The powdery snow gloves the fingers
of maple forest, protecting barren bark
with the expectation of rose tipped bloom.
A meeting point between pristine
innocence and the veiled promise of spring
ripening. Each trunk and limb mirrors
the action of man. Reaching, arching,
swaying, creating aisles of church-like splendor,
a sacrament where the virginal may walk
toward communion with their God. Inward
toward the birth of faith and outward toward
the wedgwood sky in celestial sight.
Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2011
My sweet little Teddy Bear...
Mommy gave 'YOU' to me
Now I never sleep alone at night
The comfort you gave, when God's sunny eyes ran out of light
You are my sweet little teddy bear...
You kept me company throughout the years
I hugged you, when my eyes were full of tears
Loving you, squeezing you
We both express many joyful dance of cheers
Together we sang lullabies, without you singing one single word
We drank from the same teacup, whispered about the pretty birds
Now listen, as I mumble extra words into your ear
My sweet Teddy Bear, you are always here
We snuggled every night staring at the star frame window
"You held my hand when I was lost in my own imaginary limbo
My sweet little Teddy Bear...
I'm 11 now, and my mother loves me dearly
Sadly, she felt it's time to find me a daddy
Little does she knows, my daddy visits every night in my dreams
Now her boyfriend visits my room and tells me not to scream
Little Teddy bear, I never showed you fear before I fell asleep
Little Teddy bear, tonight I do not want to count sheep
Teddy bear, now I hold you closer and tighter than before
Little Teddy Bear let me cover your ears, from the screeching door
Little Teddy Bear, he said he would hurt mommy If I tell anyone
Little Teddy Bear, I know you see and hear everything!!!
You're A Little Kid Again (contest)
The View of an 11 year old
Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2012
I wish to claim
My yesterday sillyness
My crinkled nose grininess
That hide and seekiness
Spin the bottle
kind of geekiness
My hand in the cookie jarness
That pushing too farness
Collecting comic charminess
Hidden playboy kinda business
Cop a feel inquisitiveness
Being a bit
A true life witness
Loving the mysterious
Laughing more than being serious
What it was all aboutness
Thinking that it lead to freeness
I'd know just how to be ness
Eating what I want
Staying up late kinda keeness
Now I wonder
What was the rushness
To reach adultness
Full of it's doubtiness
What's it all aboutness
I witness it's dreamlessness
It's no longer about me-ness
To much sane-ness
Routine and sameness
No one cares if you cameness
Less is less
And more is moreness
Can't see the trees
Through the dark forest
So grab onto your girliness
I'll bring my boyness
There will be more
No more boringness
We'll spin in circles
Enjoy our dizziness
Is a serious business!
I wrote this one in December 2014.
I am now proud to enter it into Shadow's contest.
I hope you have as much fun reading as I had writing it.
Copyright © Richard Lamoureux | Year Posted 2014
The air is thick with memory -
A fog of reminiscence.
Or is it simply mist
Rolling through the window?
I feel the wind and taste the salt,
Hear the distant pulse of waves
Keeping time, skipping beats
With my haunted heart.
The wind chimes sway and croon
From their place above the sill,
Where sand dollars still form a row
Among crumbs of sand.
And there, on the bedside table -
Speckled stones arranged just so.
And if I lift them, I know
I'll find dustless circles,
Halos from the past.
My vision blurs.
Then I see her in the doorway -
The ghost of childhood,
Twirling in a cloud of skirts,
Strings of seashells draped like gems
Around her fragile neck.
I blink -
And she's gone.
But through the mist I hear
The patter of bare feet
Down the empty hallway.
By Heather Ober
Submitted to Nette's "Mixed Senses" contest
*This is an old poem I wrote on March 7, 2012
Copyright © Heather Ober | Year Posted 2012
Down where I sleep,
You hold me, embrace my every way
The Marks up on my skin
You caress, taking away from the ugliness
Watching the simple breath, when I breathe
Breaking the ice, soothing my inner peace
A sweet spray across the paleness in my limbs
Holding the warmth, I've been loved throughout my life.
From picking up sticks to the walking stick
My loving dear I know you will always be there
A few wheel chairs, when broken bones mend
You know my every cure*
Walk with me across the hall
Through the oldness, and the boldness of every color in the sky
Thank you for taking me as I am
A light twinkle' every time I feel the colors of the rainbow drip
Now a newborn takes his form
In you I find the strength to stretch my arms and reach for every star
When happy moments fail,
I embraced the colors I found in you
I make out every tree, and wonder why and how?
I close my eyes to imagine the fun of chasing fireflies
Tonight I'm keeping my prayers simple, cute, and innocent
I will count sheep and search for sweet lullaby dreams
Smiling like a 3 year old this very moment,
You think I'm having "Baby Blues."
My loving dear, thanks for having patience,
Painting my way down a toddlers sky
Every time "P M S" hits
Copyright © SKAT A | Year Posted 2013
Things that seemed poetic were always sad,
though I yearned for sparkle
and my dad's guffaw, which never came.
Familiar things were always drear --
repeated motions in the same old game.
There were only distant glimpses
of budding spring, fleeting views
of daffodils. The strongest
poems dealt me death and dying.
Yet I always hoped, never went under
to gray despair, always dreaming
of a garden of love that we could share.
But those forbidden delights faded
quickly away; the only reality
I understand is the ever-looming
and final one. Nothing's changed.
The strongest poems deal death and dying.
Copyright © Leo Larry Amadore | Year Posted 2011
Walls of silence hold,
The child held within,
Cries out for release.
Relative solitude comforts,
Not the tortured soul,
Inward coiling withdrawing,
Shedding its outer skins,
Layer thus preserving its,
Innocents shroud lies in ruins.
Gentle spirit, cast aside wings,
The fallen angel kneels in,
Shadows before mankind.
Unanswered prays rest upon,
Muted sobs, echo on stilled,
Hardening to stone, the
Reflects frozen repose.
Forgotten amongst mine own,
Childhood symbolizes a betrayed,
Small fragile hands reach out,
Hollow space grasping into,
Chained shackles twist,
Imaginations warped view,
Somber tones cloud troubled,
Amidst life's trials, I'm aimlessly,
Without any form of stability.
I, alone remain shambles,
Displaced and damaged,
A broken doll thrown away,
By those who should have,
Cared for her the most.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Copyright © cherl dunn | Year Posted 2013
I walk along the old familiar path in the wood of my childhood -
the place that I willingly abandoned
for the lure of new friends and activities
that carried me ever farther from my simple carefree days.
Nothing here is quite the same,
and all that once was large to my child’s eyes
has grown small.
How can it be?
The houses on the fringe of this old wood
are the same houses we always came upon as children
as we ran - exuberant wild Indians of our enchanted forest -
away from our foes and into the safety of “clearings” -
those back yards of neighbors
whom we never really knew.
Our small legs ran so quickly down that well-worn long-ago path
in the days when we were soldiers hastening to secure our forts.
Other times we searched for treasures in the wood's crevices,
finding - one day - bed springs, metal pieces, and old mattresses
and converting them into contraptions for jumping.
I tread slowly, noticing how many spots along my way
are now overrun with weeds and tangled vines.
How did I ever not notice there were vines here at all?
They must have been well hidden off our path.
Perhaps a kindly neighbor kept the pathway clear of them
out of consideration for all us kids.
I cannot know. . . It was so long ago.
I glimpse the raspberry bushes we used to happily discover
each summer when fuzzy berries showed brightly red and plump.
And there’s old man Miller’s house, whose fence we used to climb
so we might quickly steal the juicy apples fallen from his tree.
Sadness tugs at my heart.
The tree has vanished, and in the place of old man Miller’s shed
now sits a swing set looking barely used.
I head toward the center of this miniature forest
recalling how it used to hold such grandness in my young imagination.
The pond where we used to skate in winter
has disappeared as well.
In its place is a broad high pile of dirt,
and at the north outer edge in the distance I can see
diverse machines used for excavation.
Maybe soon the wood will be cut down.
Though small, this place was once so wondrous!
I think back to our Christmas vacations,
looking for the perfect little hill to drag our sleds up-
and the thrill of barely missing trees as we slid back down.
Everything was magical, crisp and clean.
Suddenly I trip on tangled vines I’ve failed to see.
The vines are stumbling blocks that have blotted out
the utter charm this locale once held for me.
You’d think that being smaller to my grown-up eyes,
the wood would seem even simpler now.
But no, it’s lost the grace of my simple and easy childhood days;
It’s become a labyrinth of too lush plant life.
I think how - like my complicated life -
this old familiar place is decaying
and is overwhelmed with all these obnoxious vines
and how one day -
like the pond and Mr. Miller’s apple tree -
this dear wood
inspired by events of my childhood
and the contest of Constance la France
and now for Caleb Smith's In the Woods Poetry Contest
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2013
I carry my mother
like a rock in my pocket
that I just can’t seem to throw away
It serves me
it just weighs me down
When I first found it,
when I first picked it up
and started carrying it with me,
I thought it so beautiful –
I could look at it for hours
But, like my mother,
it never looked back at me,
never grew warm under my loving gaze
For the longest, I was blind to that,
Blind to anything but the beauty,
blind to the cold, hard,
beyond-remote nature of the rock,
of my mother,
I carry my mother,
a thought without weight
And she’s heavier
and she’s colder
than all the stones
By the time I recognized her
immutable, emotional unavailability,
I had run out of joy,
felt depleted of hope –
But I could not,
for the life of me,
stop seeking a beauty, a warmth,
inside her heart
Could not stop
that one day this stone,
deep inside my pocket,
Might just become
its own opposite –
Change from hard to fluid,
from cold to warm
But my rock, my hard burden,
will only turn to water
When my mother
Copyright © Rev. Rebecca Guile Hudson | Year Posted 2005
There was change, a new pulse, cadence, and tone,
where mother had been, the only place I had known
Where two maples stretched out, to cradle my dreams,
and shelter my life, in the house I called home
On a make-shift bed, I was lying awake,
Windows cracked open,
a wind coming in, ....
Intangible nights, in the familiar old room,
alone with my thoughts, while sorting out things...
There was a strange, jaundice glow, from the porch light, left on,
and my pillow felt cold, where the moon used to go
The sound of a moth, batting wings against glass,
was begging for warmth, while seeking to ask, a place that made sense
And a place to fit in
My father was sleeping, with his newlywed bride
in the same sacred bed, where my mother had died
And a new child was dreaming in the soft yellow room
where I spent all those nights, ... just me and the moon
I was happy for him, and for the child that he gained.
I was there at his side,
when the changes became.. a part of his life, ...... a part of mine too
But, I was lost in the amber, like a moth batting wings
Somehow, it's alright, now, where shadows are new.
As the sepia light, has changed and renewed
I've grown older and wiser,
maybe stronger than then,...
But, I'm still the moth...that looks through the screen
seeking the flame...
batting my wings,
while resisting the change, ....again, and again
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2014
Sitting on the window sill with the wind in my hair
I gaze up into the stars, pondering the great unknown.
Thinking back of that night, when I heard your first cry
tears of joy filled my heart as we carried you home.
Nervous and excited, a mother I had just become,
you were my angel, my being, my son.
You were all that I dreamt of, from my lungs, pure breath.
In the cradle I rocked you, before going to bed.
With gurgles and babbles you have filled up our lives.
With first footsteps, first mouthfuls, with sweet little rhymes
With first schooldays, first friendships, first free little moves,
Like doing your homework, and tying your own shoes
We followed your shadow from a distance not far,
giving you your wings, yet knowing where you are
The time has passed by, in a blink of an eye,
Soon you'll be leaving, making this mother cry.
Co-written by Charmaine Chircop & Tim Smith
October 18, 2014
Copyright © Tim Smith | Year Posted 2014
If people suffer in truth at our hands
with ill education and manners
Then we turn on them spitting words
casting stones of hate
blame them as a menace unto society
corrupted from childhood
what chance do they have
Living below means
defined by their status not born to privilege
Then punish them for the crimes committed
inside which their first education exposed them too
what stands above is created in this society
it holds the key through poverty
Turning a blind eye we punish them
what does that make us
Copyright © liam mcdaid | Year Posted 2014
A labyrinth….an internal tangle
A skein of glass prisms
A complex web…intricate and divided
inside a muscle thought too fragile
to withstand the breakage
Beneath…always what lay there
was tattered coils
Starkness overwhelms the blue light
and the tender is a bit shattered
Yet surviving with the indomitable will
of a thousand
Iron strength and steel resolve
is what will govern the web
A quick shot of whiskey burns
and vodka strikes the throat
in torpid moments
a bit of mangle and sorrow
Beyond the surface of what seems to be
is the actuality of the puzzle
(pieces of truth)
Rage against the torpedo
The twists of time ticking timeless
(stealing missed moments)
Find the reason….
(illumination with clarity)
and let the wind catch your sails
setting you free…..
Released from the chains of ignorance
and no longer held prisoner
by the hands that ripped your soul
Freedom is letting go of a smoke mirage
and embracing the cold concrete
Copyright © Christie Moses | Year Posted 2009
A little boy wanted to meet God. He knew it was a long trip
so he packed a suitcase with chips and root beer and began
He walked 3 blocks and met an old man sitting on a park bench
staring at pigeons.The boy sat next to him opened his suitcase
and took a sip of root beer. He noticed the old man was hungry
so he offered him chips. He took one and smiled at the boy.
His smile was so wide the boy wanted to see it again, so he
offered him root beer. Again he smiled. The boy was happy!
They sat all afternoon eating, smiling, and sharing silence
Twilight approached & the boy found he was tired so he got up
to leave. On afterthought he turned ran back, gave him a hug.
The elder gave him the biggest smile he had.
As he opened the door to his house a short time later, his mom
was surprised by the look of joy on his face. Son, "What did you
do today, that made you so happy?"
He replied, "I had lunch with God." He added, "You know what?
He's got the most beautiful smile I've ever seen!"
The old man radiant with joy returned to his home. His son was
stunned to see peace on his face and asked,
"Dad, what did you do today that made you so happy?"
"I ate potato chips in the park with God." he said
"You know, he's much younger than I expected."
Too often we underestimate the power of a touch, a smile, a
kind word, a listening ear, an honest compliment, or
the smallest act of caring, all of which have the potential
to turn a life around. People come into our lives for a reason
a season, or a lifetime! Embrace all equally!
Have lunch with God, bring chips, invite him home for diner...
Love & Light,
December 18, 2015
Copyright © Mystic Rose | Year Posted 2015
When I was a child I only ever wanted to be strong.
I wanted to be able to compete with the boys
and when I foot raced them at recess I won every time.
They called me ‘She Hulk’ because of my muscular frame
and from the way I only ever wore soccer t-shirts and sweat pants.
After that nickname was implanted into my brain like a growing weed,
I’ve only ever wanted to be feminine.
I started wearing skirts and dresses
and in middle school they shrieked at the site of my makeup and done up hair.
But that weed inside of my mind only grew, and grew, and grew
until I became a mixed drink cocktail
with one part anorexic and two parts lonely,
because I thought that the definition of feminine began with the word frail.
No one ever realizes how greatly words affect us,
how a simple nickname can turn a pretty girl into a skeleton.
I stood at five foot two weighing seventy nine pounds,
so cold and frozen,
yet I still considered myself a ‘She Hulk.’
You could see my ribcage through my t-shirt
and my spinal cord protruded loudly through my weathered skin,
as if somehow my bones were dirty knives
just trying to cut through the flesh of judgment.
As I grew older I became the girl that was never enough.
Not good enough to speak poetry.
Not good enough to lay paint on a canvas.
Not good enough.
Not tall enough.
Not big enough boobs for them.
Not primped to perfection.
Not undeniably straight.
Not smart enough.
Not dumb enough.
Not ditsy enough.
Not cool enough or fun enough.
And I began to believe, too, that I wasn’t enough.
I never told my mother that I had been in madly in love with a girl.
I never told anyone about the night we first kissed
because I was too vulnerable for the judgment.
And parents always justify saying that ‘kids will be kids’
But when we are kids our brains are still growing
and the smallest of seeds that get planted will one day bloom
into one giant regret,
will one day affect the choices that we make,
will one day influence us about the clothes that we wear,
will one day shape us into the person who we thought we would never be.
I only ever wanted to be strong,
and as a child I thought strength was only about being able
to lift a bar stool above your head.
I thought that strength was only about being able
to beat the boys in bare foot running races.
I was told that strength was something only
a man could have.
But as I’ve grown older I’ve realized that strength
isn’t about muscle at all,
but it’s about weakness,
and the ability to overcome the social anxiousness.
It’s about carrying around a lifetime of baggage
on your broken back
because the ones that kicked you when you were down
are going to be the ones that were ultimately wrong.
I thought that the definition of woman
began with the word disappointment.
And I became a mixed drink cocktail
with one part freedom
and two parts Sailor Jerry
because every girl needs a stiff drink once and awhile.
We are not disappointments.
We will never be the ones who gave up on hope.
We will never be the ones who gave up on each other,
or our mothers.
We will always be enough;
enough for the ones who shunned us
enough for the ones that cursed us
enough for the ones the hurt us
and destroyed us
and beat us when we were covered in bruises.
But you see, bruises fade
and the scars of our flesh are only stories
things we have overcame
and there are things out there that we will overcome.
When I was a child, I only ever wanted to be strong.
I hid my vulnerability.
I hid the parts of me that were true.
I never told my mother about my girlfriend
because I was afraid she wouldn’t understand,
kind of like all those people who never understood
just how much words effect us.
I can’t say that I can beat the boys at foot races anymore,
because, well, I smoke cigarettes now.
And I can’t say that the nickname of my childhood didn’t affect me.
But I take that name now and embrace it.
Because I am strong.
I am the ‘she hulk’.
I am a mixed drink cocktail
with three parts greatful.
Copyright © Katie Pukash | Year Posted 2013
On days of childhood past
and long faded into memory,
sisters played beneath a smiling sun
in shadowed rooms of bending willows.
Dainty handkerchiefs swaddled
our Rose of Sharon infants
to keep the newborns warm;
honeysuckle spread sweet fragrance
scenting the summer playhouse
while birds trilled lullabies of joy.
Clover chains hung as garlands
to decorate our home
and snowball bushes' spread
perfumed blossoms carpeting the floors.
Simple pleasures of a simple life
we seem to have discarded
in favor of a busier, artificial plastic world
where flowers bud stale fabric blooms
on bending wires.
The evensong of the whip-poor-will is no more.
I would go back if I could harvest
the pureness of those happy hours,
distilling a rare elixir,
a medicine for our ailing times.
Copyright, November 25, 2014
Faye Lanham Gibson
Copyright © Faye Gibson | Year Posted 2014
As I sit by the window and look out towards the sun,
A half of me says stay, while the other half says run.
I know it's part of life, to grow older with each day,
but the older that I get, the more I want to run away.
All the stress and hard decisions that I'm left to ponder,
only makes me crazier, as now I'm left to wander.
Like a never ending clock, the days and nights will pass,
so I'll hold on to my memories, for only they will last.
And I can use them anytime, to make me laugh or smile,
or just to sort of drift away, and daydream for a while.
Although life seems so hard, I thank the Lord each night,
for blessing me with all the things He's put here in my life.
So as I grow in my time of youth, I tell myself one thing,
Never regret ,or you'll lose out, on the things that life may bring.
Copyright © Larissa Lane | Year Posted 2005
A giant snowball in springtime
From twenty yards out the sound and smell
Closer now; breathing her numbing scent
Listening to the drowsy hum
of greedy and jealous bees
forced to share her bounty
with Tiger and Zebra Swallowtails
School will be out soon...
Memorizing every branch within reach
Her limbs are just low enough
for a boy to scramble up quickly
fleeing imaginary monsters
still lurking and prowling below
Taking ignorant and blissful advantage
of this daughter of the wild; his protector
His big sister to run to...
Shiny and slippery black bark
that oozes burgundy sap
which dries in animal shapes
Summer twilight is coming
Bats twittering overhead
chasing nasty mosquitoes
A noise echoing from far off
A door slamming maybe...
Tucked safely away in his favorite pew
(Naughty boy, eating during church!)
sampling her forbidden fruit
sweet and sour...half is seed
Thieving Blue Jays get the most
Screaming and scolding arrogantly
yet flying away unpunished
Grannny will make jelly...
Oh everlasting Father, creator of all things
He knows that heaven is far beyond the grasp
of a feeble and fumbling mortal mind
But when You decide to send Your beloved Son
back to rule the earth for one thousand years
If he is judged worthy to be in that count
May one humble servant say if it's like this
that would be just fine...
Copyright © Tim Ryerson | Year Posted 2009
A path strewn thick with rusty leaves
led to nowhere and everywhere in our fantasies,
rescuing us from after school chores
and homework pages wrinkled in time;
a memory come and gone returns to me.
Back home, under a row of willow trees, I weep
for my childhood friend, for the innocence lost,
I thought I could keep, for the faded line
between joy and pain that suddenly
comes with age; I close moist eyes to see
you dancing in rain showers and climbing up
rays of sunlight, imagination uncaged;
running carefree for hours - just us, two,
whether skies were shades of gray or blue.
We said forever, a pinky swear I remember,
naïve in our make-believe world. How many years
passed by, distance growing between you and I?
A phone call once-in-a-while became just
a Christmas card once-a-year. I hope you always
knew the truth, I loved you, my dear friend.
Time cannot erase our laughter caught
on the autumn breeze and the childhood secrets
shared on that path strewn thick with rusty leaves,
trodden bare each year come fall of winter snow.
Our laughter now echoes in dreams, chaffing
the row of willow trees still sulking low,
moss brushing tears in timeless beauty,
waiting for you to come home.
Copyright © Rhonda Johnson-Saunders | Year Posted 2015
Fragile soft pearls elegantly descend in silence
blowing in the wind performing a spectacular ballet
Gradually snowflakes rebel into a blizzard
rapidly settling among Mother Nature's abode
Smiles of children bring warmth to the freeze
snow is never cold when one is young
Snow angels created among charming snowmen
courageous battles fought with balls of fury
Nonchalantly it melts into slush as laughter dims
rain further disintegrates the glow casting black ice
Memories of joy and fun slowly fade
beauty always seems to be temporary
Snow contest by Shadow Hamilton
20 November 2015
Copyright © Silent One | Year Posted 2015
Come and gone like small twister
like the cloud of debris he’s left.
Echoes of Charlie Brown’s buddy Pigpen
blow through the cobwebs in memory.
Left over coffee cups replacing
Transformers still dumped in the attic.
Reams of knarley skateboards, wheel-less,
lay in piles like so much unburnable refuse.
The obligatory hugs and peck, over and done
the never paid chauffeur collapses…
Ah, to have him always near,
So, each kiss was not quite so dear.
The last fair maid on parade has wandered across
the home front, wondering about her predecessor,
still tacked with magnets to the fridge,
still part of my heart and his…
Sons…they say, do not cause such angst.
Couldn’t prove it by this mother.
This maternal blimp of unused helium
was not permitted a girl child.
One did come and fleetingly leave before formed.
We’ll never know the sweetness of her.
Let the image of his manly self disperse, this son..
into the mist as his Father’s has…
to be remembered again, only in times of need, his need,
for to do anything else, would be to rub salt
in an open wound.
Poet: D. Guzzi
*the day after Christmas
Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2010
the minute our eyes met
it was love at first sight
I knew you were the perfect one for me
my parents tried to keep us apart
but I simply couldn’t let you go
my father tried to persuade me
are you really sure he’s the one?
it’s not too late to change your mind…
I smiled my sweetest smile -
Dad knew when he was beaten
I skipped out of the toyshop
nestling in my arms, my birthday teddy bear!
Contest – Shweet Free Verse – Sponsor Andrea Dietrich
Copyright © JAN ALLISON | Year Posted 2015
I balance on a tightrope. Surrounded by
lovers and dreamers, I teeter above a raging sea.
I admire their glossy smiles and envy
their bright-eyed confidence; envy is a sin, I know.
Please forgive me; a lie would carry more guilt.
The waves crash in dark shades of gray, still they smile.
Their laughter from all around pierces the thin air.
I teeter alone; I may or may not fall.
My fate is undetermined, in my own hands;
the tragedy today may be tomorrow's comedy.
Their laughter echoes...
On a day like today, the fresh tears sting.
If only I could wake from the nightmare,
pry open the windows of my tortured soul.
If only I could charm the feral...if only.
Oh, the skeletal monsters we are bequeathed!
Yes, I understand the meaning of loyalty.
A fool believes the wicked will fall.
A fool believes the merciless will change.
Can a hollow chest develop a beating heart?
I chisel stone walls, searching for a glimmer of hope,
a flicker of humanity behind steel beams.
Could you spare a token of remorse?
I dare to drop a coin in a fountain of wishes.
A pocketful of coins jingle as my wishes sink
to the bottom of the venomous waters.
I am patient as I teeter on the tightrope.
The audience cheers taking pleasure in my pain.
Blood pulsates through my veins, yet I feel cold winds
penetrate my soul. I refuse to cower or
live in contention...
Blood is thicker than ink.
I find my balance in the written word, a gift of life!
Words sometimes spill from a bleeding heart.
I beseech the ghosts of the past to end their haunting.
Their breath is the frigid wind. I find shelter...
Tempered is the skin of the wounded. Who knows
what may lie beneath the flesh. In the mirror,
you may find a frightened child in need of love.
Most find the strength to balance and stand.
Every step brings me closer to solid ground...
I am reaching for you. Please take my hand.
Copyright © Rhonda Johnson-Saunders | Year Posted 2012
Together we would whittle sticks while chewing juicy gum
We would find a place to rest beside a river green and wide
The skies were blue, and tall grass would grow, and brush against my knees
Where willow trees, and dusty trails and nesting squirrels would hide
With tackle box on summer days, we sat in lazy pose
With fishing poles, and cheerful hearts, in willow covered coves
It mattered not, no lad was I, ...a girl is what he got
And he seemed quite glad, to take my hand, and help me hook the bait
I'd toss it in, against the wind......and sit awhile to wait
It mattered not, if fish were caught, the waiting was our friend
The sun felt warm, his voice could charm, and worries all seemed gone
Curiosity of my tender youth, this world a puzzle, vast
I would ponder things, and pick his brain, with many questions asked
This kind old man, with gentle patience, and a quiet ear to lend
Would tweak his mustache, and kindly hear me, without a word to bend
While deep in thought, would listen well, and continue with his task
As if my words were meant to hold, and mattered more than gold
He'd try to find an answer, with his wisdom from the past
With satisfaction we would whittle sticks, yet carving so much more
When shadows fell, he'd take my hand, the young one in the old
And head back home, as sun goes down, from lazy river's shore
Those fishing holes, are idle now, too soon the autumn fell
Although I tread the shore alone, I clearly see them all
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2011
I remember you
cartoon smile and egg-shaped head.
Do you remember
how the rainbow formed on the water,
how the neon lights flickered,
or the scent of nectarines on your forehead?
They were happy to see for the first time
behind glass window,
between speaker box voices --
untouched collector’s item,
you shiny new contraption,
star of the play,
hero of the hour,
flavor of the season.
Seed of your father,
soil of your mother.
Fruit of love,
fruit of conflict.
Are you accident,
Bough in the river,
wrenched in the current.
Hand reaching for hand,
hand holding your own.
Bedlam baby with the guilty smile
do you remember
how you would not fracture the mullioned frame,
how you could not shatter porcelain,
or how you hid in changing alleys?
I will save you
you will save me.
My hand in yours.
I am the boat
you are the journey.
Copyright © Ryan Caidic | Year Posted 2006
Strewn by knitted spines and a tail
with ribbons on its hair, bright flowing
visions float along an azure sky. Gracefully,
the flight takes a diamond shape as if to roam
away in some twirling glide. And as it slowly faded
from sight, the little boy on the beach giggled
and tugged the braided loop calling his paper wing,
“ Come back; I’ll have to pull you in.” But it waved on
like an entranced sail kissing the clouds; till near dusk
marked the rising moon…quietly, he rested on the sand
to gaze at the breezy sky again; this time a bit aware
the kite he handmade and loved won’t come back…
for it is up above where its home belongs.
Moral: There are precious moments when it takes
strength to know when to let go.
Contest:A Delightful Children's Fable
Sponsor Carol Eastman
Copyright © nette onclaud | Year Posted 2012
Some memories of silver sands,
have faded like old photographs.
But waves rush in to ponder on,
incoming tides of happiness.
Our shadows left upon the ground,
are looking for a sea-shell found,
and kites sail high upon the wind,
to take us back, just once again
We'd dig the sand, to paradise,
to build a castle to the sky
and filled our childhood fantasy
with knights, and queens, and gallentry...
Our hearts, carefree, as we were one,
with earth and sky, with wind and sun
Lone barefoot walks, along a beach,
were followed by our impressed feet
The rugged coves, the misty air,
the windswept trees, each mystery...
can sweep me back, in time, and then,
I see it still, so very clear,...
where sky and ocean meet again
Restless eucalyptus leaves,
that scatter in the ruthless wind
can bring to me a childhood shore,
A place I left my heart and more
Gulls that circle, high above
Reminding me of days so loved
Where castles made of sand were found
Until the waves came crashing down
Today I climb the winding path
That lingers yet, in aftermath
I'm dazzled by this new day's glare,
reflected from those other years
This place I knew when summer came
Now warms my heart from winter's game
Where blooming lilacs danced a tune
And summer's end would come too soon
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2012
Play rain , play melancholic tunes
Play closely to my ear, I need to hear
I want to listen to Sinatra's toe-tap sounds
As you fall, fall slowly to the ground
outside my great-grandmother's house.
Play rain, Come down and break the silence
Bring puddles to the desert
Puddles far from clear, yet fresh enough
to jump into, to jump in muddy waters
to step within the dormant child
to free the one I'm not from who I am
Play rain, play melancholic tunes
Wash away my present ,So I recall my past
Let me find night's music
as you patter on the old tin roof
like a symphonic flute.
Let me search for who I am , who I was
why, and where
Why do I fight this little girl inside ?
This little girl who screams , who begs,
who yearns to run, to get her white shirt soaking wet
to splish and to splash , to be whom She's meant to be
Daughter of the wild.
Rain , rain, come again
Let those drip drops stream , over my shoulders
All way down my back, and across my thighs.
Let me sail upon your rivers
Holy waters - Dirty Waters
Any water, better than a dry land
where only cactus will survive.
Rain, rain, Let me feel your touch upon my lips
Rub gently against my skin
Let me taste your every trickle
Rebirth in me with all the blowing winds
Cleanse all sweet hypocratic lies, anytime
Tease me with your whisper
Evoke in me the childhood magic
Make it last throughout the years
Rain, rain, pour down your sky light showers
Let them hide away my fears
Fears, tears, Fears...and more tears.
Rain, rain , play and make me smile.
Inspired by Nikko's blog about Rain , Thanks Nikko !
Copyright © Charmaine Chircop | Year Posted 2016
Home Of The Hang Man
The children are so full of doubt
No one is allowed to speak
No one is allowed to shout
Opinions are driven underground
Seems that every time they do it wrong
Always been the same old song
Never get it right
Never allowed to speak
Never allowed to fight
It’s a strange house
The children are so full of doubt
A strange house
The kids just don’t understand
They don’t see that this is the way it’s all been planned
Keep them frightened is the game
Then all those “other” things won’t need to be explained
Why is big brother always mad
Why is younger brother always sad
Why does he sit in his bedroom all alone
Because it’s a strange house
And not a home
It’s a strange house
The children are so full of doubt
A strange house
Everything they do or say
Is turned into to a weapon to build upon the barricade
And Dad pretends he’s not afraid
Of the sudden discovery of suffocated memories
The dark deeds linger in a cage
Of ridicule and violence that makes the babies cry
So Mum has buried her suspicions worryings away
In Sunday lunches usual farce
A make believe gathering of corrupted loving and pretended merry making
It’s a strange house
The kids are so full of doubt
A strange house
Big brother hit the self destruct
With pills and needles long before he decided he was gay
No one ever asked him why he was so mad
And no one ever asked why younger brother was so sad
He sits up stairs in his room
Surviving in a sea of doubt
The suffocated memories have all come out
He’s always sad and he’s always alone
The babies to they both have grown
But he doesn’t know them anymore
It’s been so long since he left that so called home
It’s a strange home
The children are so full of doubt
A strange house
Their children are so full of doubt
Brought up and made this way
All their futures turn to grey
As all the buried memories fight their own way out
Remember why they always felt so wrong
Remember what happened when we were young
And mother just closed her eyes she did not help
All the future turns to grey
Brought up and made to be this way
Father was the hang man who took their lives away
Copyright © colin mitchell williams | Year Posted 2008
As winter trees exhume their leaves
and Autumns' sacrifice
retreats in memory
Summers of sangria blossoms
drape their crimson blooms-
exhale against an arc of sighing skies
to tempt the wanderer on,
but it’s the stolen thoughts of childhood
that bring the wanderer home.
© Suzanne Delaney
Copyright © Suzanne Delaney | Year Posted 2016