The family had just moved into an old castle in Scotland;
mother, father and their only daughter, Emmie, that they loved so deeply.
Emmie was only 12 years old, and so innocent and beautiful.
One night, she was woken up by a dripping sound;
an echoing sound of water drops in a sink;
rhythmic and terrifying.
She sat on her bed, and suddenly appeared a free floating arc of strange light.
It's that time of year again: Halloween night.
Doors flew open and shut; strange voices and footsteps started.
She was so frightened, that she almost threw up.
Emmie made the sign of the cross, and plunged into a thicket of thorny wild roses.
Terrified, excited and ready to run out of the house in 20 seconds,
she overheard whispering words: "All beauty must die."
The voice was so deathly, that it sent chills through her spine.
It did not make it any better that it sounded too close to her ears.
Her nightdress being torn by rose thorns like papers in a paper shredder,
she ran as fast as she could; not back to the old castle,
but away from the creepy voice, and strange events
in the old castle.
Exhausted, she searched for a place she could find rest
"All beauty must die" the voice visited
her unceremoniously once more. "What do you want from me?
Is it wrong to be born beautiful? "
she asked, wondering where she got her courage from.
The energy to scream or run departed her,
the moment she saw a woman dressed in white,
levitating in the air, and moving towards her;
a horrid face that carried the night's darkness,
looked decayed, with worms crawling out from it.
Remember this is a true story about Emmie;
she gets chills just remembering the events of that night……
Contest: Halloween Co-Writes, By Diane Locksley
Poem Written by: Teddy Kimathi and Anne-Lise Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
i am surrounded by a blaze of flaming colors in God's garden.
autumn happily creating with her palette in hand the September scape.
a thousand shades of reds, yellows, browns, earth tones spread,
blended perfectly by the artist's loving hand, a sensual delight.
a masterpiece, sketched against a bark colored scrim of nature's flesh.
with my eyes opened wide and my body clothed in autumns light
quenched but still wanting, unwillingly i stagger away, drunk from exposure.
September 2 2014
Barefoot in a field of daisies
hair blowing in the breeze
smile beaming ear to ear
babbling brook streaming nearby
A picture, no words
A story, unheard
Sunrays shining down
from the cerulean morning sky
a parasol twirling in her hand
shading those beamish eyes
The cottage of stone hidden
in a bed of spruce trees
ashen smoke flowing
from the ancient chimney
A picture, no words
A story, unheard
The picture won't change
It's what you construe
Each story may vary
based on a point of view
Pictures, paintings, natural beauty
drawings, photos, or sculptures
A picture, no words
A story, unheard
Featuring: SCRAP METAL
Fresh sand garments
The Mental Colosseum floor
Self infliction's--waging wars
~ AND THE POEM BEGINS ~
A mask, tiny holes
Dancing around my toes
Broad carbon steel
Safe behind my will
Equipment of revenge
Fencing the world with my eyes
I bow, with the morning dew,
My mind a dual in its own world.
When the curtains lift,
I prepare myself with a weapon--
Epee Crest to protect my chest
A sword sharper than fangs
I circle my blade around the door knob
Ready to face the world
Practicing --in hopes today I won't retreat
A magical knightress
Painted in white
~ THE SHOW BEGINS ~
Queen Amri "VS" The Damsel
Wishing it was over
Stainless steel echoes
“Every poke counts”
Hoping & Taking
No room to disengage ---I retreat
Peacefully I secure my stance
I lean in, I disengage ---I flee
Back again, I lunge
The Queen is to smart to retreat
I -Amri, parry away from the argument of the lunge.
Recoil & Double tapped
In and out….. I'm struck
Back to the drawing board
On guard, I stand like a statue
Out of breath; feels like i’m dying
Yet I am still fighting.
The Queen knows what to do.
I Yield, She Wins!
Raising our foils
---At the on guard of another day
I move in swiftly, cutting like razor blades
Using refreshed energy
24 / 7
I attack, She provokes!
Sand runs its course
Victorious against the queen
Touch – tied – triumph -- Touché
Standing on my own 2 feet
I am the
-Grand Finale Show-
Conquering The Battles Inside
“A Flowers Wilt”
Witness the small existence
that abides the beauty of-----------
Freelancers all around,
Just to get a good look.
A baneful abrasion, the flower took
It captivates you -------------
Reels you, steals from you,
Until you pick the right flawless touch.
Dandelions swaying thin,
Here we fall like petals.
Ready to exploit, the beauty of-------
Inhale the fragrance,
Courtyard azure eyes,
Embarking in a wishful eternity,
A crush they become, when loveliness up and left.
A bully against arrogant, threw feminine perfumed veils
Tulips waiting for the better auspicious’ sky
Asters claims the eclipse's,
-dinginess censors it from the brilliance of the sun.
A lonely rose
In My Helix World-
The out-and-out are born.
Cries in the dimness,
A sweet Lotus echo’
Slight yelps of agony, carried off by pollen breeze.
The earth revolves to fast,
Injections of herbal essence in the wind
For a split second, we feel pixie dust
Channel the essential, it fades
Earlier beauty, calmness-
A flourish smile,
Rusk of flower, a bluebird’s bread.
Like candles and dew, they stream and limber energy
Opposing others of its humanity,
Against the command of its importance,
Pierced by its own elegance,
Thriving slowly of its own will,
A short story, gone stray!
Tonight, we plant a tree,
The Flower wilts
The gardener cries
Lips of sweat,
Igniting catalyst tune as they burn out,
Crossed eyes, attention spreads
feeling the whiteness in pure magic.
Each memo confronts the other,
Soul cord of depth,
and for one short-lived moment.
Losing sight of reality in a stasis of oasis.
The passionate barb sticks note directly into the atmosphere.
Each message is a flood of scheme,
singing the blues, this smooth criminal
angel of birth, in your hands
luring you to a road in heaven.
The lights are all you feel;
you can see the forgotten masterpiece.
Bathing in it, as the drums go on,
the mob gathers, to feel the whiteness of the trumpet.
He is rotating his saxophone,
making love to the crowd.
His horn comes with words that deepen the soul,
the crowd is mesmerized.
He extends his hands,
A standing ovation,
Slamming and whistling,
Louder than thunder,
Mr. Jazz man is done
With no condom at all……………………….
You're a maiden so hot burning thoughts
whom melts ice inside deep waves salted
unfolding ocean swells kissing your feet
For once spoke those hot lips the truth shining
Sunshine pleasing warm beholding to
one's eye golden crowned jewel beauty
rainbow luster coloring pearl treasure
It's giving off their beauty pure free
that does not require something in return
A lady whom pleases the heart warm
Princess cut with deep class sparkling pure
utopia's adorable sun rise
How the body is heated and hear
her echoing heart beat in the chambers
Shining a future path dreaming ore
every single moment precious links
each one spent with you falling under spell
Love is like pure sparkling magic gem
unpredictable true and marvelous
Magic silk covers batting eyelids
enchanting soft lovingly flowers
beautiful petals held within the shell
Let the rose live forever and the sun
shines always endless times glistening gold
Written by Liam Mcdaid and Anne- Lise Andresen
a co write in a 9/10 syllable count
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
- Thank you my friend Liam !
If my mind be painted in colors borrowed, would it be red?
Rusted in brown, or maybe instead, an indigo streak?
Depending upon the source of inspiration,
and the song on the radio at the time of connection...
I keep coming back to sea green,
or the blue of underwater murals at 3ft tall of childhood,
eyes wide in fickle, transient hazel
absorbing each moment, be it safe or unstable
categorizing each scent and each color
each love and each valor
each crisp Autumn, Summer
in vats of brain paint to be later unlidded
and splashed with insignias
of every person and place and event
that ever touched corneas innocent, bent
If my mind be painted, I think it be green
like the moment I'm lucid before I dip dreams
and hang them to dry in the gallery
and push to wake up to connect, signify
every sensory path that I've traveled before
to traipse them again and still come back for more.
I'm a stickler for art and with your canvas blank
my sweet innocent dear, with each word that you hear
you will brush stroke your way to uniqueness.
Before the abyss, I had it all
Letting go of all I see
My friend, I hope our time won't end
It took a short time for you to notice
Without knowing who I am
We talked, we became friends
Connecting the dots, missing every line
Connect them and figure me out
Randomly it comes your way
Underneath a never known chemistry
Ask me to stay and I may
Grinding your teeth into my way
Cut out my eyes, and store them up
A tongueless mouth, nothing to say
Maybe by tomorrow you will forget
Losing myself in my own conversation
Hiding behind my one big regret
Don't know, Don't care
You had me open up
A book I closed, knowledge lost
No need to see
A mystery called deception
What I am cannot be seen with the naked eye
Along came you using your *ucked* up perception
The ability you miss use
making sense of this connection
A process you carry with your own patterns
You asked, you listened, without making assumptions
A taste to take off my shoulders,
To release an error locked in my Asylum
I myself am enjoying the insights about him
He's got me convince, using his perception
When my final shadows cling on desperately
Where I fight formidable battles
to merely hold the light
I send you loving vibrations
and soul sustenance
Deep from the cathedral
of one heart to another
where today no choirs sing
nor symphonies play
Yet it is here where we meet
in spiritual solace
here to surrender
and exchange inestimable treasures
like unopened letters
Galaxies are stretched
over chronicles of shared history
Nebula birthing stars
will be exposed
in forth-coming conversations
bringing short-lived fulfillment to you
Hungry to feast
now will be the time
to approve your blood art vision
and with my own haunting surrender
as dappled shades ink stain your chest
I will reside with you and share, mesmerised
pens - by branding
as this will be your written reams to me
your artist's pallet or brushed canvas
no need for words
and yet creating
mysterious magical moments
Bitter-sweet the music
that dances taut guitar strings
but now blood approved
please go kick your heel up
return to your laughter
and ride on the breeze
for not all are lost
for I am with you always
to love, listen and comfort as one
with you in me and I in you
Like garments of
Gold and silver thread,
Shimmering in sunlight
Or bathed by moonlit glow,
Leave me breathless,
Caught up in their naked truth
And timeless flow—
And I become aware
Of nothing else.
© 2012 Connie Marcum Wong
Tell me that this fear is just paranoia in my mind,
we're not straining, we're not struggling,
we're not sinking, we're just fine.
I'm not perfect my dearest, but damn have I tried,
and I'll try harder but I know I'll have the same results every time.
Do you want me all the ways that I am?
With all the struggles and the tears and the clinging to your hand.
I fear your getting further and Im left on the shore to stand,
watching you in the distance with a bullet in my hand.
Tell me all this worry, its just clutter in my mind,
tell me not to worry that we're doing just fine.
Cause Im scared to run you off and I feel Im falling deep.
And Im so frightened of these thoughts that its getting hard to sleep.
All I know is that the heart wants what it desires,
because of you the match inside has turned into a fire.
And I feel the broken glass thats sticking from my skin,
Wondering if you'll remove the pain or push it back in.
My hearts frantic wondering if you feel the same,
pleading and begging for more than just a saying,
but to feel and to see that im not alone,
with being in this love thats overwhelming.
Once I told you that we didnt have a spark,
but you were lighting up and I was sitting in the dark.
And this fire, this blaze its wrapped in desire.
Im terrified to lose you, I think I might die or,
maybe disappear from all the pieces falling out,
im going crazy but when i open my mouth, nothing comes out,
and I cant explain to you why I just need to hold you close,
why every time you leave Im scared to let you go,
why these tears are building up behind my eyes,
all I know is that the heart wants what it desires
and it desires to be your wife.
So tell me in my panic, that your words are true,
tell my my dearest what I mean to you,
tell me that this paranoia is all within my mind
we're not struggling, we're not sinking tell me we're just fine
Alphabets gather as words unravel
the passing and returning of moans;
lines of phrases inflame the arteries
of beauty, angst, love woven
by imagination's pining.
Sound of words… taste of vowels…
touch of verses enter the soul, as if to dive
into the very basin of layered expressions.
On a fresh scroll baring my bones and raw mood,
I enter a daring challenge
with a theme that reels my senses
as poetry makes the eyes hungry.
Yes…feel me, temper my insanity,
hold my fleshed passion as I connect
with an audience to share how a night
devours monsters at the seams.
And yet, this refrain loses as the final poll
excludes my name. Why so? My lenses
run up and down the fourth time; my breath
skips : but the multitude of acclaim
from my readers inhabit my soul,
allowing me to shower my ink
with deeper hues as my inner congas
beat for another round of adventure;
this time more assured that by nourishing
my own desire to regard the heart's compass
first and foremost is what matters..
Jerry T Curtis' Contest
I learnt a long time ago.....art depends on how the person
experiencing your work perceives it...........so please don't
get upset...........how someone............judges your poetry
it is but the perception of one person..........a singular look
how one person looks at what you wrote....... .....when my
daughter...when my daughter was five........only five years
old...she built me....... .......a poem..........that is what she
told me.."daddy I built you a pome".....I can tell you it is to
this day the best poem I have ever read.....better than any
of the masters...........better than any famous modern poet
even Shakespeare....could not compete...... ....with a poem
written......by a five year old girl.............I will share it with
you now...you may or may not agree with me........that it is
the best poem you ever read......the poem my five year old
daughter built for me is this..."daddy i love you so so much"
...she even included an internal rhyme..."so"with "so"and to
this very day...........it is the best poem.....I have ever read
so you see....art is subjective....it lives based on perception
With My Love
Quiet, pensive, waiting, from out of nothing, a flash, dancing!
Back and fourth, faster, bolder, more beautiful, more radiant…
The sound envelops, and the beauty firmly wraps its hands around my ears…
Relevance and resounding, growing, pulsing, whipped into a fever!
And then easing back just a bit, like a rest to enjoy some perfect nectar of echoes.
Then back again to churn, not with blades, but with brushstrokes.
The pulsing art grabs my soul and I sway to the rhythm, the life, the light…
All around me, so necessary is this, something so pure and powerful.
Flex and twirl in the rays of sunshine, on coming the clouds and thunder!
Pounding out the feeling, the pace is relentless, but in my arms, pushing, harder!
Squeezing ever ounce of love from the air, the earth, the fire and then easing again.
Dripping with sweat, a deep breath, another, still moving but slower now.
More deliberate, but still full and open, slowly, gently, slightly and then quiet.
Is it insane to want to watch your step,
to purposefully plant a foot?
Must one’s eyes always be downcast,
if not pierced or piercing are we lost?
we stand clothed
but bare before the storm
across a distant lake the light shimmers
like mercury under glass
the sky larger than the landscape
lays down tumble weeds of cloud
tripping across a buried morass of roots
the beauty under foot screams for its share
of gratuitous attention
floriforms of fungus blooms
resplendent in silence
static and maudlin
is the eye
Somehow, I think sanity is not
all it’s cracked up to be.
First Published by Five Poetry Magazine January 2014
Underneath the sea of trust
Words shovelled sand in her eyes
The smell traced back a map of hope
Paradise could still not be located
Joy lived far from her earth
Please wake me after my death
For I might have missed the turn
I did dig my own emergency grave I remember
My dream trails had no brake lights
Bumps after bumps
Poetry drums speeding eternal crumps
Every soul bumped into my back seated lips
The road to their ears required constructive rhymes
Bulldozers bullied opportunities on the pavement of my love
Paradise got dizzy and lost meaningful visions
Conventionally my heart is one
Sharpened in tubes sharing heart-beats with no lies
I loved loving love
Restricted dreams to stick-away from uneven pants chasing bums
My mouth opened doors shaming the unshakable love triangle stunts
Usually conventional uses are unusual
My heart my grave
The future I paved
The sand glowed like stars in my eyes
Disgraced to blind my visual crafts
The roots of my strength came in veins
He made me shoes from manmade bricks
For I walk buildings in my dreams
Skyscrapers scrubbing the breeze of hope in the sky
She placed her heart in rules
Speak your promise
I the conventional girl
Is a soldier
He uses original paint to avoid crises during his war paintings
To avoid worries he frames experience in simple pictures
He knows tears can erase many water painting on written walls
The writer in me is so mean he never falls
He dribbles my own calculated footsteps
Like mistakes and lessons when you walk pass six plus six plus six
Everything stay fixed
He staples his lips in smiles
Equalizers are irritating to adjust during rush hour gossips
Mini enemies minimizes energy to maximize external intentions
In real time the writer in me anticipates to test drive defenseless expressions
He smiles in mirrors defining his images of a convincing writer
The writer in me intends to testify less physical intentions
Like expressions written in useless reactions chasing perfection in tender loving courage
The writer in me is so dodgy
Dishonest but real in realistic dialogues diluted by real facts
An idiot so like a student translating Sepulana into meaningful alphabets
He paints images upside down so readers can read what’s not written
He escaped judgement day buy judging his days
The writer in others like those other writers who read and walk their readings re-think history's footsteps
They speak statements under shadows of their own pavements
Writing is the stupidest weapon
It does shoot at bees spreading in million ways to play hide and sick
Love sick no approval from eggs to donate farts
Rotten farts from realities long boiled eggs
Hide and sick is the hardest champion ship driven by waves between chewing gums
Some dirty behaviors are thirsty for improvisational gums
The writer in me whispers a lie in a group of nothing
And receive awards for hearing nothing
Painters can paint you pushing a wrong truck of your own hustle
I wonder how it feels seeing the seconds between a picture snapped from a 1994 digital camera energy
Those expensive nothings that will always be something
The writer in me knows the answer to all combined maths and history's favorite soundtracks
Freedom is a prison located in your mind
© Raymond Ngomane
Kiss me, I want to lift you skirt flying
Inside my heart like the wind
To dance on clouds of joy my kite
Embracing time, to hold you in my arms and spin
Festively playing in the clouds
Long lines of passion I can feel
Yearning against my string
Intermittingly fawning as you bow
Naked to the throb of wind
Garrulous like a lover moaninng
The scintillated light.
Etched upon the sweat shining
Silver shafts of ribs
Tensed in every fibre and nerve of being
I want to press my lips
Upon your cheeks, prettier than confetti paper
And let the golden sunlight drips
Chocolate of satisfaction on my tongue
Because I made a kite like this
Then to breathe your fragrance
From every jasmine of your limb
Where the lissome bamboos hold firm
The quivering of my string
And when the wind exhausted
Make you loop and dip
Before suppliant eyes
To cash that boyhood zeal again
And run until you rise
Or shortening your leash
Bring you in
To closer dazzle my eyes
And let your string between my fingers fall
A ravished and splendid bride
I want to make you feel secure again
Your flying strained against my faith
Buoyed by the comfort of my love
For you the only joy that fills my eye
In the huff and blow of time
I want to lift you like the wind
And with you all my affections fly
To shout in glee from my little hill
Below unlettered clouds in pride
My kite alone to fly.
Quarried, and carved from our earthen mother's skeletal
Backbone and under belly, were the Moai solid rock deities,
Stone guardians of Easter Island.
A mystical place, a harvested paradise, but nothing remains
Of the people whom built this land of living statues, except
For these harden faces, looking towards the ocean, as if in
Wait for their native worshipers to return.
Sit and listen my friend, to the whispering in the wind,
Do you hear the low humming sound, rolling across
The rocky and jagged surf.
It is the Moai, calling unto the five raw elements of the world.
Let us live again, to walk among the heavens vast
Divides, and to feel the winds breeze at our faces
Slowly the ground shifts and moves, rumbles and
Quakes, lightening splits as thunder strikes against
The harden ground, nature itself has heard them,
And answers their wishes with life anew.
Shedding layers textures by depths degree, piece by
Piece, stone turns into gravel, rough rock is smoothed,
Hued by mystic incantations spell, brick becomes
Bone, and nature answers their wishes with life anew.
Living giants pull themselves up out of the earth,
Shaking away debris's leavings, and thus shall
Stone breaths, inhaling freedom's fresh air at last.
Behold the living god's of Stone, guardians of
An ancient culture lost unto time itself.
But at dusk's fading sunset, the spell is thus
Broken and slowly these giant figures take
Their places once again, melting as if it
Never happened, yet the humming still
Lingers echoing across the ocean.
For stone God's never forget, and waiting
On Easter Island do they so sit, monuments
To a people whom disappeared without a trace.
But their deities shall call unto them until
One day they'll return, and then maybe
Giants again shall walk this earth in
Celebration, to feast amongst their people
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Like water that flows in a river
Time will not stop and wait
It comes and then it goes
And now will soon be late
The sun will not rise
And forget to set
Today will not stay here forever
Time was born and passed away
While I was chasing dreams
I never dreamt of
Dreaming of things that were
Not for me to dream about
I didn’t know at first
That in my inside
There is a seed germinating
Deep in the roots of my heart
Where veins and arteries
Carry blood in and out
The eyes of my eyes
Could not see
The ears of my ears
Could not hear
The tongue of my tongue
Could not taste
The nose of my nose
Could not smell
The mind of my mind
As this seed
Was patiently growing
It was watered by tears
That couldn’t fall off my eyes
When I cried
It was fertilized by my deep thoughts
That denied me time to rest
The pain I felt within
Was manure to it
And now it has grown
It has grown into a tree
it has grown into a green looking tree
A tree that sprouts colorful flowers
And I am hopeful
Hopeful to reap tasty fruits
Of this seed of poetry
Sown in me by God
It vibes in harmonics broadband, a musical language universal,
Echoing across the heights divides, falling as a thunderstorms,
Raw force of spiritual power, descending from the heavens above,
The angels do yield, surrendering the gift of music unto the world
Pierced by their angelic thorny prongs, tender notes of rhythm,
Melt downwards from the silver lining of graces everlasting meadows
Separations clouds expose the here ever afters, sparks of the divinities
Fame burning as a torch lighting up the skies white powder showering
The earth with sweet melodic undertones, a thundering vibrating beat felt
Throughout the pulsating heart of nature itself.
Music lives within all things, it binds a connecting link, a
Symphony a blending element, a melting promise between heaven and
Earth, a harmonious balance, light equaling dark.
In the vaults of the skies, the heavenly chorus joins with
The voices of humanity singing a song of complete
What a true wonder is this gift given unto mankind,
To write and sing, to share such expressionism with
One another, music is honestly a universal language
Understood by every nation, or age group beneath
The heavens themselves.
A heritages legacy passed down from grandfathers,
To fathers, and than to sons, and daughters,
Is this the love and wonder of these arts there in
So shared by all members of the human race for
Generations of inspiration to come.
I listen to the songs sang by the morning doves,
To the charming voices of our youthful young,
Than those jolly fellows from days gone by,
You know the old barber shop quorate.
So many variations and depths of degrees,
Harmony, rock-n-roll, to golden oldies country,
Music is a wonderment all to it's own glory.
So we thank you those powers on high,
For this miracle of a gift called music.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
DECLARATIONS OF A SOCIAL SCIENTIST
Indeed, I am that Poet and know it.
Just in transition to a more enriched poetry form.
I want to talk about life, politics, and religion.
Maybe not simultaneously but how I am feeling today.
I tell you life isn't a bowl of cherries.
I am not harvesting berries.
I live a vivacious existence.
I nature walk and take beautiful pictures.
I thrive in my leisure time.
Even more so, I work until my mind unwinds.
I am just a thrill seeker but not an extremist.
I am an illustration of wellbeing.
In fact, I am striving for better physical dexterity.
In all, my body desires more agility.
To eradicate the clumsiness,
My ability to monitor my own quickness is propensity depleted.
My mind, body, and spirit have superseded.
Oh, I am told that it is all right to be big headed.
Of course, gloating is good for your inner being.
Dwindling is not something I will let occur.
I am the booster of morale.
Be assured that I am there for others who seek a physiological mental form.
Do I appear to be titivated?
I am what I have stated.
Doubtlessly, there will be jealousy.
Without doubt, they will envy me.
Undoubtedly, this will not hinder.
I have overcome obstacles since the being of my existence.
Liberated from birth via a nation of government, I am free.
I can wave my hand and be seen.
I can stand up for what is right.
I can ignite the political fire.
I can educate my mind to genius.
I can defeat enmity.
Negativity may come but I disallow it to be a formula.
I am abreast.
Penned on October 31, 2014!
Does not the pen yield its ink unto the bare page,
For expressionism to spill forward expelling inspirations
Liberal curve, it’s the power of freedom of speech is
How many have died for what they believe in,
What weight in blood soils, have these brave
Individuals has cost in life’s causes of the justice
These voices sounding can be heard even though
The flesh flame has been extinguished, hope light
Flickers in the darkest corner of silence, and it’s mighty
Winds wave can still be felt amongst the living.
Know one stands alone in a justified cause, if the truth
In the written words is spoken out loud, and is proudly
Bared by the author.
The next generations seeks our kindling fire, to inspire
There small embers to burn more brightly let us encourage
Such raw fuel to ignite, not smother it by smug self righteousness.
Set ablaze the pages of the future generations, let their inspirational
Spark spread, setting the very heavens a fire with enlightenment's torrent.
In this world we are given the gift of speech, thought, and wisdom,
For what other reason but to share the best of ourselves with others,
It is the gleaming light that sizzles in the eyes of the human spirit,
And severs us from the beast of the fields, and it is called Intelligence,
Compassion, and the freedom of speech.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Thick or thin, it is the Friday night order in special,
Supreme or meat lovers delight, whatever toppings
You like it, does not matter for it’s
The all American favorite, Pizza!!
Roll out that dough, cover it with Italians specialty
Sauce, cheese me to please me, I’ll never get enough,
I’m simply addicted to this deep dish pan delicious stuff.
Cut me no single slice, for more, more, more,
Is the thunderous roar of my mighty hungering’s
Rumbling, within my tummy, for what Pizza!!!
Circled or squared, just roll that pizza cutter of
Portions pleasure, pick up your slice and allow
That thick cheese to pull apart naturally,
Then bite into Nirvana, for this is heavens
Perfection guaranteed by the slice.
Now the frozen microwave style may work in a pinch,
Delivery or the hot and ready special can satisfy
My personal hunger glitch, for that tasty pizza pie,
As long as can get it, I’m satisfied.
Oh grant me one pleasures sinful command to break
Dearest lord above, to indulge myself, and stuff
Myself with pizza, pizza until I burst, for gluttony is
One distractions fault I have dear father, when it
Comes to this circle food, as it spins on the nightly
Commensals boob tube.
Is it not against the law to hide messages within
Certain text, because I swear these advertisers
Know our fragile human weaknesses, late at night
For this delectable substance, called what
Pizza, if I haven’t mentioned it enough,
Yummy, yum, yum old chum.
It’s the party hardy mid-night special, on all
Channels of the United States of America,
There is no doubt of this, rock my world
In flavorful old time favorite, dude I’m
With you all the way, especially on a
This is my declaration of independence
Declared in Italian sauces redden stainy ink,
Give me Pizza or give me death, just kidding
Folks, by the way do you want that last
Pizza slice, I’m not quite full yet, lol.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Irony cries out in Boulet’s rendering.
Elderly Native American’s stern expression
seems captured beneath eagle’s wings.
Symbol of power and freedom,
mighty bald eagle was chosen by European ancestors -
United State’s national symbol.
Yet independence for all was denied.
Tribes seeking only to preserve
their culture, their way of life,
were undeservingly imprisoned on reservations.
Stifled was freedom’s speech.
Let the eagle’s voice be heard;
toleration of injustice carries harsh consequences.
Spread your wings, powerful bird,
restore harmony to land seduced,
Transmit tribal elders’ timely message.
Human annihilation’s path is cruelly carved
when animals and plants face extinction.
Mounds of trash blister our land;
parched prairies struggle to support life.
Sorrowful cries of dying species
echo through stripped land,
causing songs of despair to resonate.
Grandfather, speak with eagles;
others appear deaf to your wisdom.
*Written October 15, 2014 and dedicated to late artist Susan Seddon Boulet, whose 2003 painting “Grandfather Speaks with Eagles” is but one of many pieces that evoke emotional response.
Last night I dreamed
your eyes were lit
in a world of fire
your kisses struck
like heat lightning
many moons rose and fell
tides pulled the shoreline closer
you transparent as a ghost
and in the heat of this frozen night
we were still there...
You the porcelain doll
eyes that open and shut
words yet to crack
mute rain between us
eyelashes black and shiny
sitting on the edge of the mountain
with just a shallow stare...
My body gliding to you
I try and break through
waves that have become mountains
that cover the pale skyline...
O stars, your twinkling never changes
with moods or emotions.
That’s why you give people hope
when there is no light
at the end of the tunnel in their lives.
O stars, I wish only one thing from you-
the secret to how you glow
every day and night without a sigh
If you can’t give me the secret,
at least make me a star like you,
to shine on myself, and the world.
love gives us wings
we belong to the heavens...
Let us abandon
this frozen world
and fix ourselves
among the ceaseless blue stars...
Higher and higher
into the sky
you and I
will eternally fly...
Let us not
come too close to the sun
we may burn the tips of our wings
stay and be safe with me...
For in your eyes
is a burning sun
within you I find the end of space
and my wings are unpinned...
~ ~ ~
The ringmaster left Baghdad by the Bay
but the carnival stayed in town.
Erect, proud, empowered people
stride by living the Crayola dream.
Awash in color, characters in the screenplay,
the scene played with aborigine like dream walkers.
No surface left to its utilitarian plight,
all stroked and stoked with the creativity
of the artist, all crooned to by boom box
and skateboard smack, or the concrete
slap of a mariachis’ feet.
in the dark
The burnt bright white light shivers
to a Hendricks strum, and the caffeinated come
one by one hooked in to hook up,
to the juke boxes sixties twang.
Children play on Aztec snakes rising
from a soft foam of green with
mosaic skin and glass eyes.
freed from the restrictions, the confines,
the confounded, gay, straight, bi free
* haiku by Jack Kerouac
Jimmy Hendricks The Wind Cries Mary