Where our gathering would bring all good cheer
Thank God if that blessing came my way!
Contest Name-- Tribute
Enter Poetry Contest
Deadline 9/2/2015 12:00:00 AM
Copyright © Robert Lindley
Bob had been a lonely man ever since
His wife of fifty years had passed.
“Lord, let me join her.” he would pray.
“Let this day be my last.”
Each day, he went to the cemetery,
Just a short walk down the street.
After their talk, he would water her flowers
And hear passers-by whisper, “How sweet.”
One gray and misty morning,
He had hoped for sunnier skies
To plant fall bloomers at her graveside;
But, there, to his surprise…
Stood an old dog beside her stone;
Thin and dirty, but he struck a handsome pose.
He whined as Bob approached, as if to say,
“I could use a friend, you know.”
He sat calmly as Bob planted flowers,
Carefully sniffing each one Bob put in place.
Then, after the last one was planted,
He sniffed it; then turned and licked Bob’s face.
Bob smiled. “I had a dog when I was young…
Pal…he was a mighty good one too.
So, if you don’t mind old fella,
That’s what I’ll call you.”
Pal may have been an old dog,
But he was smart and handsome in his way;
So they made a deal, Bob would give him a meal
And a bath, if he decided to stay.
Pal loved his bath, then rolled in the grass.
He slept on a blanket in the den.
In the night, he dragged it next to Bob’s bed.
He intended to be Bob’s best friend.
Pal was such a good dog, housebroken too;
Never made a mess or got in trouble.
He knew about newspapers, slippers and Frisbees;
And when Bob called, he ‘d come on the double.
Yes, Pal gave Bob’s life new purpose.
A special bond of friendship was cast.
And never again did Bob pray,
“Lord, let this day be my last.”
For twelve years, the very best of friends,
Together night and day;
And so it was, until one night,
Both quietly passed away.
The next morning, an old woman,
Tears welling in her sad and lonely eyes,
Brought flowers to her husband’s grave;
But there, to her surprise….
Stood an old dog beside the stone,
Thin an dirty, but he struck a handsome pose.
He whined as she approached, as if to say,
“I could use a friend, you know.”
He sat calmly as she took old flowers
And put fresh ones in their place.
He carefully sniffed the fresh ones,
Then turned and licked her face.
She smiled. “I had a dog when I was young...
a good one too. His name was Pal.”
Copyright © Robert Candler
When I met her , a very old lady she was , yet inside lay a frightened child .
I felt my heart cry , I felt as if I was touching history itself , as I made this older lady, child, chai .
I remember the day , and so many tears I have cried
I have cried before she and I met
As a child , so many tears, left confused inside .
Not understanding Why , and how could we stand by and live our lives as if this never happened ?
It happened , we are left in dismay of the movies seen the accounts taken of History
My self ..I have caught stereotyping the very people whom did this to she , the rest of her Family erased .
The white candles we light , we try and forgive , or just simply block this pain out completely.
It occurs , over and over , as it has been said History will repeat .
When thinking of my children , when I think of that little girl losing , cold and scarred , feeling only defeat .
There is a lesson here and I pray , that all whom have been taken from life , have no pain and are gifted spirits throughout eternity . May they be warmed with love, and reunited with the ones they lost .
The first time I met her , her old hand I took and warmed it with mine , I held it for a long time .
You could not, but notice ..the Evil imprinted on skin , the Evil only to remind.
This very old Soul , in her eyes you could see .
The child that once lived , so innocently free, not aware yet, of the Hostility .
I speak of a Little girl, I speak of a old woman , I speak of a Jewish, chosen Religion.
There as I held her frail , old hand , a brand , a number stamped in Evil a long time ago . In 1945 , once in our distant, yet Frightening past .
We should never forget , never forget it happened , never forget all the names .
If we do , we have learned nothing , A World living in Shame .
" Etta Babooshka Kofman "
Copyright © Shanity Rain
Round tiny bug moves slow along the garden path
Avoiding traffic as it trudges along
Carries the hardened armor of its ancestry
Down there too, through the centuries
The weight of that nobility
With it, on its back, through history
Portals of time laid out in its direction
Its lineage developed skills for battles
In darkened bitter caves
With aging somber rocks in far off lands
And along the seasoned shores
Over millions and billions of years
Ants search day and night for this small creature
Little round bugs are a staple on their menu
They will not rest until
This morsel is served up in honor of their queen
Solo insect as black as death
Stands by in armor ready
Ants take their forces onward against the drop of day
Their tiny march relentless, endless and grave
Black bug hunkers down in his encasing
Waiting In case bad things should happen
And to survive another day
The army attacks
Storms in on solo bug in stark surprise
With concise incisions ready
Sharp mandibles set to dissect it on the spot
Little bug has one last trick
It tastes of sour and stinky feet
The ants retreat defeated
Round bug makes its rounds about the garden gate
In its cultivated aged defense makes it to another day
Future generations will praise this day
That kept their kind alive
Depriving queen ant of a nasty meal
Of destinies surprise
Copyright © Earl Schumacker
He is my fortress and my strength
His love he has proven at length
In times of sickness and in times of health
He has remained open not stealth.
In youth we loved passionately
With children we loved affectionately
In middle age we loved calmly
With age we love patiently.
Many decades we leave behind us
Yet a few decades remain ahead of us
We are free to say what is on our mind
Knowing we’ve survived the test of time.
When money we had little of
When children were ill
When we were hurt by family or friends –
When one was ill, the other thrived
we held on
so neither was ever left behind.
This is the legacy we leave
Not of a love that is divine
But of a love that has ridden the roller coaster ride
Copyright © Natala Orobello
I'm watching you age
into wiser smiles, measured steps.
(Your lines look beautiful)
Gravity of life reshaped
our foolish expenses of energy
(Oh, the hurrying we did together)
wasted vanity of emotions.
I love our becoming...
more vast of vivid moments
(Our expanding normal bits)
gnarled with experiences.
Copyright © Misheel Chuluun
I have an addiction...
It dont matter what time of day it is my addiction is there...
Not always in the literall since...
But it is always on my mind...
I lay my head down to sleep at night thinking about you...
I sleep dreaming about you...
I wake up thinking about you...
Your always on my mind...
No matter what I do my addiction is always on my mind...
Even if your not the last one I talk to before I lay my head down to sleep...
I still lay my head down thinking of you...
I just cant get enought of you...
No matter what my addiction is there...
My addiction has a name...
Her name is Shelby Nestle...
No matter how much we text or talk on the phone...
Its never enough...
I cant get enough of your beautiful eyes...
I cant get enough of that beautiful smile...
I cant get enough of kissing your soft lips...
That feeling I get inside when our lips touch...
Or holding you in my arms...
This is a new addiction to me...
Never have I been this addicted this quick...
It scares the shyt outta me...
But then I love it...
You are my new addiction baby...
You are my...
You are my own personal drug...
I cant imagine and addiction stronger...
You are my addiction...
I wouldnt even think about trying to break this addiction...
I wouldnt go to rehab for this addiction...
I like it to much...
YOU ARE PERFECT JUST THE WAY YOU ARE
Copyright © jaremy mount Jr
Every day is Father's Day
Dad grew old and frail in natural order we fear
War and age created gaps in time, holes in reason
Added to detraction's on his decline
Generations formed coalitions without permission
Things come into existence for a time
We are the children by him and by his side
Who grew, arms and legs, solid foundations
Creation, with other supports, sometimes failed
We grew our own gaps, holes in reason, ways to end
By digging in the wrong direction
Then, hung with vigilance, understanding, change
Clinging to hope like virgins in May
Waiting for what may come our way
Dad survives purely on love in poor health
Between you and me, he feels the power
We are his children, his pillars of support
No matter what the pain or cost
Old, collapsed, an ancient structure
Falling our way one last time
We catch and hold him up in honor
As pillars on either side to do just that
Copyright © Earl Schumacker
The soul of the ram
The Aries soul, is bold and strong
He does things his own way
Strong willed, ambitious, energetic
You’ll not turn him a way
If he has something on his mind
He needs be listened to
Patience to him is a stranger
He loves all movement too.
He’s good at sport, he needs to win
Losing is not for him
And when he’s angry at some one
It all looks kind of grim
Cause Aries men fight to the end
They have no sense of fear
And that they want to run the show
He make this oh so clear.
He lives his life with passion
He needs to be fulfilled
But his attention moves too quick
And what he’s trying to build
Will disappear like last year’s rain
That’s just the way he is
Our Aries he’s a real mans, man
You can be sure of this.
22 May 2013@1307hrs.
Copyright © Peter Duggan
I sat in a kind of wasted skin stupor and
try to make sense of my reality idiom in pisces
blue A minor sequence aqueoushumor blind sigh-ted
by a dubious passion to be a teacher of pious on
metaphors to go to the holy innocents of a yestertommorrow
I talk ramble by day of the slammer sociomenace
while they glassed eyed park their sick l cells in
unneutral and (in double park synapse in tow---let me catch an old
glimmer of naked frenzy-taut as a stretched, cracked
brittle rubber band praying for one last turnstretch to
flipfly a higher band than the last cloud pattern, given
to the raised eyebrows of montoya clammerings of hocus
pocus Jekyll/Hyde explosive endeavor trick or treats
without the brownwhite wrapper or the righteous look
pinch pout pocket of a boy dowell. Keep the false faith friends,
Copyright © Dave Collins
When walking a path that you wish to take
A memory of love that never was a mistake
Holding hands with the most of caring person
Gave a virtue of different emotions and lesson
Now you share and grow to care for another
And you have created a family with no other
It shows through generations that you have virtue
Of whom you shared your love and faith in is true
The image of both of you comes to make a new
A new creation of a reflection of you
Copyright © Reynaldo Mast
24 years between 22 yards,
Records being made like palace of cards,
He is one who breathes cricket,
A player,whom no opponent can hate.
He plays cricket only,thinks everyone...
But playing with nos. Is his real fun..
His achievements are his identity,
He's a true legend in reality.
663 Matches,34357 runs,100 tons,154 fifties,200 wickets are enough to call him sir,
He's no other than SACHIN TENDULKAR..
Records are so,that can be written an encyclopedia,
Most times news,was he for media.
Head is at seventh sky,still feet at ground,
Kept every responsibility brilliantly,it is found.
Our Indian soil was blessed on 24 april 1973, when he born.
That day was for Indian cricket, a new dawn.
Family supportive,start training at 11,
His focus being perfect,that's why he has today heaven..
On 15 nov 1989, he came whirling his bat,
At 16,before pakistan,he was like before lion,a rat.
May start was bad,but determination was atmost,
Passing all hurdles,he reached the coast.
Then fours and six and runs and records.
Oh my goodness! Everyone has to laud..
Time was departing,so were players,
But immotile as hill,he was there,
WHat he cannot do was unanswerable,
His story in future become fable.
Those watching him play at childhood,share field with him,
But wrinkles in his performance was never seen..
Equalling Billgates' income he won hearts.
He was the whole piece,but then also considered himself a part..
Father's wish was to be a good human,
Now every father want such son.
Every thing achieved,giving father tribute asked-" Have i made it large?"
May height so small but deed so enlarge..
But every good thing comes to an end,
And so does when our legend descends.
With brim on head,tricolour in hand.
Touches the pitch,saying I did my job, my sand...
Make everyone happy when he bats,
Now tears in every eyes, but everyone pats..
The god of cricket,jesrsy no. 10......
This passion,determination,stamina,spirit & much more we'll see when???
In india,"Its Impossible" is replaced by "Its sachin"
Your Father must be proudly saying-"my son,u win"
The ladder he climbed,no one can reached,
Bye-Bye Sachin,How to be perfect,to us, You only teach!!!!!
Copyright © KAUSHAL SABOO
I remember as a little girl how you would come by in your antique car and take me for a ride. My remembrance is when you buck your eyes to say you something else but you still my child. Daddy was I obedient when I did what you said with a smile.
I recollect you telling me about our family. You stated that we are tribal in our identity; that our Negroid blood came from slavery. You said we are just as much as anyone else is even when this nation may think differently. Daddy didn't you give me insight into a life enlighten.
I recall your statement about your education.
You said you went to school but was not treated right.
Therefore, you dropout and started your life.
You became mastered skilled and did well.
Daddy didn't you provide me guidance in a world of racial disparity.
I will never forget the new bike you bought me.
You bought it without it being a holiday.
I was so amazed that you would that I road down Milam in pure enjoyment.
Daddy you showed them who you are; that your daughter was just as much.
Without hesitation, I have call to mind all the love you have shown me throughout life.
You may be down now but your strength shines through.
Mr. Charles Mac Williams, I love you.
~Penned on March 03, 2014~
~For Father's Day Contest Poetry Contest~
~Entry Date: May 31, 2014~
Copyright © Verlena S. Walker
A hundred-ten year old soldier was interred in Arlington Cemetery today.
Corporal Frank Woodruff Buckles now sleeps nigh his comrades in sacred clay,
Awaiting that glorious morn when Gabriel's bugle will sound that final call,
To fall in for the last calling of the roll! Corporal Buckles will be standing tall!
"Taps" was played echoing far beyond the hills of Arlington into the misty past,
Reminding all of brave men who were destined to die or were horribly gassed!
Courageous men who willingly placed national destiny above their very own,
To ensure that our precious and hard-won freedoms would ne'er be overthrown!
Only sixteen, he lied about his age trying to join the navy and marines with no luck,
And was told, "Go home before your Mom knows you're gone, you young buck!"
He told a bigger whopper telling the army recruiter he was all of twenty-one!
The sergeant, looking for warm bodies signed him up, thence the deal was done!
He was promoted to corporal and served with distinction as an ambulance driver.
After serving in France, he was honorably discharged, returning a heroic survivor!
As a civilian he was a prisoner of the Japanese in the Philippines but was kept alive,
And was rescued after three years in Los Banos prison camp in nineteen forty-five.
He proudly represented the 'doughboys' of The Great War as last man standing.
So much, so very much to him we owe for his service was most outstanding!
That venerable symbol of America, the majestic Golden Eagle, cried,
On the day that the old veteran, Corporal Frank Woodruff Buckles died!
(Corporal Buckles, the last American survivor of World War 1, died 27 February 2011, at the age of 110)
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Copyright © Robert L. Hinshaw
Dear Dear Heart.
A Valentines poem
You stayed strong through thick and thin
you stayed and helped me through.
I'd be six feet under ground
if it hadn't been for you.
You warned me time and time again
that you couldn't take much more.
But I would turn and go back to
where we had been before.
You taught me the way to heal
is to learn to love again.
I know times that it was you
to need reminded now and then.
It ain't been an easy road
as we took turns in the lead.
Laying there by you by me
we watched each other bleed.
Sometimes it seems I couldn't hear
the things you tried to say.
Then there we go back in again
where it's you that had to pay.
I know you doubt what comes from me
when I say I've learned a lot.
I swear to you these words are true
I know you're all I got.
Still one thing remains undone
and that's where I've got to start.
Have a happy Valentines Day
to you my dear, dear heart.
Edwin C Hofert
Copyright © Edwin Hofert
IMAGES OF THE PAST AND PRESENT
Old men like Phil, Howard, Kenny, Walter, and Gaines are forerunners of the past.
They walk with canes now and are in blazers and slacks.
They still talk game about equity.
They state they will die in their identity.
Gaines is the one I know the best.
He lives via mediums for political success.
Does he achieve as he is?
Gaines is an orphan, a Catholic, a bar attorney in Mississippi.
Older women like Dora, Bobby, and Jenny V. are Honey's strength.
They walk without assistance.
They are not like the men.
Their smiles are sugar pudding and they take on younger women.
These images are real life formed.
They manifested their destiny in socio-political and socio-religious forums.
They come from Baptist, Catholics, and Methodist faiths.
They are heroines and heroes and they have failed.
These are images of the past and present.
Eccentricity is their essence.
Exposed is their depth.
Their identity is within all of that.
Copyright © Verlena S. Walker
To Kill The Choctaw Cow
The Choctaw Nation Oklahoma, with proud and noble people
Hunting is our nature and our way
Pretty Tail was a family member, a friendly cow
She gave us milk for many moons
This is the story of her kill
My father Bully Ten Foot is our chief
Old and ill from living beyond himself
Hills and tent on prairie land, filled our purpose
No game to feed us so our cows sustained us
Food was scarce through winters blasting bite
Pretty Tail stayed just outside my tee pee every night
Years of her soft moo would sooth me off to sleep
Starvation steeped in desperation came on hard
Crops failed, grazing ended without rain
Pain became the Choctaw, as one and the same
An Indian man must always be a brave
Must know his reason within nature and the nation
Bully Ten Foot honored me, with the sacred task
My hunting knife and I took Pretty Tail down below the neck
I slit her deep within her throat
She bled on me her blood, a river of sorrow
For hours I let her do so with her last drops of red
And held her tight as my best friend
Made sure my tears spilled over into her blank eyes
And cried for her, in her place
Never again will I wear hide or eat a steak
But I ate her brains for power
Rode at great speed on angry stallions back
Black, with strong memories in mind
And opened up inside the plains releasing spirits
To send her off
From Choctaw Nation
9/24/14 Divine Intervention - Poetry Contest
Copyright © Earl Schumacker
How Poetry Began
There was no explosion in the voided void
No weight to metal or components foreign formed
Science and religion married off their children
Philosophy and rhyme were named
They were circular at first and they too gave birth
To reason and jungles minding their own business
Triangles triangulated, circulated in an ink filled well
Pulled up like the dark ooze and tar
That once was dinosaur remains
Set upon the quill or filled the pen of mighty men
To dot humanity with a verse
It was suggested, the first delicate words arrived
In gold parlors lined in silk, over saffron tea
Reading leaves to young maidens who, surprised
Touched by lovers on the bosom from behind
Poetry began inside a cave right over there
That’s it! Just on the cliff outside the cave
Just past the very next thought
Sitting side by side on this once empty page
Of memory and age, hanging on the edge
Passion, rage, love and silver birds
Got their start out there as well
Created on 9/12/14 for How Poetry Began- Poetry Contest
Copyright © Earl Schumacker
Hurray! A heir has come to stay
Awaking the joy of May
Put down your feet like palm root and play
Paddle on through life’s way
Yes! It is nineteenth today
But see! History now writes his story;
In unspoken words of nostalgia allegory
Rolling up the scroll of time’s gallery
To tell generations yet unborn as tales of a fairy
How he chose not to marry; an attitude that is funny
Daring at dawn into the blind future with valour
Acquiring at noon, life’s lessons as favour
Yielding at dusk, the treasure from the wealth of nature.
Copyright © Emerho O. Samuel
Sandy Springs is a quiet town
Not much really to be found
Except at the end of main street
A Great House you will greet
Gothic height with pointed tower
A skirt of pillars commanding power
Windows long and tightly shutter
Pale white stone in shades of butter
Bluish slate roof with chimneys six
Grand front porch and path of bricks
Trees full and saluting in line
Shading their trail with scent of pine
Balconies inviting but sadly bare
Emptiness bequeath minimum care
Stories of three basement below
Once a rich baron grandly owned
Sits by itself on a whole city block
All gates are chained and locked
Such a shame for waste of space
The Great House stares out of place
Once the very center of town life
Magnificent balls dominated nightlife
Officials were made bribes paid
Everything of importance it swayed
Now stoic silent and fading alone
Stripped of it's riches walls bone
The Great House accepts its fate
Grandly in style it deteriorates.
Copyright © Fritz Purdum
Maya Angelou Poet Tribute
“And still I rise” Maya says
We lay her life to rest today
Her tender years were clear
Through rape and slavery and unrest
Residual facts from yesterday and today
That evil that came her way she threw away
She grew into an intellect, the best of us
A poet’s poet to the core and so much more
The hardest times defined her
Refined her in her solid works
She found her voice in soulful solemn words
“I know why the caged bird sings” she sang
If you have a voice to sing you use it
Freedom is always just a day away
That was her way
Copyright © Earl Schumacker
(INSPIRED IN PART BY A SONG OF EDITH PIAF)
Should we praise
the chanteuse who sang
"I regret nothing"?
Was she a saint
or a sociopath?
Did she forget
the insults and
we are so prone to?
I regret so much,
so very, very much:
the chanced shaking
of another heart,
the deafness to her tears,
the blindness to her
Too much a coward to love,
I would run-- run away, even
jumping an ocean to flee
what was between her and me.
Now, aging, I regret
I cannot make amends
to those lost loves.
I cannot say,
"I am sorry, I was weak,
in fear of your love.
Copyright © len carber
Why, just the other day, or so it seems
T-Rex and I were playing by the stream
And tar pits of La Brea
I remember that day like yesterday
I’m just another fossil reminiscing
Where my old friend fell in
And now I visit him
At The Page Museum in Los Angeles
Someday my aging bones will settle down as well
People will speak antiques and talk about my times
Old stomping grounds and ancient finds
Copyright © Earl Schumacker
A very old vessel lined with gold
They tell me it is very old
Within each crack a story told
To fix this treasure mighty bold
And from destruction's door paroled
A new master work to behold
Its future now is not foretold
A keepsake to forever hold
This old vessel all lined with gold
Written 12Jan14 for contest Kintsukuroi sponsored by Roy Jerden
Copyright © Steven Clark
I walked on red planet Pluto’s surface today
First time ever there without my spectral sense
Reminiscent of Mars so far from sun and Earth
Softly on hard rocks, crystalline white spots, iron laughter
Under five moons with giant Charon’s lead
Shadowed solid smiles In dim light
Pluto gathers cold satellites parade in distant skies
Much larger than in my imaginings
Calm orbiting beyond mere mortal reach
Foot prints held fast with real images make history
Flashed back to my home world
Pluto laughs when we say it is not a planet
Foot falls planted though not near
Fit nicely in orbit and rotation
Complement our galaxy so nicely there
Copyright © Earl Schumacker