I see the wrinkles in your suntanned brow,
You carried burdens then; you see them now.
You’ve heard the cries your people who in pain,
Have shed their tears two hundred years like rain.
Your sad brown eyes, reflecting now the sky
I see the wings of eagles flying by
Beside you stands an Appaloosa mare
Her spirit one with you now over there.
You hear the drums, they bid you to come near,
Your spirit drawn the beats they ring so clear.
Song like prayers are chanted through the night,
Calling you come, and help them end their plight.
You’ve heard sad cries and now stand at their side,
You join the prayers with both arms open wide,
United spirits sing until the dawn,
When in the fire’s flames a golden fawn.
Remembering a smile crosses your face,
When tribes were one with Mother Nature’s grace.
The lakes and streams flowing with waters clear,
Flow sadly now, the planet lives in fear.
The weightless feathers that adorn your head
Your tribes grey future weighed you down instead.
Now breathing deep you smell the winds of change
While here on earth your people rearrange.
Written by Brenda Meier-Hans
Giorgio A.V. Contest
He walked amid the woodlands muted morn.
The scents of earth were wafting on the breeze.
For dawn had moistened yet another day.
And silence dripped beneath the autumn trees.
A rustle in dry leaves, he caught a glimpse.
His gun caressed the warmth of flannel sleeves.
The silent hunter, stalking, tiptoed near.
A golden-red meandered through the leaves.
The sun began to rise above the knoll.
It shone upon dark eyes; the gun rose high.
The pheasant flickered leaves; then, heard a crunch.
He recognized the scent; the man walked nigh.
Red feathers, brightly accented with gold,
Were ruffled as he took his fighting pose.
The cockerel next to man had no defense.
So, high above the trees the pheasant rose!
His hungry children waited back at home.
He rushed along the trail up to the crest.
The pheasant lost from view; his stomach growled.
The hunter and his gun had done their best.
At noon, the hunter rested on a log.
The water in his canteen, nearly dry,
No morsel did he eat as day grew long.
The stealthy man could hear his children’s cry.
December 1, 2014
Written for Poetry Soup Member Contest: Structured forms - Iambic verse - Sketch a fictitious character - (Top Gun Poetry) - Poetry Contest
Sponsor Giorgio A. V.
Trust in your fear
As it speaks with a voice
Or you'll be left in pieces
With no longer a choice
For your fear will take over
In vociferous chant
To pieces you will collapse
In meandering rant
So when ever this word
Called fear appears
Don't fall to pieces
Or your soul disappears
The night like clouded charcoal scorched,
A sea of trees with starlight torched.
A night where laws are sound asleep,
Anarchic prayers running deep.
Alone I hear the wretched screams
Of screeching trees... or so it seems.
The cries protract into the air,
Without a sound they disappear.
The shrieks have bartered now anew
With sounds of meat and boney chew
Discharging from the faithless trees
And snarling with my memories.
But creatures' gruesome growlings drown.
I smell the gunpowder and frown.
The waging sounds of war advance
In battle stance with gun and lance.
The sounds of bleeding men enhanced,
The sounds of fate and time and chance,
No sooner do they cross the trees
Than fade as all their voices freeze.
But worse than bombshell sounds occur;
The storms, the winds, the thunder stirs.
The roars that shake the forest's roots,
The flowers, soil, and passion fruits
A rainy resonance restocks
The grass the air the woods the rocks
And washes with its dancing tingle
All the sounds that intermingle:
A dreaming forest in the night,
And trapped within its fanfare fright,
It chokes me in its thunder thrill
And hangs me in the silence still,
And hangs me in the silence still.
I do not know?
are like my thoughts
falling down into my mind
sending goose bumps down
Their cool aftermath
cleanses me of my thoughts
of fear and uncertainty
about what tomorrows
pain may bring
They make me feel,
wet with creativity
drenched in my optimistic
raindrops, my thoughts
leave paths of pleasurable
distress, and hope of success
which road, less traveled
may be the best
Forget an umbrella
when these raindrops
arrive, I walk outside
arms open wide
Ready to Receive
the mind storm may bring
because raindrops are
as my thoughts, falling
down into my mind
sending shivers down
My brain, yearns
for the rain, to wash away
the pain, tomorrows worry
One special drop
could speed up life's clock
to the time
I can handle my own
and not dwell inside my controllers
For raindrops are,
like my thoughts
falling down into my mind
sending goose bumps
down my spine
A Rage Against The Storm
Alas! against the storm I did bellow,
you bloweth upon the wrong fellow
My soul you have now so sorely tried
fear, your gift has now so surely died!
Nature feeds your evil blowing wrath,
I curse your daring this upon my path
Heaven's powers ignore your wicked deeds
you the rot that eats away joy's seeds!
Hark! all the destruction you have wrought,
fruits of sins that man surely has bought
Yet, I defy your right to so hammer me
I, the strongest root of my family tree!
Rage on , tear out the withered and the old
This man defies you with a heart very bold!
Robert J. Lindley, 08-27-2014
Sad Heart, now thou art wither’d from the Sun,
What man, or god, will near thee run?
Wrought in twist like branches in Tempests' gasp,
What Comfort, or Gauze, shall be near to grasp?
True ones begotten are the ones now Rotten
And the ones now Rotten will never be forgotten
They are merely sad remains of assiduous Tears
That have been meddl’d with and tatter’d Raw throughout the years
And thou, cruel Mind, that sat’st still thru toiling trail of Night;
Must dream your broken Dreams; thou’rt a sanely flight!
Can thou extinguish passions of Fire, Disease, or Rain?
—tho thy distinguish’d influence trains to abstain
Thy Remnants brought to debris in thy Empty street,
Devour’d by Vultures, their bestow’d beaks entreat
Merely are they cleaning an inexhaustible Mess
Alas! Leaving thy rudiments of Identity to redress....
The mirror reflects, obliquely,
a peculiar yellow butterfly -- it flutters, flutters
the specks of black my beard is made of
on the breeze. A daffodil hangs down its treasure
and I spread shaving cream, in great white puffs,
shielding from the wind and rain its yellow
across my face. The nose protrudes, ridiculous
excrescence. A leaf half green sweeps up in circles
in the whiteness all around. A weak chin, think I,
of windy sighs. Squirrels crack acorns, crunching,
down into a patchy neck. Very unsatisfactory
remembering winter's almost famine. The trees --
appearance. Altogether so. Oh well.
Quiet. Steady. Sturdy. Oh well.
The mirror reflects, but not uniquely.
Waters rise, engulf the land and other ruses
we devise to block their flow, to stem the tides.
Anxious, we are left to ride the waves
on fragile barques bereft of sails.
Such flimsy arks (mere barrel staves
and baling wire) float up the sides
of great sea-risers, like defiant snails
awash in slime. In time, seabrine looses
collective holds on congealed excuses
and in salt solution we dissolve.
To silver fishes we soon devolve
while worlds and stars, giants and dwarfs,
fade from mind like boats from wharfs.
And when to darker depths we dive,
will fishes miss us? Shall we survive
apart from sky, from air, from dry?
When at last we gasp and die
will crabs cavort? Can fishes cry?
Sorrowful unto death
(Ecclesiastes 1:18 KJV)
He that increases true wisdom increases grief...
exposing that the knowledge of serpent did not instruct the dove,
and to know serpent knowledge is to know,
how the house of Love was divided, that sorrow is in learning,
how many there are deceived of themselves….
To be harmless as a dove is to be love,
to be of a serpentine jester is to pester,
to pester life as a jester of strife...
is to be twain in total vain.
Love is oneness of twain in a wedding garment…
The trinity of infinity is the beginning of thee,
opening the sacred heart gives one options to see,
the beauty you see inside is the essence of thee,
tis also the beauty in the nature of a tree…
the nature of life’s tree eternally…
To be is, to be, of the nature of life’s tree,
not to be, is to be, of thine own ciestrine…
Written as the words poured out after I read a lady’s poem this morning on the
You have it all
I hear it all. I read it all
All the lack of life’s contentment
The mind goes on, and on and on
Pouring out resentment
Cause this is what mind’s all about
It’s fickle and it’s dull
Mind can always cause one trouble
But never make one whole.
You’re given all you need my friend
To have heart filled with joy
All you need is self-acceptance
But your world you do destroy
By wanting what you cannot have
As you live for future days
Or the past that’s gone forever
Hey lady, Lift your gaze.
You were given everything
The day that you was born
The sun, the flowers, the birds that sing
The beauty of the dawn
But now you’ve let your mind take over
So you live in misery
Learn to still the thoughts, my friend
And then you will be free
22 July 2014 @ 0647hrs.
Everything goes round in circles.
Everything, it goes in circles
So why the worry all the time?
It seems to me all our impatience
It really is a blessed crime
Always frightened death will touch us
Thinking there is but one life
Fear is such a foolish action
Gets us all in so much strife.
In nature there is not a straight line
Straight lines just exist in mind
The seasons sun and moon above us
Look at them and you will find
That all of them go round in circles
Everything goes round and round
I have looked, it seems forever
And this is all I’ve ever found.
And so my friends just drop your worries
Don’t be foolish, live your life
Without the fear, and the impatience
These they cause you too much strife
Life goes on, it does forever
Take a look so deep within
To worry, worry till forever
This is such a blessed sin.
17 May 2014 @ 0745hrs.
Why aren’t we happy?
What is it in the most of us?
We are not how we should be
We should be like a singing bird
Who boldly, in the trees
Sings his song when fear is done
His life just flows along
He only knows the dance of life
So he just sings his song.
And yet we humans live our lives
Enfolded in our fears
Glorifying in the sad
And making this quite clear
As we always speak of doom and gloom
And watch it on TV
And always live our lives in fear
Is this the way it should be?
If only each would take a look
And see just what we be
We never see the flowers grow
Or let our hearts be free
Maybe it’s time to see the truth
Of what this life could be
If we look at life without the fear
And live with mystery.
6 August 2013 @ 1908hrs.
Where has dad gone, momma dear?
Hush, my little lamb.
Your dad's gone to the thicket dear
And mad old Abraham
That man went early this grim morn, and took his sharpened knife
And with him took his own first born, to offer up his life
With servants and with firewood, both, they journeyed to Moriah
And on the hillside there they built an altar and a fire
And Isaac, when he heard the plan, went willingly, it's odd
That he should let that daft old man, so worship his cruel god.
Your father, he was passing by, and heard but could not see
And foolishly could not deny his curiosity
So closer did your father scramble peering through the thorns
Unaware of how the brambles tangled with his horns
Just to see a crazy man who planned to kill his kin
Your father did not understand the danger he was in
For then again that mad old man started hearing voices
His god was speaking to the loon and giving him new choices
And so his plan to slay the boy came about to falter
And Abraham, he took your pa and dragged him to the altar
But that was never fair, mama, can you tell me why
When Isaac he was all prepared and well prepared to die
And all had been decided on, so what cruel trick mama
Was played upon that grand old ram, who was my own papa?
Life is not fair, my little lamb, nor is it like to change
And fate plays tricks on all of us, both sinister and strange
So you take care, my little lamb, with this advice from me
Do not visit places where you know you should not be
The moral of this story dear, is take heed of the odds
And stay away from two-leggies worshipping their gods
Singing happy song
Love in its purity bonding
Daddy slips into the arms of another woman
Wooden paths I seek forlorn,
I miss the smell where I was born.
The coolest air of blossoms bloom
no longer wait for me to loom.
No canopy to be my roof ~
now ashes scattered under hoof.
I had to leave I couldn't stay,
they took upon themselves that day:
destroying what I miss the most ~
now just a charcoal ghost.
Sometimes I wonder,
What ripped us asunder
I wonder...why friends fade away,
I wonder...why death is our destiny,
And as we experience our final day,
I wonder what will become of you and me
I wonder, with eyes dilated,
Why this day was to be so fated...
When all I saw was you walking away
Or your soul released from here...
I see the suffering of Rene'
Our lives are short,
I wonder what ought
To have been,
Is there some reasoning
For the the ultimate sadness
Towards which we spin?
I wonder if we'll ever understand
What it's all about
I wonder, and wonder,
What was God's plan grand?
I could have redone this life
And accomplished so much more
But now it's too late,
For death approaches my door.
Trees still shade the road
where Gramps and I once rode
in his old green car -- I drove --
on dusky early evenings
in my fifteenth year.
We stopped, as he insisted, at every spot
where an armadillo scratched
among the tender greenery
I was dispatched,
with Gramps' strong wood cane,
to kill a pesky armored creature
by striking hard, once, upon its snout.
Gramps waited in the car,
called encouragement or condemnation:
"That's it! Hit him hard!" or
"Can't you do a damn thing right?"
He knew I didn't like to kill
but was determined to toughen up
That hard old man was not accustomed
to being crossed or contradicted.
But part of him was tender,
and he had a sense of what was right
in the bayou country of his day.
How could I tell him that I hated
killing just to please him?
Often, I killed, then killed again,
although, at times, I'd miss the snout
or be slow to follow up,
and permit an armadillo to escape.
Sometimes, I'd temper force with moderation --
I'd stun the creature, grab the tail,
fling it far into dense bushes
to revive and live another day.
My grandfather eyed me darkly then,
but often kept his peace.
He gave me the treatment
I gave those stunned armadillos.
Could he have felt the same
toward me as I toward them?
do tears still exist
at the bottom of the sea?
With blaring voice,
You've stolen her life away.
My heart shall ne'er mend.
Caused you the trees to snap,
Now the softness of your voice,
Scarcely causes the grass
Amassed bulging clouds
Dashing enmity fusion,
In jellylike kneaded layaway
Mysterious noir over
Prairies quietly resting
Suddenly trapped under
Vicious wind’s X rated
CarolineCecile - 10.15.12
The ladder backed pecker,
like a prison uniform.
Caught-up in exposing
the truth beneath the bark,
of the poet's apple tree.
We prefer ourself in spring;
with tiny little flowers,
and the fruit of possibility.
Yet, if not for the woodpecker,
tapping holes into poems,
we might not ever see
the flesh and blood of raw meat.
I will climb that ladder back,
escape pre-decreed standards.
Tap into that syrupy mixture
and suck-out truth from hard wood.
Yes, lessons from a jail bird.
A pest in the Avian Kingdom.
Wisdom from the little rebel,
beat-out of a tree.
You scowl in anger as I turn to go,
Your gemstone eyes so full of jealous heat;
You do not understand, and cannot know
The thoughts that turn my head and guide my feet.
The image which you have is incomplete,
And so by definition soon will fall.
Your views are suffocating -- obsolete --
I will not be your pretty paper doll.
I will not bend my head or stoop down low
To make myself a mindless slab of meat,
Or let my soul be shaken to and fro
To lose itself and crouch beneath your seat.
Would you deny my voice to hear the bleat
Of brainless chatter, just to watch me crawl
To bed and spread my legs beneath your sheet?
I will not be your pretty paper doll.
An ever-changing wind will come and blow
Through Winter, Spring, and Summer, in the street;
And restless waters will forever flow,
Their colors cool, their textures smooth and sweet;
Yet you would change the pulsing, throbbing beat
Of Life and Love, to answer ev'ry call.
Mistakes made in the past, you would repeat --
I will not be your pretty paper doll.
Your mental boxes, always stacked and neat,
Have packed my essence up against a wall.
Take care, my love -- this gypsy heart is fleet;
I will not be your pretty paper doll.
I worked with stern and determined face
attention on the end of the rake
the fresh grass and orange leaves.
Out of the corner of my eye
I saw a small bird huddled
fixed against the drain pipe,
its wings tight against its body.
It didn't stir.
I bent closer and
saw the milky film over its dark eyes.
A drape of sadness
was thrown callously over my morning.
I buried it quickly and carefully.
Time to take care to scrape away
the sharp rocks and hollow out a little place
deep enough to keep the dogs away and
with such care
as I chose the final
home for this tiny thing.
It may have been taken away
to make room for another.
While I write this, several
months have passed and my throat
still tightens from the memory.
Sadness and loss is still with me
and with me for all the birds
from their nests
or the sky
from now until eternity.
To The Sea
I look to you
To the questions that swirl like your currents in my mind
Are you as unfathomable as my heart?
Do your swells exceed the passions rising within me?
Does your churning and pounding match the rhythm of my pulse?
Is your water as cold as the loneliness here?
Does the salt you contain taste the same as my tears?
Does your thunderous crashing on rocks at the shore
Equal the tempest that rages in my soul?
Do you harbor secrets in your depths as I do?
Are you roiling below the surface with anticipation?
Do you long for a visitor to break the horizon...
As I long for my Love?
Does the wail that rises from your hollow reefs
Blend with the plaintive cry from my lips?
Can the overture played on your delicate shells
Drown out the sound of my siren song?
Sea, I have loved you, Sea, I have known you...
We feel the same, we sound the same
We give the same, we take the same
We are one
And the same
You and I,
Your mournful soulmate
© Copyright Donna Golden July 10, 1999
If I were a word,
I'd be on the point of Sharon's pen...
If I were a poem,
The young one would have penned me...
If I needed to show my heart,
I guess I would be me,
If I were to lay down wisdom,
I'd be John, Vince, Ruby, Christy, Maya
But, I wouldn't be me....
If I awoke in the middle of the night,
Wrapped in fear and uncertainty,....
I would be Tom Bell again,....
In desperate need of a friend...
If I have offended, I will volunteer
To cut off the offensive part...
If someone will remember me...
Somewhere down the road...
If I can create a smile,
or a wondrous thought,
I will have exceeded my aspirations
As a person, though never quite a farah chammah,
I will see the sun rise, I will see the sun sink...
I will pray for my fellow man,
Regardless of what others may think....
One life to live?
Nonsense, the Hindus got it right,
The cycle is repeated,
Until we see the light...
Yet the light is here at Soup,
It shines so bright that it could blind,
But blind most of us are,
We keep a closed up mind...
Lives end, lives begin...
They are virtually the same...
God kisses each of us,
And grants us a special name...
But time is oblivious to all this,
It has it's own agenda,
And we are powerless to influence it,
There are higher powers we'll never understand...
But the power of our words lives on...
That power will never end.
The open sea
In every direction for me
The last accompanying sail
Gone over the edge,
The tip of the mast
A sight I found a comfort
Is now a thing of the past
All alone on a world
With no end
With a heart to mend
No ocean liner
Or luxury yacht for me
A simple boat
On this useless sea
If I make
Some distant shore
To sail once again
A desire I will have no more
Tender torrent, week long moment
while the skies fill dark and crimson
Back lit lightning, lovely, frightening
while my heart trips over itself
Call the whisper, brother, sister
sweep the sky with your liquid eyes
Tin the rooftops, as the heart stops
waiting for thunder to stomp the air
Birds stop singing, ears are ringing
as the clomping rain pools up
Trees kiss soil, burnt turmoil
while the wind lets loose her breath
Run for cover, father, mother
beg the sky to lift you high
If you listen, brother, sister
you will hear the sound of death.
I do not know?
Darkness falls all around thee
All around me the midnight comes
Rolling in with swiftness and greed
Consuming me completely and to the fullest
I welcome the cold and silence
Inside I toss and turn
I find peace in the darkness
Darkness finds peace in me
Like a tsunami from the ocean
I want to churn everything, inside out
But rue the fact that,
Like a bubble in the air
Have to be content with only
Being fidgety inside myself.
When the rocks try to stop
The natural flow of river, downwards
Even the transparent water, gets bloodied,
Breaking its head on the rocks,
I can feel its squirming and quibbling
But can remain only a mute spectator.
Whenever I feel oppressed, in any form
My heart seethes and fumes
My blood Inside tends to boil over
Only to become cold again, why?
Perhaps it is not in my nature to retaliate,
Then, am I condemned remaining wounded, perpetually?
Unable to do much about oppressive relations,
I pine away with my grief
Only wishing I could also free myself
And others of the oppression and the pain it inflicts
And enjoy the happiness and freedom
endowed by nature, in relations.
But looking at nature’s infinite vastness, where
Despite tight bonding and discipline in every bit
All relationships out there enjoy
Innate freedom, harmony and fairness
Then Wounds inflicted by the experience of oppression,
Fill me with jealousy and pain even harder and deeper.
Hope is life, maybe quite dreamlike
The change, which would destroy
the current forms of oppressions
and build relationships, free and fair, anew
seems to be a far cry, as of now.
the volcanoes are also destined to remain
dormant inside, for centuries, before they erupt.
Self Translation of my Hindi poem 'Parivartan'