Is not the poem
Is not the poet
Is the observations
Is the emotions
Is the diversity. entwined
Opposing views always sought
Is the love
Is the hate
Is the sadness
Of losing to fate
Is the laughter
Of a child’s dreams
Is the love
That is sometimes unseen
Except by the poet
Who in his lonely sadness sees
The beauty of all
That surrounds the depression in he
My heart something broke
I became cold
For childhood days gone by
A million ways
Now I write
From down below
Where darkness is the sea
That I sail in eternity
Of in the distance
I heard the notes of a symphony
So now as I sleep
A thousand deaths
For that one musical note
To wake me up
Heart and soul
Copyright © arthur vaso
I am the ring around Saturn
spinning words as particles of ice and dust
with the power to transcend
I am the original chosen to be right here right now
transmitting verbal frequencies
through speaking my thoughts into existence
I am the heir of omnipotence,
born with a direct connection to profound abundance
The one whose words will age, yet still have substance;
since there are no boundaries attached to my pen
I am constant energy
Translating personal experience into imagery
Vulnerable to tyranny,
yet i continue attempting to share some truth
through this abstract language of poetry
I am the core
I am that I am more
I am the Divine Presence that is the Source of my rewards
I am the green you get when you mix too much yellow with the blue
That shade of gold you get when the sun resides into darkness
and when it ascends in the dawn burning dew
I am the transition between the third and fourth dimension of time;
the love you feel when you realize how it feels
I am the poem that is abstractly direct
because I write beyond limits
absorbing frequencies from 3 to 8 hertz
through meditation for several minutes
I am the one bridging the gap between
the analog ascension and the direct connection to spirit
The one who is love
because I am a descendent of it
I am the rhythm that the wind blows
I am the beginning and the ending of stories told
about the universe and how miracles unfold
I hold the power to accept judgement from those who will do just that
Not knowing that I am them in the absolute reality of me
I am knowledge beyond measure because that is my right
So I continue meeting the different parts of me
when I meditate and write
Who am I?
I AM, THAT, I AM
Copyright © humble b
I am a coward with open sores.
I write and wonder who it bores.
I hear my heart and mind argue repeatedly.
I see others carrying out my dreams;
that’s what’s defeated me.
I am a coward with open sores.
I pretend open doors are closed, and walk the other way.
I touch base with the fear in my heart, tearing me apart,
leaving nothing to say...
I worry the world will leave me.
I cry because no one believes in me.
I am a coward with open sores.
I understand nothing comes easy.
I say I’m happy, but even I don’t believe me.
I dream I am healed and brave.
I try to overcome my weaknesses before I’m in my grave.
I hope you hear me.
I’m on all fours.
I am a coward with open sores.
© 2011 ~JSLaM
* 1st PLACE in Contest "MARCH MADNESS" Sponsored by C. Devonshire 2011
* 1st PLACE in Contest "ONE OFF" Sponsored by Brian Strand 5/11/2011
* 1st PLACE in Contest "BEST EVER" Sponsored by P.D. 2011
Copyright © JSLambert Mister ROBOTO
Spill Ink—the poets’ timeless warp and woof;
Signifies our mantra beyond reproof;
Late at night as poets struggle to write;
Our Muse enchants poets to such delight;
Poets seek tone and tenor for a splash,
And images and nuance for a dash.
"Spill Ink!” Poets cry seeking perfection!
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved
(October 18, 2014) (Rhyme Septet)
Copyright © Gary Bateman
Looked at the outside of steel window
Around in the dark, awesome feelings into the mid-night air
What the news was brought in the feelings!
Eyes of the orphan cat was flaming on the corridor.
Waiting for the light in the window
Dark vision comes down into my eyes by cycle-weariness
Down from one circle to another circle in time-blindness
Who stands here, the Islamic old man!
History of terrorism was carved on his burnt body
He wants to say something!
A white-complexioned Christian young man stands into the neighbor circle,
White-skinned history was printed on his blood-stained body
He wants to know something!
A dark-colored Hindu boy stands into the third circle,
History of third world is awakened on his envenomed body
He wants a little smile!
The old man, young man and boy are coming forward from the circles
Great distance... Near ...in front the room...
Who are you? No reply
They disappear into the tuberose equipped black and white photo of my father
Dad is smiling, I am senseless!
Tears are dropping from the eyes of our cat on the corridor.
SANDIP GOSWAMI, INDIA
Copyright © Sandip Goswami
What is this unseen power
It changes all that exists into dust
It shapes our lives and our landscapes
It sculpts and changes us.
What is this unseen power
That rules the world of men
That heals and teaches and equalizes
That triumphs again and again?
Time is that great master
Of power and wisdom and grace
Which by doing nothing but passing
Leaves its mark on every place.
Time...yes you can waste it,
But be aware when you do
Time will return the favor my friend
And eventually start wasting you.
Copyright © Melanie McLaughlin Reed
It seems like everybody around me has forgotten,
they're stuck on a thought again,
saying alot and whining more.
Preying on their own self-doubts,
they have so much,
yet see so little.
Can't they see that 64 inch TV,
or feel the beating of the jets in their hot tub ?
They measure their lives too much,
they have fallen into the "Great American Dream Sham"
as my friend "Chad Williams Lowther" would say !
Its a ruse,
so they can make changes in their lives which they normally wouldn't do,
because they lack the strength and insight,
so they get stuck in their minds.
and the damn kids are really suffering,
cause they don't have the latest video gizmo box.
Thoughtless over-reactions of self- abuse,
much like an addict who is never satisfied.
"The Great American Dream Sham" sucked them in,
macroni and cheese,
saturday morning cartoons and matinees.
All replaced by todays goals and desires,
which are masquerading as tired souls trying to find solice,
stuck in "the Great American Dream Sham"
and now saying all there is to say,
Hail, Hail to me
and all who are free,
all who go their own way
and all who see though it !
Copyright © mark king
I do not know?
There it is again
Bubbling up from within
Wretched wrath washing over me
Vile disgusting filth freely flowing
Angry demons seizing control
Forced attrition to evil urges
Rants of rage
Watched from within
Unable to soothe the beast
Surrender to aggression
Until the bile is expelled
Vomited forth in fury
Leaving only the bitter tastes
Of regret and sorrow
Copyright © Vandy Saylors
They ask me why I’m so happy
Asking me, if I just won a prize
I replied, well I reckon I did
Today is a wonderful surprise
When you have a past like mine
My today is always bright
There is no better feeling on earth
Than the joy of doing right
I may be an old man on a cane
My heart is skipping along
I learned to embrace the meaning
Life is a beautiful song
True life has its ups and downs
There’ll be forks in the road
With a smile I’ll stop for a while
Help you with your load
I had me a bag of popcorn today
It tasted exceptionally good
In fact, I will go as far as to say
Better then it probably should
For years, I had a guard in the pen
Popped him a bag each night
Then he would simply throw it away
His twisted little delight
He knew, it was those little things
Ate at our heart and soul
Movie with the wife Friday night
Popcorn in the bowl
I had a bag of popcorn today
Wife sitting at my side
I had a smile, which lasted awhile
One I could not hide
They ask me why I’m so happy
Asking me, if I won a prize
I replied, I reckon I did
Today is a wonderful surprise
For some reason today I was thinking about C.O. Talbert and
how he would pop a bag of popcorn even though he didn't eat
popcorn. He did it just because he knew it would make everyone
want some. I always felt sorry for him. His life must have been
very disappointing. The moral here: when you learn to appreciate
the little things in life your popcorn will taste a whole lot better.
Copyright © Michael Jordan
Life is but a winding road
Filled with faces along the way
Coming in and out of your life
Coloring your every day
Yet most spend just a moment
A fleeting glimpse before your eyes
They giveth not and taketh not
And cause you barely a rise
And some stay just a moment
Earning a thought upon your mind
Triggers for countless memories
These are the most common kind
And fewer still stay even longer
And commune with you a while
Leaving behind dearest memoirs
Of sweet tears or a special smile
And rarer still those faces grand
Building mansions in your soul
These are the faces of a lifetime
Whose virtue you do extol
And know that you simply are
A feature filled soiree
A portrait in collage
Of the faces along the way
Copyright © James Burns
Authored by Chuck Keys
It had no color,
Lacking shape, size and dimension.
It wasn't moving or breathing.
There was neither aroma nor taste, not here or there.
Touching was useless because it wasn't physical.
It was indistinct and limitless.
Multi-sensually and multi-psychologically
It wasn't here or there and it was.
With no distinction,
It looked like everything else,
Or it could not have looked like everything else.
It never made me feel good nor bad,
Nor happy nor sad
Nor quite nor trite.
In our world of joy and destroy, we sort and distort,
Looking more on the surface and less on the inside,
Ready to judge and be judged from outside in.
The "oneness" of mankind stretches beyond definitions and limits,
From outside to inside and from inside to outside.
We are one distinct and alike world of "oneness."
Differences exist for differences,
Therefore, differences don't exist.
Only "oneness" exists.
This poem is dedicated to Dr. Clayborne Carson and The Gandhi-King Community,
For Global Peace with Social Justice in a Sustainable Environment.
Copyright © Chuck Keys
I saw a death shadow in the eyes of my infancy
a soft mercy with calm blue fancy,
in childhood, when free will asserted it's wild supremacy
we sang of star charriots and laughter loyal to hyperactivity,
I see a death shadow in the prime of my ascendancy
outlining my temple of truth, whistling thy words of wizardry,
I hear It like the madness of morning's ending,
I taste It as if from the burning breast milk of a Dragoness,
I see It in the bleeding smile of my heart's kindness,
I speak to It when love's luster unlocks the lunacy of loneliness,
I feel the humble shade of It's jade justice in a world hot and hustling,
My death shadow has a surface sweet with patient purpose,
It is not rough with forboding frost that frights the fight of flesh,
rattling the scythe of doom and cackling for cataleptic crisis it does not,
It is not a grim God or a greedy Goddess, no taxing terror trumpeted,
It has never been an angel of escape or a demon of dour delirium,
when suffering becomes a seduction of brute beauty I share in it's wise joy,
my death shadow follows the desperate yet disciplined form of my body battle
through life's plethora of coy poisons and possessive passions,
marching along side me with martial grace, sculpting my face with lion spirit -
Copyright © Justin Bordner
You are the wild flower in my palm
With no stem to keep you anchored to this covetous earth
You are the fragile thing I dare not cup,
As your petals whittle away under the wind
And flit unfettered in the air;
Exaggerated fear leaves my fingers numb
Hungry need leaves my fingers twitching
And my hand is paralyzed by turmoil
As every breath of wind takes another petal from me
And brings to my lungs, my chest and my heart
An overwhelming scent of need-
You are the wild beauty in my palm
And I dare not hold you to my chest
For I fear to crush you
To know first hand
That caged beauty, is beauty no more.
Copyright © Samir Georges
Is this a poem?
I will let poets decide
I read here, words and prose
How is it possible
Such ingenuity, over and over
Expressions of the heart
Bitterness sits in the cold
Lovers shedding words
Lost souls attacking verbs
Poets in mourning
Deep and emotional losses
Opening the gates of heaven
For the bereaved and forlorn
Poets who dance and cry
Add some spiced rum and tears
Poets who ponder why?
Poets who offer comfort
Random words of the charitable order
Poets who cannot compose
Yet they are more poetic
Brutal exposure of the heart
Is poetic in its own right
Painters of poetic verse
Who disperse art like candy
I bow my head
In honor of you all
My last request
When that dark omen of death arrives
There shall be a poetic funeral
I shall write nor speak no more
Of lovers and poets
Drunk with words
You all, hoist some cheer
I wish to be surrounded
As all of you
Copyright © arthur vaso
An inner earthquake rattles him again
as the fiery sun dips in the horizon
Can he too, hide his halo as such?
Closing his eyes as he folds in his wings,
wishing he could take it off
He trembles...must he embrace darkness to know of love?
Sun breaks over the mountain range,
her obsidian skin absorbing the light.
If her body is like a canvas of night,
could she reach within herself,
beyond the horns and hooves
and find her own hidden sunrise, deep inside?
The darkness is more reassuring
than he could have ever imagined-
something to truly weigh his goodness against,
in a finely-tuned balancing act.
And as the stars can help guide a lost soul,
he too possesses a true north within.
Oddly enough, she welcomes the radiance,
such a stark contrast to what she has been used to-
rays drip into her like ink diffuses in water,
a momentary burst of chaotic brilliance,
followed by an even stillness.
She cannot escape it, becoming a part of her.
The rooster crows for the third time,
so he opens his eyes to this daybreak,
emerald mountains shimmering in the morning light.
Through abysmal depths, he arises and now realizes
Darkness comes as the light falls, it is inevitable...
yet Light also takes over that darkness.
With the thickening dusk,
clouds turn into amethyst ribbons.
The day's warmth thawed a part of her
that was kept frozen and dead for eons.
Now, she would do everything in her power
to keep it pulsing--to keep it alive.
Upon watching them, sheer fascination takes over....
even though these two are on different paths,
they had both achieved a similar transformation,
as if neither was an agent for one side, or the other.
Not any longer.
And how their auras shone
....in perfect equilibrium.
*nikko palmario wrote stanzas: 1, 4, 5
I(Chris D. Aechtner)wrote stanzas: 2, 3, 6
We both wrote stanza #7
Opposites: Angels and Daemons/Sunrise and Sunset
Copyright © Chris D. Aechtner
I am able to move one’s spirit to the pinnacle of joy or drive it to depths of despair.
Not a chore to evoke passionate emotion--convey love, hate, life, and death.
Within those four small words lies our meek human existence all told.
To omnipresent Alpha and Omega, of what core lies between?
Now I sit with pen in hand to ponder many words of wit.
Gift to paint, not I, yet may cast an image to mind.
Bright lavender fields coax the amorous duo
to mingle with its deep, heady scent.
Amidst wet sewage soaked dirt
a filthy small child lays
weeping for mother
a bloody heap
Make them express.
Giving wide literate detail.
Understand to hold a soft heart.
Else never will you touch one’s soul.
So this is merely the lone reason I compose.
Excitement and warm sympathy and fiery passion,
within many a sorrow and tears and friendly persuasion,
in absolute care I do write and lay my psyche upon each page,
then wonder at length the primary purpose of such artistic endeavors.
Who among the world’s populace might gain an insight from what I scribe?
Does this really matter at all; since rarely, if ever, is it what one says… but how.
Copyright © Michael Santner
You think you’re alone out on the range
Sittin’ silent under starry sky,
Just a marvelin’ at the universe
And wonderin’ ‘bout that ol’ question: why?
You shake your head at worlds of worry,
Knowin’ it ain’t often that you’ll find,
All the answers to your queries
Beneath the clear black sky and pine.
You wonder if we rose up from mud
And walked straight and tall upon this earth—
Or was it all created in a moment—
A conception that gave us true birth.
Are we all no more than those monkeys
Evolvin’ slowly down life’s long line?
Or is there more to earth and heaven
Touched by something truly sublime?
We keep on punchin’ clocks and cattle
And tryin’ to get through each new morn—
But is there more to life than dyin’
And will we somehow be reborn?
All the cattle know my hard proddin’
As I lead them along time’s sad way—
We live for but a flashin’ moment,
As we watch life go by in one short day.
So make the best of trails you ride, cowboy—
Each tomorrow is both yours and mine—
And gaze long at stars in that vast sky
Placed there by intelligent design.
Copyright © Glen Enloe
We are all strippers on a stage
choreographed of broken dreams.
Our materialistic schemes
drown values in whiskey bottles.
We are all strippers on a stage
who put down our pillow case veils,
dawned a garter belt, sold our souls
for the price of our panty hose.
We are all strippers on a stage
who can not keep with this life style:
with nights too long and days too short,
where a candle burns on both ends
a center burns out; we sell out.
We are all strippers on a stage:
vibrate and shimmer for dollars,
feed this addictive scenery.
Copyright © tara jennings
I'm the Devil yet I'm also God,
for deep inside there’s only me there.
And hiding behind belief’s facade,
I'm all alone and it seems unfair.
Evil dwells within my darkest parts,
for my ego always puts me first.
Yet goodness thrives in my heart of hearts,
for I'm the best and I am the worst.
To balance good I revel in bad,
for I’m free and a religious slave.
Yet happy thoughts can morph into sad,
believing nothing’s beyond the grave.
A reality fantasy blend,
I am hope and I am derision.
And I’m the beginning and the end,
a mix of sinner and contrition.
Copyright © Emile Pinet
He told me to write a poem
About beauty, wind blowing
Hair tossing , dream making stunning
Gorgeousness of living
Beauty addicts and blind ambitions
Movie stars and historical happenings
Formal dresses, women in high heels with
Faces meant to smile
That’s what poems should be about, he says,
Your good at that kind of thing, just spit it out
“Shawty, write a poem about beauty, that’s real poetry”
“Everything is beautiful, baby…”
“But what is beautiful to you?”
Births and rebirths
Phoenix Red celestial torching of the hearts
Interlocking fingers in twilight
Kisses, Death, sorrow, crocodile tears
Laughter, Ecstasy , black
White, brown, yellow, silver crimson
Skin on skin, chest to chest, on and on, soft
Hard City light heaving, breathing against the Ebony sky
Natural Twinkle of diamond shadows,
Cosmos, Atoms, Hydrogen bonds, Electrons
Nucleus, matter, anti-matter
Smash together, slither mutually
To create harmony.
Everything is beautiful.
“Just write about that then..”
"Not everything has to be written, somtimes you just have to
live it out.."
"What's the point then?? What's the point of writing about butterflies
and waterfalls? I just don't see it? Why do you have to doll everything up and
make it more then what it is? Not everything has to be picked apart and analyzed."
"Mmm, I suppose."
"What's real poetry to you?"
"I don't understand."
I recline and rest my head on his chest
Tracing lines of thought on the ceiling
Helping him dismantle the universe and put it back together
In his own way
Enjoying lyrical symphonies of life
Breath by breath…
"This, baby, This is real Poetry.."
Copyright © Bella Cardenas
My Guitar weeps
And not so gently
It strings together broken tears
It has seen my feeble attempts at love
My Guitar laughs
As I try to serenade
A song that lovers play
It strings together broken romances
My guitar sleeps
For I am not doing to well
In charming your heart
My guitar is bored
My guitar kills me
And steals my girl
They were meant to be it seems
They joined chords and sang
The funeral was brief
The music was good
Guitar music after all
Now they travel onwards
With not a thought of me
With no guitar
As the ghost of me weeps
Copyright © arthur vaso
If you could relive an ancient day, which day, which day, which day would you say?
First kiss, first date
Or undo a mistake?
Watch your child be birthed again
Go back and unhurt a wounded friend?
Unsay a word?
Unbreak a heart?
Undrink that first drink?
Unscar that first scar?
Or would you go to another place
Feel your dad's hands
See your mom's face?
Laugh with your sisters
Let little brother win that foot race
Maybe pet that dog just one more time
Hear grandma recite that old nursery rhyme
Maybe take up for the kid that got picked on
Or hear again for the first time your favorite old song
Or tell your kids you loved them again and again
No matter what they'd just done or how late they had been
But you can't go in reverse to relive any day
What you would have done
Or what you would say
But you can say now what you wouldn't before
You can be someone new open up a new door
You can make a difference in your here and now
You can't be a new when but can be a new how
Copyright © Kelly Crenshaw
When I am Colder,Older and then alone...
I will collect the sky on my own...
When the art has faded and the days then fade-
when everyone has gone away...
I may finally see what never was saw
.....ahhhhhhhhhhhhh............... the quiet sky
The unlit room which bares my end...shows the flashes of my pains my joys and sins.
This life has been a strange one since the curtains were drawn
These paper and plastic figures have clouded the dawn
I was once younger,foolish,and obsessed with truth
Now I am bitter,sour,dour faced with my heart under shoe
The children were all searching or lost in a crowd
All weeds in a garden...growing vile and foul
Though beauty was sold it never came true
Obsessions and vanity have traveled safe through
Materials and poison and everything lost
have been burned in the fires or lost in the frost
I stand face to mirror tearing my being apart
Winding thoughts of love,pain,god,and art
As the sun sets and the darkness grows
I too shall follow this pattern in tow
Death has a friendly hand and a pretty face
She has given me comfort as I leave this place
The wars have occurred,humanity's lost
Souls have been burnt in the fire or lost in the frost
Day was Life,Night is Death
And the latter has given counsel on my final steps
Copyright © Winter Wallace
Those Sounds That Now Arrive In Early Morn
Can one ever believe in this hope and life,
when infancy now has no great strife?
Yet soon a decision simply must be made,
nobody sits forever in contented shade!
In this ole world evil and chaos abounds,
chases us like a mad pack of wild hounds.
Across flowering meadows we swiftly race,
doing most anything to not this life face.
Sadly, desperate flaws we all must endure
our souls weak, none so clear and pure.
Living bravely is what we really should do,
this world's low standards give no clue.
Often our silence seals our sad fate,
yell or scream before its too late!
When that boulder hits you from above,
curse it and swiftly give it a shove.
Along this path signs will soon appear,
yield not to the ever present fear.
Boldly strive to give love that is true
knowing, a record is always kept on you.
We may see with our poor, muddy eyes,
its all there in our imagination skies.
A ship with our happiness its only load,
upon these stormy seas we must be bold!
Are we to be mere victims of our world,
never defiant with our banner unfurled?
Nay, tis better we pray for hope greater,
follow not the path of saddened life hater.
This life is now resting in a true, loving place
faith, love and joy smile upon this face.
Those sounds that now arrive in early morn;
Yes, I remember-
they were there back when I was first born!
Robert J. Lindley, 01-24-2015
note: Facing life with courage and hope.
Ending will come someday but I now know I was granted mercy,
a great blessing and true love of wife , family and friends!
Copyright © Robert Lindley
we are human tuning forks
vibrating to our own frequencies
searching for the rhythm and the pulse
of the universe
the peace of mind
we're looking to find
the occasional perfect moment
to prove we're not blind
so I accept my flaws
and their probable cause
because in the last place to dream
there can be no laws
Copyright © Kevin Pearce
From the womb I sprung forth in a storm unrelenting
waves crashing ashore, endless bending and blending
alone and defenseless to weather the tempest
the gales blew relentless, clouding my senses
Set adrift in that sea of the knowledge of man
attempting to stand, felt around with bare hands
plunged deep in the waters, searching for others
consciousness faltered, eyes closing shutters
Then I had awakened to find I'd been taken
to an archaic dwelling, time should have forsaken
a shaman commands- a glorious rant
a clasping of palms, an aggregate chant
From what source? I did wonder, descending to ponder
was ultimate wisdom derived and contrived
upon examination, and deep contemplation
I viewed this creation, with grim consternation
An anomaly present in each generation
a wise person born, elevated, and stationed
to higher position, with God given vision
Innate intuition brings truth to fruition
Mankind in collective, this most stubborn creature
materialism his central shared feature
twisting to suit them to there situations
killing the prophets- forging the nations
Undertows from life's currents did violently grab me
envelop and drag me, develop, distract me
manifesting unsettling neural connections
truth became slippery- changing directions
Somewhere through the ages our paths had diverged
wise words been perverted, and hatred emerged
devouring souls, then swallowing whole
foundations of kingdoms, rendering null
Copyright © Ronald Wheeler
Every time we fall we lose a bit of are selfs.
Untill hollow becomes the heart.
bare as a vacant stores shelves.
The dreamer finds solice in every new face.
That new love's illusion.
Cold is the afterglow when we reflect apon that
once passionet embrace.
Can the bitter heart find a reason to try?
Skipping stones alone across dark water.
We keep setting are selves up without
a single question as to why.
A room smoke filled yet every thing shows
Sometimes we play the cards.
And hold the best one aside in fear.
As vast as the ocean from its shores
the the innocent crawl.
Trying to capture only a glimmer of that true passion.
Every time we fall.
Copyright © John Patrick Robbins AKA Gonzo
Let's bring into this world peace
So all these wars and violence can cease
Let's stop all this hatred
And give the poor and homeless a piece of bread
Let's start by changing us all and right from inside
And letting God be your guide
There's so much we need to change
Even if it looks and sounds strange
We can all start sometime and somewhere
By showing in everything that we do, that we care
Let's be careful in the manner that we speak
Let's be strong and not weak
Let's show this world, that we still stand strong and tall
Let's unite together with courage and tear down every single wall
Let's bring into this world of ours much more love and peace
So a lot of this vicious circle of strife and pain can one day cease
Let's start today and let's do it right from the place in which we live
Let's always be respectful of our neighbors and our fellow man
Let's give the best of ourselves everyday and all the time that we can.
Let's stop this madness and get rid of all these illegal drugs today
They can destroy everything that you have and will kill you too
Make a vow to bring God into your life every single day
And make Him part of everything that you do.
Believe that your life will be more productive and blessed
When you put Him first in every thing
That you set your mind to do when you bring
Him closer and right inside your heart
And from you He shall never depart
So start by doing this and much more
Let's answer the call and open the door
Let's be watchful of everything that we do and say
And let's be thankful and pray to God everyday!
Dorian Petersen Potter
Copyright © Dorian Petersen Potter
Who is more righteous,
The pious man who watches in awe,
Or the faithless man saving those in the blaze?
Who is stronger,
The man who lifts a ton with one arm,
Or the mother of four on her own?
Who has lost more,
The man who has lost his money,
Or the man who has lost his love?
Who is weaker,
The man who can't fight back,
Or the man who won't fight for him?
Who Is more savage,
The man who doesn't know right from wrong,
Or the man who doesn't care?
Who is wiser,
The man who has the answers,
Or the man who asks the questions?
Copyright © Michael McOrus
Upon the nuclear metropolis,
the very navel of the soul;
there lies the balance between what exists
outside the axis of control.
An understanding that transcends
between the virtues and the flaws
combined, condensed at either end
with all the weight that each have wrought
A pivot between Time and Change
on coiled point beneath the plane
where Chance and Choice are both arranged
and mingled products are contained.
The vortex draws a Life in steady grade
with every trial and result.
The constant whorl becomes crusade
and when it's balanced naught can halt.
The plane may teeter, it may shift
and alter rhythmic atmospheres
and life might stall upon the pith
or race the corkscrew track of years.
And in the helix of maturity
once equilibrium has been engaged
the spiral spin up through eternity
can not be ceased by fragile age.
With poise maintained when crisis knocks
and accord within every spiral breath;
a balance is redeemed when scales might rock
between the points of Life and Death.
Copyright © Jean Marble