Over the top lads, for old Blighty! Hold the colours high!
Say a little prayer for me, for this summer day we die.
My brothers from the ripened field and blackened mill, shop floor,
Your brother in a killing field to fight a rich man’s war.
In bloodied mud and shattered wood, fight legions of the brave,
Unwitting youth, you’ll do your duty until you’re in the grave.
A sergeant greets a fresh-faced boy, “welcome to the slaughter!”
Here you die from three diseases, bullet, gas or mortar.
In arms we fight together and in leaden hails we pass,
We die amongst the filth and stench that once was verdant grass.
“In the morning we will remember them” we hear the leaders call,
Those fickle words of history, will not remember us all.
Copyright © Howard Bull | Year Posted 2009
Now my tendrilled soul,
Has found its pergola-- Christ--
To wind its way up....
Copyright © EMMANUEL SAMSON | Year Posted 2007
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 | Year Posted 2005
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 | Year Posted 2009
The Color Missing
Red, black, and blue are the colors of our work pens. Red is the color of the blood we spill on other people’s mistakes. Blue is the color of the songs we sing on tax forms or pay stubs- every page has a secret melody. Black is the color of the streets we fear most. Black is the color of our signature of approval. Black is the color of our death.
‘But what about the Green pens?’ I ask. They say ‘the ink is too hard to see.’
Copyright © Jacob Reinhardt | Year Posted 2013
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 | Year Posted 2015
The sweetest sounds of burning trees
A gentle stroking in the breeze
The calm has lasted past the storm
Cloudy visions, Satan’s roar
Too many sights have passed my way
A time found only in the haze
The softest screams are running bare
My aching bones creak as I stare
You walk a distance towards me
The fall’s eternal, can’t you see?
I’m a memory in your heart
I whisper to you in the dark
The battle’s started at the end
No one is coming to repent
The sinners grab their wine from prey
No judgment calling here to stay
The sport is reckless to be told
The one is laughing at his souls
It falters nowhere to be sure
The power grows forevermore
Like a spirit in the wind
I have no say in where you’ve been
But cross the line to come to me
And pay the price for ecstasy
You walk a distance towards me
The fall’s eternal, can’t you see?
I’m a memory in your heart
I whisper to you in the dark.
Copyright © John Paluszek | Year Posted 2013
Men say there are no absolute truths...
Man can govern himself. He just doesn’t have the ability to do this successfully.
There is one God. He has a name. He has a son. Their names are different.
When you die, you are dead - not ghosts. It is that simple. That’s it, for now…
Even though humans die, we were never meant to. We were designed for a time
The most circulated book in the history of Man must be more than a “book.”
Happiness can be attained, even in a completely miserable place.
There is no such place as a fiery Hell of torment, except in pagan mythology.
There is a Heaven. However, its purpose is not what you think.
The meek shall inherit the Earth.
...is not that far from you.
Copyright © Mark Pringle | Year Posted 2005
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 | Year Posted 2014
Life is like a coloring book
with few or many pages
filled with complex
We are given a box of crayons
and are asked to color in the
background and spaces of the images
Sub-titles are allowed.
When the coloring book is finished
we are given a new one to complete.
REINCARNATION THINKING 2 -SOUL SEARCHING
Was I once before or never
Don’t know how or even whether
I was a firefly, a bird of prey
a centipede, a fish fillet?
A baseball fan to keep the score
a mockingbird, a carnivore?
A blossom in the midst of spring
a sign of what the day might bring.
A germ grown in a Petri dish
a chicken bone an unmade wish
All things and species could I be,
even remnants of a tree.
Of all of these, I leave this post,
I am for now what I am most.
MORE QUESTIONS ON RE-INCARNATION
As 'core' beliefs thicken so,
does it leave us room to grow?
As aging souls say we must,
complete the cycle which was thrust
upon our bucolic living place
turned upside down in whorling space
searching for a redemptive life.
But for you, dearest one, do you not remember
before you arrived, you took this bucking horse of soul,
tamed it, labeled it and proclaimed it.
To become what you needed in order
that your ride be contained and controlled.
It's name is 'balance' and it keeps you level in the saddle
so you don't fall off.
REINCARNATION THINKING 3 -
If, we are on a soul journey,
then what must that soul become?
A better soul? A wiser soul?
A sad soul? A learned soul?
Until one reaches the end of time,
There are so many lives to live out
to fully experience all aspects of this world.
Animals, plants - more souls searching?
One can speculate, but from my perspective
none of it makes sense.
Was the Phoenix reincarnated?
Or was its embers reignited?
Perhaps before a lowly worm or soldier bee
or brown turned leaf upon a tree?
A seahorse, a shark, which fish shall I be?
In fisherman's net to be eaten by me?
And when the cycle is complete
and x equals x on our balance sheet.
Can we then rest in a celestial lair
with memories gone and unaware
of trials by all things forgotten?
If choose I must or chosen by me,
I'll remain in the stars and just wait to see.
Copyright © Allan Koven | Year Posted 2013
From time to time I wonder if
It’s truly worth the ride
To live this life I’ve been given
Or trade it for one goodbye…
What good are all these memories,
Wishful thoughts and dreams
When the longer I crawl the farther I fall
From blue skies to cold, dark seas?
When they say we should be expanding
Outward towards the stars,
Connecting like particles and molecules
Near and far.
And yet here I stand a ‘waiting
The rain to wash me clean
Wondering when the sky is clear
Will my existence be worth anything?
Does it matter that I’ve loved
And lost, the battles I have waged
From childhood tears to present fears
Of a cold, dark, muddy grave?
Will anyone remember
A hundred years from now
Or even read these words composed
As if they matter anyhow?
I suspect not a speck of dust or grain
Of sand will anyone care
That I lived, breathed, walked, talked, laughed, cryed
To climb the peak of Mount Impossible
And swim the Seas of Sad Goodbyes;
To race the winds of wishful dreams
And time while flying bye.
What will become of my travels around
This tiny blue ball in space
And everyone I’ve ever known –
Every sad and smiling face?
And who’ll recite this poem once more
And wonder, “Who was he?”
When I’ve turned to dust as we all must
Return back to the sea.
Of mother earth and universe
Womb of One and All
While I wonder sometimes who will find
I existed once and for all.
Copyright © Terrell Martin | Year Posted 2015
Yes you, and you, and you over there
The nerve you all have, it’s sickening
What right do you have to leave this world?
Why do you all die on me?
What is life that you toss it away?
Old and sick, humppph excuses I say
I have had enough
No one must leave
Stop, I command time to STOP
Are my tears not enough?
You all conspire against me, I know
To add me to your collection
Why? Why? Why?
All your kind smiles, laughter and love
You make the world shine, and give hope
Only to disappear to the afterlife
Is this not cruelty?
I beg of you all, do not go
I have not the strength to carry on
Here, as you all dwindle away
Leaving me to ponder my own mortality
Alone, alone I sit, knowing romance will be kindled once more
Death will come to offer me a final kiss
Whom will hate me?
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2014
Rust sleeps without the churchyard
on the blunt perimeter rails,
on the bloom of iron stabbing up
into the pelt of rain.
Rust sleeps upon the fence posts
where the wire is nailed to wood
and the metal burns an ochre tint
beneath the sodium arc.
Rust sleeps atop the hinges
of the pub door so to screech
a shrill alert to drunken ears
of some returning ghost.
Rust sleeps upon the riverbed,
suicide pushed into the deep,
trolleys severed by the silt,
dead baby prams beside.
Rust sleeps in feasts of coma night
and eats small mouthfuls of the moon,
spits corrosion at the stars
and dulls this razor life.
Copyright © Tony Bush | Year Posted 2005
A strange sight upon a lonely road.
A dream ripped in half.
Looking closer, I wonder what was the travail.
An old price tag attached, making me wonder at what price it was sold.
Along the edges, tattered and torn, it gave forth an evil laugh.
As if some sly devil concocted a way to turn someone pale.
Onward I traveled, with pack upon my back.
To the left and right of the road were littered with more broken dreams.
So many that one could not keep track.
Some having been blown into the parallel stream.
So, I checked the pack upon my back.
And, yep all my dreams were there in a stack.
Cold winds howl, trying to rip my back pack to shreds.
Freezing were the winds, but forward I march.
Never losing sight of my dreams in spite of many dreads.
They all hold up strong even though many times I'm in a lurch.
Suddenly I see people returning to the road.
Going back and picking up their dreams.
Dusting them off and restoring them to their pack.
Each and every one said to me, you are quite bold.
To go forth and not let the cold winds of fate not destroy your knack.
To face life as it comes and not give up even if offered gold.
Good, bad fortune, are likewise of no importance.
Put a failed dream back in your pack and maybe a new day will appear.
Where you can unpack that dream and give it another go.
But, for today, march forward, today's failure might tomorrow's dance.
You gave it your best, and win or lose, that game has ended with a spear.
Win or lose, that game is done so pack it's knowledge away in your pack and grow.
Suddenly down the road a new vista appears and a brand new game.
Left high and dry or victorious are the two possible ends of any venture.
But in truth, knowledge is all you will have, win or lose.
For tomorrows game is just around the bend, all the same.
Win or lose, the game of life only ends for the moment within sight of the new adventure.
So, to quit and call it the end, only makes you look like a goose.
Copyright © James Ray Morris | Year Posted 2010
How to stop swift and stealthy time that brings death?
Must we think only of victories, not defeats
and deny that all we posses will be lost as wealth?
Disease and age are our enemies...doesn't health control heartbeats?
Spread those tables and enjoy your food and wine,
dance and sing when sadness knocks, indulge in a life simply divine!
Should we live in the moment as the ancient Romans did indeed:
constantly thinking of invincibility and immortality...
shrugging off days and years of dire uncertainty;
wouldn't it be absurd to embody the essence of their creed?
In South Africa Lekker is a portent of good as the word, " Omens " is;
try to include it in your daily speech and write yourself a funny phrase!
Some may say, " It's madness! " and laugh as a delirious Macbeth;
others will accept it and suddenly forget that they are going to die
by contemplating this motto," How to stop swift and stealthy time that brings death? "
God's curse on the human race can be undone, if we don't believe Satan's lie!
How to stop swift and stealthy time that brings death?
Isn't it an impossible wish for all the living who can't escape reality?
Although science offers much hope with their findings on longevity...
we are bound for our graves without a single breath!
Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2013
death’s breath is warm
a welcome reprieve in the
winter of life
Sponsor: Charles Henderson
Contest Name: HAIKU 101 FOR NEWBIES TO HAIKU AND/OR POETRY SOUP CONTESTS
Copyright © Suzette Richards | Year Posted 2012
"When the rose dies it falls open, spreading perfume. You will become a window for every house. You will be a rose garden in every field."~Rumi
There were no secrets between us...
Oh! Beauty's unveiled saline rush!
Deception is now done.
Every man knows your scoring gush...
Fate! Has now claimed my only blush!
A Harlot's life begun.
~by deborah burch©
Copyright © Deborah Burch | Year Posted 2012
Looking dead at me in this smeared mirror...
a lost man
the longer I stare
this stress abuses
my conscience with a glare
a guilty reflection warns
my mind is the prison I fear
as I long to escape
from the hell I dwell in
who have I become?
what have I done right?
crossroads appear suddenly
as fog fills the mirror tonight
darkness owning the room,
prefers I suffer slow
so I proceed with speed
because it’s the only way I know
flood my life’s hard bound chapters
while this smeared mirror reflects tears
dripping from a face
which was once filled with laughter.
Copyright © JSLambert Mister ROBOTO | Year Posted 2011
Upon The Gallows Stands The Condemned
Upon the gallows stands the condemned,
the crowd slobbering for his demise.
Preacher and followers begin bible hymn
about fools not so very swift or wise.
There dancing spirits surrounding him,
this dejected and now shaking thief.
His dark, haunting past now so very dim
lost of all hope and steeped in grief.
Beelzebub stands there with wicked grin,
to welcome home the coming of the fruits.
His harvest dark and heaped over in sin,
crowd crying to see his swinging boots!
Soon darkness will bring on its release,
as stiff rope snaps into a sudden drop.
Death shall make this lost soul cease,
when his life and time will forever stop!
Gallows have done their cheering deed,
crowd lurches forth in a collective swoon.
Beelzebub, gathers the fruit of his seed
and gathers the crowd's dark joy as a boon!
Robert J. Lindley, 04-24-2015
Note: Man's judgment may be a necessary evil but the actions engaged in by
those that obeyed the carnal desires, lusts and temptations of evil are a sweet harvest for HE that gathers his fruit with a wicked grin...
Copyright © Robert Lindley | Year Posted 2015
Just as we live and just as we die
We laugh, kill and crucify
We are no more our brothers than we are ourselves
We are the players
With the tools and talent of the efficient demise
Of war, famine and greed
We do rise
Of the ever constant ricochet of freedom in our ears
As we wrap our fallen dead in a shroud of rights, laws and bills
And continue to improve the technology, the precision
The assurance of absolute destruction
Buying death is easy
Dealing is easier
The career choice of many
A thriving business with prestige and power
Taking, wanting, hungry for the rush
So young, so fragile
Blood is running in the streets
A seemingly endless fountain of misguided youth
Falling, one after the other
So far from the truth
What good has ever come from a gun ?
Why kill ?
Why are we arming our children ?
Our future ?
Are you blind to the fact ?
Do you not hear the sound ?
Do you not see ?
Do you not care ?
We are killing ourselves
Stealing each others dreams
Each others families
Why pro-create ?
To produce, raise, and nurture more disposable targets ?
Is there another use for guns ?
1 + 1 = 0
One bullet + one individual = one less reason to care
We are waging war upon our brothers for money, love and survival
All to easy....................
Living In Fear Everywhere
Eric (and sometimes not)
Copyright © Eric Nolan | Year Posted 2009
Where has dad gone, momma dear?
Hush, my little lamb.
Your dad's gone to the thicket dear
And mad old Abraham
That man went early this grim morn, and took his sharpened knife
And with him took his own first born, to offer up his life
With servants and with firewood, both, they journeyed to Moriah
And on the hillside there they built an altar and a fire
And Isaac, when he heard the plan, went willingly, it's odd
That he should let that daft old man, so worship his cruel god.
Your father, he was passing by, and heard but could not see
And foolishly could not deny his curiosity
So closer did your father scramble peering through the thorns
Unaware of how the brambles tangled with his horns
Just to see a crazy man who planned to kill his kin
Your father did not understand the danger he was in
For then again that mad old man started hearing voices
His god was speaking to the loon and giving him new choices
And so his plan to slay the boy came about to falter
And Abraham, he took your pa and dragged him to the altar
But that was never fair, mama, can you tell me why
When Isaac he was all prepared and well prepared to die
And all had been decided on, so what cruel trick mama
Was played upon that grand old ram, who was my own papa?
Life is not fair, my little lamb, nor is it like to change
And fate plays tricks on all of us, both sinister and strange
So you take care, my little lamb, with this advice from me
Do not visit places where you know you should not be
The moral of this story dear, is take heed of the odds
And stay away from two-leggies worshipping their gods
Copyright © Lee Leon | Year Posted 2011
I do not know?
They say to worship to get back into church
That all I need do is fall to my knees and repent
Then all this personal pain he will prevent
To kneel and pray to “The Soveriegn God”
Well, my knees are bruised and scabbed
Where is this God of yours I ask
Guess I’m not really a fan of his work
As I walk through this existence
Sufferring is all I see
War in the desert neverending
Children dying so young
Little boys and girls raped by the clergy
Destruction Hate Crimes against humanity
Where is this God of yours I ask
They say Christianity is the way
Well, bullsh!t! That’s what I say.
Copyright © Regina Wilson | Year Posted 2006
Sometimes I wonder,
What ripped us asunder
I wonder...why friends fade away,
I wonder...why death is our destiny,
And as we experience our final day,
I wonder what will become of you and me
I wonder, with eyes dilated,
Why this day was to be so fated...
When all I saw was you walking away
Or your soul released from here...
I see the suffering of Rene'
Our lives are short,
I wonder what ought
To have been,
Is there some reasoning
For the the ultimate sadness
Towards which we spin?
I wonder if we'll ever understand
What it's all about
I wonder, and wonder,
What was God's plan grand?
I could have redone this life
And accomplished so much more
But now it's too late,
For death approaches my door.
Copyright © tom bell | Year Posted 2008
‘ In general, quantum mechanics does not predict a single definite result for an observation. Instead, it predicts a number of different possible outcomes and tells us how likely each of these is. ‘
Which side of the Wolf-coin are we looking at
the red or the green
nothing then is certain
not even death but the life one endures
quarks protons neutrons electrons bosons
particles like men and beings in general
bathe not necessarily in the same lifeless soup
great teachers or rather teachers with great followings
those that always attract those who prefer to let others do the thinking for them
especially through transcendentally transmitted interstellar telegraphy
would want us believe
there’s just This One
and all comes and goes to That Only ONE
If only it were just as simple as that
Then what is it that This One wants
Or is It caught up in its own caveat
And must of needs come apart
on the seed that It alone plants
and do what we may
nothing goes wrong
whatever the explanation
everybody is right
right from the start
Big Bang from a tight-fisted unfurling hand
Big Crunch to a crushing tightening stranglehold
and out again
for the Brahma Day
and after aeons the Brahma Night
And at the stillstanding blackhole singularity
neither space nor time
squeezed in and out
Birth as in Death
An eventual point of total extinction
if ever there was one
Yet always the two extremes
and the ever-changing in-betweens
Matter versus Anti-Matter
Here the Yang is not lkely to be set againt the Yin
Though matter itself is neither
Is nor Is-Not-ness
And the 96% Dark Matter
And the infinite number of parallel universes
Does it really matter
‘ … if you meet your antiself, don’t shake hands !
You would both vanish in a great flash of light.’
Vanish into what
or just non-dark matter
Still the duality of matter
Still the ever-changing conundrum
Everything moves jostles couples alters reproduces destructs
‘Sex is emotion in motion.’
into thin air
and roots one here
tied to the lunar year
why should it matter
if we cannot know the reason why
ego id libido
drive faith fame femme father future
if super/alter ego connects the ego
to the collective unconscious
why drown the self in the Great Self
by wilful act
when the Ultimate One
is the sum of all the little ones
Is the Original One incapable of absorbing all the ones
each of whom must move to eat drink sleep
copulate make money grow roots in a society
get and fight to keep a job
make love marry raise children
struggle to keep one’s wife one’s children
one’s house if one can get one
one’s career one’s future
and helter-skelter race to cheat death
If it’s the self-same thing that’s being born anew
What does it matter if it keeps changing in view
Of the desperate haste with which everything
We see smell hear feel intute sense
Keeps hurtling away from the Ding an Sich
And leaves us with a parochial Milky Way
Bastardised stealthily by grandiose Andromeda
Left retrograded entwined within measely galaxy clusters
Through some trillion cataclysmic light years
What’s the impulse to keep moving
Is the yogi’s stilled-centre
The death of all action
Which cannot call for a reaction
Or is the art of keeping still
Merely the art of making belief
‘…actors act out the pun that life is the art of acting
until your performed role becomes your normal character.
Then you are safe inside your character armour.’
As soon as you have thought It out
It turns around and re-structrures Itself inside out
and you know just why
don’t you now
References to the quotations
Stephen W. Hawking, A Brief History of Time : From the Big Bang to Black Holes, London-New York, 1988.
Attributed to Mae West.
Eric N. W. Mottram, « Men & Gods : A Study of Eugene O’Neill », Encore (London), 1963.
I’m not sure the « re-structuring » bit at the end comes from
Steven Weinberg or John Gribbin, or perhaps even from Fred Allan Wolf ?
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2005 ; rev. 2012. From the collection : Poems Omega-Plus, 2005.
Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2012
I think, therefore I am,
And of what I think
Becomes me out of thought,
Momentarily, memories make
More mad moments of me,
Be it reality of fantasy?
Physical or Metaphysical?
My paradox is my persona
Brain fires random impulses
From dead end to dead end,
Unless thought becomes abnormal,
There alone lies the hidden bridge,
Succumb to human limitations
Yet accept thought as immortal,
A constantly pondering organ
Ensuring unfinished business
Thus, ensuring eternal life
Through verse and voice,
lascivious pursuit of knowledge,
And expeditious conversations,
Decreasing the prudent choices,
Increasing importance of mankind,
Show my brother to know myself,
Teach I, personal and universal
Haunting descendants of yesterday
With chains formed out of intellect,
Linking type writers and computers,
segregated and integrated minds,
and radio to television, all is all,
One is all, all is one, we are all one,
Thus ancestors never die
Nor do children grow old
Pictures become mirrors,
mirrors become gateways,
and gateways become infinite,
Appearing in places of proximity
to those in need of certain lessons,
As they share the experience,
Creating the desired domino effect
amongst both old and young
Groans of disappointment echo
for those who fail to evolve
and those with no desire to do so,
Harrowing screams of spirits
who embrace the role of educators,
Wounded souls they soon become
as civilization slowly falls to failure
by ignoring text, dreams, and elders
Still, new souls are born
as the dying discover the lesson,
Becoming burdened by brilliance,
Brilliance that was never shared,
Yet the lesson must be learned
by the living loved ones,
As I listen for the first time,
Understanding noise of the night
The spirits speak slowly,
The world willingly whispers,
I am you, you are me,
We are I and I am we,
Repeating the words nightly,
Among other lessons of life,
Thinking of them, as we live,
We can say, they are us,
And for a moment, I am ghost.
Copyright © Audonus Taylor | Year Posted 2010
ALL LIFE LONG
All life long,
Struggling was he to fill to
Capacity with material things all
When the time came to depart
Nothing was there he could carry
Empty had he left the vessel of his
© Demetrios Trifiatis
19 MAY 2013
Copyright © Demetrios Trifiatis | Year Posted 2013
She and the handsome gentleman finalized the contract, and he gently placed
the antique pearl necklace into the palm of her tiny hand. As he walked away,
she fantasized about making love with him, for he possessed both charm and
exceptional good looks; he certainly was enchanting...thick, black wavy hair,grey-
green eyes...tall...muscular ~ oh, those muscles...all over his tanned body...head
But she wondered about that limp as he walked away, depending on a heavy
after all, an eternity of beauty and power in exchange for
The evening of the deed was a frigid six degrees, and there was a dead smell of
the sun. She stayed late after work, waiting anxiously until everyone had gone.
Finally, he was alone in his office, so she placed the pearl necklace around her
fragile neck and unbuttoned her red, silk blouse so to reveal her sexy red
She entered the office, and gently leaned over him from behind; he was aroused
by the scent of her "Red Door" cologne...his favorite, and his senses were even
more heightened as he turned around and observed her erect breasts speaking
in a language only he understood. With his large hands, he slowly explored her
thighs, making his way up her black skirt.
"You have beautiful legs."
"You think so, huh?"
They kissed, and the necklace brushed his chest; he didn't feel well, at all. He
was hot...so hot, and his body began its metamorphosis, retaining a grayish
then, disappeared along with all omens of the deed.
She walked over to the black wrought iron mirror and smiled; her wrinkles were
gone...vanished...just as promised; she was ten years younger.
The windows began sweating, and the handsome stranger appeared.
"I have one more assignment for you."
"But we made a deal, one soul."
She began to feel peculiar, and as she viewed herself in the black mirror, she
began aging...ten years...twenty...thirty...she pulled out a large clump of thin, white
The room darkened from his moonly mind.
"My dear, the other soul...is yours."
Copyright © Tamiviolet Manchas | Year Posted 2007
Flowers are like people
when one withers, another blooms
Copyright © Antonio Ball | Year Posted 2015
When the earth crumbles
Into something foreign and
Like a spider in the water,
I realise what has been bothering me all along:
It is my own mortality
A distant song
A bad fatality
A cool, unopened telephone
A modern dial
What’s the use in trying
To make life what it will never be
A pleasure is not what life is about
Because around you people are dying
And there’s no time for crying
So what is there to do
When the earth crumbles
Into something foreign and
Suffocates me so that I’m foreign, too
And everyone around me is foreign—dead
—Alive—wishing to be dead—wishing to be alive-
Wanting to give
What we don’t have to give,
Like a man inclined to drink himself to death
On an evening like every other evening
On a night like every other night -
I take the shining bullet
That my father left behind
Because what use is there to live
In an alien world where everyone is alien to everyone
And wishing to break free, not to be alien
Not to be sinners but to regain redemption
We’re all so sorry for what we have done
When the earth crumbles
Into something foreign
And suffocates me again so that I am dead
And the bullet that has often shined doesn’t seem to shine so much any more,
I will escape all that is alien by shooting myself in the brain
And hope that death is not alien
When I have always suspected that death is the same
Copyright © Lebedyenko Berborodov | Year Posted 2012
Here’s what I’m thinking now
at the end of the world:
There are no atheists in foxholes—
no theists in politics.
If knowledge is power,
and power corrupts,
then why did I bother reading you, Cicero?
Does it matter that I didn't’t love you?
Would it have mattered if I did?
There’s a poetry reading tonight
whence I’I'll chide other poets
who don’t sit alone.
I won’t bring up death
but I might have to breathe,
even into a mike
and mouth lines to get a snap or a boo
maybe even a wince or two.
Just maybe I’I'll talk about love
and how following your heart is like following a dog—
it only leads to vittles and (female dogs).
But how many times have I used that line
since the story I wrote about you,
a witty and sexy and fictional you?
Most likely I’I'll read something tonight about you.
I won’t recite it from memory
because I don’t think about you that much anymore,
not even when I search for my socks in your drawer
or when I put on the scratchy sweaters you give me,
horizontally striped to bring out my eyes?
I don’t remember your eyes
except they are blue.
And I don’t remember you,
not even when I smell cucumber and apple,
not even when I sleep on my side of the bed
or when you walk through the door
happy to see me;
even then I don’t remember you.
Does it matter that I don’t love you?
Would it have mattered if I did?
How about a few one-liners
for the end of days?—
Depression is self-awareness,
which you’d know if you were;
I need Ritalin to listen to you,
Lithium to hug you,
Viagra to feel you,
and Valium to sleep.
All you need
is me standing there, waiting at home
with turns of phrase and word plays
telling you about why I hate Ayn Rand
but want to buy as much as I can
and how I love celebrity gossip
and detest poetry slams
and find rhyming trite
except when I am.
Hypocrites can still be right,
which you do understand
because you nod at my nonsense
about fighting the man.
But now, at the end of all things—
I’m speechless and witless and pointlessly well-read,
and you’re just sitting there, smiling
asking me to pass the bread.
Copyright © Nick Hertzog | Year Posted 2010