I once vacationed in the company of silence,
It was an unconscious scene bestowed upon
Although I had a calling that answered my
A myth of joy existed outside this career,
I was left drowning in limbo, without an
But there was a witness, who studied my trail
And without apprehension, she helped to resurrect the
the location of destiny;
Allow me to reminisce on such.
For it was in a previous portrait, that I encountered
a dozen roses;
Of these that I held, there were none that exceeded
a brief touch,
A momentary scent that never returns;
Now understand with this expression, it is not a
boast I intend to create,
For I was seeking that gentle grip, in hopes of it never
I continued a cold failure, never realizing the warmth of
victory that smiled ahead.
I settled on the peak of solitude, as my faith passed
away in obscurity,
And yet, beyond these frozen eyes, there existed a
narration of fate, waiting for my company;
For you see kids, I’ve walked past the casual frame
of your mother,
And misplaced my sight, I’ve missed her spirit by
And when there was a vision of opportunity, my space
was occupied with trivial games.
Then one day, I discovered a possession that linked
heaven and earth forever,
An umbrella your mother left abandoned;
And yet, it was through her innocent misfortune,
That I discovered her abstract songs, played upon
by the perfect key,
Her heart that sits in prosperity, from the charity of
A collection of beauty, your mother gracefully
By the time we crossed into cupid’s lair, I knew
already, the verses of duality were written true,
And with that, the perfect stranger discarded her
Leading Renee into popularity;
Hello became the endless quote, we spoiled into
As the task of life left this page briefly open,
I responded with a mutual exit, confirming these
lips of joy,
And with revelations of challenge forever slayed,
I peacefully fell, forever breathless.
Copyright © Jiril Clemons
The moon so bold seems cold
with a halo of midnight glow
I sit mesmerized as the night grows old.
I bleed still, even after all these years
and I wait again through the night
aching in the depths of my soul
that no other seems to know
the Loneliness that has become my companion.
In the darkness we wait and confide in the other
our deepest fears as memories fade
in and out each season of change
the nostalgia tempers the wars of pain
this tempestuous foe of ours
wails at the gates of midnight
howling the warble of humanities last grace.
How the comfort of minds and hearts
turn from light to deep dark in the face
of eternities long time clock...
I ache with wanting, with need and passion
it is a lie that time heals and wounds scar
each night is fresh like the first
when I faced realities shock.
Who can wait with me?
Who can hold this hound at bay?
Who can cherish what little love left in me
and make the broken whole?
I ache to be loved again as the love that burns
and waits inside of me.
Who can comfort this emptiness and fill the void
that so many leavings have left?
Cherish and love to honor and protect
but who can slay these demons that hold my heart in wrath?
Who will walk the sulfur clouds of hell to save my mind
and deliver my world to the gates of heaven
with life, not death bridging the distance of pain?
I sit and wait at the floor of the moon each night
waiting for that bridge to carry me yonder,
this moon who hangs heavy and ripe with the yearning of my soul
with clouds aglow as if I could sweep them across a canvas
with the brush held in your hand
I rage at her as I wait, but still I wait and weep
as Loneliness and I keep each others company
wishing the clouds of that great moon could truly create
a way to find the lost, a pathway to home, lit by the legacy our love.
Copyright © tara jennings
A Rose with No Thorn
In the Garden, the bouquet of life
There bloomed a rose whose beauty caught my eye
Incomparable is this rose’s design
Unlike the others, she is not the prickling kind
I know they say that every rose has its thorn
But here blooms the exception, of the spirit she is born
One of a kind, the rarest in form
For she is a rose with no thorn
Oh what a fragrance, so lovely and fair
A scent of sincerity sweeps through the air
A pristine beauty from the realms up above
For she is the flower primeval of love
And as I bask in her blossoms of compassion
I find I am fashioned by love that’s everlasting
And in my heart she’ll always be adorned
For she is a rose with no thorn
Though weeds, thorns and thistles have tried to choke her
The rain has wet her; the sun has even scorched her
But she’ll not wither, neither will she wilt
For she is rooted in the love that God has tilled
Amidst great turmoil, never to be foiled
Arrayed in glory that could never ever toil
One of a kind, yes the rarest in form
For she is a rose with no thorn
Copyright2008 by Kenneth J Thompson
Copyright © Kenneth J Thompson
Many times, I saw my spirit.
Many times, I felt my soul.
In life, I lived courageous.
Now it is time for me to journey home.
If you cry, that is fine.
If you laugh, that is better than a cry.
Rejoice in my life and shout praise.
For I am
Therefore, I shall be
In peace, I leave this world.
To my love ones, I am with the Lord.
Sure happy to have lived
Not sad that my time has come
The benevolence of the spiritual realm is a breeze from a waterfall.
The Lord is my keeper.
He called me home.
No more sadness let us all rejoice.
Ms. Carrie Mae Sexton is now reunited with Jehovah God Lord. A woman of statue...
A woman of worth... All that knew her will truly miss her.
Never a life lost but one done with the world and because she walked a virtuous path, her life is shown. The Lord knows best and we must know the same. Our mother sojourns and in peace, she lays.
[“Be assured that just as an hour is only part of a day so life on Earth is only part of eternity.” C.L. Allen]
User Name: Verlena
Psuedonym: Oblivion Dark Sunshine
Motif: Grief and Bereavement
-Contest Enter: Space & Time - Metaphorically written... Eternity is space and time... February 2014
Copyright © Verlena S. Walker
Come when you are ready to love me
And come when you realized more of love
The time when flesh mean nothing than dust
Come when you are ready to see me
Not just pain that paint my solace soul
And when darkness no longer breeds sorrow
Come when you really want pure bliss
And call to whom that bestow blessings
Wait for me as I stagger like a foolish pagan
Come when all sores are wide open
Wide enough for a blind eye to see
Call me before dawn fades my dreams
Light the wisdom of the goddess to this valley
A valley I wander through day and night
Find your vanity before winter wrinkle all sweat
I shall wait to the corner of your heart all night
Visit me more often than you thirst for water
Water my dust with your pure tears
Look for signs to those flourishing flowers
And sing my last rhymes of sweet poetry
Copyright © Zakhe Michael Mcunu
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
smoother than most, all moving no boast, shooting a moon to toast, to our beautiful host
revolving no doors, just opportunities score marking the entrance ways pores
fracking a lack of communication crashing breaking backs and racking our foundation
till were screaming take it back
unpacked and all out, dig deep for the fall out, kettle blackened from potty mouths,
busted missing a tea spout
pour me a gallon of chandon the whole sip for your front lawn, till the bottles dry
like jokes from monty python
silly satans salivating sighing and spraying your favorite simon's saying cause piles of money and ego feed are waiting for the generating
nothing new under the sun but above clouds I found me some, cause ignant bliss still exists even if you wear a cummerbund
tell all your facts and try to catch my glazed eye, cause compromise can be the do or die, to where ever future lovers lie
this blueberry from space ferry might fit in a test tube in perspective
or we just miss the point why evolution was so selective
Copyright © Davin Payne
A thorough yield
On a farm field of far east
It took me time to realize
How far I am to my far east of coast
Call of my weather
Call of my winds
I sailed further and farther
To my naked coasts
Naive songs, Nimble rains
Nile of rivers, Nascent clouds
Reaching this far
I kissed my earth
Ground of my grief
Glory of my ghosts
Glad is those leaves
However scanty they are
Cast is my shadows
No longer they hide
My colors and my figures
They cast numbers on stars
Measure their light
Scope my winters
Scale my summers
Scanty my rains
Scuttle I wish my springs
Now let me see my greens
Their leveling heights
Their leafy gaze
Their spiderly gesture
Their primordial texture
Now let me be slow
In company of my greens
#Poem by +Gokul Alex
Copyright © Gokul Alex
A caterpillar ran along
my bedroom floor and rested there
my kitty cat mewed it a song
and up it sent a yearning stare
I picked it up, the crawling thing
all green and wobbly and naive
"my thorns beware because they sting"
I said and paused fearing he'd leave.
The kitty looked up from below
and shook my stem to make him fall
but he held fast and she lay low
then shivered as she heard me call:
"Darling," I said, "don't be so grim,
my rosy perfume is for you
as much as for your brother, dream,
for cats and worms I'll be a rose
prickly and motherly and true."
Copyright © Archontoula Alexandropoulou
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
I seek immortality
in two days’ life,
Preserve me mother-nature,in
I seek no mutability
My destination is not grave,
Save me mother-nature, in your
I seek peace
in your surreal beauty,
Permit me mother-nature,to
play with your colours.
I seek longevity
like that old mountains,
Entwine me mother-nature,in
I seek no disappearance
like that morning dew,
Let me flow mother-
nature,with that river.
I seek joys
In your broader chest,
Hug me mother-nature,with
your strong boughs.
[to my mother and also to
beautiful nature ]
Copyright © Kiran Bantawa
It burns and it stings.
More than drowning beneath
More than remaining in a
She hits and I no longer cry.
Why mother, why?
It burned and it stung.
The markings remained,
returned, and were relived
Looking, loving, and little
known loathing were the known
ways of living.
Never was their pity for the
child that cried
Never was their relief for the
child that tried
You were that lovely bird that
understood the complications of
Nothing looked the same in
those dewy browns of yours.
My everbeating would cry tears
The others-they were yet to
Caring Mother, o' so fair
You were that beautiful bird
filled with care.
The others came and were not
alone. Their two suitors sat on
Rampage and rage why did you
I began to wither and wither
slumping along. So very soon I-
the child of fines- became a
The droops of the Lily of the
Valley became the slumping of
My lovely bird the enemy had
taken you and the person you
were is far from near.
For that divine nature left its
intricate self and you became
irretrievable my big bird.
All of your fairness died.
With that went my pride.
Mother, Mother what moved
Your intense spirt vanished only
to supplement a monster.
Mother, Monster and your tar
How did I kill that liver that was
so, so strong?
The lesson of pain was one you
came to learn.
My darling bird why did you
My lovely bird and your big
I'll tell you once, but never
Pain is only a flower for it
blooms and dies
And a mistake can be killed as
quickly as lice.
You dear bird hurt me well.
Though, haven't you heard?
Weakness is a souls greatest
You brought me up, then you
brought me down.
You haved helped, hurt, and
hindered my blazing spirit.
A hero in my heart-I left you
down in your deep black
Escaping those terrible nights
To go for the town of delights.
Copyright © Layla Elkoulily
The phone call went badly, again -
the old arguments about ego & neglect
and how you didn’t love me, not really.
And the weeping.
At 50, she was still stuck,
repeating the same accusations.
“The damage, the damage you caused.”
She didn’t want her mother to think
she’d come through it unscathed.
Not ever. She’d worked too hard to
become something she wasn’t,
someone must be to blame.
She was so clever, so clean, so intelligent -
how could she be so unhappy?
The unformed artist weighed down
by someone else’s baggage.
When her artist/mother said:
You have to work with it, use it, create with it,
she howled: “Stop talking over me.”
It was like saying get rid of yourself.
Knowing herself that well,
she hardly knew what she was.
Copyright © Billy Marshall Stoneking
I do not know?
For Aung San Suu Kyi
you remained unyielding
bruised by their bayonets of power
you remained unyielding
gagged by their coarse brutality
you remained unyielding
today you return
and we salute
Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses
She nurtured all life,
Asked for nothing,
Yet we cut her with an industrial knife,
Bringing about a swift ending.
She cannot be replaced,
Yet we abuse her,
Her body defaced,
We are our own saboteur.
For oil and coal,
Raped her organs,
Only say we love her soul,
Yet this is where the end begins.
Why did we kill our mother?
She raised all of us,
Now we may never recover,
Our mother once so beauteous.
Copyright © Lucas Holbrook
She was a warm coffee cup
brimming over with the sweet
expectation of lips that could
give her the comfort she sought.
He was a sunrise
cradling the morning in
arms of mercy;
He held her sight still,
giving the horizon colors
he knew would feel, just right.
Together they waited for
the jostle of day;
the pitter pat of tiny feet,
the quiet groan of a still tired father,
a mother’s call to the kitchen.
Together they will blossom under
the colors chosen, for mornings of
peace. Together they will wilt the
morning, and break the day,
until night’s slumber.
-James Kelley 2013, All rights reserved.
Copyright © James Kelley
Decrepted soul how blind are thee
To see the world so cold and cruel
From the blood shed of lost lives
Like crushed cacoons of butterflies
Not given the chance to take flight.
You judge so quickly
Of what you can't understand
Than given the chance
To see through the mask.
Why must you be cold
To judge things before hand
Than learning their secrets
Seeing no rainbow in the sky
After a rainy storm by day.
Why can't you accept
Things as they are
Let the cacoons grow
So butterflies can flee
From the silky prisons
That held them back.
You the raven
Talons that slice
Butterflies of life
Hope and dreams flee.
The more cruel and heartless
Lesser are the butterflies
Whose only dream is to flee
To go off to live their lives.
As the remaining butterflies
Fly off to distant lands
You sit on your branch
Not willing to take the chance.
Foolish raven are you not,
You are missing quite alot,
Not willing to take risks
There you perch upon the sticks.
Copyright © Megan Ryan
Take us into the folds of your tattered skirt –
O mother, whose gap-toothed children
buried in smog reeking of mirth
carry stones in their chest like men.
O mother, whose gap-toothed children
hiding hearts scalded by your warm concrete
Carry stones in their chest like men -
cloak our bodies even with the bitterest tears.
Hiding hearts scalded by your warm concrete
Mother, will your children still remember
how you cloak our bodies even with the bitterest tears
as dark fumes taint your pure laughter
O mother, we are testaments to your decay
so take us into the folds of your tattered skirt,
and rot with us in our shared tomb of ashen gray
buried in smog, reeking of mirth.
Copyright © Therese Genota
silent in the wind.
colder than the
For Kelly Deschler
Night Owl contest
Copyright © John lawless
Mindfulness is being in the moment, with the past
A dim memorial and the future ripe anticipation;
Without investment of self in uncertainty and “when I…”,
Just living life in the now.
I read the book of recipes and am drawn
Into its world of pungency, lost in imagined tastes;
And I linger at this altar of sensual delight,
And am mindful.
A glass of Riesling sits close by, cold, crisp,
With subtle oiliness hinting at future promise;
Its acidity bites at my tongue as I imagine
Lemons in Greece might do.
Fragrant prose makes my nose twitch, as though some
Herb, roughly chopped to embrace the warmth of spice,
Is thrown into the bubbling pot to lure the hungry,
And I think of you.
The spell of the moment is broken by your
Presence, uninvited and unwanted but irresistible,
An imagining, without form, that brings emptiness, longing,
The elements of grief.
Why do you do this, Madame, why do you
Not leave me to be at peace with my present?
Why do you intrude, when you have been silent
This long while?
I want to be with you, or rid of you;
There is no compromise, I cannot be an acquaintance;
There is no possibility of a hint of love, like
A hint of chilli.
I imagine inside your mind, where I have no
Place, no presence; I am forgotten, like a withered
Posy, whose scent is as dust and adds nothing
To our pleasure.
And I live in this moment, dissolved in
My emotions, swept up in thinking, and wonder
When it will end and you no longer disturb
The ascetic monk reminds me of the impermanence
Of all things, and the unhealthy possession you have
Of my thoughts and feelings, putting my happiness
at your command.
Miserere mei: soaring notes wash my mind clean, no
Thoughts or emotions can find space in this reverberant
Cathedral of penitence; transient music that lives forever,
Unlike that pure treble.
I am again mindful and you slip behind the
Curtain of music, an actor quitting the stage,
Your speech done, the plot carried forward
To its end.
Copyright © Edward Clapham