Just a girl in a room, sitting on the floor,
I can see her in this window, but I see no door
Crying her song of anguish, of this unspeakable pain,
Has every intention never to feel it again
I rock, I tremble, my life is at cost
All I know is this shell, for it's myself...my core...my all I have lost
From the start I new this fight could only last so long,
I aimed to defeat it, striving to remain strong
Each day in and day out, facing the demon, fighting the doubt
At a moment with no warning, without any clue
I was losing my strength...my energy...all the will I once knew
For now, my all is lost, my memories are faint,
There is no pretty picture left for me to paint
This girl on the floor, in this empty room
Was this girl condemned for a life of doom
My tears disappeared, like they'd never been there
Dried up with my soul, the time is clear
Wanting to shake her, make her open her eyes
To show some hope, the blue is still in the skies
Then, out of nowhere, I found the door
I wanted to save the girl on the floor
As I neared and inched to her close
She wasn't that girl, what I saw was a ghost
As I turned to walk out, stopped by a noise
I heard the laughter of girls and of boys
With that came a voice of peace and of grace
She told me, she's happy, no-more demon for her to face
I am calmed, I'm reassured, I'm no longer in pain
She was the broken me, but now I am strong again
I owe so much to you
When you pulled at me,
Tugged me from my toiling,
When I was crouched low,
In the kitchen, blurry choke of tears
I saw the outline of your peninsula
Etched in florescent blue in my mind
A little red star on a map
Such a hard drive (for me and the Ford)
But I, swept into the arms of that gentle house,
Saw a clearing in the nettles, one that I could pass through
And those turned to violets that kissed me as I was waking up
And going to bed, listening to the healing black wind
Through the many cracked windows
Presque Isle with her flags and sea glass
The promise of going to Canada
Turning my head to look at the lake, that dark lake
Itself enigmatic- a sea but not a sea
I think about that, brush the snowy sand from my palms
Yes, in a way,
That could be me
Dedicated to every young man bestowed the honor of wearing
the glorious Oklahoma Sooners' Crimson & Cream
Over sixty years, boy and man, I have been a Sooners fan;
And always hoped to be among the truest in the stands.
And while I don’t remember all the Players’ names,
They’re my Heroes, each and every one, because they play the game.
When they’re on the field of battle, my Sooners surely give their all;
And when they’re on the sidelines, just waiting for a Coach’s call;
Visions of Glory must be dancing in their heads;
The Glory of the moment and our cheers, the Glory of playing for
the mighty Big Red.
And for those Sooners who rarely played, whose names were
known only by a few,
Make no mistake my friend, each of them is my Hero too.
Like Soldiers waiting in the ranks, but never called to fight,
They ‘re ready and they’re willing, their spirit and their sacrifice
add to Big Red’s might.
I stand in awe of Sooner Magic. No, I never doubt it.
My Sooners could have never won so many Championships without it.
But don’t misunderstand when I say Sooner Magic won those games;
It was Sooners players who, once again, rose to the occasion and
glorified the name.
Sixty years of college football and my Sooners have won the most.
Their fierce pride and performance inspire this simple toast:
“My Sooners Team goes on and on, different faces, different names;
But my Heroes, Each and Every one, for win or lose…
They play the game.
The echo of Winter will never eclipse
The gentle breeze carrying Spring,
Or birds overhead, with their eyes well affixed
On the future for marvelous things.
The sedulous bees bringing life to the Earth,
While they buzz and wash over each section.
The warriors of progress, unknowing their worth,
Wielding only a sting for protection.
The tiny striped martyrs then bravely depart
From the plant, at some length, to the swarm.
The nectar collected, their personal art.
The hive waiting, welcome and warm.
To witness this magic in calm disbelief,
Is a treasure, a blessing to see.
The simple, whole truth is, from mountain to reef,
All life here would cease without bees.
Can I have this hand in marriage dear,
Can you grace me with "I do",
Let the angels sing to Heaven,
Let my heart soar with their tune.
Let us seal our love for we two,
Let no others interfere,
Let Evil, with his one good eye,
Attempt to trick and snare.
Let Age pass on his cares to us,
For bound, we are as one,
We'll ride the heady winds of joy,
Until another song is sung.
Until another song is sung, my love;
We'll drink the drink of fools;
Let passion be our compass,
And a blinding trust our rule.
Let us plant the seeds of new life,
That through Time will resonate,
Let our names be always dear to those,
Who set them on their fate.
Tomorrow is a mystery,
future isn't sure.
Tomorrow is killing me,
victory isn't pure.
Have got so much to give
but don't know what I would get.
Tomorrow has got me pensive,
tomorrow's pregnancy is a threat.
Will tomorrow be bright?
as I sleep and say goodnight?
Will tomorrow shine?
Will it be just fine?
Life is a crazy ride
but still make it a pride.
Live for today and hope for tomorrow
and hopefully meet a day to follow.
Driving home, the sun beaming down
highlighting the Quantock foothills
a criss-cross quilt of very small fields
too steep for mechanical ploughs
worked still by man and shire horses
Bright gleaming yellow rape and mustard
interwoven with shades of brilliant green
a paradise for birds nesting in the hedges
tiny dots of white sheep scattered round
deep scarlet red of the fields laid to fallow
Ancient hills stun with captivating beauty
hardwood trees hundreds of years old
spread their sheltering branches wide
casting fat and long shadows ''neath their feet
grassy banks giving shelter to small animals
I gaze with delight filling up my soul
loving the fact these are my hills
that roll and soar around my village
with magical names for each hill
some very bare others full of heather
Reminding me of my native home
Will's Neck and Cothelstone
rearing up above the deep valleys
with nestling lakes and rivers
this place my place till I pass on
these hills were the first place in England to be given the title of outstanding beauty
1956 check them out in Wikipedia for these amazing views
Ode to Miss Charlotte
I read about some verbal wars
That brew among some poets.
It’s fought between the ‘know-it-alls’
And those who just don’t know it.
I came upon your essay
On this sacred hallowed site
And after reading what you said
I am convinced you’re right.
Man, in his poetry must apply
Some elementary rules
Lest those who seek our legacy
Will think we all were fools.
Who makes the rules by which we write
May always tease our minds
But poets’ hearts will always be
The source of all we leave behind.
Haikus are a special breed
But we’ve known all along
That Japanese write differently
Yet sing their haunting songs.
So, let life stand and judge me
As I travel the poets’ road
While I’ve not only butchered haikus,
I have devastated odes.
Author’s note: Listed below are some of my posts that will clarify some confusion.. Jake
On Raisin’ Haikus, Haiku Hell, Haiku Shoppe, Haiku Town Dog, Haikuville, Haiku Hash, Haiku Omelet (1 and 2), Haiku Hound
Written by: John Posey 10/05/13
Inspired by: Haiku Fanatics, a poem by Charlotte Puddifoot
How did we acquire the knowledge of getting food
following all protocols and procedures
of knowing when the Earth is in a fine mood
to give a handshake of bountiful harvest?
In search of knowledge and understanding
man has explored Nature, down to its hood
and due to his short comings, treated humanity unfairly and rude.
Knowing the mechanics of an existing phenomenon
makes one a happy and creative dude
but having no idea how it even existed
makes his understanding still bare and nude
Under a higher authority, we’re all nursed
be it a gentleman with the fine name-Jude
or matter in a non-stop pause
having no artery of sustenance like the wood
Life and existence, wisdom and health, He’s the source
Him- not even the microscopes can elude
He is existing, everlasting and much more than a force
He is no other than God and He is good.
You’re my symphony
the blood that runs through my veins,
ageless and timeless
like the metamorphic Rose
you came to dwell in my life!
© Harry J Horsman 2013
scattered in abundance of dissapointments
births demons to our lives.
A happiness we cannot give
but want so much in return at times.
The last leaf of autumn
Is not without redemption.
But a subtle invitation.
A process of perfection.
It does not live a lie.
today embrace uncertainty!
The soul cannot be decimated.
Nor is there a tragedy
that goes uncompensated.
Dont settle for what you want to hear..
The truth is in you.
And it is so much more beautiful.
Have you ever been moved by beauty?
stood and listened to the birds sing?
been transfixed by the sight of deer?
Watched the eagles soaring the thermals?
gazed on the beauty of a woodland lake?
or sat by a ring of fairy mushrooms?
Just as nature herself enthralls us
so too do the written words of poets
I find my self transfixed by them
As their words weave their magic
no matter if in verse or rhyme
flights of fantasy are inspired
Bless you all poets for your gift
it is the magic, the fix that inspires
as you part with your precious words
An Ode To LIFE
As I lay my head down and start to fall asleep I see myself being carried off to a place and time the place of our Lords birth in Bethlehem of Judea
As in the Bible tells the story of His life and how he lived and died in that human seance and rose on the day He told of
I do not remember being here but I remember the story I was taught so many years ago
As I walk through the streets of Bethlehem I see each scene and hear every word as I am learning the story they telling is true
The writer writes of a jealous King and his way of dealing with his people and of Mary and Joseph who came to Bethlehem to have a child
The story tells of the three wise men who saw a star in the north and heard of a child who was born to be the King of the Jews and come to see and bring Him gifts
An angel from the Heavens above came to Mary and Joseph in a dream and told them they had to leave Bethlehem or King Herod would have their son killed
So they left Bethlehem and went to Egypt and there they lived until King Herod no longer ruled
As I follow along in my dream I see each scene and hear every word as I am puzzled by the fact I understand each
I don’t understand why I’m going through this time but I know I must continue on this journey
As I am pulling through a time where I reach the place of Jesus’ in Nazareth of Galilee
As I watched Him grow and work in His father's shop I could see the thing in Him that were with me
As I walk along the streets and look around I hear the people talk of a child that speaks of wondrous love that’s all forgiving and of a Father in Heaven that’s loving and true.
By Rev. Samuel Mack, OMS
Inspired by God
THE WEST WIND
Blow you westward wind, blow betide,
Blow upon the western sphere, blow a gale
Rout the shacks on the range, the ‘scrapper a tremor;
Let wail the pine boulevard and the Indian stream screams,
Blow, the palm to bow, and matters to float on air;
And blow, by thy whim to sway the lives of men.
Whence, thou coming from and where, shall thou end
‘Less we come to thy base and offer sacrifices
To restrain thee and make thee honour our will.
Why be not visible, that thou be invincible?
Except thy howling echoed by plants and apparatus,
Like from a funnel, the emptiness of a hollow nothing.
Whirl then and Blow through the hemisphere,
Where the dreams of men pitch a watery globe;
Blow, blow down the poles, the outer space
Till they evaporates on the thin windy air
That man may lose control of them
And be swayed by life to where thou would blow.
Inspiration is found in the gift that is given from the soul. It iminates and
resonates as drums beating and nature singing bring forth swift sound
movement and rhythm to the inner being.
It is often initiated silently so attention is not focused on the giver of this gift but its
Inspiration is found in the laughter at one's self over the life led and the things left
behind are now quietly amusing. Some small memory now brings a smile as the
thought transpires into imagery and if note worthy, is transformed to prose put
down by pen to paper and if found - even much later - shall bring as much joy to
the reader as it first did to the writer.
Inspiration, like beauty, is too found in the eye in the beholder but not so much for
the joy rested upon the sight of the onlooker but the inward delight brought on
partaking in the wonderful exchange of words held captive in intense
Inspiration is found in far off lands where watching growth and development
seem surreal and suspended and yet touches the heart so indepthly that its as if
you too were right there, joined at the hip, at the hand or even more importantly at
Inspiration is found in breathtakenly simple parts of humanity that are often
overlooked - until it is too late, often underrated until the world embraces it or
denied until someone takes notice and simply loves it.
Inspiration is found in the faces you seek to love, love to see and leave you
forever seeking more. Both now and tomorrow, inspiration once again has
embraced my heart through the soft spoken of one such inspirational,
Inspiration - I give you Maya Angelou.
I chase you through the bottle
just trying to get a little taste,
I pour your juice on my taters
none of it I shall waste.
I love your pickley goodness
so crunchy and so sweet,
with my fork I gently pick you up
my mouth it does greet.
A drop of juice silently falls
and lands upon my plate,
I swipe it up rather quickly
and I don't bother to wait.
Your vinegar touches my tastebuds
it's such a yummy treat,
I invite your friends out of the bottle
with a smile for me they greet.
They dance around on my plate
saying hello to the rest of their friends,
their greetings with the meat and veggies
soon has to come to an end.
I try to pick up another beet
this one is putting up a fight,
I do my best to stab it with my fork
don't care if it takes me all night.
I chase it around in circles
in the corner of my plate it stands,
it acts like the lone ranger
tries its best to be tough like a man.
I finally get hold of it
it squirts me with its juice,
I dropped it on my pants
now I've got a beet on the loose.
I got juice all over my shirt
all over the place mat too,
my shirt is now stained reddish-purple
now what am I going to do?
I tried my best to scrub the stain out
while the beet stands there and laughs,
I threw the bar of soap at him
I was starting to feel rather daft.
I knocked the beet to the floor
he tried his best to move around,
I stomped on his neck hard
wanted to keep him on the ground.
The beet tried to fight his way out
from beneath my heavy foot,
I laughed hard in his face
back in the bottle, he will not be put.
I slipped on his juice
and fell hard to the floor,
I go through this every time
my life never seems to be a bore.
I can't stand getting beet stains
all over my new and clean clothes,
I get extremely upset about it
but that's sometimes how life goes.
Copyright © Cynthia Jones