To be called ..
~ Grandma is a Honor ~
I have been blessed with 4 Grandchildren
~ one lays in Heaven " Kaleb " He is God's Angel ~
~ His twin brother he will always watch over , and be in his soul~
For he loved his Brother so much in the womb ,
he chose Heaven which gave life to his twin
~ I feel his spirit when I see the other Grandson ~
Time passed another gift to see
we are " Mickes" and Loved
Our Dad held the title in Baseball
~ that's how we roll ~
those children are Grandmas hero's
The Irish they love big and Family is everything
The brothers will protect the beautiful sister
~ as many lads will be calling ~
Every time my Grandson hits a home run
There will be a Angel watching proudly in the stand
It will be as if the Angel lifted him when he runs
~no one runs faster then my Grandson~
either baseball or Art ~ you shall find your gift given
These children have been blessed~
~ a beauty to hard to describe
If you think not ~~ Take a look at the Mom
That girl can stop Traffic
after raising three and still~
"Inspired by the gift and loss of Grandchildren "
May our precious " Kaleb " softly rest where Angels only Dwell
Copyright © Shanity Rain
Let the Deicide commence.
You're a voyeur at best!
Your vampiric heart is beating out of your chest!
And you have slayed the ones whom would love you for anything less
Ready to consume the final fragments of innocence,
And for you there is no forgiveness,
On your knees pleading, screaming to a tyrant in the skies;
The father of lies.
I will never be enslaved in your superiority
The people agree: jaded of your false dichotomies.
Know: I will be whomever nature intends to be
Apollo and I will share our dreams,
and you will be forced to see
I know who you are...
Readily the first to present your scars
Chained by some despot or mental czar
An emotional homunculus in your mind, behind bars
Reluctant to escape - even when proven fake
Your demented mind - depths no one will penetrate!
...And you see me suffering
Not caring of any casualties
Just as long you recieve your safeguard of sympathy
So very wary of the masses and their Anarchy; Liberious ways
Solipsist - Is there no one you can see?
Even if she was presented burning?
Solipsist - Is there no one you can believe?
Even if Sophia was screaming?
Solipsist - Know you have killed and abused me
Imprisoned in your own personal reality
Copyright © Wyatt Loethen
Coming from where I’m from
By Nate Spears
Published 2013 in “Death OF A Rose” By Nate Spears
Coming from where I’m from
Every day is a battle to survive
War is in session
Right before our eyes
Each day we battle lessons
Just to be in the running for blessings
Coming from where I’m from
We move rapidly on missions
The dead is alive with every walk of the lifeless
Limited income withholds wealth
The living is near death
Spirits are stripped of guilt
Coming from where I’m from
Creates bad health
In occurrence to this
Good feelings are killed
The worst gets exposed
As times get worse
Financial situations become a disaster
No man on earth can rehearse
The world is broken
Hunger brings harm
Coming from where I’m from
Dictatorship is not fond
The environment brings the need to shoot
These activities loosens the roots
We’re grounded by values as thin as a pin
We lose ourselves at falling rates like bowling pens
No free passes
Prisons filled in masses
Separated by classes
Coming from where I’m from.
Copyright © Nate Spears
His sins are heavy/
He stood there silent/
Sweat dripping down his armpit this sins r heavy/
Victims see a savior sent from heaven his sins r blurry/
His sweat tastes no salt secrets hidden behind doors glued in bolt they worship his father/
Zip down unzipped to keep his zip down and never spit zip/
He is an experiment a doormat of his Father's zip/
He weeps but nobody speaks/
His father's sins are heavy/
Copyright © Raymond Ngomane
The smell of coffee: hot and bitter in the cold winter night
With the rhythm in the left hand and the rhyme in the right,
He wrote a poem in his secret pocket,
A wistful star like a speedy rocket
Ready to leave this planet intense blue
In search of other traces of life anew.
He remembered after mother had died,
In the cold touch ,stalagmites and stalactites cried.
Father and son felt a strong taste for sweets.
As in the sunset, the blind boatman meets
With an awkward touch the water`s ring
But generally they needn`t to eat anything
For a while they rested an extraordinary team:
Father insistently (sometimes boring) told him
All his recollections:childhood,war and the rest…
All muscles and teeth pressed hot, like ice on the crest.
The son learnt them by heart, and later
He would retell them to father, even better…
One was on duty to wash the dishes;
The other tried to follow his wishes…
Their only joy was to read and read and read…
One had to cook at home ,and to bake the bread
In a bread factory:He was happy even when he was sad.
He could recognize each bread: All his loafs were bad.
He was like Chaplin in “New Times”.
He was speaking in figures and rhymes.
He wore a monk beard and father was much more younger.
Looking through the window: grey hunger and anger …
At the weekend, he used to ask his father
About the favourite meal, but rather
He would find a surprise the next day.
Each day was windy winter and grey…
Father had the same touching answer:”Something good”.
In the strange interference ,water and fire ,one was rude.
Solitude was their common friend stealing in like a lizard,
But, in the afternoon they played sweeping their courtyard.
They had leaves in autumn and snow in the winter.
The sky was grey without sun, the clouds were bitter.
Father was counting the leaves, in the old horizon
The son was painting the days ,in the cold horizon.
The war with the falling down leaves fighting hard
With red faces like an inveterate drunkard .
And years after his father met his final hope,
The son would stop in front of the sweets shop ,
Ready to buy recollections as Christmas tree sweets.
Copyright © Ovidiu Bocsa
It's the third verse,
I got the urge to purge
All the curt words I've splurged,
I've submerged in sin,
I'll go to church repent,
Then go curse again,
Lets reverse this trend
We nurse tolerance,
When it might offend,
If I white wash my fence,
So try to not get tense,
When I do not defend,
Those who chose to be dense
And not use their two cents,
To show kids the reverence,
For the pledge of allegiance.
Copyright © Mike Conway
A moment stauls...
Somewhere in between
What shall always be...
Known as my lost and forever hour
Where I wake to sounds of thrashing rains
A clock sits staring, ticking and tocking
My own darkness illuminating lightning
Distant thunder following her in shame
Although, throes of raven blackness
Slumber holds on to the pitch
But, I pass through limbo hallways of surreal
Stumbling forth in directions by my blinded feel itch
Walls of lucid memories like dripping paint
Begin to lapse deep into the younger years
And creaking footfalls shatter their echo
Of certian remembered fears
"Ah" deja vu sounds the alarm even further
Cracks from father’s room, is the ceiling leaking?
Into my little ears I'm more awake
As I hear the faint famaliar tears of weeping
My curiosity ever stronger than before
And innocent eyes through doorways peer
It’s the war again; Mom said he tried...
To leave it all behind, but still it's always there
And the storm's outside, but in a booming violence
Rushes back surreal into the unforgotten killing
The death, its experiences still locked up
Within his mind never free or escaping
A heroes love is his strength
Protecting me from a world with terrible pains
But, somehow I’ve learned to understand
That he needs his son, to calm his troubled angst
And silently I step
Inching slowly towards him
And nestle up within his trembling hands
Tugging upon one sleeve whispering "Dad, oh dad?"
“God has sent me here”
I say directly in his ear
Quieter now “To love you”
My tone gentle to his needs
Wiping away his tears
He whispers back...
And picks me up, relieved
And in turn we face the scene
Of a passing storm into silence
As the rain seems alive to notice
Stopping to watch our mends in evanescence
We are somewhat aware we are within God's presence
Looking to each other with a shrug
And then my dad holds me up
Giving this boy the biggest hug
Beneath the returning quiet
And the ambience of moonray light
He carries me back to my room
And places me into bed amid the last flash of white
Pulls the blankets up
Knowing this will comfort me
And I’ll never forget the words
He said so effortlessly
You will have a son
Always let him know you love him
And your bond will never end”
Again I wake, this time
To the sounds of an apologetic rain
The lightening has ceased its battle
And the thunder it no longer blames
I unwind the blanket
And uncover and sit
Rubbing the sleep out of my eyes
Awake, on the edge of bed
Was this a dream?
Or a twist of fate reality?
I ponder, running fingers through my hair
And, merely reflect upon it
Then I realize…
I was not alone
Dad is watching, not far away
And I know one day, I'll see him soon, after heaven's gates
Copyright © Michael Smith
Watching Homer struggle
to explain how a god wounded by a mortal
cannot die but may thereafter live with minor pain
and the humor when that god
complains to Jove that His supervision of His daughter
is inadequate and His Love too unconditional
while Diomed (or Tydides)
wreaks havoc on the Trojans and Hector
gives it back (in kind)
anatomically correct descriptions
of spears piercing jawbones and groins
sons without fathers hunting and fishing thereafter
as a metaphor for Vietnam (our war)
as this generation slips lazily away
to Hades (on Huck Finn's raft)
where the lights are always blue, gentian actually,
supper's served at 4 and former adversaries
pass the heavy hanging time playing pinochle (and pool).
We're selling the house to pay the taxes.
Pallas Athena wars among the men
from the axle of her chariot
and Venus is injured by Diomed,
standing in the field of battle where she never should have been,
in her adorable hand.
What has this to do with Solomon in jail.
Not the Jewish king, a black American male,
Your children can be failed at school and marched to war.
You can be taxed and sent to gaol for the honor of it.
anyone lived in a pretty how town.
We have no obligation
to perform the Iliad or read poems and even Homer
considers Achilles effete (compared to Hector)
and Odysseus is wrong even when he's right.
Therefore, modern man explores
the mathematics of circles in coordinate planes and their tangents
(when) (once) (soon)
the secret of warp speed is discovered
expansion of the species will be limitless and permanent.
Copyright © Robert Ronnow
I do not know?
hello! hey! boungiorno! what is the date?/
this world of dimensions created duality/
no letters/ no words/ are enough to express/
someone like you/ in reality/
i filled all your emptines/ MY still quiet bay/
as Jhon opened world in his Yoko/
you searched perfect princes/ looked for "right him"/
now at only one overman looking/
i swear/ i will hold you/ as much as i can/
would become all the axes/ and outer space/
voice is speared by the screaming wind/
falling down/ flakes to your place/
going crazy just seeing your knees/
don't regret anything/ my Benito/
unbelievable/ perfect/ unbearable/
you whisper/ "la comedia e finita"//
Copyright © Ilya Emelin
“Father of Independence” Nonet Poetry
General Aung San was a hero
and father of independence
of our country of Myanmar.
Aung San fought the British
and went to london
to claim freedom.
He was killed
written by: Dr Ko Ko Thein
Salt Lake City
Copyright © Mya Thein
We had Fathers.
beings aware of another dimension
condemned to keep its secrets,
protect us from its presence
for as long as possible.
Solitary creatures – these Fathers,
Loud creatures –
snarling at the world,
growling and nipping
at their children
to protect them – from it.
Lonely creatures – these Fathers
prowling foggy dawns,
sunsets flaming condemnation,
weary – yet tirelessly working
to fulfill the needs of a day.
Restless beings – these Fathers
troubled even in sleep
snorting as a tethered stallion
restrained from running,
breathing as if in retreat
from a hunter’s prey.
Warriors – these Fathers
Elders – possessing almost Shamanic skills,
stolid, forbearing - surface calm
roiling in the torment
of their patriarchal duties.
We are Fathers still -
less distant, less secretive,
snarling and growling
at a world we no longer understand
where perception overrides reality.
We will always be Fathers
distant, solitary, lonely creatures
Warrior elders awaiting fate’s transition,
watching sons - become men – become Fathers.
John G. Lawless
not submitted to the Patriarchy Poetry Contest as it is over 20 lines
Copyright © John lawless
Off to mountains he climbs
Whilst staying in his mind.
Off to battles he goes
Defeating many foes.
The nature of his quest
Unruly as it may be,
Sings noiselessly in the air.
It cries and screams,
Yet pride smirks on his face.
It wriggles and squeals,
Yet his begotten one he will not yield.
His words speak kindly to it,
Soft like the wind,
Yet harsh they become
Like leaves rushing through the mountains’ wrath,
To those who may bring it harm.
Invisible string links them no matter the distance,
And at the beckoning call it grows taller than trees,
And has become stronger than the foundation of the earth.
Off to mountains it climbs
Whilst staying in its mind.
Off to battles it goes
Defeating many foes.
Copyright © Lauren Johnson
One Big Cracker
I don't know what to write you
I wrote many lines and then scribbled
I know you like neat and tidy things
I have been sitting by the window since morn
In my grandma's home
You made her alone, remember?
But I visited her daily after school
She is lonely and keeps waiting for me
She bakes my favourite cookies and cakes
You gifted her with nice hands and thoughts
Two days ago she brought me over for keeps
I didn't go to school today
My heart is iron heavy and my legs can't carry it
Do you like to take moms and dads
Only on Friday the thirteenth? *
You also took James mother at the same time
Sara was seen crying, she didn't tell me why
I didn't see her playing with her brother next door
Do you have enough room for so many people?
Granny, Uncle Mark held my hand at the funeral
Uncle Richard, Aunt Jane hugged and kissed me
Many many people came to wish them goodbye
Granny is old, she placed a letter on their coffin
The graveyard was full of flowers, candles and tears
Mom and Dad were buried together and
Granny says she also wants to lie with them
But I don't know where my bed is
I thought you would also burst one big cracker at the cemetery**
So that we could all be together with you
God, when are you going to burst the next cracker?
November 15, 2015
Contest: Oil Painting-3
Sponsor: Eve Roper
* Paris terror mayhem on November 13, 2015, is no less than any terrorist attack in the world. Innocents die and families suffer.
** A bomb goes off at a funeral in Baghdad.
Copyright © Balveen Cheema