"Soft defense is driven by my thoughts,
I vanish away into yesterday’s scenic road,
Set the mood among the dark clouds,
Wish I could go back to the night, of fourteen and cold.
Tell me not to look up and cover myself with the world.
Sorry I could not stay,
One too many excuses & lies,
To where they never fixed themselves;
I could not handle the air,
I had to breathe right the cold nights that followed.
I stood as one in love, under the starry sky…
Young and alone, I left the never-ending vindictive feeling.
The dust slept every reason inside my soul.
I travel the world, snoozing with the magic of the sand.
Stars that echo and drop twinkles to my walking toes.
The horizon was my blanket and shield
Where the light and night I wore,
Accelerating, escaping no more justification!
"Oceans of excuses sailed through my soul,
Heartbroken, but in love with defiance toward the stardust novelty.
With a sigh!
I hesitate not to look back,
Somewhere the ages turn to rust:
Old and grey, all alone,
The leaves I stepped on then are trample and gone.
One day I shall return for the proper goodbye.
For now, I must travel down this lonely road silently.
Slowly my heart will heal itself, nurturing the frozen sleet away.
Releasing the 14-year old girl at last,
In a body a mind and soul,
Confronting her with an, I BELONG HELLO!”
I remember you, from when there was a spring
When the seasons were ripe, with verdant green
Our nimble feet danced in the wind
and on the brink of everything
Not a furrow in the brow of youth
We borrowed life for just awhile
We tapped our shoes, on a promised stage
Where carefree laughter was the rage
that filled our age with endless miles
We danced and twirled a twin ballet
just you and me on summer's waves
Two pirouettes, in mode of curls
of blossoms, frilled, and tender leaves
unfurled in winds, we found a way
to soar our wings, above the world
We knew not yet
of death or dying
or of regret, or cause for crying
But, something frowned upon the season
You caught the wind, and without reason
A colder wind
that kept you flying
far beyond my eyes could see
And to the other side
beyond my words
beyond my tears
Now here alone
I touch the day
and taste the night
I will walk alone, in autumn sun
And lay myself on dying leaves
I think of you and think of then
I feel the wind against my face
that sweeps me to a distant place
where I recall what time erased
I'm closer now... to hear the sound
The whisper of the seasons calling
Above the trees, the sky is blue
I think of you, and feel the breeze
And all the while, the leaves must fall
This is too complex; i mean the throbbing wound
grating my belly on a dappled day, a day
breathing of tender winds and violins. Perhaps,
the strains of notes shuttle me back
to my grandfather’s library sitting on books
and archaic telescopes. Here, we would
empty the shoulders from a rough sail;
he scattering fiddle songs on painted walls…
the mellow notes tasted like hints
of vanilla scent warmed by cadences
of burning musical passion as his eyes ,
half-closed ,melted the noise
of an anxious world, of teary wrongs.
‘Bathe in the splendor of the night,’ he mused,
submitting to a trance smitten by some refrains
of Moonlight Serenade… and my rubber spine
would bend with the flesh of his vibrating hands;
violin strings weeping till we drowned in holy streams.
Now, I feel this undefined nostalgia… the phantom
of light exhumed his lust for old charm;
and my eyes fall on the alley of roaming vagueness.
I could have loved him more than heaven
plucking his strings so soon, uninvited.
Regina Riddle's A Special Memory
I was sure of meeting you under
a hanging of mistletoe
A fair flying flag of snow to my inner war
A temporary cessation still vacillating
on this December
Out of breath and sight
fear of relapsing and the need
a bonfire to burn fallen leaves and years
A promise in whispers
binding a pact
Somebody sings a carol of joy
The sprig of mistletoe waits hanging
to exchange the prediction of happiness
a berry for a kiss
a kiss from your lips
your lips... unattainable, unreachable
I was sure of meeting you under
a green branch full of berries
a latent foresight
the past must be the past
it's my own Christmas present
I was waiting for so long
for so long, and I deserve it
Everything is snow
and its grains, its crystals, its pellets
cover every day of December
I was sure of meeting you under
a hanging of mistletoe
Oh cold...distant, distant December!
I recall a filthy sidewalk
running in front of grandma's house
with bumps and cracks from the roots
of ancient white oaks…
Meandering down to the levee
with cane poles and sack lunches
crickets and freshly dug earth worms
Barefoot in careless summers...
I recall one low spot
beneath a straggly Chinaberry
filled with pitch-black delta dirt
washed in by summer rains
Shuffling through and digging down
burying our toes...
Often now I recall
when the heavens are shrouded in grief
when darkness closes at the edge of vision
I recall a porch light flicking on in the distance
I recall grandma’s trembling soprano calling
calling me back home….
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.
it got written in the sunshine
in the late eve
in the cool breeze
it got written in the moment
it got written on a swing
on a deserted beach
a most curious thing
it got written in the moment
it got written on the sand
where the seaweed washed upon the land
without a plan
it got written in the moment
it got written where the waves of the bay lap like static
and I can hear the metal grinding of a windmill
over the sound of that cool breeze in my ears
it got written in the moment
it got written watching a seagull doing a fly-by
watching me, squawking at me
like an impatient child wanting me to give it something
it got written in the moment
it got written under a big blue sky
on a distant coastline
close to where I now live
it got written in the moment
it got written while I waited
while we lived apart but worked together for our future, fated
when we again would be mated
it got written in that moment
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.
I heard he died last night
He was singing on the road again
He should have picked another song!
Not a Clerihew and pure fiction..
A word play off his famous song :)
You think you know him
But you refuse to see
The artful way he abuses me
He captivates my mind
He traps my soul
He pins my arms to my side
When I tell him just to go
He uses knife like words
To slice me with his tongue
His eyes are like daggers
Causing me to come undone
Harsh fingers press against my face
Proving im a Doll
To play with as he choses
Or throw against the wall
He taunts with cruel intentions
To make my heart bleed
Playing Devils advocate
Once I cry myself to sleep
Soft and bitter sweet
In an instant he turns to stone
A heart as cold as ice
Mean down to the bone
But you refuse to see
You glance the other way
And listen to his words
You join in his game
Each word he says is now a jest
Each look is a mistake
And when he grips painfully
He just meant to play
Close your eyes to his work
It really is an art
But no matter how you spin it
Inside he is an abusive jerk
for your arm wrapped around
my clavicle. I thought
I would loose my breath.
for the cusp of our hip bones
struggling to pull the drunken color
from our orange cheeks.
and our sweat, our sweat, our sweat
in the drenched summer air.
Our pants futile afterthoughts
Left crumpled on the floor
It is here I asked for your respect
And you filled me with it.
for the musk smell of our blanket den. I would watch the way dawn light
speckled your shoulders, pale, white-blue
I would trace the ink
of your skin, fingertip hovering a half inch
from your bone.
for how my name would hesitate
on your breath in brief puffs
like dandelion seeds blown from
My wistful lips when I was
waiting for them to bring back my wish.
for my sleeveless dress, as we strolled from
your father’s funeral.
It was the only time I watched you cry.
There were little holes in the cement sidewalk.
They filled with rain, oil
And your tears.
I watched your face change through
their watery colored reflections.
for the way your skin repels from my
Touch, quivers as though my finger-
print were a red hot poker.
You haven’t allowed me to touch you
In a year.
for the color of her font, as she responds to you. It is an eager
Color. She responds with all the passion of an Eskimo kiss.
You left her waitng..always.
I have been special to you,
she replies to your
like a maid
Who’s felt the hot moist
whisper of something naughty
tickle against her ear lobe.
for the way your eyes punch accusations
sharper then your razor tongue.
blue crackled lightening,
like an angry alley cat.
My words cannot reach you here.
You will leave.
We will divide our booty
Words that once held my name like a piece
Of carefully folded origami
now hiss cold
devoid like the plaster of our empty room.
for the morning
now knocking on my window.
I am livid in my withdrawal, tossing and turning
I can find no comfort
the tangle of these vacant sheets.
These hands have known the joys of a boy’s youthful play
Also known the farm work that was required each and every day
These hands pulled the weeds from the fields where we toiled
Laboring under a blazing sun; leaving these hands rough and soiled
These hands held the hand of my lady as I asked her to share my life
Held her by my side the day she became my wife
These hands reveal the ravages; of weather’s savage breathe
Held a knife in the flowing blood; in a beasts ultimate death
Hands that held many a hammer; swung too hard; swung too long
Time has taken its toll on these old hands; hands that once were so strong
These hands proudly rocked the cradle as I watched my babies sleep
Held them closely to my chest to calm some hurt causing them to weep
These hands gently pushed a child’s swing; as my children laughed aloud
Held a daughter's hand walking down the aisle, made her father proud
These hands have known the heat of a sculptor’s flaming torch
Held brush and pallet while painting out upon the porch
Cradled my pen as I spread the ink in the poetry that I write
Ink that is sometimes spread well into the night
Gary's Yard Sale, the story
Authored by Chuck Keys
Among the rustbelt cities of yesterday,
Along the edges of the Detroit River,
A short distance to the side,
Resides a slice of Victorian times,
Excesses exceeded needed,
Where age confronts time,
The day before meets the day of,
And greets tomorrow.
Those in the hood
Meet and greet among
The scraps of forgotten memories.
Lawns filled with bygones of size,
Tables filled with important somethings,
For important that evolved into history.
Where memories become linked,
Each to a stored thought,
Treasured, pleasured or disdained,
To a person,
Of late or present,
To a future of who knows what.
During the day,
The history-of and the future-of talk,
Of where they were,
And where they hope to be,
The dust is blown off with the wind,
From the east, west, north and south.
The yard sale, the graveyard of the past,
The arena of the present,
Life and death of the sale,
Dance together, coupled,
Where Mine, becomes Yours' while
Gary the Conductor, orchestrates to perfection,
The operatic enjoyment of history,
Buyer meets seller, exchanges
Are made. As is today.
*This poem is dedicated to Gary and Ann Harris of Northville MI USA – May they and
their Yard Sales age forever!
© Charles H Keys, 2010. All Rights Reserved. V1.4.09252010
Sometimes I am happy, sometimes I am sad.
Sometime I sing, sometimes I stammer
Sometimes I dance on the music of my soul, Sometimes I dance on the fingers of
one single person
Sometimes I expect so much from others; sometime I myself can’t meet my own
Sometime I make fun of others and feel bad later, sometimes life makes fun of me
and I smile
Sometime I win and sometimes I lose, sometimes I don’t even understand whether I
won or lost.
Sometimes I laugh as if whole world is with me,
Sometimes I cry as if I am alone wandering in a strange land
Sometimes I give up so easily
Sometimes I work so hard that no one can stop me to achieve what I want
Sometimes I am dynamic person, who wants to change the world,
And sometimes I am a kid who expects anyone to embrace him tightly.
Sometimes I feel happy about the achievement of my enemy
Sometime I feel dejected with my own success.
Sometimes I help others and show them the right path
Sometimes I feel totally helpless and don’t know where to go
Sometimes I ask god to please give my past back
Sometimes I pray to show me the way forward
Life is composed of SOMETIMES and I just flow with that.
U admit or not but you are also sailing on the same boat.
So join me and enjoy it EVERYTIME as SOMETIMES life is very short!
I swam inside the Mediterranean Sea.
In what would be my Glory Days, off Valencia’s coast,
I dipped my foot in freezing water;
withdrew it; then dipped it in again.
(I’d always had my own will even then,
just didn’t realize how strong it was).
Disappointingly, my one day to enjoy the sea was cold.
I still cannot recall if others from my group
ventured out there with me and stayed for long
although I remember a few of them were shivering
riding on the bus to go back home.
Oh, it was so very long ago!
Nor can I recollect the suit I wore
(I do know I was plump then;
"Gordita” the men called out to me).
The season - was it early spring or still the winter?
And what specific color claimed the sea that day
along my beloved Iberia’s splendid shore?
Of that afternoon, I remember only this:
Aimlessly I let my body float first in one direction,
then another; keeping my eyes always on land,
my body numb, accustomed to the freeze.
No one was around me; I drifted, sometimes nearly straying. . .
just I - all alone -
letting my whole self go. . . for maybe 40 minutes.
It was something I felt that I just had to do
so that years later, standing here today
(“Gordita” frozen deep inside me)
I can say that I swam in that mighty, ancient sea.
Today, I have read something that reminded me of you
Before I know it my mind has traveled back in time
To the time when you were part of my everyday
I only need to close my eyes and there it is
I feel that it was just yesterday, no, just moments ago
When we were together, when we had each other.
I read again your letters, listened to the songs
Looked at the sketches you created for me
Replayed in my mind the quiet conversations
That always took us late into the night.
It is amazing that lovers would smile
At anything even the most remotely amusing.
But oh how we laughed…
Even a lover’s spat would end up in rolling laughter
Little pockets of time that I dip into
To assure me that it was not just a dream
That it was real, that there was really you
That there was really us.
In them I take a momentary pleasure
For those days were anything but ordinary
It felt like one long roller coaster ride
You took me to the highs and lows
Of feelings and emotions only a woman who loves
With so much depth and passion can go through.
I felt your love, the sincerity of it
The relentless pursuit of someone who loves
That my insecurities and fears were overshadowed
By your patience and constant assurance of your love and desire
And I started to dream, of a time and space designed for us alone.
It was not meant to be
Sadly, I came to know the meaning of “too good to be true”.
And as all things not meant to be, it has to end
We promised each other to keep to the path
destiny has chosen for each of us separately
Hiding the pain in mute civility.
Today, for the last time let me say I love you.
For whatever it’s worth let me thank you
We have proven that the heart is strong
That love is not the monopoly of the young
It is ageless, boundless, selfless
Beautiful and wise.
27 January 2015
Your Old Favorite Poem #3
Sponsor: Shadow Hamilton
Decades stretched a cord, across years,
up the stairs, and around chairs
coiling beyond the door of one small room,
groomed by the sun, of a Saturday afternoon...
I am floating on a sea of a hardwood floor
Prone, on my back, upon a lavender rug
Examining the nail of my left hand thumb
with a phone at my ear, a smile on my face
while you've glady expressed, how you have aced an exam
I confess how I've missed holding your hand
only linked to your kiss, by a small ivory phone
With a ring on my finger, to bind our young love
Blinded in the eyes, from an innocent throne
Invitations in the mail, and a church on hold
There was a cake on order, and a heartless, cold world
You were glued to my ear, I was wrapped by a cord
that tugged on the wall, with long-distance words
Light from the yard is scored by the blinds
but, there on the floor, prone on my back,
I'm bound by the cord that tethered our lives
Linked to your voice, where a new love was wound
Hovering over the sea of cold hardwood,
I had a pillow of shag, and a lavender rug
The days stretching short and our vows, yet untold
The cord getting stronger, and time to unfold
Have you ever woken up feeling like a kid
With angels dropping cotton candy on your soul
When knocks on doors reveal no steps in snow
And shooting stars have white beards and presents?
I get lost sometimes under goose feathers and it feels good,
Broken speakers squeak Christmas Carols
There are no clocks on walls, only the rhythm of pine logs in the fireplace
It smells of the forest I used to fly with horses,
No saddles, no hats, no shoes, no wolves...
Just practicing tying my shoelaces and sitting up straight for life...
I watch her reflection secretly pray in a room made especially for us...
It's warm, pupils - two mirrors of colorful lights on a plastic tree...
Iolanda Scripca copyright 2010
Of the Gods own country
of this paradise
where green and blue
merge as one
in the north is a city
that encompass the beauty
where the dream lands meet
lined by kaasaraka trees
where seven tongues are spoken
and a unique lingo was woken
lined by shores and calm beaches
which meets with forts of ancient elegance
who can pass by with no notice
the mountains high and hillocks of beauty
forests green and tranquil rivers
places of worship, unique structures
renowned for coir and handloom
and for its customs varied
The people here, with a smile of warmth
welcoming with open arms
known for their variety dishes
which does prick ones tastebuds
of the sense of fashion
who can beat their passion
and their thirst for knowledge
is to be acknowledged
fame it has know from times of yore
of the arts and culture it beholds
this is the city of budding talents
feel the vibe and do relent
© Nadiya(14 May '15)
I like to sit and watch the snowfall as I’ve done in my memory.
Falling upon the deck, falling where my toys used to be.
Where as a child I’d sit and watch the woods turn from brown to white.
I had so many dreams back then, as I do here tonight.
The smell of ginger bread cookies and cider filled the house.
Where there was good cheer for all including the visiting mouse.
The sweet taste of maple syrup from Teatown I recall.
As the snow fell on the ice where we used to slip, slide and fall.
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.
Gwendolyn Rix's Let's Fly a Kite
and PD's Poem Under 15 Lines
by nette onclaud
The moor side broadcast,perpetually
amid airwaves of delirium,
aria that reverberates, from crag to scar
beacon to abbey century to century,
Everyday truth in simplicity
to ignite the human race!
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.
If only...I could start over again.
Took that job in Memphis and stayed away from so-called-friends.
If only...I could right the wrongs.
Find the perfect songs and make you giggle all night long.
If only...My wager would have been on the winning team.
But life is mean and I lost everything.
If only...I would have turned the other cheek.
You can't walk down a street without a coward preying on the weak.
If only...I would have turned left instead of right.
An automobile accident plus the loss of my eyesight.
If only...I could travel back in time.
Do things differently and have peace of mind.
If only...she were alive today.
My mother would shake her finger and say...
"If only, If only, If only!"
Sing for me the sweetest song
of love when life was still so young.
Those tender times and days devoid
of cares and wants troubling the old,
when smiles and laughter ruled the day,
when worries passed and did not stay.
Strum so softly your guitar
just like the nights along the shore
when music meant the world to us
and dreams were spun with so much fun.
With nary a thought to hindrances,
silence in between did not mean sadness.
Sketch the image once again
of all our hopes and aspirations.
Paintbrush, our imaginations
that fueled all our conversations.
Let the canvas capture the moment
when each one’s triumph was heaven sent.
With words of wonder I will write
of every look and all the sighs,
of every throbbing thud within
our hearts that sometimes drown the din.
Still, we aimed our sight so high
a desire defined by what’s ideal...
when life was young, and love was innocent.
16 May 2015
WHEN LOVE WAS INNOCENT POETRY CONTEST
SPONSOR: JUSTIN BORDNER
The rubber soles of my sneakers scrape along the sidewalk
as I go down the streets of my small hometown
with only a flashlight and the dim streetlights to illuminate the darkness
I walk my way through piles of scattered dead leaves
jack o' lanterns smile brightly as they sit in window sills
hanging in trees, white sheeted ghosts are stirred by the chilly night wind
paper cut-outs of black cats, witches, and jointed skeletons decorate doors
my vision is distorted by the eye holes of my mask
I can see just enough to find my way to a house
my sneakers thump up the wooden porch steps
with a cold hand I reach out to knock or ring the door bell
I say those three words which earns me my first treat of the evening
no harm done, you will get no tricks or mischief from me
then it is on to the next house and the next welcoming porch light
as Halloween night nears it's end, my bag of treats starts to feel heavy
my feet are tired and sore, yet there are still a few more houses to go....
I hope I can relive these sweet memories someday, with my own children.
The memory still lingers,
Of the times, we ingested this scenery.
The solace of the water
Brushing the distant horizon.
Reminds me of the time,
I spent with you...laughing and crying.
Beneath the sun and moon,
Where the canvas sky painted,
Many inspiring sunsets,
In a sequential series of beauty.
This place still touches my stomach
In a special way like you did,
and I wish you were here,
To reminisce those days with me.
But the photo remains,
As a souvenir of the best times of my life.
Our impressions have cast their mark,
On that very spot where we once stood
And you took my breath away...
God’s Cleansing Tool
Cloud-Concerto… How Cool !
Plop-Plop Plopping into Pothole Pools
On the Grass, Pavements and On My Own-Sweet- Fools…
who, don’t have Sense enough, to get out of the Rain…
… I think I’ll go Join Them… Again
I had an unusual reaction to opening my fridge today
Two cardboard boxes from a long ago memory stood in my way
And I found suddenly I no longer had the appitite to eat
And with the palapating of my heart came the quickening of my feet
And I - without thought - decided to hide from my past today
Bruised knuckles and silent tears
Even sunlit pictures are filled with hidden fears
And a symbol or a number or a song or a smell
Takes me by the eyes and drags me back into that hell
And no memory is left to be sweet
Every thought leaves me trembling at his feet
I hurry to leave the heart throbbing sight
The trigger following me into the height
Of my paradoxal panic - that leaves me senseless
And the memories flow of the nights I lay defenseless
Two cardboard boxes stood in my way
Active PTSD can transform a whole day.
Passing Burlington through emerald green forests, the mountains just over the next horizon. Old cabins sit around a circular lakes trapped in time. The yellow sand warm as a happy childhood. The worn gravestones behind the church no longer hold a memory. Wild flowers are picked from the side of the road and put into a jar on the kitchen table. The only thing that has changed is the people.