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On Writing And Words Introspection Poems | On Writing And Words Poems About Introspection

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Details | Verse | |

Who Am I

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
Judge that

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?

Details | Light Poetry | |

I Am But a Dreamer

I am but a dreamer
and in my dreams I play
where I live so happily
writing them my way
inside my illusions
where I know I belong
whistling a joyful tune
as I go along

Like a little spirit
I venture on the breeze
skipping in the gentle wind
doing what I please
with the rising sun I dance
wrapped inside his charms
across the golden morning sky
twirling in his arms

I can climb a mountain
or live among the trees
sail in a silver sailboat
on the seven seas
I can draw a moonlit night
ride on a bright moonbeam
and swim among the diamonds
in a velvet stream

I am but a dreamer
there's nothing in my way
living in the place I love
loving everyday
maybe it's a fairytale
but that's all right by me
I'm the master of my dreams
where I wander free

No one there can tell me
what is wrong or right
following what's in my heart
I live in the light
happy in my dream world
that's where I choose to stay
in the world where I belong
writing dreams my way

Details | Lyric | |

If The Spirit Moves Me

If the spirit moves me I will speak
 I will share words
 that no-one wants to hear
 I will speak them
 I will speak them loud and clear
 If the spirit moves me

If the spirit moves me I will see
 I will see Beauty
 that no-one else can see
 I will see it far and near
 around me and in all things
 If the spirit moves me

If the spirit moves me I will hear
 I will hear things
 no-one else can hear
 I will hear the universe
 speaking to me and I will hear
 If the spirit moves me

If the spirit moves me
 I will feel
 I will feel the pain of others
 I will feel their happiness too
 I will be able to empathize
 If the spirit moves me

If the spirit moves me
 I will taste joy and laughter
 I will live my life in peace
 I will find love
 I will live on in the ever-after
 If the spirit moves me

© Christine A Kysely All Rights Reserved
 (October 25, 2011 Wausau, Wisconsin USA)

Details | Epigram | |



Masters of my destiny
Lords of my life
Strength of my dreams
Instigators of my actions

Burning fire you are 
Consuming my whole 
My heart
My mind 
My soul
My spirit,  
As you relentlessly
To be conceived
To be formulated 
To be understood
To be expressed!

A Herculean task it is,
I swear, 
Such an enterprise,
For how one could ever
Constrain, you, the unconstrained 
And mold you into:
And still retain 
Your explosive 
No language exists,
So vast
So deep
So accurate
So supple 
As to pay justice,
To your intensity
To your desire
To your beauty
To your love!

Thus, having no
I turn to the only language
There is,
The one that the 
Cosmos speaks,
The universe alone
The language of 
That we humans 
Even then 
To describe you

©Demetrios Trifiatis
   28 January 2013


Details | Free verse | |

The Black Boomerang

The word’s speaker and listener would hear 
Not from one another, 
But from a burning Sixo; 
They would feel
As though
A noose was choking 
Their voices 
Before they could even tell 
Themselves to “rest in peace”; 
They would see 
The bullets
That rushed, 
Into the bodies of intelligent black heroes and heroines; 
They would taste 
The blood 
That could have filled all the courtrooms 
Where racist murderers were not convicted; 
They would smell 
The human 
Waste of those treated like human waste –
A stench strong enough to make some jump 
Ship just for a breath of fresh air, 
Before the waters 
Then enslaved them …. 
These effects may sound 
But are they any more 
Than our current 
Usage of the “n”- word? 
That is, 
Many of us would say nothing 
If a black friend declared, 
“A ______ will never become the President of the United States of America ….” 
To be honest, 
I even agree 
With the essence of this statement. 
For only a full black man or woman 
The President. 
That still leaves all black people in the running.

Details | I do not know? | |


are like my thoughts
falling down into my mind
sending goose bumps down
my spine

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
illumination. glistening
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 spine

My brain, yearns
for the rain, to wash away
the pain, tomorrows worry
does bring
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

Details | Bio | |

Unwritten Conversations

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.."


Details | Free verse | |


I don’t care if you have a degree 
or that your self-published textbook
is a decree to take a closer look 
at time-tested, armor plated antiquities.

I don’t care if you know your stuff,
fluffing your sleek, interlocked lines
and keeping things just so, just so 
in ascot wearing, dandy rhymes.

I don’t care if you can recite
the Mikado in its entirety,
as you pose in the spotlight,
Yum-Yum for all posterity.

I care about the longing
that I found in the verse
of a friend, words filled with whys 
that scattered a soft, rainy season 
to the oblivious winds.

I care about the heart
that became a puzzle, tiny pieces,
a thousand tiny pieces calling
out for me to reassemble,
winged things both soaring
then suddenly falling like 
reoccurring dreams,
art that almost trembled
in gentle riddles crafted to tease.

I care about the grip
that held the pen and how the paper
became damp and creased
as thoughts played in short stanzas,
tethered to honesty,
such a rare and noble quality,
even on the pages of poetry. 

I care that caring is vanishing 
like stone angels in cemeteries,
conversations on park benches or
the respect for ones peers:
those that dot their teary i’s,
those that shiver in life's trenches,
those that scry with ink, language seers. 

They ask so little in return,
Only the freedom to search for truth,
in their own voice, in their own time,
and safety from condemnation, 
ruthless lies and snobbery.

I care about a forgotten virtue.
I care about decency. 

Details | Free verse | |

My Own Pen

Sometimes when I’m alone --
                          I start to think ---
Had I not been an addict ---
                          What could I have been?
           What kind of life could I have given my children?
Of course these are questions not yet answered ---
                          A work in progress so to speak
Not a day goes by ---
                      That I don’t think about doing a shot ---
              To release myself from this pain, shame and guilt
           Because when I’m high I don’t think about any of that
I think only of myself ---
                         What I want and how I’m going to get it
I thank the Lord ---
                   For delivering me ---
                             From that way of thinking ---
I thank him for the gift ---
                           That gives me the chance ---
                                            To reach out to others ---
Almost every poem I write --- 
Comes from the bottom of my heart ---
                     And the very depths of my soul ---
Very seldom do I allow myself 
               The pleasures of writing a simple poem --
        That doesn’t carry with it a very profound message
See, I’m just like Jake and Elwood Blue’s
                   --- I am on a mission from God ---
God has transformed me into a poet teacher
The only way I can make any sense out of my life
Is by doing what I’m doing right now
                        Which of course is ---
                               Nothing less than ---
                   ---Owning up to my own mistakes ---
                             For the world to see
Thus allowing me to answer
                             --- The responsibility of my own pen ---

Details | Senryu | |

' The Power of A Poet ... ' 32nd Senryu

‘The Power Of A Poet’      32nd  Senryu

        Look How Devoted
       The Power of A Poet
    See How Words Spoke It

This Poem is My Tribute to:

Carolyn Devonshire (The Dove)
and James (The Highlander) Fraser
for your Powerful collaboration on:

      Mother Nature's Revenge

        It Was Truly Awesome


Details | Quatrain | |

100 Shards of Pen

Erase a word
Mundane and wrought
Smoldering fire
Of indifferent thought

Pluck a phrase
Wild and untamed
Primordial howl
Of random flame

Sing a verse
Naked and free
Poetic gale
Of crashing seas

Tell a tale
Endearing and true
Passionate prose
Of life’s muse

Ask a heartbeat
Women and men
Who feels
100 shards of pen

Details | Blank verse | |


Always fleeting,
you tempt me with beautiful words from nowhere,
convincing me they are my own.
In the corner of my eye, a Muse
& suddenly anything is possible.
You haunt me;
sending visions of dark ink 
flowing from poised finger tips.
Finally, i give in,
relenting under high expectations
& promises of genius.
Reluctantly, i put pen to paper
& find that you've moved on.

Details | Blank verse | |

Her eyes are carried on a light wind

My attention span is short. Yet, my pen’s is still shorter
It looks absent only after a few words… a few lines
Though ink in its intestines and subject to furnishing hands
It never finishes what it begins. At least, what I want it to finish
So, I hold it’s face with both hands, as we share eyes
“Write, will you. Do not stop until I give consent.”
“Ok” she says, “I will focus”…as her eyes are carried on a light wind 
I presume that’s why my poetry is never more than a few lines… a few 

Details | Dramatic Verse | |


I never knew I'd be in heaven
In the autumn of my years,
Or that I'd be immerged
In the brilliant art of words,
Or float above operatic notes,
Or view ballet through
My elated tears.

I never thought I'd meet
Inspiration face to face,
Or feel it rise within me
With a poet's surrendering grace.
I just know that I'm contented
As profound love keeps flowing
From my impassioned heart.
This is the gift that artists
Of this world yearn to impart.

© Connie Marcum Wong

Details | Free verse | |

Tension Waiting

The swordsman who draws his blade
Heart racing at the keening of steel on scabbard 
Tension coiled, poised for the unleashing
Held back by muscles tight with glee.

I am as the soldier, held in stance,
The lioness crouched beneath the concealing grass
As it sways back and forth, as insects sing along the day
Her every breath is halted, her veins do not pulse,
And just as the swordsman stands
They are statues in this moment,
Statues of derision,
Mocking, with their stillness, the very charged tension within.

And I am as the lioness frozen before her pounce
Coiled with motivation and purpose,
And I am as the tongue held with words clinging off its’ edge
Ready to lash out and strike with direction
But I am as the frozen purpose, held tight
Waiting, for a warrior to stand before me
For a reason to uncoil, to lash out with words and pounce.

But I am now as the pen halting before the purest of paper
White and supple, in askance for the lightest touch
A slash of the tip, drawing lines in ink
Lines like a hunter’s bowstring, taut with intent,

As the pen lies frozen above its prey, the falcon petrified aloft still winds
I am the need coiled tight like a wound jack in the box
But alas, there is no victim to frighten,
No pray to pounce upon, no sword or bared neck to slash against
And I am here, with pen frozen, ink ready to be drawn taut
And I have nothing to draw in the ink, no prey or purpose to evoke
I am coiled tight with energy, but it is release that so eludes me,
I am coiled tight with purpose, but it is direction that so denies me.

And here I am, pouncing at ground before me, 
Slicing away at the air around me
Scratching away with a dry pen, on paper still white in askance
I write about…
I write about the coil within, and the lack without
And alone I wonder,
Is it enough, is it enough to go on, a wound up box
Waiting for the slightest touch, the weakest parry, to live.

Details | I do not know? | |

Blood upon Pages

As I place the pen
on paper
my soul beings
to bleed
upon the pages
my secret longings
hopes and dreams
of which I hope to be,
how I want to reflect me
transpire into the universe
within my poetic lyricism
the warm sweet smoke
of my vega blunt
swirls about me, flickers
in and out of motion
as the vanilla candle nearby
fights the shadows in my room
the cool summer breeze
from my window
carries dancing sinsemilla 
fog around me, allowing
my mind
to adventure elsewhere
into the nights abyss
of minutes, turned to hours
I write
pages, of words
scribbling my life, struggles
and fears
Bob Marley and Lauryn Hills
“turn your lights down low”
beat inspirational peacefulness
on my eardrums
my small hands delicately pluck
my imaginary guitar strings
as I join her in a solo, Miss Hill's
magical voice cracks
with emotion, and my soul
tingles with excitement
For creativity flows
within my veins
I breath real music, such as
she, as soon as daylight opens
thine dark brown eyes to see
The poetic flowetry, carries me
and speaks to me
the notes capture my inner 
disturbance and desires
until the soundtrack of my day
takes me into Summers night
thoughts of my dreams 
of being a published poet
clearly float
into my sight
Then, I sit
as I place my pen
upon the paper
black and white turn to one
and my soul bleeds
onto pages
into an early sun

Details | Verse | |

A Coffee Bar with Orange Paint

A coffee bar with orange paint --
   Brown tables on a tiled, grey floor --
Soft light within blown glass above --
   A neon sign hangs by the door.

I come here sometimes just to write.
   A coffee bar with orange paint
To some would be apalling; but
   I do not see it as a taint.

Tonight an artist's work is hung
   Upon those walls in bold display;
A coffee bar with orange paint
   Allows her dreams to have their say.

I like the color in these walls --
   A brazen hue, not pale or quaint;
And in this place I weave my words --
   A coffee bar with orange paint.

Details | Personification | |


I reached out for you once again
after eons of pretence, snobbish disregard 
and plain neglect.
Yes I reached out, not with strong steady arms 
that usually attend others
but with emasculated courage and battered pride.
Yes indeed I sought  you.

I summoned you dear one
from the far far seas where to sail I had cast you
and had briskly walked away
to find solace in another's arms.
So now I sought a vantage point
from whence I could peer
into the darkening horizon
to see your approaching mast.
Yes I did indeed summon you, indeed I did.

Yes I called out for you 
to attend me from the depths I had banished you
when life to me had smiled like the morning dew.
Yes indeed I called you,
to serve me in rhythm and imagery
to fill my plate with tone and hue
and soothe me with your rhyms in rhythm.
Yes call you I did, I really did.

So now I lie in the warmth of your words
like a lover cuddled in embrace
as you stroke my erstwhile desolate state
with the stroke of your flowing stanza's
and my heart you've now lulled to a soothing calm
with the rhythm of your crafted lines.
Yes indeed I reached out for you, 
for I missed you.

Details | Haiku | |

It is now

Ain't a word, you said.
but it takes a daring gust 
for things start to be.

Details | Couplet | |

A Poet Looks At 4 AM

The night falls down around me in this poet's reverie.
Words stick to my moon-parched throat until I set them free.

Images of life and love are painted on my heart.
Stars outside my window have their knowledge to impart.

The world I travel forth in has experience to give.
My eyes have seen the glory of this place I choose to live.

And now the daylight beckons from the unforgiving skies.
My mind is full and restless as my pen to paper flies.

Night has flown away but still I'm left with thoughts profound.
This song of life I've written here is making such a sound.

Dawn has broken and I thank God for every given word.
I'm grateful for this chance I have to reach out and be heard.

Details | Senryu | |

' Language Lesson Learned ... ' 59th Senryu

‘ Language Lesson Learned … ’   59th  Senryu

    I Don’t ‘ Speak ’ Evil
I Don’t ‘ Understand ’ Wicked
    Translation … Ended

Details | Free verse | |

Orgasm Of Sadness

images pour erratically
falling on eyelashes 
tears fueling my pen 
always the sadness 
finds me waiting 

wrenching emotion 
twisting my heart 
in a vice grip 
can't stop the images 
from driving me insane 

raped and murdered eyes 
pleading for children 
drowned beneath 
adult oppression 
and addiction 

it's the emptiness 
that I write 
a cursed 

social consciousness
that blinds

I don't write love 
for it lies 
can't find happiness 
to send to my pen 
for it lays behind 
my eyes 
a tired whore 
spent and overused 
with too much hype 

can't even pen security 
never found that either 
under blankets or kisses 
not even in hardened urges 
that deflate just as quickly 
conveying only want and need 

no I write of sadness 
I return there 
a drunk to cheap wine 
guzzling my addiction 
with lust 
it holds me safe 
for it is familiar 

I live it 
I see it 
it knows my name 
and I know its

we are intimate 
sadness and I 
a couple 
twisted together 

in some grotesque 
sexual position 
culiminating in orgasm 
with my depressed pen




Details | Lyric | |

Through Mundane Clouds

To make a word mean something new,
With some uniqueness  -
O what genius!
These words are washed of all their color
Black and white, lo, gray
With boredom.
So what’s left to write about,
When words mean nothing more today
Than they did  one thousand  yesterdays,
Where lyrics sung like gentle sparrows
Lifted on a feathered wing
To heights I dare not envy -
                   O such jealousy I carry!
What utterance can be invented 
That will strike a brand new language in me?
Woe, to have just one new word
To write across the clearest sky… 
Mark, until it breaks through  mundane clouds,
I call upon a devil’s darn to sew my lips -
Until righteous words rain down from heaven
Where I shall  taste sweet nectar of fresh letters
Falling into gorgeous arrangements
On crisp white sheets.

Details | Senryu | |

' Raul Moreno, Poet - Sensei ... ' 56th Senryu

‘ Raul Moreno, Poet- Sen•sei … ’   56th  Senryu

   Like Marco Polo
Haiku Master, Moreno
Explores Nature’s Show

From Magnanimous Me (he! he!)  (LOL)
             Love Your Poetry, 
        Your Poet-Pal, MoonBee

Details | I do not know? | |

Grunt's Garden

So thoughtfully busily going to the tomb
Were you enamored with words from the womb
Verbally gurgling did you succumb
Or did it come later in life
Likened to lightning spelling you under
Suddenly there before hearing the thunder
Rapidly vapidly words in your head
Were ringing and clamoring yet to be said

At work in your garden editing hedge 
Trimming  unwanted excess 
It smacks of sedition this growing ambition
To put plants in orderly rowed inhibition
Sun reaching in silent distress

The beauty of discipline held up to view
In close captivated submission
In ranks and in rows uniformly disposed 
Earthbound and holding attention
Yet openly Stubbornly free  
They continue to grow.
To Flander's field poppies
And crosses akin
They are harvests of memory to reap
Promises planted to keep

Details | Haiku | |

' Metaphysical Moment (The Haiku)

Metaphysical Moment (The Haiku)

           Understanding A
       Metaphysical Moment …
       … Nature’s Mysteries

                 This Haiku is for:
       The Haiku Master ‘Raul’ Moreno
Metaphysical Poet Extraordinaire’ (smile))


Details | Free verse | |

Layers of the onion

Meaning, ever bending, never ending-ly open to changing it's mind and opinions,
by moving around words and pulling and pushing in different directions,
until everything changes, rearranges pages in history
just for the mystery to begin again
with new songs, new players and these layers and layers
of summits and new beginnings. 
Of openings back to where we came in.
New meanings are foaming and forming 
within the fatted belly of doing and screwing until done.
Come watch a new one get sprung.
A new shape to take place of the old, behold
and believe in your prayers.
They keep coming these layers and layers 
and faces of women and men.
Turn around just to begin again.

Details | Acrostic | |

Magnum Opus

Man of words, strange creature of fiery intention,
Amplifying pictures with that restless imagination,
Great are the images spurting forth from your pen,
Nothing holds you down, working alone in the den; 
Unto the night you toil, pushed by an alien power,
Mastering some inner demons, taming your fear.

Oh how you search for truths floating up in the air,
Producing tremors with the raging force they stir,
Until at last your labors come to a perfect ending, 
Shaking humanity with the hard lessons they bring.

Details | Free verse | |

You're The Weak One


You’re the weak one, you’re a bully.  The weak one is definitely
not me.

The bully is always the weak one, but your weakness you can’t
seem to see.

So, I’m going to try to shed a little light on your weak and inappropriate ways.

Your weakness began on your first bullying day.

Your false sense of power is not strength at all; it is a cry for help desperately trying to break through.

I actually feel a little sorry for you.

Weak kids like you always seek to find other kids they can dominate.

Bullies do this with vicious words, inappropriate actions, and misguided hate. 

Is being a weak bully the banner you want to carry for the rest of your life?

Get rid of the bully banner forever; take up a banner that shows respect, 
understanding, and tolerance for others, and always hold that one very high.

	Al Johnson

Details | Free verse | |

Night Poem

It waits...
A prickle about to lodge
In the heart of a Mighty Light

Above the low-dipped setting sun
The Knightly Night prepares to come

To lift me like a rising fog
Up to greet the countless stars -
That twinkle at a Sun's descent.

The horizon painted with lullaby
Of colours and their somber tune
Day's bed is laid behind blue mountains
And quietly it goes to sleep.

Inside the womb of a Sleeping Day
Begins a fierce protest 
of dreaming thoughts
Now stirred awake.

Then out of the thick and cluster
And whatever dangers of flight await
Newborn wings of thought emerge
And rise and rise and rise
Captured by the winds of Night -

To wander heights
To kiss the skies
To dance to the gentle humming
Of spirit drums -
Wings beating
A duet with the breeze.

So when day comes breaking through
Dawn is greeted by what was writ
At the festival of it's eve.

With merriment's ink: 
A Kiss; 
A dance; 
A song etched deep: 
Art carved out of sky.

Title: Night Poem

Details | Couplet | |


         Writing is my challenge each day
     But it's not the words or what to say.

     It is the connection with other writers here
     Because I feel I'm not worthy or equal I fear.

     The talent expressed by so many others
     Often makes me want to hide under the covers.

     The gems that are written and ones that I read
     Are so inspired, personal, and give me a need.

     That's why I come here every time
     To see what others have put in their rhyme.

      Carolyn always has a message for me to ponder
      And others write things that make me wonder.

      I often race to the "New Poems"  just to see
      If by some chance there's one by which P.D has destroyed me.

      And Carol, Bob, Nick, Emily, Wilma, and "the Sweetheart"
      Write things that sometimes I just can't pull apart.

      The Doc has written so many things
      I am amazed sometimes at the thoughts he brings.

      Others are here who write so well
      Their words do me so oft compel.

      For like unto them I want to be
      Writing words that have meaning for others to see.

      Will they be worthy I say when I'm done
      Or will they be read by others, as I've intentioned.

      You know I feel so many emotions just now
      Because of all these writers, I just don't know how.

      For they are a driving force for me
      And part of my challenge each day is to make them see.

      That because of them I have to write
      Sometimes into the wee hours of the night.

      To pick a favorite writer is...well a difficult choice
      So I pick them all, because they shout with one voice.

      "Write, you fool, then write some more"
      Words I hear and cannot ignore.

      So I choose them all...all here in this group
      The ones who have made me hungry for Soup.

      There, I've said it...and you know that's not in haste
      The Soupers that are here are the best of all to taste.


Details | Free verse | |

So-called poem

Have I lost it?
The writing thing?
Have I been absent for so long that my thoughts are unable to come to a 
complete stop and decide to focus...on
I shudder profusely and then shake....
shudder...shake...doesn't that mean the same thing?
God....this feeling of complete talentlessness is absolutely....bad?
For the sake of being poetic I come up with...bad...seriously!!!
My fingers move at a snail's pace to keep up with the dismay that wants spill its 
inerts on this screen in front of me and it will take the hand of God to prevent me 
from actually not deciding to hit the delete button and feel justified in my 
Ok...I'll leave it alone
be the cheerleader of this...piece...yea.

Details | Free verse | |

I will not be late to work this morning

I will not be late to work today

I will get there on time
I will brush my teeth
Without singing songs
Without thinking about birthdays
About gymnasiums
About TAKS 
About sound
About war

I will get there on time
I will eat my oatmeal
Without thinking of 
Broken valentines
Strewn against a wooden
Like dropped goblets
From a robbers pillowcase

I will be there before the bell rings
My papers will be checked
My hair will be combed
My mind will be alert 
Ready to begin my lesson

I will not wonder why
My oldest son doesn’t have a job
I will not pray too long
For my daughter who is taking the bar today
At 10:30 AM in New Orleans
I will not scar my knees wishing
For some alternate world
Where children are never neglected
Or hurt
Where there is no abandonment

What nonsense to try and order the world
Just get to work on time
Put your things in the car, your projector and 
The white binders that you didn’t look at
All weekend although you were supposed to check the papers and put the 
grades on the computer
I will leave now
Before it is impossible to
Be on time
I will cream my ashy ankles

I will not focus on the white
Cat on the black pillow
With the green eyes
I will not water the plant
I will not watch TV
I will not write poetry
Before work

I will not write poetry
Before work
I will get to work on time
I will be ready
I will not be daydreaming about fog
Wondering if I’ll get Alzheimer’s like my mother
Or colon cancer like my dad
I won’t be thinking about that stuff
I will be locking the front door and 
Closing the gate and clicking the clicker
And starting the car and leaving

I will not be in my living room
Wondering if there is any reason to love
Because I do not love for reason
I love because He first loved me
It is not incantations or intoxication
Or imagination it is my life and 
The structure will come with the
Clearness of Bajan water
So clear you can see the fish
Fly float across the Atlantic

It is time
This poem must end
I will not be late for work
This morning
Not for nothing
Not for nobody
Not for anything
Not for everything

This poem is over 
the work day begins

Details | Free verse | |

Spirit Of The Ink Well

Rising from within my quill
Waves of ink crest and crash
Upon the papered shoreline
Riding in and out on the tides
Of yesterday found…

Sullying the once untainted
With both the rash and tender
Of the restive poetic spirit
An autonomous symbiosis
Of today’s moments…

Endlessly seeking identification
Ink scrawled candle flames illume
Scratched out paths into tomorrow
The journey of the minds eye
Of tomorrows chance…

Each penning a new step forward
Into our own intangible dreams
Our elusive target moves ever further
Where no direction can lead us on
Of our poetic hopes…

Details | Haiku | |

Writer's Block , v.2

quarter moon in sight,
partially hidden by clouds.
just like my verses.

Details | Dramatic Verse | |


Words are just a decoy
An excuse to dance around the truth
Underestimated silence
Proves language is uncouth

Your gut will always tell you
What your heart tries to ignore
Most try their best to silence it
Stirring an internal war

Why deny yourself of happiness?
Why pretend logic is correct?
Why hide behind a curtain?
Why pretend our hearts select?

Ignorance is truly bliss
Too bad that's not our case
Lets take a risk and show our courage
Let our souls meet face to face.

Details | Blank verse | |

Love Song

Here’s what I’m thinking now 
at the end of the world: 

There are no atheists in foxholes— 
no theists in politics. 
If knowledge is power, 
and power corrupts, 
then why did I bother reading you, Cicero? 

Does it matter that I didn't’t love you? 
Would it have mattered if I did? 

There’s a poetry reading tonight 
whence I’I'll chide other poets 
who don’t sit alone. 
I won’t bring up death 
but I might have to breathe, 
even into a mike 
and mouth lines to get a snap or a boo 
maybe even a wince or two. 

Just maybe I’I'll talk about love 
and how following your heart is like following a dog— 
it only leads to vittles and (female dogs). 
But how many times have I used that line 
since the story I wrote about you, 
a witty and sexy and fictional you? 
Most likely I’I'll read something tonight about you. 

I won’t recite it from memory 
because I don’t think about you that much anymore, 
not even when I search for my socks in your drawer 
or when I put on the scratchy sweaters you give me, 
horizontally striped to bring out my eyes? 

I don’t remember your eyes 
except they are blue. 
And I don’t remember you, 
not even when I smell cucumber and apple, 
not even when I sleep on my side of the bed 
or when you walk through the door 
happy to see me; 
even then I don’t remember you. 
Does it matter that I don’t love you? 
Would it have mattered if I did? 

How about a few one-liners 
for the end of days?— 

Depression is self-awareness, 
which you’d know if you were; 
I need Ritalin to listen to you, 
Lithium to hug you, 
Viagra to feel you, 
and Valium to sleep. 

All you need 
is me standing there, waiting at home 
with turns of phrase and word plays 
telling you about why I hate Ayn Rand 
but want to buy as much as I can 
and how I love celebrity gossip 
and detest poetry slams 
and find rhyming trite 
except when I am. 

Hypocrites can still be right, 
which you do understand 
because you nod at my nonsense 
about fighting the man. 

But now, at the end of all things— 
I’m speechless and witless and pointlessly well-read, 
and you’re just sitting there, smiling 
asking me to pass the bread.

Details | Rhyme | |

What Writing Did For Me

It's always been an outlet,
To help me deal with pain.
Had it not discovered me,
I would have gone insane.

It let me vent my feelings.
It helped me look inside.
It let me have emotions
I didn't have to hide.

I could put it all in words.
Release it, with a pen.
And If I wished, revisit it,
Every now and then.

If writing had not found me,
Who knows where I would be.
I never would've walked this path.
I just would not be me.

Details | Light Poetry | |

' Archeology And The Poet ... '

Dig Down Deep
Carefully Unearth
Artifacts Will Speak
Words of Worth

With Pick and Shovel
And Papyrus
If Block and Rubble,
Gently Brush

Treasures Buried
Deep In Soul
Heart-Stone Quarry
Hold Hidden Scrolls

To Royal Edicts
Read and Call
On High Walls

In Expeditions
To Exposé
Show Gold Emotions
In Glass Display

From Pyramids
In Sealed Mystery
So The Poet Did …
… Archeology

To Preserve Words
of Antiquity
So That You Heard
and Shared, Discovery …

Details | Free verse | |


Momma says I've got a poet's heartache
that I dally 
among the gardens of malady
where briery thorns
nip at their own flimsy petals
and all the virile plants want to heal me,
but I'm saving myself
for some wild haired rose
who's only going to tear
my flowering heart........................apart

Daddy says I'm a rare bloom
with tender palms
and a golden stem,
in poetry I search for words
to bury my core within,
a tough little root
who beholds a mystical pen
that drips love for a man 
she believes exists 
somewhere between the lines
of her own making

But my loves,
I'm just a lonely pot
trying to fill blank space
with a poetic soil
so these veins will grow
into a substantial blossom
worth savoring
by thou gardeners
who give sun to thy soul
and a pause in time 
worth reflecting
off the ground
of God's jaw dropping scenery

Details | Free verse | |


I don't know how to abandon 
This maniacal world 
Where electric words stalk my nights, 
Devouring my mind. 

Volcanic images appear 
As uninvited guests, 
Wrestling atrophied concepts 
Into structured rhythm. 

Metaphors tease unrelenting 
As sounds tickle my heart, 
Disowning my need for respite 
From red saturation. 

Yet I feast upon each moment 
Of inspired reverie, 
Count each hour of sanity 
An insulated gift. 

I fall into meek thanksgiving 
For voice of expression 
Even as I hear the approach 
Of mystified ideas. 

For what would I be without art 
Conveyed in written form 
But an aching, unfulfilled soul; 
Derelict and deprived?

Details | Free verse | |


Do you like me for my form
And my cosmetic moments
With their conceits and affectations,
Bejewelled with glittering gewgaws,
Hinting at the scents of summer,
All show but no substance,
Holding back the acrid stench of death?
For you ,my beauty is but word deep.

Perhaps you see in me your soulmate,
Reflecting what you inwardly believe,
Allowing you to remain in your comfort zone,
Safe from all challenge
And the barbs of pointed criticism.
Secure your world stands
As long as you do not look behind
Or beyond horizons that hold you bound.

Or are you just a voyeur
Sailing on the seas of sensation
Living your life vicariously
To avoid precariously
What you dare not,
Rather like the lady of Shalott,
Reading life through someone else's mirror
To save your soul?

Maybe you do look deeper
To see where we differ.
Confident in your own skin
You are ready for new terrain,
Awkward and stumbling though that may be.
You look before you leap
But forge fearlessly forward,
Willing to face all that lies ahead.

Be all that as it may,
I am but a poor poem,
Taking my existence 
from you, the reader.
That is my fate.
Begotten,not made,ugly by my creator,
Accepting myself for what I am,
Yet I am fully at your disposal or neglect.

Details | I do not know? | |

The Clown The Fool And Me

Many nights I've sat typing things for which none will ever read.
Burning midnight oil only to add to this mornings trash.
Then going about the act of pretending it's all good.

Wearing a mask of my own creation.
These long nights of endless confession to empty wall's.
Hollow thoughts from a bitter heart to scared to exist as himself.

The page lay beaten only to be erased.

the circus of life is a deception for after the show when the dust settles 
the magic gives way to truth.
Tempers flare  and thoose happy clowns appear to be just angry ordinary
people who hate and loath there so called friends.

Dream that it would have all been diffrent if not for this or that.
never taking blame just putting it on others like normal so called adults.

These long nights breed anger and that page takes  the punishment
and like a coward I look apon this act of pure thoughtless work.
And second guess myself wishing only for the approval of people who yearn only 
for the approval  of some one else.
Like hamster in a wheel never getting anywhere.

For who wants to be themself when you can be a watered down version of someone who 
wasnt good to start with.

I cant say the comforts of being a clone wouldnt be nice .
But I never did like things that were nice.
Never cared about being on a list  or kissing someone's rearend just 
to have them talk about me as soon as my back was turned.

Be yourself and cherish thoose who hate  for  the bitter and cruel amount to
nothing  and there only hope is to lure you down there same dead end life.

The clown tries in vain to make you laugh.
The fool doenst know or care if you laugh.
And me Im just the jerk adding to the mornings trash empty 
as the page that sit's befor him.

Details | Light Poetry | |

' Where Are The Words ? ... '

Where Are The Words …
I Am Looking For Words …
… That Will Give Meaning
To Meeting You, This Evening

And What Can I Say ? …
What I Long To Say …
Instead of, Good To See You Friend
And Oh, How Have You Been ?

… Such Polite Conversation
Is Safe Presentation
Nothing More … So Much Less
I Need Hunger- Honestness

Packed With A Passion
Full-Out Conflagration
Instead of A Shy, Dulcet Tone
I Wanna Torch-Talk You, To The Bone !

Use Words, To Sear You To Your Soul
Singe, Deep Inside Your Soul
Soft and Husky In Confessions
Words, That Demand Actions

Emotive, Elusive, Essential
Elocution of The Quintessential
Romanticism Expressed …
The Pleasure Of Your Face, Eagerness

In Bold Explorations, Evolved
From Virgin-Feelings of First Love
That Make It Seem … Like Last Night
Invoking Future Visions, So Bright !

Oh, Where Are The Words ? …
I Am At A Loss For Words …
So Many Things, I Want To Let You Know …
Instead of Just Saying … ‘ Hello ’…

              For:  Ismael Nieves 
Who Has Such A Passionate Style To His Poems
(and Also, The Little Joke of Big Words Between Us …
Hope You Enjoy This One Kiddo - Smile)

Details | Senryu | |

' Devonshire and Fraser ... ' 44th Senryu

‘ Devonshire and Fraser … ’      44th   Senryu

Some Poems, Highland Fling
Kilt-Clad-Portrait, Scotland’s Theme
The Laird of Sweet-Dreams

Devonshire, The Dove
A Vision Of Light and Love
Highland, Speaks Well Of …

Together They Write
All Combinations Delight
Deep Thinkings, With Might

For:          The Dynamic-Duo of Poetry Soup
      James Fraser and Carolyn Devonshire – ( 2 Scoops)
                  You’re In My Must Read Group …

                              Your Poet-Friend,
                                             The  MoonBee

Details | Rhyme | |


Change is the only constant - we know this to be true,
Some of us wait them out - to see what will ensue.
Still others try to fight them, happy with the way things are,
A few fall into day dreams and wish upon a star.

Some changes are rather easy while others are quite hard,
Which ones must we live with - which ones can we discard?
Changes come throughout our life no matter where we go,
A few come fast and furious, yet others subtle and slow.

When changes come upon us decisions we must make,
All the while juggling priorities - them not to forsake.
The best that we can do while traveling down life's road,
Is to help our friends and family carry their precarious load.

Details | I do not know? | |


Why do I write
The things I do? 
Pick up a pen
And paper too,
Put down my thoughts
Flitting like birds
Across my brain,
It seems absurd 
To want to write – 
To let it all out,
To watch my work
Leave me in doubt
As to whether I could
Have written it all,
These strings of words
In the dirty scrawl
Saying things 
I never knew I thought,
Painting a picture 
In ink and blot.
Telling a story,
Recounting a tale,
Laughter and tears
So strong, so frail.
Everything done, 
Yet I don’t know
Why I write,
Let my feelings flow.
It is not for wealth,
For then I would sell
For as much as I could
These stories I tell.
But then, I think,
Its surely not fame:
I am content if
No one knows my name.
Is it what some
Awful people call
“Aesthetic exercise”?
Oh no, not at all…
I’m not trying to help
Woman, child or man,
And I’m not writing 
Just because I can.
But I think I can cast
Some much needed light-
I think the answer is
That I love to write.
To feel my thoughts
Forming a line,
Interpreting emotions
So hard to define,
Gives me assurance
That I can narrate,
Invent and concoct,
Compose and create,
A story that gives 
Me an identity,
That story is special 
For it defines me.

Details | Free verse | |

Behind these eyes

    You see my face and you see my expression but you don't know the real me that i'm 
     You don't know that behind these eyes that a little girl cries every night, you 
don't know the half so why are you desperately trying to label me with some brand that I 
would never wear.

    If you'd look a little deeper into these pearly browns you know that I am not just a 
cover you have to take time to read the book to really know me. 

     You can't just skim the back or listen to what other people say because yeah I might 
be talked about but unless you dip into the pudding you will never truly know why.

    Maybe if you looked a little deeper you'd see someone trying to keep up in a endless 

   I keep on moving but it's never any good I guess I underestimate myself or maybe I 
just need someone to give me courage.

     I see the surprised look on your face and all I can do is laugh, I bet you didn't 
think that I had so much depth, I better you never realized. 

      So even if it's not me your interested in, please let me teach you one lesson. You 
can see some much more behind the eyes of a girl than the cloud of makeup hiding her 

In a girls eyes you can see her insides, her deepest fears, her insecurities. 

Behind these eyes is the magical side, and if you can look into them first then I know 
that your confident and well worth the struggle.

Details | Free verse | |

Poa-tetry Soup (The Name Inspired)

Thoughts melt and distil under a green/blue flame,
Swirling down, separated out and mixed.
If you’ve seen it, it’s broken;
If you’ve heard it, it’s shredded;
If you’ve read it, it’s rewritten.
It's really quite unlikely to be fixed.

You’re cutting up holiday snaps
and pasting them onto card.
And you’re scrambling madly
to hide the mess on the floor
As your mum yells for cleanliness
From behind your bedroom door.
3001 puzzle pieces and you’re jamming them together,
No wonder your imagination is at the end of its tether.
You’ve got two pieces that are sun-kissed clouds
“What comes… what comes next?”
You’ve got two roots in the soil
“What comes… what comes next?”
Your mother is sitting in the hall
With a scarf tied round her neck,
Her back pressed up against the wall
As she deals the jigsaw deck.
3001 pieces in her hands,
Mixed with childhood drawings
And grains of sand.
She lays out seven in a line,
Which you place between the two and two.
“Oh, but that and that won’t rhyme!”
“Don’t you think that this one will just do?”
And your father’s disapproving in the kitchen,
“You don’t need no occult nonsense,
Or a system to order out your brain”
He just stands there “focussed”
Over a pot on a blue/green flame,
Subconsciously mumbling while stooped,
“Look here Son, look, I’m making poa-tery soup.”
But you would never tell him that,
Just like you’ll never be finished, ever.
No-one ever is
Even if they know they’re doing it or not.

My grandfather died last week,
The sourest stuck-in-a-rut-of-a-man
That you’re ever going to meet.
The diagnosing doctors were in for a treat.
They said that there was something wrong there,
Something wrong with his brain,
That there was something strange there
Fundamentally, main.
They said that he died - after scans - in a cubicle stall,
When his brain haemorrhaged and cracked open,
And jigsaw pieces piled up against the wall.

Details | Free verse | |

The Pen is Just So Much Mightier

I could never explain how I feel
On air, waves of sounds escaping what I could no longer hear
Aggravation lingers on the tongue
How it burns, perpetually, embedding anger on taste buds
I will remember the taste of defeat, eternally 
Dull, so Dull, hums this high pitched 
If I can't tell my story in the voice that I want to
I’d rather be silent 

The pen flows so easily
Blackest  inks stain my felt tip
Passion! How it twists my heart into complicated
Mazes, interlocking, crisscrossing
		Things I’ve never thought of before
The blood of contemplation runs clear as diamonds caught in eclipses  
Torrents of ecstasy, 
		Free	falling 	
    Ged rocks, waterfalls, creating Prisms
		Bam, Bam, Bam 
Relives pressures on joints that hold
Industrial hearts together, oil may no longer ease this
New age technological emotion on addictive highs
I never even knew of until I thought about it 

Two Double Oh Seven for sure

I consider myself to be something
I’m not really sure of
But I do love to imply mystery in reflections that others see
Honestly, complexity isn’t my best asset, only others believe this is what I am
As long as I believe in what I stand for
It is fine if my tongue flails but my pen soars


Details | Free verse | |

Center of nothing

This is the center
of all my work
I write one line
before and after each line
and you will see
when you place my lines of other poems in between
this is my reality coming undone
for this is my center

For I am but a fool
out to trick myself
I am a clown
stuck in the middle
of something
and somewhere
wondering what else?

This is the key
of what i said before and after
the reality of my craft
and the solutions
to all my upcoming endless 
psycho babble chapters
of genies and wishes
and batters and pitter patter

This is the center
I'm spiraling out from
a line above and below
to read between
each piece
a true obviousness
of limited wonder and laughter
and hanged men

For this is just the middle
of everything
but it's not really
so this is my disguise
of a confession

Details | I do not know? | |

Tanichka 's Gifts

  A sparkling thought
you threw
I caught
safe now in my pocket
When I get home
when I'm alone
I'll put it in my locket

  A keepsake lives
and always gives
more joy thru the years
I need your thoughts
the ones I've caught
protect me from my tears

 Though rash and wild
I'm still a child
who swings out on a dream
please give me one 
when you are done
for mine has lost  the gleam

 the gleam of youth
of breathless truth
that passioned life alive
sits on the floor
outside my door
asleep tll you arrive

Details | I do not know? | |

The Writer I Am In My Dreams (A response to The Woman I Am In My Dreams by Maxine Tynes)

The writer I am in my dreams
is more sophisticated than I am
and sees the world as an untold story
I mainly see the footsteps behind me
        Where I stepped softly so as not to call attention to myself
this writer conjures volumes about the man on the bus
who has a scar on his face five inches long
she elaborates on his life with gifted prose
he is a pilot shot down in Vietnam
guerillas gave him a scar and set him free
he used to be a lion tamer
that one is self-explanatory
I simply cannot stop staring at his scar and wonder
does it bother him to have such a mark?

The writer I am in my dreams
has perfect time management
goes to work, attends class
has a beau
        moves from day to day
        finds time for friends and play
        hobbies and exercise
        dance class and likewise
the writer I am in my dreams
her words are clear and precise
they don't feel like empty thoughts on a page
they don't sound immature
her words and statements work
they don't get in her way and make her mind spin
and conjure up thoughts of self-worth
they whirl around the room and
whisper about the unimagined
they dialogue with rhyme and wit
and they always converse graciously

the writer I am in my dreams
I wake up and pray to be
and sometimes my prayers are answered

Details | Free verse | |

Generic Minds

generic minds listen to generic music
have generic thoughts that are unknowingly abusive
watch generic things talk about generic things
gee this generic *****is spreading like a disease
better get your flu shot 
thats what they said to me
a suicidal vaccine 
a subliminal killing spree
its contagious and the outrageous
thing about it is that the people are blind in an eye
that they didn't even know they had
it's sickening to watch these clueless civilians 
inside the looking glass
with nightmares of being free
without a key to their mind
for it is trapped in the frequency
in the illusion of time
bathed in our universe
killing all that refuse to see
those that admit to hypocracy
or see the message in hip hop
how cant you see
the message in the lyrics that
bring adolescents to their knees
from bullet wounds conflicting their flesh
contradicting that they're the best
but the songs keep telling them that they dont need no rest
that they dont wanna go home
that they should ride alone
with the gat as their only companion
and so the only path they choose is the one that they're told
until they grow old and hope turns to a window pane
inside a window pane, until all they feel is pain
they realize that the music itself is ashamed
so whats to look up to
when you cant even speak when you cant even walk because you look so bleak
your eyes are sunken from the tv you're infested with the dee zees
now its too late to turn around and live for your conscious
so when youre screaming oh please
close your eyes and bring your mind to life
open your eyes for the first time
and never wonder why
since the answer this entire time
has been inside
and you better find it before you die
you dont want your soul to be in a pool with all the others
a buncha brothers missing their mothers
but only seeing strangers
only feeling the haters
wishing they would have used their minds when they had them
and now its too late,
now it's time for another new born fate to grab them

Details | Free verse | |

Untitled #187 / A whim

A whim produces this!

Details | Lyric | |

More Than Words...

Once again as my pen fails the page
In a humble but sincere effort
To honor my loving sage

As I ponder and attempt to deduce
In a low, soft chuckle, “more than words”
My rhetorical excuse

By function; words exact, color and define
And with Webster’s sword levied I chase
Definition of you into the sublime

Concept, newly born of insight and ash
Presents no attempt at justice
So its fate is sealed to trash

And alas, as a thousand times tense
I seek to corral feelings
By pen within paper fence

For moment’s sake, suppose these words I cannot cage
I humbly offer in place of love song
The feelings that surround this page

Details | Haiku | |

The Internet: Return

A void of Facebook
Creativity dies here...

Details | Imagism | |

Poetry: Doggerel And Rhyme

It is our poetic verse
That releases the restraints
Opening our minds eye 
To flowing sincere thought  

It is the flowing of ink
That becomes our salve
Healing our wounds and scars
Allowing us to be unafraid again

It is the poet’s candid opus
The voice of the untainted spirit
Transferring our tedious passions
From internal, to pen, to parchment,

It is our steadfast sanctuary 
Where we hide in total exposure
Our poetry is the end of  todays voyage
For we who dare to wander

Details | Free verse | |

and Woody Herman played

Blues in the Night.

A malignant moon
shines his metallic claws -
combs my hair and brushes me forward.
I am alone in the shadowy crooks 
of a poisoned metropolis.

A clandestine garbage chute -
where waifs and strays burn
within the fetid bowels 
of a cavernous concrete underbelly.

The orphanage awaits my arrival,
as muted outcries are crushed 
beneath my footsteps. 
A parentless prison
teeters atop Utopia's dreaded brim;
the hamlet where Orwell slew Hilton.

St. Peter has been released
and no longer tends the kitchen.
Agony and angel wings reneged
a redundant brotherhood of sorts.
His recipe for remorse shall be missed. 

Blues in the Night.

In the distance, 
feigned epileptic outbursts
placates a patron's fears.
Caffeine injections

stimulates another's venial sins
as it magnifies their cardinal options.
An insomnious woman converses
with a napkin holder. The surface

is dull and unreflective, like she.
Banter never-to-be heard
by her never-to-be gentleman caller.
I am home –
amongst the dead I adore.

A haggard waitress serves me a menu.
A laminated journal stained 
with melancholy and mustard.
Desolation and demi-tasse
are tonight’s midnight special.
Ten cents additional, if you order deluxe.

Blues in the Night.

I twiddle my thumbs 
for I have no other’s to borrow.
I catch my rugged reflection 
in the asylum’s window.
I espy my counterpart again

in a twisted spoon -
realizing I’m three utensils short 
from a grievous quartet salted
with Mack Sennett misfits.

A collection of dishes clatter
above the sanatorium’s jukebox. 
I place my spoon on the counter
and pick up a lifeless knife.
I envy its potential and possibilities

as Woody Herman croons 
in the background.

Details | Light Poetry | |

' Constructive - Criticism ... ' ( An Oxymoron - For All, But A Few)

‘ Constructive-Criticism … (An Oxymoron, For All But A Few) ’

Constructive-Criticism Is Good, It’s True
But, I’ve Only Seen It Used Properly, By A Few …
‘Cause, One Thing I Know, That I Have Seen
‘Some’ Use Criticism, Just To Be Mean …

Then, The Term Should Be:  Destructive-Criticism
‘Cause, They Ain’t Even Getting Paid! … To Spout Poison In ‘Em
I Know Then, They Want To Abuse, in Jealous-Individualism
So, Maybe, They Need An Enema, or Have An Embolism 

Coming Up (or while under Construction) I Was Told
And The Engineer-Advice, Was As Good As Gold
‘ If You Can’t Say Something Nice, Don’t Say Nothing’ At All’
So, I Don’t Bomb Somebody’s Building, Just To Watch Them Fall

Constructive-Criticism, Don’t Sic That Dog On Me
Take It and Go Bark-Up, Somebody Else’s Tree
Take A Look At Your Own, Before You Tell Me What’s Wrong
You Know What You Can Do With That … (and The Horse You Rode On)

And In The Words of ‘Tom Snyder’,  (The Idea I Relate):
“Just ‘Cause I Think Somebody’s Trying To Kill Me … Don’t Mean They Ain’t!”
And, If You Don’t Like My Building, There’s The Door, Walk Away
I Don’t Need You Cutting Down, My Structure of What I Say

And If Negative-Criticism, Is Under Construction ... That’s A Front !
When Have You Ever Heard of Something Negative, Building-Up ?
Maybe Somebody Dropped Them On Their Head As A Child
But That’s No Excuse To Criticize, Somebody Else, or Their Style

And that  ' True ', for A Few, I Meant at The Beginning
Here Are The Ones, I Accept Their Condescending:
GOD … Loved-Ones … Close Friends … (and Me)
‘Cause I Am My Own Worst-Critic, You See …

Constructive-Criticism, That’s an “””Oxymoron”””
And Look How That Word Is Spelt … Hon

(I Prefer The Term:  Commentator ( Cause I Love to Comment ! )
   ‘Cause I Want To Polish Your Metal, Without Leaving A Dent

Details | Couplet | |

A Different Verse

A different time, a different place
A different life and different face

Different wants and different needs
Different values and different creeds

Different Pomp and Circumstance
Different songs and different dance

Different likes and different hate
Different foods on different plate

A different boat on a different sea
A different you and a different me

Details | Light Poetry | |

' My 300 Spartans ... ' ( or My Scheherazade )

To Commemorate My 300th Poem Here On The Soup

300 Solomons
300 Beacons
300 Spartans
300 Martyrs

300 Tales Done
300 Threads Spun
300 Heartsongs
300 Touchstones

300 Scheherazade
Only 700 More, GOD
and Wherever YOU Beam Me
10,000 More, Gleam Me

 - - - - - - - - - -

… I Have Lost 200 Poems
But Here Are 300
Because I Open My Arms
To Inspiration Undaunted …

“ Pancakes, Preserves, Poached-Egg & Pork
Maple-Syrup, Milk and Sun-Motes In The Morn
Calling My Name, Just Like Flapjacks To A Fork
Psyche Is Picking Up Poems, Like Babies Just Born “

- - - - - - - - - -

A Childhood Poem Remembered …

           I See The Moon
      and The Moon Sees Me
       GOD Bless The Moon
         and GOD Bless Me

… and Long Live, The Love Of Poetry …

                                 The  MoonBee

Details | Dramatic monologue | |

Look Away

Look Away

Don't look this way
For I have been burned in the face.
Defeat and captured
Only released by the sound of my breathing.
From dust till dawn
I say look away for I no longer wish for you to see me.
Released the blood from my eyes.
Look away for I have you placed in my heart
I wish you not to see me this way.
Though I be burn ,torn,tattered and fatal wounded 
Shall my breathing keep me sane.
May you memory keep me warm
See these words I speak,hear me breathing so shallow.
Feel the darkness that formed in my eyes
Since this is my mind I may be released.
But forever trapped in a maze that brings 
Me up to drag me down.
Look away for I am burned in the face
As long as you remember your in my heart,
And memory I shall be in yours.
So I shall say look away
For I am burned tattered and torn inside my mind.
Just look away

Details | Dramatic monologue | |

A Dark Fairy-tale

A Dark Fairytale

As I was chained, I breathe in.
As I was burned, I breathe out.
As I was cut, I looked down.
As I was broken, I looked up.
As I was destroyed, I closed away.
I had killed myself damaging beyond any repair.
To keep myself closed I chain, cut, burned, and destroyed what was within me, isolation my fear around me. But suddenly as I had nearly been kindled to a shivering light, something braver and stronger then I appeared and took me and held me and once again I was fixed and this is what happened; 
Suddenly I breathed in as I was unchained.
Suddenly I breathed out as my burns disappeared.
Suddenly I looked up as my broken body mended.
Suddenly I looked down as my cuts faded.
Suddenly I was opened up and my destruction was nothing more then a dream
As my knight, you entered that shadow and held me now I grow with a unprofaned radiance.
I was held once more, and my soul emerged.
I was spoken to once more, and my mind went blank.
I was kissed and my body reacted without a second hesitation.
And before I could run away once more, I was trapped.
Unlike my prison I lived in a fairytale, in were I don’t want to live this place anytime soon. What happened then and what happening now are so fair apart it hilarious.
 I’ve forgiven the past, not forgotten it. Prove never to make the same mistakes or else be locked back inside that tower I call my mind. 
Let me in brave knight, into your mysterious ways.
Let me in brave knight let me have secret passages into that world of yours. 
Let me in brave knight so I can truly capture you. 
I was as cold as ice even more then winters hail, but you with a ridged past that icier then I could have imagined is as warm as the summer sun and sweet like spring air.
For saving me, for taking my heart, for releasing me, I’ll become everything you want and then more, I’ll stand by your side and hold you like you held me and I shall be everything you need.
My sweet Knight.

Details | Free verse | |


I ponder the same thoughts as he.
But my words are rocks.
Illusive, words go beyond feeling them,
Beyond memories,
Deep into native instincts
Forgotten in generations of rebirth.

His stones are
Time before; time hereafter;
A time capsule within;
A mystery without.

Mine are rocks.

Inspired by the poem "Stone," by Charles Simic, current Poet Laureate

Details | Lyric | |

From the Inkpot

Oh yes! Poetry is still alive and well,
And in these modern times a poet may tell
By picking up any near-by pen
To express the beauty felt with-in.
Of these often troubled times, 
A quiet place to compose rhymes 
Blocks out the chaos of the day,
And lets the beauty steal away.
Tranquil waves upon the shore makes silence fall
On dirty city streets where roaches crawl.
The lovely mountain mist roams unaware
Of the voggy, sultry, humid air.
The graceful movements as cotton clouds drift by
Alas, defers to ‘Time’ on a pedestal set high.
Yet moments stolen from a hectic day
Keeps poet’s hearts safe from the fray.

© 2012 Connie Marcum Wong

Details | Rhyme | |

A Poet In Deed

A poet needs.....
to be seen...
with words shown,

A poet heeds....
poetic dreams....
to be known,

A poet indeed...
sows such seed...
when sharing thoughts of own.

Details | Bio | |

The Poet

I remember the first time 
     I called myself a poet
       When someone asked what I do 
        With all the time in my day
          Not really sure how to answer 
        That one very easy question
      It somehow slipped from my mouth 
   At that time this way
 I'm A Poet?...

Still unsure if I was worthy to call myself that
  Though as the saying goes 
    "I had just now made my bed"
       And sleep in it I will
         For poetry to me is a thrill
       With it being the only way 
    To remove the thoughts from my head
  But Dare I Say I'm A Poet?...

But that's what poets do!
  They write words that flow through
     In hopes of sparking a thought or feeling
       In another persons mind
          So as I live out each day
        I let the words fall where they may
      With a thought that someone will be delighted 
   When reading the poems they may find
 So I Guess I Could Call Myself A Poet?...

Now on a mental crusade you might say
   On a journey through the thoughts
      And different memories of my life
        Writing down everything
           That decides to develop in my mind
          After life and dreams...
        Some petty little things...
      Though nothing...
   To be ever written...
 In spite...

This Is Me "The Poet!"...  :o)

PD's Contest: The Poet 

Details | Free verse | |


"Are you Quill?," She asked abeam.
"Yes, of course! - mostly - when the Muselle` 
visits oft'n'r upon, as my wont!
"Well, here!, this will surely help at the Magic...

And IT, Voila!, was in hand, a thrust-unmistakable!
Blunt, bulbous & sleek, a slick Recife, 
this Turquoise and Silver stick.

Is IT "Blue?" Is IT "Black?" 
Pray, "Blue-Black!?"  Wow! - 
A Sole instrument for Playing in the Indigene,
Soul Colors of the Earth! - I nearly crack to Self.

Swirled-embedded, b'neath the haute Baekelight-Crystal
like a LavaLamp-Entemp.  IT's messages of ambidexsrait-
Threads, Mola thru splayed fingers.  O' Charitable Mage 
You have brought to Life!...   I     Write    Handcrafted!  

Details | Ghazal | |

How to love

My roots are trembling
through clay orgasm,
tumbling the landslide
that speaks every shake or so.
Leo roars and I await life,
Generic roving rumbles
reminding me of the world around,
but I never remember
how to cling to the ground.

Details | Light Poetry | |


I once was like a catipiller young,naive,and new
Always living from my heart not knowing what
else to do.Easy to take advantage of, that is 
just the case, people would walk over me
like I was their dirty used up suitcase.
Now I feel a newness coming, like a light
shining from the sky, colors fill my world
and I know I am blooming into a butterfly.
Purple,Pink, Blue and Green I can feel them
flowing through. Colors of the rainbow raising
me into full bloom. Wise and strong I am becoming
My faith leads me where I need to go giving me
insight and wiseness for only me to know.
I have not  done this on my own you see
I have been guided by God and Angels
on this Earth. Wise words the wisdom at
it's best comes from a wise lady who
seems to know me best. Lucky, I am 
to have her in my life, she always shoots
it straight and tells me like it is, knowing
her words touch my heart and gives me tons of faith..
I feel like flying through the sky or climbing 
a tree way up high. I feel like observing the 
world just like a brand new butterfly so as I
Bloom I become Anew something unlike the past
Smart and wise beautiful on the inside and outside 
 a touch of color here a touch of color there
makes me glow and become a beautiful blooming butterfly...

Written By: Christina A McCullouch 

Details | Rhyme | |

My Book of Poems

A book of poems
with my name on it
is my ambition, someday.
A book of poems
with my name on it,
with something, inside, to say.
Not a big book, not thick, not mushy --
not that kind of book for me.
My book must be lean, must be spare --
though pithy and strong --
and stand free.
A small book of poems
with my name on it:
all that I need
to leave here of me.

Details | Free verse | |

My Rhetoric Rhapsody

My Rhetoric Rhapsody

Oh! I am a Poet
It’s me again pretty poet of the century,
Breaking through till I reach mercury.
A pretty poet with popping phrases,
A poor poet with perpetual personality.
Praying that my poems pulls out pieces of pleasure,
Arouses interest, motivates and inspires.

Oh! I am a Poet
Who teaches as he preach
On every inch that becomes a cliché
And leaves your ears aching when reached.
Who frees frozen feelings of Refugees.
Who unfolds fundamental mysteries of false phenomenon.
Who washes and enshrines shameful ships on a sea shore,
Assuring Sheppard of Shelter by Lord Krishna.

Oh! I am a Poet
A rock solid hardcore poet
Self proclaimed Fundi
A super duper verse creator
A self sufficient professor
A prodigy not a protégé
A dictator not an agitator
A toughie not a roughie

I don’t recite to hear myself talk
I don’t talk to be noticed
I don’t take Hobson’s choice
Nor hobble to a hoax
I don’t settle for a bird in hand 
Nor crawl for half a loaf
My reaches exceeds my grasp
My wishes akin to my riches

My poems are my pillar
My wits are my tools
No hocus pocus for my hoi polloi
I’m not a hoity-toity poet who scribbles down hokum poetry
My poetry is impalpable,
Inexplicable and impeccable.
My creativity is infallible.
My verses so impregnable.
I am an imperious poetic licensee

I am a rusty epic epidemic through youth poets’ wannabes,
A penurious poet who indulge in perilous peripheries.
My masterpiece is not some common handwritten handiwork on handkerchief.
I craft them like a handicapped handyman with no haphazard!
And this is my Rhetoric Rhapsody...
See, when I rhyme my rhymes that hum like hymns
And step on my Poetic Stiletto heels to find open minds
And dine in a pile of my rhymes...
My mimes start to mime my rhymes

And this is a route where I quote that this is not over yet...

Details | Bio | |

I Am Poetry

I stand solo, aloof in the snow, a precipitation 
                     of words cascading from a nebulous eye 
Fathoms wide, forever dripping like wax onto 
                     a punctured paper serving a Sanskrit sky,

and spreading into sibilant sentences swiftly 
                     sliding from syllable sorcery to soulful serenades 
so silent in the shunting shout of white. Poetry 
                     fills a churning void where novels cannot wade,

Phrases solidifying into idolisation of emotion 
                     itself, isolation of the isometric individuality that so 
Crushes my keeling cavern of thought, ever 
                     careering from caustic career path to another new low,

Which so seems to crumble into crazy paving’s 
                    counterpart. In this first freeze-frame we can all grasp
A fraction of the familiar, oh so fractured by the 
                    fumbling nature of enforced form. Freed by the gasp 

Of a photo-opportunity glowing phosphorescent 
                    with firsts, I am no longer framed by the festering 
Constraints of non-fiction, and folding my fond 
                    farewells carefully, I hesitantly face a vision pestering 

Me, fearing the fiend that would open maw and 
                    gnaw beneath my feet, evoking an avalanche of the 
Vernacular, but I am further past this unfed 
                    existence now, loosened from the fickle friendship of a

Winter thaw. Focus not your gaze on the grinding 
                    gauze of the greats, for the pressing pestilence of 
Perishable poetry is elsewhere pondering its parallels 
                    in posturing and post-modern pining for forlorn love. 

Praise no other; I am poetry.

Details | Haiku | |

Haikus About God: III

Beauty of nature
Why condense it down to God?
Isn’t life enough?

Details | Free verse | |

To The Beat of Jazz Poetry

From bebop, swing to hip-hops thing
True poets had it best
For there is a rhythm in the soul, 
Which they all just had to express

Some could not control
This powerful thing 
 Was so often put to the test

It began to dawn coming on strong
Within the birth of a thing 
Called the Harlem Renaissance 

That jazz, that poetic-jazz, of intense birth 
Possessing syncopated rhythms 
And chronic expression of surreal tunes 

That perfected blend of jazz-poetry 
Developed into what it is today. 
Thanks to poets like Carl Dunbar and Langston Hughes 

That jazz, that jazz, that wonderful poetic-jazz
Being bred of pride, lyrical form and grace
Transcended cultural barriers 
Readily accepted in the 1950’s by the humane race 

Therefore, the mantra had begun to be 
So freely expressed within poetic lyrics 
To syncopated beats moving on through the 60’s and 70’s
By way of beat poets like Amiri Baraka

Returning strong throughout the 70’s and 80’s 
Thanks to artist like Gil Scott-Heron
Oh, snap he was one of the founding fathers 
Of spoken word poetry known to youngsters 

Borne to free-styling or hitting the beats 
On stage or in the streets
Yes, you’ve guessed it, most def its rap
Re-educating the poet in me, thanks to that thing 
In which made many a heart sing 
As these icons did their thing

Starting with something called modern day jazz-poetry…
Born during the Harlem renaissance and still going strong

Comments: I hope that you have enjoyed this free verse
tribute to some of the greatest modern day
founders of what is known as Jazz-Poetry.

Details | Etheree | |

The Writing Game

are at
times hard to
capture into
one good piece that will
be appreciated.
It is a constant struggle
to please yourself, yet please someone
who would buy what you write. It's like your
soul and spirit takes a negative hit.

by:Brandee Augustus

Details | Blank verse | |

I Guess That's It...

...or just thoughts

I just want to create
I guess that’s it, just create
Money does not move me
Fame? Why do people want fame?
Glory? I build in obscurity.
Legacy? How can the dead enjoy?
I just want to create
Just to see it grow
To see it go from nothing to something
Not because of sunlight
Not because of nature
Because of me
Is that wrong?
I guess it is a little vain
I know all things are vanity
But, these are my thoughts
Wrong thoughts, maybe
They are MY imperfect thoughts
I just want to create
Cause and effect
Action and reaction
Thought and fruition
It seems simple
Too simple, to some
They want more
Some verbose explanation
Some critical reason
It is not that complex
I just want to create
I guess that’s it, just create

Details | Blank verse | |

Who I am Today

I got 2 memba who I once was, who I really am, what I really am, and who Im still yet TO BECOME. I got 2 memba where Im from 2 know how I got 2 where Im at 2 know where Im still GOING TO GO/ Despite bein a felon and convict and all the odds against me, I still got all the evens deep within me. Change is like a choice of contradicted concepts of my own convictions. My felonistic, forbidden, fatherless faith is not workin for me no more, actually it never did I just thought it did. I aint got 2 give it up or must give it up, or even have 2 give it up I first got 2 want 2 give it up. But I also must got 2 have 2 want 2 give it up within my own contradicted soul so that I may travel that road less traveled by my own people, not only where Im from but for all those trapped in this American inner racial mixed struggle where race and the color of YOUR SKIN DOES MATTER

Details | Free verse | |

Dripping Pages

Contractual agreements with publisher caused DELETION

Details | Epigram | |


Your briefcase sits
beside the water can
(long dry memento of ivy,
coleus, and more exotic plants,
which perished under your patient,
watchful care.)
Not good at growing greenery,
On paper you construct
Imaginary jungles, weep watery tears
When they wither
Beneath your critical eye.

Details | Personification | |

Birth of a Poet

The animals know better than us. The rain has never poured so loudly in a key so soft.
To the front, the sailing of city buses and mini vans cruising across in this weather makes the water underneath their tires sound like the street is crying out for 5 more minutes of sleep. Up above, the trees are protecting a nest of baby blue jays before they get washed away by the silence of their mother not being there. But with sky blue young spirits, and small empty stomachs, they keep hope alive in the fact that even children know storms and struggles don’t last forever.
Below the trees, nature has found a name to call it’s own. From the hole dug by the little boy next door, a family of three foxes have named human nature sanctuary, and burrowed their problems into the sediment to rest for a while.
To the side of the hole, a flock of ducks are swimming in the water with eyes open wide enough to where you can see their loyalty to love one another rushes wild.
To the right of the pond, caged up in a man made blanket, and lost in his own mind, is the boy. From what he remembers, last night was like a train accident; A head on collision of two people he could’ve sworn he saw holding hands just the other day. He hears the sound of plates shattering in C-minor, and the chorus of words that his parents screamed in F-sharp, so he imprisoned himself in his own bed sheets, accompanied by the courageous corduroy bear who he swears keeps hearing whisper “everything will be okay.”
It’s raining outside, and the crescendos of screams have been silenced by it’s peaceful security.
The boy, sleeps soundly now. The rain has protected his ears, and guarded his heart from being washed away by all of his nightmares.
He doesn’t care whether he wakes up. The baby blue jay, the resourceful fox and the brave little duck are all he wants to keep dreaming about.
Maybe he’ll run away into the rain? Or maybe into the arms if his mother?, whom he prays he can still recognize. To the left of his bed, he picked up the blank page of his coloring book and a crayon, and became a life long poet in that moment that morning. Taking a deep breath in, and giving a soft breath out, his first sentence was
“The animals know better than us.”

Details | I do not know? | |

Fingers Put My Mind To Keys

Do words live in my fingers
Making escape from the mind
Or might they be under keys

If they do live in the keys
Can I touch with my fingers
I hope they will never mind

But they sit within my mind
Not crammed inside the keys
Residing underneath fingers

Fingers put my mind to keys

Details | Alliteration | |

We Beat Until We Battered

We sometimes drink and smoke so much We get beat until we are battered 
Our dreams were like one giant wall of glass where upon they were destined to be shattered
 Broken in a heap of glass we now stay occupied where lost souls continue to gather
 Dark yet so desolate living amongst those were nothing in life but a quick death seems to matter
 It seems as if the harder we try the more below we get needing somekind of ladder
 All I hear are silent screams among gossiping chit chatter 
Our truth is getting skinnier while our lies are well fed by the way the are getting fatter
 Crying souls overcome those that are filled with laughter 
The clock for many of us gets slow but our life train to death only gets faster 
Many of us which remain lost in addiction looking for a positive leader, a mentor, some kind of master
But when shyt hits the fan we must remain strong even if we just lost someone close and are feeling sadder
 If life is to throw us those curveballs in a the ring then its time stop mr nice guy and get badder
 You must endure the shyt that you got to endure even if it gets your hands and feet a little tathered
 Life can and will get you drunk so handle your drink or let it bring you down until you can no longer stagger
 You must tell yourself **** them and everybody else because you still got skill even if you aint got swagger
 Just tell yourself "**** they judgements" because you know in your own eyes you still look sharper than a dagger

Details | Carpe Diem | |


knowledge afloat
remains powerless 
to be 
plugged in 
bugged out
the radio alarm clock

use colors
push buttons 
twist knobs

pull into parking space
sunburn in the spot
gathering rays to erase the poison

polluted cells
a trade secret to 
tastily treat one's self

take the high road
the shady street
the path less traveled 
which one matters little
especially when
in comparison terms with 
the reward, the apple, the brain food, the 
                                   can-eat buffet...
there at the fingertips 
of y.o.u.

Details | Rhyme | |

Dancing Sheep

When the pen has lost its way
When ideas and ink run dry
Leave the desk and turn away
Take what wings you have and fly
Leave facts and figures on the page
Free your dreams from fettered sleep
And let them take you from the stage
To floating fields and dancing sheep.

For all we are is never told
Nor ever measured by the eye
Mostly unseen we just grow old
And no one sees us passing by
We are the tethered fantasy
Most of the time we do not care
For most of what the others see
Is only what we choose to wear

But in the mind's eye's overview
We see the parts, the acts we play
We know the scripts we follow through
Just waiting for the perfect day
And maybe, one untroubled night,
We'll quietly wish upon a star
And in that moment's grip, we might,
Have just a glimpse of who we are.

Details | Quatrain | |

Hats Off To You {Vignette}

heart flutters bearing the news
appointed poet laureate
bows comrades honoring name
gift gabble raising thy brows
expectations of nil
inspirations for others

Tribute To Poetry

And To All The Wonderful Poets
Here In The Soup Bowl
I Bow To Each

Also Entry For
Brian Strand's 
Poet Laureate Contest
GL All

Details | I do not know? | |

My Wishes are Simple

My Wishes are Simple

My wishes are simple,
my desires few,

to gaze upon an ocean,
and marvel at a solitary drop of dew.

My wishes are simple,
my dreams not too grand,

to feel the waves teasing my tired feet,
with no footprints left in the cool, wet sand.

My wishes are simple,
my thoughts serenely gentle, calm,

my heart resting beneath a swaying palm,

healing my being, caressed by nature's soothing balm.

Details | Epigram | |

A Spoon And A Fork

Someone caught a spoon in bed with a fork,
I assume that's why we now have the spork.
Let's hope they don't catch them with a knife,
Could you imagine a knoon or a fife?

Details | I do not know? | |

loose paper prophet

I am the loose paper prophet
Prophetising profetisms as loose
As the paper on which I write them

I stand between you and my mind like a Moses,
An oracle intoxicated by the fumes of Delphi,
Possessed by the demons of my creativity
Scribbling on loose paper
I am a prophet.

I prophetise the words of my mind
To your ear lobes,
Till the words resonate in the deeper parts of your dome
But it must hit home if religious
Then false are my prophesys
And proven false prophet I am
But a prophet none the less

I prophetise worldly visions
Like herbalists high in search of  better days
Dreaming of thugs mansions
And moments of silence
And how you will see me when you get there
If you ever get there

I am a loose paper prophet
But soothe sayer by no means
Ma paper boasts bursts of ink that
Colour the truth as I see it
Prosaic verses in libre,
This is me I deliver
In the midst of papers  floating as leaves rustling  in the wind.
Yes, this is me
Prophetist of the loose pages.

Details | Sonnet | |


The wall clock is rushing me once again,
I hear its incessant quick-talk-quick-talk,
How cold the face while its hands constrain,
Hands that first rebuff then tightly interlock.
Love I’ve not given, not nearly enough,
Morning kept her schedule, rigid and right,
Harried by long lists, poor afternoon chuffed,
Spent evening skipped then tripped over night.
Now I count stars and think on tomorrow,
There bids a much better use of my time,
Peace splints worn bones, enters raw marrow,
Tenders me verse in restorative rhyme.
Words slow hours for poetry welcomes
mere seconds that bring a trace of wisdom

Details | Rhyme | |

If You Had but One Last Poem to Pen

If you knew that you’d be leaving soon
And had but one last poem to write;
What might you pen as you begin 
To say your final, farewell good night?

Would it be addressed to those who’ve blessed 
Your world with all good things?
To someone close you love the most
Or perhaps, a song of spring?

Of changing winds that swirl and spin
From cradle to the grave;
If you had but one last poem to pen
What would you want to say?

Would thankfulness surround you
For every breath you’ve ever breathed?
Or will you write before losing sight 
Of past regrets and shattered dreams?

Will your pages be filled with all the thrills
Of memories made with laughter?
Or will sadness remain despite all the gains
Of riches you’ve chased after?

And I wonder will the darkness fill
Our minds with somber sojourns;
Or will instead we find we’re led
To God’s gigantic, love-filled ocean?
If we have but one last poem to write
Before leaving Earth’s atmosphere;
What will we say that just might stay
In the hearts of those still here? 

Details | Free verse | |


are you with me, you drowsy pen?…this world is a
freakin’  distorted place. we are  scribbling 
like mites in pillow fights:  dirty nails we have become ,
 contagious  as micro germs trying to make
sense of all the fake reality clinging to sleek fuzz,
pizzaz and all that jazz… ‘cmon, we are all  fragile.
we’re all gonna die. so why be drugged by 
penning  a Lindsay Lohan kind of intoxication? 
look at you, ink! swiveling like whims of  tipsy lines.

far too many blots on your made-up tip…
geez, those  pop culture digs scanning  cosmo hours
 with whisky gulps of idle entertainment, you know, 
 the scratch of feeble hands sucking  materialistic
greed. do you think you’re  rotten smart  in hurried
thoughts of instant gratification? this is for real, for real.

and listen up: have you written about the will of
a spirit for true love of self,  of flowers and others?
nope, not the kind you feel when  intoxicated phrases
are riddled with booze shots… life goes on, every second, 
every written word.  there's something 
unspeakably beautiful about it all...if only you and i 
can share the flow of some kind of wonder  without  greed.

 you’re wasted! pik-bam-boom, take my alcoholic
breaths to the top; see that there is no before or after. 
just one rare, pure “ now” moment:  damn it’s for real, for real… 
our lives are a good freakin’ thing, isn’t it? hey, you’re dozing off !


by nette onclaud
for Elliott Bowe’s Drink Drunken Pen

Details | Free verse | |

Man Vs Wild Words

If I am but a man, then be it so. 
And I eat strength and breathe fallibility. 
But I confess, to be man is a gift by 
one name and burden by another. 
Heartbeat and fresh flesh is my honor. 
And still, I weep for my bleeding core 
that proves so fragile. 

For I am beast with evolved morality, 
fish with lung, and bird with broken wing. 
Tamed by that which drove Romeo 
and twisted Hitler. Love and Hate. 
And love do I the beauty of hatred 
seen, examined, and understood.
Between the poet and the sleeping lion 
lies my identity. Intact and scarred. 

So if I be man, then drench my brow 
with sweat, break my back with labor, 
but layer my tongue with stanzas that 
burst free and drip from my lips like honey! 
And with that identity, I shall yawp 
with barbaric thunder and scream 
my mortality from the highest mountain. 
With Pride!

Details | Tetractys | |

Poems Written True

Dane Smith-Johnsen

Where thoughts hide
My living soul
Bursts forth a preponderance of poetry.

Expressions know love, hope, fear, and beauty.
Rhymed or unrhymed.
My essence

Written for Poetry Soup Member Contest:  "Where Your Poetry Comes From" 2 Tetractys only   
Sponsored by: Michael J. Falotico

© July 25, 2011

Details | Couplet | |

The Pleasure Has Been All Mine

<               I have dipped my pen in the sublime, it's my gift to you
                 Now use it wisely and write about some captioned caught views

                 thus that of an snow-capped mountain with an eagle that soars
                 or white sandy beaches where ribbed tides rolls back to it's shores

                 maybe stars and moon dance reflecting off stilled bay's port
                 in ones head you must determine choice of words to now sort

                 from beautiful to just pleasure does not hit it's mark
                 beneath recant memory that caused the ignited spark

                observer of denial you can not destroy ones voice
                within pens stroke there comes a poet with another choice

                seize the day and come bow to the chosen word of the day
                dont let an overpowering object just get away

Written By Katherine Stella  6/26/11

Entry For A Rambling Poet's

Writing In The Sublime

Details | I do not know? | |

Feeling You In The Rhyme

So many verses, And not enough lines...
My soul feels the rhythm,But my mind produces the rhyme...
Word by word poetry,just forms in me!!!! ,Constantly,
My mind creatively preforms unknown free styles....
Collaborations of rhythm and rhyme,
Giving my words a voice that can connect and be heard for miles...
How Beautifully it all comes together right before my eyes.... 
Although I never would, I couldn't change it if I tried..
The Irony in relation to what i write an what is felt, At times it hits deeply...
Cause each verse is more than just some words...But also the soul that flows in me.... 

Details | Verse | |

Le Vacance Pretentieuse: Going Home

What is it to see the soil of home again?
A welcome, snow-struck and a return
To cold; sharp white contrasts sunburn.
We converse in broken tongues to men

We know, hooked on holiday language
Comprised of wandering hand signs.
Collect the car and pay parking fines,
Drive through towns and over a bridge

Until we reach the Western gateway.
Oh when will we arrive at our house?
No camels there, only field mouse
Which are eaten by our cat anyway.

The plane flies for an age, slyly yawning
Through the stretching, pealing sky,
A knife through air; what it is to fly.
Our travels over; a new day is dawning.

Details | Verse | |

An ORacle's Lament

Or, always a quandary the perpetual choices
the delight of suggestion pales with the anxiety necessary

Or, often a dichotomy, balanced like the scales of justice
matched with //either// this mere two letter word makes quite a stir.

Or. what? Some ask in tones ripe, rancid, with belligerence
brimming with the vitriol evident in slicked-back hair.

The fate of the world can balance on an OR
the continued existence of a proposed reality can fall OR...

I would not want the pivotal pressure or continued strain
of being an OR for I would stretch and choose never to let go.

Contest: Do Due or Dew
 "Choose one of the above words and write a poem." I chose OR

Details | Couplet | |

Writer's Block

You know what I hate about writer’s block,
How my creativity is hidden behind a lock;

Time ticks away as I stare at my screen,
My heart beating faster from the strain of caffeine;

The cursor flashing lulls me to doze,
Til a fly lands smack on the tip of my nose;

I swing at the fly and glance at the clock,
How did 10 AM turn into 5 O’clock;

I stand and I stretch and then walk away,
And say goodbye to another wasted day;

Maybe tomorrow will inspire my brain,
Or I could be slowly going insane…

Details | Free verse | |

Torture on the Parchment.

Oh, empty quill
On brittle parchment
Why with such zeal
Do you deride me?
Such power to prevent
A single word 
From being scratched out
Repudiating inspiration
For the moment
Forbidding me
To imbibe of breath

Tell me of that
With which I have sinned
That warrants this pain
This censure…
Necessitates from accusation
This allegation
Which I must answer
Before judgment
Surges forth
Washing over me

If I bloody those pages
Dirty your eyes
Holding my verse 
I shall answer you
Without vanity’s mask
To abstain from
Penning my verse 
Upon your note paper

My compositions
Will be now penned
In the blood of autumn frost
On the windblown foliage
Contented throughout
That no evil can be read
On wind scattered verses
Of me…

Details | Free verse | |


Sordid, shoddy succubus
Culled consciousness
Mottled, beguiled muse
Hungry for hope
An eruption of erudition 
To be showered with praise
Cleansed pride
Chloroformed strife 

Where dreams tease unkempt hair
And eulogize tear stained verse
Sacrificed on stripped oak altars
Trembling hostages of insatiable sermons 
Sterile sunrises
Mourned by cramped, fertile fingers
I pray to my paranoia of invasion

Viscid footsteps
Shadows of salvation 
Which pass without query
Chortling echoes of obtuse obituaries
As I lie shackled to tomes of obscurity

Details | Limerick | |

After the Play

I entered a contest for plays;
I’d hoped for approval and praise.
	The audience cheered
	And nobody jeered
And I even was given bouquets!

We followed the show with a dinner.
I grinned like the grinniest grinner.
	The feelings that flowed
	And the way that I glowed
Would convince someone I was the winner.

Today they confirmed what I knew – 
My chances for glory are through.
	But still, though I lost,
	There were barriers crossed
And I made an impressive debut.

The lesson I learned from this chance
Is that fortunes don’t always advance;
	But if you never try
	You’ll be wondering why
You’re the wallflower watching the dance.

Details | Rhyme | |

The Alternate Story

With every word, with every phrase,
You breathe, you come alive,
A tale of truth, mapped with reality,
Or a dream unlived for which you thrive,
You live through what is written,
Or you choose to hold your pens,
It doesn’t matter how it ends,
Because it’s the end where it all begins,

Broken hour glasses of the War,
Acting as the mirror to see through the past,
The good is victorious, and is glorified,
And evil is evil, because in the battle they did not last,
With their blood, is inked the war diary,
So winner takes it all, and is called as ‘good’, hence,
As it doesn’t matter how the war ends,
Because it’s the end where it all begins

And then there is Romeo, falling in love
And Juliet waiting for him in the Balcony,
They kill Romeo, and justify the murder,
But love is charged for an unforgivable felony,
Died, the felons leave the stage,
But love lives irrespective of the skins
As it doesn’t matter how the life ends,
Because it’s the end where it all begins

You pose the king of you story,
Or in their game, you are just a pawn,
Your story is written in this moment,
Larger than life; this moment is never gone,
So when they bury you as a ‘Sinner’,
Be the phoenix to rise from your sins,
As it doesn’t matter how the Story ends,
Because it’s the end where it all begins

Details | Couplet | |

Your Heart I Hold

I know I told you I fell out of it...
       Pride was a wall that just didn't fit...
                Black and white raining memories...
                       Falling slowly but clouding discoveries...
                               Thoughts constructed but a voice with no sound...
                                         Hand written rhymes that float around...
                               Some will sink in as ohers disappear...
                        Most will find pages and land with a tear...
                 Flip through slow and you can feel my soul...
      Swallow my words and your heart I shall hold...


Details | Bio | |

Untitled...for now

‘my eyes
with a film over them
clouding them with 
iridescent shapes of

I'm reading this again...
probably not the best thing 
for me to read at this moment.

sending off...hmm? 
do you still feel the same?

a ramble of unpoetic lines
shoved together haphazardly

if the power of words can kill
I’m butchering a pig—
—blood as virtual ink!

not poetic…

comparing my ‘poetry’
to yours
my UNpoetry

you say—
—you claim to love it

sending off—

—do you still feel the same?

‘my eyes’
-coming ‘round full circle-
‘with a film over them’
—just incase—
you’ve forgotten

[my eyes
with a film over them
clouding them with 
iridescent shapes of

‘clouding them with’
‘iridescent shapes of’
—not quite—

sending off—

—do you still feel the same?

do you 
feel the same?

Details | Free verse | |

Silent Wonder

I like these moments of silence,
When I can go chasing the threads of my thoughts...
Start with a feeling,
Weave a dream...
Gather the moments as they pass by,
To flap my wings and learn to fly...
Learn to fly.

Details | Free verse | |

Reflections: Intellectualism

To Dine, To Die;
Conversations spiral
While thunderous eyes
Grasp concepts to recycle.

Constant debt crisis
A political paradox
Grating social devices
Over the sorting of socks.

An endless groan
Argumental paralysis
The debate grants no throne.

Over a roast
Potatoes won't listen
To who talks the most.

"That point is so interesting"
The floor is open for chat
"What is real?" not a thing
"Meow" adds the cat.

Details | Blank verse | |

Why Do I Write

Why Do I Write?
I was born in an era when Shakespeare, Shelley and Wordsworth were kings. Reading them was like hearing beautiful music and after all these years…it still is. Then I fell in love with Emily Dickenson and the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam…what wonderful words of wisdom they imparted! I write because it allows me to express myself…my thoughts, my compassion, my soul… much as my singing has done all my life. Now that that part of my life is waning, I can still be a “diva” in my own eyes! lol I write, because my heart tells me to in the wee hours of the morning when sleep eludes me. I write because these thoughts and words which are choking me...screaming to be free...must be released. I write for those who mourn, or who suffer illness, to console them and say I understand. I write for the lonely, for those who have no hope. whose stories tug at my heart. Since I can't hold them close to me, I try through my poems to convince them there is hope and tomorrow will be better. I write to be show I am still relevant and have viable thoughts and opinions to share with the world. Experience is still the best teacher. I write to protest injustice wherever I find it. To be silent would be cowardly. I write humorously about inconsequential, everyday situations, to bring a laugh or two into our lives. I wrote my memoirs for my grandchild, to preserve the past for future generations. I wrote poetry to release grief and sorrow when death came to call, to help me find peace and acceptance. I write my religious poetry…not to flaunt my religion…but to praise God and thank him for his sacrifice for me and for the peace his presence brings to me. I also ask his blessings for my friends and loved ones and for the heavy in heart, so that they might find peace and deliverance from the evils of this world. I do not expect my work to be published…I have no illusions about my talent…I write for everyman, most of whom would shy away from the literary world and consider it elitist in the extreme, but when tragedy befalls them, they take comfort in simple words of encouragement and consolation. But most of all, I write for the sheer joy of it and because my soul requires it!
Copyright©2008 Beatrice Boyle (All rights reserved) For Frank's "What turns you on" contest

Details | Sonnet | |

Another Sonnet Written at a Coffee House

You sink into the bosom of the chair 
And wonder if I too once sat amidst 
The chattering, white coffee sipping fare— 
The lonely writers ‘pining for a kiss. 

Did I peer out over the porce’lain mug 
And purse my vulgar mouth over the lip 
My eyes a’roll behind my glasses’ fog 
My writer turning phrase and spinning quips? 

Did I curl my toes under my feet 
Threading my fingers ‘round the scolding cup 
My yellow molars grinding to the beat 
Of meds-a-glee and glutt’nous caffeine ups? 

I didn't’t sit cross-legged and introverted— 
I flipped through glossy pages and consorted.

Details | Acrostic | |

Poetry Palace

Prepare your mind for this wondrous place.
Once an ILLUSION, now so much for real,
Exemplary CREATIVITY shows the pace.
Taking chosen words, that more than feel.
Rhymed or unrhymed, states a poetic case.
Yes, INFUSION of styles, seals the deal.

Power of the written word supports fortress.
Amends broken hearts of all EVENTUALLY,
Love flows from lines with little stress.
All the thoughts and feelings rise potentially.
Creating INEVITABLE beauty to possess,
Each new venue of poetic art lives inherently.

written by
Cecil Hickman

written for
Sponsor Linda-Marie The Sweetheart of P.S. 
Contest Name "POETRY PALACE" 

Details | Couplet | |

Life is an Aventurous Squirrel Run

I have my Hubby’s steadfast belief in me.
He loves how my poems are light and airy.
He’ll give me an idea once in a while…
Then he escapes to come back, later to read my new child.

He calls these run-throughs a squirrel run.
For they can take off in directions, yes, any one.
Crazy thoughts become crazier still…
And story time leads to god knows, where they will.

My thinking is kind of like chasing around a tree.
You never know where the end will be.
But somewhere I eventually become truly still.
And that is where my Hubby adds into the trill.

Then the squirrel run begins again…
Light and fluffy and full to the brim.
Each day a new adventure... waits around the bend.
Live it. Love it. Write it... You'll be happier in the end.

Contest: Emotion: Squirrelly and fun   CSEastman

Details | Free verse | |

The Pristine Society

Contractual agreements with publisher caused DELETION

© 2011 JSL

Details | Blank verse | |

Creative Hunger: Pacified.

You are my split nail.
I catch you on every pair of stockings that I wear.
You snag my lip a thousand times a day,
subconsciously drawing blood.
I should spare the time to trim your edges,
to calm your pleadings, to dull your voice,
and yet...
you are my sharpened edge,
my heightened response, my after-all~
(and here I thought you were my paper quill
flowing ink to swirling black in stone scented liquid on feathered paper air... 
absorb absorb
ah, absorb me...)
but hope upon hope comes to naught tonight
as you are but a fortune of pain
on the verge of exposé,
and I simply,
have no time for you.

Details | Free verse | |

Poetry: For The Words, Are All Around Me

The secret syllables
and words
surround me
in a morning fog
I absorb them through
the places I wonder
ideas I ponder
they flow into my blood
as they spill from my rose
like shameless water
they sweep into me
like the wind behind my bare knees
they whisper into my ears
within the summers breeze
they creep u on me
like a bottle feeling
emerged from being
cloaked deep within
the search for a pen
and paper, feverishly
into the depths of my soul
the intensity
is hard to control
like a wave, the words
tumble over me
grainy sands distort
my messages vision
as I struggle to write
how I remembered the piece
would begin
it feels like a rush
of electric
lightning bolts of
jolt through my body
shooting from me
stories of grief, and struggles
things I share to help
not to repeat
of loss and love
like a bottled sermon
thrown from above
the words hit me

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Suicidal Voodoo

Chase the voodoo to sleep. sleepless freaks i see in the silver screens blocking the vision of me. there's no choice but to eliminate hate inundating the mind. please mute the voices haunting the airwaves making me blind. the big bad budding burden flashing red lights at every intersection. stealing away the insight i try to gain by using time for reflection.

It's a mess the way i test myself with deranged prophecies and bleak scenarios. replaying horror flicks in my head. blasting screams in stereo. all too often the worm hole shoots me to a mid evil castle of torturous devices. impaled in dreams that seem to be broadcasting punishment for succumbing to the world's entice and vices. but other times i fall victim to a good old fashioned "day-mare". people notice the self conversations and can't help but laugh and stare. I must say it's becoming difficult to blame them. if i can't learn to shake this voodoo, it's true my future's looking grim.

What do I do? they're gonna end up arresting me! Toss my ass in a padded room and throw away the key! and get i worry about getting sent away, the paranoia increases inside my head. i reach for medication increasing odds of ending up prematurely dead. I may be crazy, but don't take me for an idiot fool. and don't haze me about where my faith is, cus' this could just as soon be you. and i've learned enough to know that each and every one of us will die. and you may take me as insane, but me not taking my own life's got nothing to do with having a fear to fry. 

This is exactly why i choose to write as my mind fills up with crazy thoughts and throws fits. it's a therapy for me to try and work out all the kinks that make me sink, instead of cowardly throwin' in the towel n' calling it quits.

Details | Rhyme | |

If's and Buts

IF’s and Buts

I started this poem way back in September
Dog-eared my journal so I could remember
I didn’t have much, just one line in rough-cut
And it all started out with “if” and “but”

If “ifs” and “buts” were candy and nuts
I’d be in a diabetic trance
For “ifs” and “buts” have driven me nuts
At each and every chance

If only I were richer
If only I was smarter
If only better looking
If only a self starter

But gambling is a habit of mine
But school was a waste of time
But I got a Mohawk when high
But I am too lazy to try

Yes, if “ifs” and “buts” were candy and nuts
I’ve sampled more than my share
No one’s fault but my own
Now just leave me alone
For if truth’s told, I really don’t care

Mdailey	3/8/12

Details | Rhyme | |


something we said so many times before
a crack in the door
a bit of a poet in all of us
red dust
sunset can’t catch
little bits o’memories
tickles under the tongue
a go-out and get you-one. . . of those
strip the rags off the rappers and sell them off for clothes
make math, in the mathematicians’ presuppose
fire sell it off to celeritas
one more big blink in the big goggles
golden fish missing in the adjustment of pince-nez
had to turn out that way
when all we did was

Details | Light Poetry | |

' Linda Marie & Tasty Soup ... '

Linda Marie … You Are Good For The Soup
Your Words, How Wisely They Troup
Across The Written Page, We Read
Knowing Each Word, is Heartfelt, Indeed

So Original The Thoughts, from Your Head
They’re Tasty, like Jam On Light Buttered-Bread
So Sincere, We Cannot Help, But Hear
I Am Glad, That You Alighted, Right Here

You’ve Got A Breath Of Mountain-Mist About You
And Your Unique, Technique, Talks So True
All In All, Linda Marie, You Have A Loving Soul
And It Shows, In Your Discerning Words of Gold

Your Poems, Share Sweetness and Grace
Your Voice, Has Definitely Found A Place
At The Table Here, Keep Serving Soup
A Warm Dish and Wishes, Added To The Group

For:  Linda Marie, Tho’ You’re Still Sorta New Kiddo
Welcome To The Block-Busters (Mental-Blocks, That Is) - smile … 
(I Really Do Enjoy Your Writes)

                          Your Poet-Sis,


Details | Free verse | |



The small brown nightingale sings
From left bough of an insignificant tree
He brings not much
Just love and a touch
Of everything that wrenches his

In his world the notes are beautiful
Blissfully unaware
His heartsichord strings are all but dishevelled
So never fill the air

Details | Free verse | |

Beauty in living

Tossing words up
Letting them fall
Softly on paper. 
They whisper of mysteries.

Winnowing grains of thought, 
Felicity in writing, 
Seeds grow to bloom, 
Unknowingly into a garden.

My soul decorated.
Dreams intersected with reality
And I saw, the beauty in living.

Details | Couplet | |


Tossed in a deep sea and lost…
Forgotten words of little cost…

I stood behind letters never seen…
Hid behind lines that were my dreams…

Thought I drowned in a poetic rain…
Only to awaken without restrain…

A transparent soul no more…
A mind cluttered with rhyming décor…

Speaking in tongue over quiet sounds…
With Hidden messages of faith sent unbound…

Details | Free verse | |

In League with Others

I am in league with the roses,
Petals askew in a scarlet conspiracy

Oh I am in league with the roses,
Swaying along in this lover’s confederacy;

I’m in league with the devils,
A mob together raging alight

I’m in league with the devils,
Our very breaths fanning our damned plight;

And with the clouds I have marched abreast,
Bringing storm and heavens in tow

For amongst the clouds I have marched abreast, 
Purpose seeded in the sky to grow;

I am a hire sword in league with grander designs,
Through all of which I am never prone

Yes, I am a hireling in league with foreign designs,
Happy that I am never still to stand alone.

Details | Free verse | |

The Drunken Pen

The drunken pen knows no boundaries, flowing from one page to the next, one idea to the next never stopping too long in one place. It longs to write fluffy, flowery, big descriptive words that require a dictionary and thesaurus to understand but instead it produces only bite size words of reality.  Flares of genius arise to be suddenly dashed by memory loss and distraction, leaving behind inferior pieces of work. One day this pen will rise above forced rhymes, poor punctuation and every other criticism that can be bestowed upon writing and a masterpiece will evolve.  And what exactly is a masterpiece.  What is beautiful to me may seem otherwise to many.  Looking at wilted lilies I yearn to grab a brush and paint the white petals and bright orange stamens as well as the deformed ones that have turned brown.  My pen can capture the same image only it struggles to describe a reality that seems boring, beauty missed in the imagery.  Expressing important aspects of subjects is my main goal but my pen often fails me.  Knowing many truths, my pen and paper struggle to hold the facts - is this because many will not wish to hear them.   My pen fears judgement. Can a scientific mind scribe poetic or will a drunken pen be blamed for imperfection.  

Written October 2, 2012
For Joann Grisetti’s contest
“Drunken Pen Part 2”

Details | Rhyme | |

A Paper Never Dry

                          My paper is drenched in feelings...
                   A lifetime of a heart running and searching..        
                    A hand struggling for years to hold a pen...        
              Yet now written tales of where a poet has been...
                      The art of spelling out a kiss of passion...    
         To scribing heartache and loss that wasn't my decision...    
        Till finally there are pages full that scream in a poetic cry...
    A soul has found his way to write on a paper that will never dry...

Details | Sijo | |

Their Story

I hear voices ,they seem to be from the past and speak to me
Always asking me to find the  words to tell their story
Bereft, I have no words, I can tell no story but my own

For the Sijo contest...

Details | Sonnet | |

By Blessing Graced

Reflectively, at peace within my mind
my thoughts upon the words I have to say
though lacking much it's richness that I find
for I am blessed to write them all away.

So often all the words that I have penned
have been the only voice I've ever had
and turning to my dear and trusted friend
I've often sought the comfort of my pad.

Even at a tender age in time
when the only things I had were words and prayers
child like I'd soothe myself in rhyme
as God watched over me and eased my tears.

This gift to me stands high among the rest
and by Gods grace I know I have been blessed.

Inspired by Brian Strands My Sonnets contest

Details | Free verse | |

Sorry This is a Boring Poem, Or conversation, Or Whatever

I start to initiate a conversation,
written with myself, in the dark
late November clouds,
and it's quiet and still
judgemental, just as always
in the solitude of being
socially obliged-

Yet, this is a boring poem,
or conversation, because 
no drama rears its ugly head
and the decapitated head
has already long fallen
rolling, rolling, rolling-
But it'll be back!
don't you worry
your pretty little head off,

this path must meet
with physics and science
and the obscene geometry
that dictates
the virile trajectory
of relapse, 
I just wanted to talk or write,
or whatever.

Details | Free verse | |

Shameless Self-Promotion

Here they go again.
anything to win,
in shameless 
layin’ it on thick, 
	makin’ sure it sticks,
		slappin’ it on like lotion.

“click my stuff,
and I’ll click yours too.
wanna feel like the best 
even though 
it ain’t true?”

back n’ forth complements
are so self defeating.
inflating other’s heads for praise 
is a blatant way
of cheating.

“do unto others”
but don’t lie, 
to boost their ego.
misleading them 
to raise their hopes 
should clearly be illegal.

no need to read 
a word
of their work
while scratching their backs 
all’s fair
in tactical 

poets thought to be adored 
while chewin’ truth’s gristle.
before you swallow,
broke a tooth that hurt
like a damn 

feeding on lines 
with hidden agendas 
is worse
than bein’ ignored.
cuz’ when you find 
copy n’ pasted comments, 
your hopes 
are sadly floored.

how about 
reading and endorsing work
you actually enjoy,
instead of 
feedin’ folks a line of crap 
laced with praise 
and “atta-boys!”

Details | Haiku | |

Dive Deep For Large Fish

dive deep for large fish

surface waters hold minnows

trophies are in-depth



(February 9, 2011 Wausau, Wisconsin

(c) Copyright 2011 by Christine A Kysely, All Rights Reserved

Details | Ode | |

Ode to A Healthy Prisoner

Just breathe in the clarity
Clarity of the whole
Whole or negativity
Negativity eating your soul

Head for tomorrow
Tomorrow always waits
Waits for enlightenment
Enlightenment heals mistakes

You are where you’ve put yourself
Your “SELF” now reminds you of shame
Shame brought on by acting out thoughts
Thoughts a conscious shouldn't retain

Give yourself an apology
An Apology you deserve to have
Have some faith in your timing
Timing bleeds wisdom in man 

Bless your self and live righteous
Righteous spirits rise above 
Above all if you are kind
Kind souls conquer hate with love

Poetry brings torment to a halt
Halt all your never-ending thoughts
Thoughts are forbidden evil hiding
Hiding light inside divine spots

So please write down your own deep thoughts
Thoughts penned will conquer your inside trap
Trap your life up in your cell  all alone
Alone you shall stay smelling your crap~

please don't be offended by the last line~ 
I felt it was necessary to get my point across~

Details | Rhyme | |

Poetic Shoes Blues

Sometimes we need a kind ear bent.
So all our troubles, we can vent.
Our hearts get heavy in this life.
It's kind of you to share the strife.

I hope you bear this cross in mind.
Your kind regards, I hope to find.

For Judy Konos contest Put yourself in the readers shoes.

Details | Lyric | |

Censorship In The Arts

Frozen and left for dead
 I can speak no words
 nor shake my head
 only the sky 
moves on
 above me
© Christine A Kysely All Rights Reserved
 (December 12th, 2011 Wausau, Wisconsin USA)

Details | Free verse | |

Coffee Shop

Bustling people and clinking forks
A crowded maze of tables and chairs
The soft conversations meant to be secret
Rise to a horrible din of mingling words and phrases

The smell of stale coffee beans and perfume
Caress my nose with a familiar touch
The morning shines outside the huge windows
Burning brightly, it washes out the crowd

People become shadows in the insane light
The breaking dawn ruins their features
I set alone in this madness of Sun-fire
My senses raped by terrible sights and sound

They fuel my desire to be ...

The smell of unwashed skin and vodka
Drifts in on a fugitive breeze
The rattle of a beggar's cup points to its source
Its owner's suffering passes silently amongst the crowd

An old man sits with his paper in hand
A daytime hooker enjoys her hazelnut creamer
A well-dressed woman curses her cellphone and spills her latte
A child grips her legs and she curses him as well

In a dream
Sepia tones and friendly faces
In a nightmare
Shadow beasts and hungry eyes

They fuel my desire to be ...

My pen begins to glide along the rough paper
A few words, hard pressed, appear like forgotten children
Suddenly their voices are not so loud
My eyes begin to focus only on the paper

A beautiful thing begins to form
An ornament to the chaos around me
I find a wonderful peace
And the words flow gently and with ease

The shadow beings float around me
Trying to disturb my bubble of genesis
There sounds cannot stop me, I do not fear them
These hateful beasts are helping me so

They fuel my desire to be ...

Details | Free verse | |


What if I just stopped writing,
Silenced this cacophony of life and vision,
This rendering of harmonies, emotionally spent symphonies, 
Let go of all this telling, muffled this yelling,
And went to you, instead?

What if I ceased this creation pursuit,
Turned from this need to build and destroy,
Stopped hounding those allusive walls,
Forgot the bridges, the motes, all those lands remote,
And kissed you, instead?

What if I corralled the wild horse voice,
whipped over and over by meter and rhyme,
Shut the window to the wind and aching imagination,
Left that canter, Let loose that endless whinny-banter,
And held you close, instead?

What if I stilled the pulsing rush of need,
That whirlwind dance of the hungry throng,
Did not step onto that slippery floor,
Resisted the pulling song, the echoes of all my rights and wrongs,
And just loved you, instead?

What if I became someone else,
Forgot to be everything that is self,
Held all that I am and hope to be deep within,
Tranformed this soul, made us my only goal,
Would you, then, come to me, instead?

Both my heart and words have bled,
Accept them both, my love, instead.

**For the Desiree Birdseye Contest

Details | Rhyme | |






THIS SOUP.......

Details | Couplet | |

Flying With The Birds

If I were to believe in you, would you believe in me?
If everything that I promised you actually came to be

If I were a beautiful rainbow, a reflection in the sky
Formed by the rays of light as your tears you cried

Sweetheart I am just a simple man with a complex plight
My blessing is you’re here with me, as this quest I fight

Sweetheart you know I’m a warrior, though I live like a ghost
I fight and write living my plight, inside the belly of the host

From shore to shore, a forever war, that will never end
Just today I got the word the host has taken another friend

Another soul another goal of course another wasted life
God I am a lucky man to have become one with my wife

Pains insane it shreds my brain and tears my heart into
I’m left here asking myself, “Was there anything I could do”

I have to write a eulogy though I just don’t know what to say
Here is a soul, another hole, for someone who lost his way 

Sobriety is really great but at times it is truly rather hard
You watch them take another friend and plant him in the yard

Another smoke, another joke another party has reached its end
Here I sit in a spiritual pit feeling totally lost about my friend

I hope someday someone reads what I say, takes another course
Pass on doing that shot, love it or not, death upon the black tar horse

So I shall write my Eulogy falling to pieces about my friend
Who made fun of the man I turned out to be, until the very end

But that’s ok it was just his way, right up until the day he died
The one true light shinning bright, lives inside of you and I

So will all of you join with me let your spirits pen my words
About a beautiful soul, who found his goal, flying with the birds

Very few people in this life that I love enough to let make fun
of the changes I made in my life. Addiction (The Host) took 6
friends in 2007, 5 in 2008 and this is the first in 2009. He didn't
overdose he was shot a couple of days ago in Chico, Ca during
a home invasion robbery over his heroin debt. I used to always
pay his debts when it reached this point with bags of Meth. This
time I couldn't go there for him and now he is dead. This is my
life, my gift and my curse. God Bless you all, mj

Details | Rhyme | |

At a Billy Collins Reading

Billy Collins read his poems
And we all sat there, rapt.
Not everybody has those words
Just waiting to be tapped.

His poetry provides the rungs
So happenings mundane
Can climb a ladder, bringing them
To quite a different plane.

An ordinary thought
Would come to naught in many hands;
Yet Billy Collins molds it
With the magic he commands.

I wonder if the audience
Got sucked into believing
That poems like his are easy – 
Their simplicity’s deceiving.

‘Cause anyone who tries to write
Arrives at one conclusion – 
What looks to be a breeze
Is often simply an illusion.

I paid attention to his thoughts of flow
And then revision;
It made me realize he would view
My poems with some derision.

Yet one thing struck me as I listened,
Though this may not show it –
Just like Billy Collins, 
I can call myself a poet.

			Ilene Bauer

Details | Free verse | |

The Beauty in the Mirror

In this reflective stare
Mind numbing thoughts
Of what is now
Of what once was.

Years gone by
With a blink of an eye
Torn between
Here and there
To learn to go forward
One must learn to fall back.

Chasing dreams
Lines framing time

Chasing rainbows
With no end in sight

Chasing butterflies 
Fantasies delight

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Rambling of a Faith Poet

Sometimes it is hard to know what to write or when to write when you have just about every
thought possible flowing through your head. I wonder, "Should I please the public with
how "poetic" I am or should I please You? I know what the answer is but at times I'm 
worried about being liked or whether people get me. Is my belief in Your Son too far
above their heads or will they get it? Should I even worry about public opinion? Of
course I know as a follower of Christ, sharing my testimony and telling them about the
Lord is what I'm supposed to do. On the other hand, have I become to preachy and
dull? Am I shoving my beliefs down their throats? Then I realize, didn't Jesus make
himself of no reputation? Everybody thought that He was weird, blasphemous and not
qualified to tell them anything when it came to how they were living. I'm only here to do
what He wants me to do, nothing more, nothing less. If I do my part, the right people will
hear it, love it and appreciate it. All I should do, is write the word and leave all my
"rambling worries" to Him.

Details | Free verse | |

Final Fantasy

words travel miles
in herds 
dripping waterfalls of tears 
filled with irrational excuses 
conveying untold sorrow 

scurvy of soul 
multicolored by disease 
intangible to touch 
but tasted in depths 
of forlorn poetry 
floating on pages 
of background laughter 

definitions abstract 
among defined emotions
searching superior shadows 
for elusive daylight
finding only 
prompted screams 
in every line

sweetly sour phrases
rich in texture 
yet void of hope 
dwell in margins

horrid percentages
conveying a poet's 
blunted blindness 
to forced cheerfulness

concluded distress 
written in indelible ink 
on minds and hearts 

penned with perception 
that suicide is never

only a poet's 
final fantasy...

Details | Quatrain | |

Wounding Words

words that pierce like a sharpened edge
the pen has no regret
old pain incessant we must dredge
if not forgive, forget?

but the power of a simple verse
overlooked by the creator
has made the past in present worse
and lesser pain now greater

Details | I do not know? | |

Unashamed Self-Promotion


Greetings, good and kind fellow Soup-ers!

'Tis wonderful, I say,
to be a Soup-er, so if I may,

I humbly request you to lay down your pen dipped in fine ink,
and visit my blog which can be found at the following link: 

Now if this blatant self-promoting of mine seems rude,
I ask for your generous forgiveness, dear fellow Soup-er,

And wish you a day, that is peaceful, kind, and just plain super!

So cheers from the scribbler for now,
and as I take leave, my fellow Soup-ers,
I, in courtesy, to you all, do bow!


Details | Free verse | |


What’s big to me may be small for you
But when you hurt I hurt too
So many different phases I’ve been through
Withdrawal & self-indulgence just to name a few
I dodge sleep to note this nonsense to both me and you
My desperate attempt at understanding 
Has only led to more questions
I remember when medication numbed me well enough to stay quiet
A zombie!
All last night I cried and cried
You slept while I died all the more inside
I don’t have all the answers
One thing I know is
Dreaming and fantasizing 
In these worlds I find solace 
Seeing and realizing
It hurts…
It hurts…
People have been so unfair –
But then again 
What is fair?
So many questions…
Once upon a time,
I’ve put down my pen 
Followed doctors and drugs
Their drugs, my drugs
Just stop judging me and fix me!
I’ve put down the drugs
Picked up a pen
And this is the reason other people say I’m doing well?
What’s real?
I can’t tell
Is it what you tell me or what I tell me?
Drugs have concealed me
Silenced me…
Taught me that I don’t have to feel just see
And shake my head
Now I can both feel 
Shake my head
I can verbalize 
But I’d rather not talk just write
I can write and write just to get it out on paper
It’s still in my mind
I’m not fixed
Still I cry and cry
While you sleep
So which am I supposed to choose?
Solace or the truth?

Details | I do not know? | |

Light child

A child is born
all loving, forgiving, honest,
a special child of the light,
eyes wide open, awake,
the wolves are happy,
to feast at the table of its suffering.
Feed it just enough love to survive,
milk it of its light, little by little
suckling its love, its forgiveness,
a sweet delicacy for a vampiric world.

The child becomes a young adult...
control, conformity, submission,
overwhelming expectations,
no freedom, no love, no peace,
a barrage of others suffering,
cant get it off me, out of my head!
out of my heart, it hurts!
Its all too much! 
Why do they all hurt me?
Why are they not honest like me?
How can they be so mean to me?
What is wrong with me?
I just want a taste of love, 
to remind me why I am alive!!

Details | Light Poetry | |

What's Wrong With Words

The process must work naturally,
Can't expect niceties when collared
brought kicking and screaming 
to the printed page.
Even the lowest parts of speech
Deserve and expect respect
Some words fit together, snuggle
Seem quite comfortable with the arrangement.
When contented become a happy brood,
A Brady bunch expressing their satisfaction
Reading smoothly, cleanly and rhythmically.
Twins or maybe kissing cousins,
Words that hold hands, play, share.
Words that have a peculiar panache.
Aligned alliterations properly placed,
Artfully spoken by a Prince of Denmark.
Poor boy, death marked, mother poisoned,
Father murdered, done in by words.
Verbalizations live, giving breath
To dark secrets struggles of creation,
Expressing triumphs and tragedies.
For words are the crux and cry of life.

Details | Free verse | |


OF POETRY........








PLEASE DON'T HIT ME................ 

Details | I do not know? | |

Politically Correct

Politically correct I’m not; if you seek precision you ought,
find the time, to define the rhyme of perfection
in words you’ve sought.

A simplicity of words I am; I do not write for status or glam,
I pen my mind, whether thoughts callous or kind,
truthfulness you’ll find.

Paper is more powerful for me, not keystrokes of a PC you see,
a pen in hand, is more commanding and grand,
when writing on demand.

Following the norm is queer; I allow the pen and paper to steer,
a symphony of life, thru every memory and strife,
of a mother, daughter and wife.

Technological progress I dread, only because the pen is now dead,
so take heed in my words, though seemingly absurd,
but a poetic pen should always be heard.

Details | Monoku | |

Bone Dry Without Him


Went to the creek for inspiration, bone dry
                                                          where is the spring?

One Amazing Line
Contest entry for Constance La France's latest contest
Written by:
Sara Kendrick
December 6, 2010

Details | Free verse | |


i see you sitting there
coward in a corner
your inner circle of friends
do they comfort you
when your thoughts bend?

does your mind snap
like that band against your arm?
the needle's pain, is it the same
as what haunts you, or taunts you
to crave that drug?

you laugh, but you bleed again

...i bleed the same

my mind bends
and i seek relief
among my circle of friends

i snap my fingers 
grab my pen
grasp reality
relive the pain
seek comfort
and bleed...

i laugh

Details | Kyrielle | |

That Thought I Repress

Poetry Soup, I now confess,
Passing would bring me misery
That thought I surely should repress!
O God, be merciful to me.

Lost place to care, lost place to grow.
Lost friends, which share their poetry.
Around in circles I would go.
O God, be merciful to me.

Without the soup, my heart would cry.
Dilly-dallying, fixed ably
Would cause my life to go awry.
O God, be merciful to me.

My troubled mind would soon regress.
In sadness I would walk grimly.
My thoughts might fall to senselessness.
O God, be merciful to me.

My anguished soul would flood with tears.
My happy thoughts would loose their glee.
Blessed by the soup these many years. 
My God, has been merciful to me.

© February 20, 2012
Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen

Details | Rhyme | |

The Road My Thoughts Lead To

Laid up in bed these couple of days,
I’ve seen the passing of the sun’s rays.
Much time to think as each night time nears,
I search the state of my hopes and fears.

The rule of nine guides these lines I write
even as these words now come to light.
The words before me or so they seem
could make this poem a writer’s dream.

It would be nice with nothing to do
but sit and write till each day is through.
No permanent sanctum do I find
in this with other things on my mind.

I’ll write these words as they come to me
and take advantage of time that’s free.
Still, other things contend for “my view”
so I’ll search the road my thoughts lead to.

Details | Free verse | |

I am Alive

As long as I have my mind,
a hand to write with or a voice to speak with,
I am alive!

Details | Free verse | |

Living Language

Language is a
trumpeting vine,

Blooms in every shape,
         size and color

Tendrils of words grow
     every which way,
here,                            there,
&			            yon,
insinuating themselves,
curling lovingly,

into, around

the vertical and horizontal,
pillars and frameworks

of each diverse community


is a slow, lazy ocean
whose tides lick
the verbal shores

offering new sand & water
    while re-absorbing and changing 
          the old

It flows out,
      ebbs in,
a living, breathing,
constant motion


Language is essential, 
is vital and ageless –
a kaleidoscope mosaic

always perennial,
always new

Without language,
what would you or I do?

Without language…...................

Details | Free verse | |

a casual stare

I strayed beyond 
a casual stare
as the children danced in 
corrugated cloth,
to the erstwhile rhythms of 
sexual apprehension,  
played upon a 
ha’penny harp,

the Delphic truth 
of first bled lust 
lay wistfully amused,
callously cosseted by 
phallic throngs of
vulgar hair and undue vanity,

I surveyed their fervent lips;
each without a valid tongue, 

Details | Haiku | |


Artistry, freedom.
Learn to look outside the box.
Truth through spoken word.

Details | Rhyme | |

heart, mind, and soul

father time in my chest
keeper of its own pace
just skin and bone depth
influences time and space
what are we but drifters
 in an unknown

see truth in a literal
belief before my face
stars with no funeral
light will win the race
here i am, not for long
death starts at home

where is this leading?
which story could it be?
despite all my reading
writings the cup of tea
i dont need to know it all
as long as im not alone

Details | I do not know? | |

Who is the poet

Who is the poet?
the one who writes?
the clever use of words or rythm?
I say it is none of these
It is a deeper perception of life
An expression of emotions
reaching deeper than most 
make the reader feel something
make me cry, make me happy
hurt me, make me ponder
share it with me, let me burden it
maybe i feel it too 
show me how i feel
share it together
we are all alone
until we feel it together
in that moment art is born
a unity of hearts
reaching out and feeling it 
we are one for a moment
the pain, the love, the lonliness
we all just want others to feel us
we are not alone when we feel it together

Details | Senryu | |

Little Tiny Thoughts

little tiny thoughts
hidden beneath soft feathers
fly on big strong wings

(c) Copyright Christine A Kysely All Rights Reserved
 (October 24, 2011 Wausau, Wisconsin USA)

Details | Curtal Sonnet | |

The Dangers of Fictions

The lives of others I can not but steal. Their thoughts, their dreams, their loves, are all in books inscribed, Ripe for the taking. Their minds fit mine like new skins. It does not hurt them: book folk are not real, And I need their worlds, for my eyes described One jagged, where crimes can’t all be sins. But my mind’s stretched, sagging without their shapes: Written on my soul their words are transcribed. Once I’m done in my mind they still lurk Holding my soul’s too hard while round they traipse I am patchwork

Details | Free verse | |


Onion skin pages and empty windows
Repel us as much as attract—
Possess brief images locked fast in place—
Memory melded in faded photographs of thought.

We are things we once were—
Frozen kaleidoscopes of dreams
Cupping eyes and pens so tightly,
Casting free flaxseeds of imagination.

Still, sepia leaves seem white-boned
And open windows let in absences.

Details | Free verse | |

The Now Of I Love You

by R. Ellis

Blue falls on the river
tonight falling and recoiling
in a splashing wave of stars
like frozen rain.

I miss the most of you that
I know which is a little piece
of something small but powerful
No burning flames no one the
sames just the now of I love you.


Details | Lyric | |

Read My Words

Read my words
Can you feel 
their pain
that like a cross

and you will see
there is NO
inside of me

there is
the pain
of these

© Christine A Kysely All Rights Reserved
(December 8th, 2011 Wausau, Wisconsin USA)

Details | Quatrain | |

A Place on the Page

The words in my head fight for a place on the paper,
Meanwhile thoughts drift away much like vapor.
I’m quite uncertain which way it shall go,
I simply plant seeds and allow them to grow.

The words swirl around like water down a drain,
Looking for the connection between my heart and brain.
There are always connections with what I think and feel,
 As connections are made my soul begins to heal.

I wonder what it would be like to have no voice,
Surrounded by silence without any choice.
I hear all these voices but which do I follow?
Some ease my mind while others hard to swallow.

I sit to record all the words in my head,
As they join together I find a common thread.
The connection I find between what I feel and think,
Roll on to the page becoming my ink.

I imagine a world where I’m truly free,
I can write about all I feel and see.
No walls to contain just go with the flow,
My words reflect how my world does go.

Details | I do not know? | |

The story of a Muse

The story of a Muse

A beautiful woman that loved him,
she listened to him, in awe of his genius,
she inspired him, encouraged him, 
to do his best work, she validated for him,
that his thoughts and ideas were otherworldly,
She knew his mind and heart must be heard,
His art could change the world, 
and took on the job of pulling this gift out of him,
she lassoed the tornado that was his soul, 
and directed it, into the brush or pen, 
A symbiotic relationship, of male and female,
at their best, a guided purpose.

It seems as if she always left him in the end, 
A mystical woman with more artists to inspire,
left him crying and wounded, 
to do his crazy works after his genius expired,
no direction, haphazard, psychotic, suicidal
used up, emotions undirected, lost, death. 
but a life of value, influential, inspirational, an immortal,

I do not know where i got this impression,
this story of the muse.

Its not fair, 
all my muse's, 
dont care about my work, 
they only care about how i can help them, 
They listen long enough to find what i am looking for,
Put on the mask, the liar face, manipulative,
just long enough to get what they want, 
or realize that i wont give it to them. 
Try to buy my soul with their sex or money.

My naivety, my love, my hope, my trust, 
used against me, for their selfish motives.
Purity pretended, love mimicked, smile a lie. 

Is the muse a lie, is this why the artists go crazy?
Is the suffering evoked by an evil women inspirational?

I have seen men like me, with experiences like me.
Too wounded to love, to trust, to try again. 
Settle for a weak woman, one that wont hurt them. 

Men, i have always considered cowards
They cant look me in the eyes.

As i am beat down by love, i see their temptation.
Chasing the muse, waiting for her, mistaken mimics,

Dont tell me the muse doesnt exist........... 

Details | Free verse | |

Words No One Hears

Contractual agreements with publisher caused DELETION


Details | Concrete | |

Poisoned Mushroom

Poisoned Mushroom                   

                 ~The Atom Bomb will kill.~
                ~Death to all of mankind, at will.~
        ~Nothing is left, bodies evaporate forever.~
      ~Poison to the souls, the connection; severed.~
   ~The human race as we know it, will be no more.~
   ~Nothing left on earth to discover and to explore.~
  ~Beautiful bright skies and the green luscious earth.~
  ~Dusky skies, radioactive dust; silence and no mirth.~
  ~The world will never be the same, man is to blame.~
   ~There’s nothing left, to hold and nothing to claim.~
        ~Hell on earth, if this should ever happen.~
        ~Pray that this hand is not played out.~
            ~Not to live in radioactive fallout.~
                  ~To breathe the fresh air.~
                    ~For mankind to care.~
                      ~Before it’s to late.~
                        ~For mans fate.~
                         ~Peace for all.~
                           ~Last Call.~
                           ~Breath or~

Details | Light Poetry | |

' The Pied Piper Poem ... '

… Was He A Fiend
Or A Friend ?
Where Did He Take
The Children ?

With Gaiety
He Played !
What Childhood
Dreams-Displayed ?

In Each
Cherry-Cheeked Head …
That Followed

… Only Poor Little
Crippled Tom
Sadly, Got Left Behind
At Home

Whose Honest Parents
Were Only Ones Nice
To Pied Piper
And Willing To Pay Price

… and So, Kindly He
Left Their Son
But Took All
 The Other Ones …

Was He A Fiend
Or A Friend ?
They Should Have Paid
 At First, When …

… But Pied Piper Played
His Payback Tune
And Danced Hamlin’s Hearts
…and Raw-Deal To Doom

Details | Tanka | |


Today I dropped words

between cracks in the pavement:

half-written screenplays.

My muse, a cappuccino,

conjures romance while I sip.

Details | Acrostic | |



                               WINNER ACROSTIC

         When I write the challenge is to shake your mind

         If i succeed there is a satisfaction in my style

         Never mind if  flashy glory's left behind

         Not a moments wasted if a phrase has found your smile

         Eventually there's a tiny spark of me that you may find

         Relentless words are bound to entangle and beguile

Victoria Anderson-Throop 2013

Details | Free verse | |

And the Voice Said-----

Contractual agreements with publisher caused DELETION

JS Lambert

Details | Acrostic | |

You Snooze You Loose

<                                        Artist searching for a muse
                                          Creativity is the key
                                          Recant those memories 
                                          Open your heart and soul
                                          Start spreading the news
                                          There's poetry to be found
                                          Inside each and everyone of us
                                          Can't you hear the music

                                          To the beaten drum
                                          Whistle while you work
                                          Or you'll snooze and lose

Entry For
Jared Pickett's Contest
Acrostic 2
G.L. All

Details | Free verse | |

Rolled up Trousers

Oh yes, the college girls
come and go
speaking of Ani De Franco.
And yes, I too
measure out my days
with coffee spoons,
a hundred years later
and nothing has changed,
only the numbers of the dead
and the deranged
have increased exponentially
with deadly technology.
Like the Caesars of old
the power brokers of now
stamp out the vestiges
of an older order.
And yes, i sit like an elderly sentry
on the cusp of two centuries
and views of the world expecting
nothing better
than what has come before.
And yes, oh yes, seeing the gullibility
and the tomfoolery
of a world where you can be convinced
with very little effort
that up is down and that
right is left holding the bag repeatedly
and speaking ever more deletedly
to fewer and fewer ears.
What has changed?
What has changed except the names
used to describe the same old games
of a gang of aggressive primates.
Some are cannon fodder
used to divert the lion
and parade and preen
when they are lucky to escape.
Some are keen
to produce more spawn
so that we can do the same
old con again.
Some are at the center
protected and gifted
by a willing populace,
unwilling to risk
their own neck
as long as some one else will.
And some, with rolled up trousers
sit on the edge knowing
what is right
but lacking the will 
to say so
and creating for ourselves
the post of sentry
to ease the burden
of a nagging conscience.
Just sitting here
watching the college girls
come and go
speaking of Ani DeFranco.

Details | Free verse | |


It’s the flight of pregnant birds that I am reminded of
Bloated and cramping
Legs tucked close in, wings beating away with paternal efficacy 
Never towards a nest
Always in flight
As if the very notion of rest a circling falcon
A tireless hunter, promising a swift demise, bodies left to decay…

This, this is a pregnant flock of desires and ideas
Notions and purpose
Encumbered and floating, rolling clouds heavy with rain 
And this flock rolls on
Until with a spasm of wings and anticipated rhythm 
A gush of rains and new life is announced
And from each bird, pregnant from birth
Comes a new flock, each end every belly swollen with life
And new ideas surge forth
And newly feathered wings beat with renewed zeal
And a multitude of pregnant flocks take to the skies,
And it’s these birds I’m reminded off
When I pick up the pen to write
Because in each and every bird I observe
I see that pregnant mother of possibility
Beating her wings, soaring above the ground
To give birth in the skies,
Where my ideas soar, soar and give birth
And I am reminded of them
Every time I come to write
And fear I will write nothing at all.   

Details | Blank verse | |

My World

I live in a world of words
My tears shed tears
And my lips droop syllables
My mind concentrates too much on 
What to say
Than what to do
My heart is always shackled
By the utter truth

Sometimes I wish I could escape my world
And move to a world of feelings
Maybe my life would bear more meaning
Cause now it seems to be leaning
Too much towards my inner being

In my world
A rose is but rosy
May be beauty, or sorrow
Or love, or the begging of forgiveness
And it is my duty
To describe
Then inscribe
My inside
In my world my paper and ink
Are my best friends
And I carry on a trend
Of jotting and scribbling
Without a suggested end.

In my world 
It is easy to break
For words sometimes say too much
And they never seem to hush
And most times 
They come in a rush
Of silence

Details | Free verse | |



There is a saddened kind of shame
a name that’s cruel and thus demeans, 
elementary obscene
a child can not reach deep enough.

It started when I read above 
my third grade level reading group
and followed to my brownie troop
then fearful fighting, flight to home.

And in defense I’d use my gift
to make up names and write mean songs-
I’d teach the boys to sing along
and charge their chocolate milk money.

With my moustache a poor disguise, 
with puffy, rubbing, teary eyes
I made myself apologize
though only choking squeaks were heard. 

Nicoleslaw Dickhead was my name
a name that’s cruel and thus demeans,
slimy side-dish dung for brains-
a child can not reach deep enough.

Details | Dramatic Verse | |


My words are BLEAK ~As EMPTY emotions NUMB as a sleeping limb ~They’re VOID of Reciprocal LOVE ~Which once Touched Tingled and TRANSFORMED ~Them into LIFE Now BEFUDDLED… ~Struggling to find Worthy adjectives to Inspire ~A forgotten MAZE of Nouns BURIED deep within my ~Sublime subconscious Lay

Details | I do not know? | |

Passion Fruit Juice

where oh where does my passion lay? in a shoebox, under the staircase? i’ve been looking all day, i’m getting too tired to play. i guess it’s better off this way, to be missing eternally, than to have been found and broken, a curse that bounds when spoken, these days i hardly mention your name. most dreams are fairytales, i need to pretend if i want to achieve. i’m numb, like i’ve had a lobotomy. i am living in honesty or i am not living at all, my passions been pressed into the page - transformed from a natural beauty into something useful.

Details | Diminished Hexaverse | |


 It came to me seeing
How I enjoy poetry
Why not just type poetry
In the search engine box
Click, see what I might find
I'm here three years later

Interwoven wires
All around the world
Different people
Countries, languages
Customs, religions

I stood on net
The net covered
Feet, legs, waist then
Entered my heart

Became part 
Of life, holds

Trapped in


Poetry pronounced poe/try

Sponsor: David Williams
Contest: True Diminishing Hexaverse

Details | Free verse | |

Planet Hopping

as quickly as i thought
I decided to write
making my words be a beacon 
for the soul within
screaming for the chance to 
make its presence felt
quietly the world nods
acknowledging my attempt of fame
i'm as big as Saturn
but as far as Pluto
how soon will i get to Earth....or even Mars?

Details | I do not know? | |

Angry immortal

You dont need no friends
all they will do is hurt you
let them all go, why hold them up?
the family are so far behind,
they will never understand
we are so alone, in this life,
women want what you can give
i wont trade money for sex
or even a bit of attention
or a commitment of ownership
a culture of prostitution...

The poor people steal from you
the rich will rape you
not selling my rear for interest..
and the middle are just stupid
addicted to the drugs, the propaganda

I am the artist, the expressionist, the prophet,
alone, with one mission, 
where are my pleasures?
cursed to teach this selfish culture
pathetic humans, suffering
too stupid to give anything
complaining, whining, frustrated,

They are about to destroy themselves
a collective suicide of selfishness

The other immortals tell me to have hope,
to love them, to teach them,
They arent my friends, so busy 
teaching, and giving to the vampires. 

The christians love war and murder of others
They worship, punishment, hatred, and money
the buddhists wont stand up for themselves and fight,
the middle road is lost.
The muslims are too busy oppressing women
and praying for heaven
The jews know nothing of love, only greed

They tell me i should feel special
i have so much to teach and give,

Jesus taught them forgiveness
helping the poor, loving all people
they crucified him!

The afterlife is so wonderful, they say,
if you teach love and forgiveness.

I am in this life now,
and all i find is tricksters, liers and decievers
I am tired of being alone, 
The body is male, and only half of itself. 
addiction to female energy
no control, clairvoyance gone
the suicidal idiots have something right

I am cursed to sit here and learn compassion,
patience, how to inspire them
teach them to love, and give to others, 
all in the hope that they wont destroy themselves

Why cant i give up on hope?
they are pathetic, i am tired,
of the abuse, and anger, i evoke.

They hate me, unless i pretend,
smile the big smile, 
and pat them on their back for selfishness.
They love you then, 
I do not worship their god, of self-worship.
I wish i could, maybe i would be rich. 

living off of the blood, sweat and tears of others
how nice that would be, to relax, no responsibilty
to give or love anyone except my family.  

I am sure i will feel better tomorrow

Details | Lyric | |

Time Well Spent

My thoughts, not like what can be written on paper -
A paper so thin that you can see through,
onion paper, yes,
are not worth citing still,
they are just empty words, like yours
or others that resemble someone like you.
No need to feel "oh, so insulting"
just think on matters more convincing -
like the matters of retirement,
or ending some beloved engagement,
where of course, you and I mattered not
enough to be heard by someone just like us,
where tears are waters enough to fill
all the wells in Yorkshire, or the seven seas.
So what exactly are my thoughts, as if they spoke of 
volumes or of super heroes
that would revive the emptiness that is living.
Refuse me, please, you have your own
decisions and contentions to displace,
but all the words we speak are
windows to the human race.
Even yours.
So though you fret in lonely silence now
alone with laptop gleaming,
or sitting in a library while
someone more important breathes behind you
for her turn -
Remember, we are all sitting in front of some
media-bleeding device, be it our mouths, our radios
laptops, or campfires.
Think on what I've said here in deep reflection,
if you think your own thoughts are important enough
to prove that mine are as well.
What do you think, when alone with your thoughts ~
Are they real?
Or do they speak the level-headed cruelties of
politicians and spokespeople for some soft-drink?
Truly, I say to you all ~
Breathe in.

Details | Verse | |

Writing Wrongs

Should I write in rhyming words
are you babies I should coo
and speak of love and little boats
of Dr. Zeus’s zoo.

Should I compose a sonnet sweet 
while prayerful folk are weeping
for war has come and killed their own
while their lulled hearts were dreaming?

Should I rave of man’s downfall
and never raise a hand
or shall I write of community
the unity of man.

Hand young and old, a tool to clone
a key to all this babble
an eye to see, a mind to grasp
let them lose the rattle.

For mind is bound to fortune
and blood is bound to pain
governments like sorcerer’s
will fall once it’s seen plain.

Take up the quill, and reach out
observe, recall, rescind
and the power you’ve given others
will be yours in the end.

Details | Narrative | |


Debauched, extortionate and inconstant 
was the knavish and foul mercenary?
The perfidious praetorian reprobate
was a venal unscrupulous slug.
Debased in character and depraved in spirit
this purveyor of evil tended to his wicked ways.
Morally spoiled, he was a putrid putrescent 
and an aberration to integrity.
Nefarious and tainted in character,
he infected the soul.
Treacherous and two-faced,
underhanded and unethical, 
debased and unprincipled,
this snide poor excuse to humanity
defined the meaning of "corruption."

Details | Free verse | |

I Said I Thought I Saw I Was

Old poems/new posts inspired by recent articles on PoetrySoup

All forms relate to the word
So from the beginning
They carried their ideas
In their minds eye
Shaping symbols
A dimension of spirit
The eye that underlies eyes
Vision makes the flash seem longer
In one blinding flash  I thought   I saw   I was
I said
All forms relate to the word
Being based on a set of words
Also forgotten parts of yourself
Evocation and reproduction
Of the things of life
As strange factory-born personages
Words very mysterious
Every process of Creation begins with
Also with Imagination
Of past ways
Of seeing and experiencing
Detached from life
Finding a way back into it
Breaking from time
Fracturing the sense of balance and place
Where past and future are interchangeable
Achieving synthesis of time and space
One can literally pass the time
Cut loose drifting slowly through
Slowed down space of next to nothingness
Detached from life    until

In one blinding flash   I said   I thought  I saw   I was

The word falls on its face on the floor

Details | Rhyme | |

Poetry About Poetry

Shades of color bounce within
Singing their hues dancing in place
Vivid lines colored outside
Rules broken with empty space
A midnights dream heard and seen
Gleaming from the twinkle of a eye
Wings touched flown and plucked
Gliding like a bird up in the sky
Wishes from pennies thrown into tears
The reservoir over flowing with pigments of pain
Drowning from the shadows 
The flood paints the day
Words speak volumes of silence hidden
Their sounds blind to what they see
Mirrors of nouns and verbs 
Their meaning and secrets lost at sea
Emotions ruled by laws of language
Spelled in boxes of glass
Melted from sands inside
That voices strangle to grasp

Details | Cowboy | |

April too lenient

comatose commas thought April too lenient; 
birth was postponed until June, 
provided preference for instant coffee 
or selfless gratification, 
minus the flack fouled narcolepsy, 
however insistent … 

cruelty followed, 
as cardboard mansions collapsed under oath, 
if under cardiac-arrest, 
below if not adjacent to, the end, 
regardless of means… 

Details | Senryu | |

My Thoughts Are As Pearls

my thoughts are as pearls

waiting to be nobly strung

one by one by one

(April 30, 2011 Wausau, Wisconsin)

(c) Copyright 2011 by Christine A Kysely, All Rights Reserved,

Details | Ottava rima | |

Serenity and Sexiness

The warming glow that brings my heart abloom,
A fireplace with silent flickering
My passions flowing in a low-lit room,
Oh, take my pen and write, muse whispering.
Soft, quiet thoughts embracing songs, consume.
Engrossed, dramatic shadows shimmering.
Endorphins gleaning precious words, oh soul –
Serenity and sexiness made whole.

© February 6, 2011
Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen

Written for Poetry Soup Member Contest: SEXY! 
Sponsored by: nette onclaud

Details | Sestina | |

Head Lines

The traffic was strident, lanes straight
the cars lined the street and froze rigid.
The cop with a glare of pure hate, directed
a line of gate crashers cutting.
The sidewalks segmented in rows, false
lure more tourists into a queue.

Cowed were young folk and old folks all queued
a ménage which was quite far from straight,
all had come for a peck at the Bard, false.
even a librarian or too, who waited with spines rigid,
and scowls on their lined brows like cuts
their critiques would be most direct.

Teens kiss in a clutch most directly 
their faces make braces of queues 
Scalpers hawk to the latecomers cutoff,
the elite meet and greet heading straight
for the red road with a rigid
line of bull filled with falsities.

Inside the antiquated theatre under false
the foot lights lining the aisles direct
Mayor and matron, gran and child in rigid
alleys to velvet seats also queued.
The stare of critic and patron glared straight
64 toward the author so pinned and cutting.

A bright white light cut
the chill air so false
and focused on drape lined straight
each fell open as artist directed
and orchestra swells filled their queue
and the author he sat stark and rigid.

His fate would he find in lines rigid
on the page of tomorrows review, they’d cut
make or they’d break his heart’s queue
these piranhas with smiles so false.
No fate could be more direct
this tonic he must imbibe straight.

So like dominoes, they fall lines rigidly, piercing cuts
Filleted be he by queues false,
in the end words directly aimed, straight to death cue.

Details | Couplet | |


Ever ask your partner if they want Chinese food for dinner, They reply, “That’s fine”, now does lying make them a sinner. Think back to every reply where someone has said “That’s fine” They really mean, with no other options, acceptance they’ll resign. When picking out wallpaper, a piece of jewelry or a special gift, The word “fine” in the response, will not give the intended a lift. Answer any question with “fine”, you have to realize its not great, It’s neither affirmative or negative, that’s why its the word I most hate. Go ahead use the word, say “She’s fine” because that’s fine by me, Enjoy your gourmet dinner - alone, you can watch the fine scenery.
Written July 27, 2012 For Michael J. Falotico’s contest What word do you hate most

Details | Senryu | |

Thoughts Cannot Be Caged

thoughts cannot be caged

even from behind closed walls

they can touch the wind



(February 9, 2011 Wausau, Wisconsin

(c) Copyright 2011 by Christine A Kysely, All Rights Reserved

Details | Free verse | |


I speak 
to you in
verses, fencing
for my life

From the crevasses of 
my shaken 
soul come about lost 
voices I neglected
to hear, fragments
of piercing awareness I
forgot, deranged 
feelings wrapped around my 
throat like 
a silk scarf forcing
me to breathe deliberately, disorganized
nonsense pouring
out of my buzzing
brain sweeping
away everything
I believed

Chunks of lucid
thoughts emerge braving
the weather, survivors 
in a stormy 
ocean of overwhelm

I am left
among the bewildering 
remains of an inner 
shipwreck wondering how much
of it you too
can see.

Details | I do not know? | |


The other day, 
while driving down the road,
I saw a group of heroes,
in their usual working mode.

It could be a fire,
to which they were heading to respond,
or maybe a medical emergency,
whichever, they go above and beyond.

They don't think of themselves as heroes,
as they go along their way,
they are just doing their job,
answering calls as they may.

But to the diabetic in crisis,
and the heart patient too,
and to the people whose homes are on fire,
they are heroes through and through.

So next time you see these heroes,
salute them with pride,
for putting their life on line,
that you and I might survive.

Details | Imagism | |

The Character of the Poet

Sycophantic semantic woe, 
Feigning luck; comatose…

Effigy; parochial intent; 
Par for course; 
Yield, relent…


Details | Epigram | |

Thoughts Are Keys To Locks Not Open

Thoughts are keys to locks not open,
They remain thoughts till they're spoken.

Details | Cinquain | |


is a thankful
attitude.  it's often
not made a necessity.  that's

Details | Cowboy | |

saline through time-

social dishonesty, 
in a word, 
in a moment, 
without reason or hope, 
saline through time… 


Details | ABC | |

Dear Lord (by kimmy holmes my daughter)

Dear Lord 
please receive me
i've been stumblin around
deceivin me
i wan't heaven now
how do I get that?
do I stop eatin meat
stop being me
How do I get to Heaven?
I NEEDS my mama
I need my Sons
I'm lyin
before everyones eyes

Details | Light Poetry | |

Hands For All

An empty hand, not so empty...
Once held dreams not dreamed...
A lasting handprint that's still felt...
Just a pen to glide and script...
Aged with lines that held a past...
My book of life that came at last...
Feel and read me with intimate eyes...
And I'll touch your lips with passionate cries...

Details | Rhyme | |

Before it is too Late

Wars, famine and pestilences.
Death comes with a pension.

Poor people in this country.
Poverty all over, feeling empty.

Diseases spreading all over the globe.
Some mutated, some foretold.

Global warming sends a warning.
No one listens, it keeps on moaning.

Clean water becoming undrinkable.
Poisoning into the unthinkable.

Beauty that the world once held.
Destroyed by only a single shell.

Threats of war, they will come due.
A price to pay, because we are cruel.

Extinction presages as our future.
If we don’t all heed the bigger picture.  

Terrorism is the world's axis of evil.
World in court, everyone is blameful.

We must be meaningful and do our part.
It's never to late to have a change of heart.

Details | Imagism | |

Ooh Lord Give me time to pen a verse

Ooh Lord,
Lost between files, forgotten in daily schedules
slipping away  in the daily humdrum of dear life
 and quietly  ebbing from  my mind is  a verse.
Of the warm embrace of the yellow orb that attends my mornings,
And of the friendly chatter and heavy pats that at times encapsulate my afternoons,
Of the sounds of lowing of cattle with their clanging bells that I yearn for in my evening, sauntering from the rolling hills yonder into the open kraals besides the warm smoking huts, 
And of the patter patter of the of the pearly ocean waves, quietly muffling the hooting madness to gently lull me in my nights.
Or better still of that first warm smile replete with promise, or that parting embrace heavy with looming tear,
Or of gentle pets and carefree laughter in the lush park, or one of a forlorn bench beside a moat of solitude.

 Give me time 
Before the tender caress of the yellow orb no longer thaws my frame,
And the friendly chatter is quieted to soft sobs,
The heavy pats emasculated to pale caresses of loss,
The lowing of cattle is supplanted by solemn sermon,
The clanging bells begin tolling atop a turret 
and the soft patter patter eases in to  the unbroken still of placid waters

To pen a verse
Before a warm  smile I can no longer partake,
And a sad embrace and the welling tear no longer prick a steely heart,
And a cold frame is no longer attuned to gentle touches   and gaily laughter 
Before busy schedules ebb away, deadlines fleet, and files dissipate,
Before waters yonder muffle the humdrum  of a busy life,
Till only the dregs of a forlorn bench besides the moat of disappointment
quietly attended by all the time I should have penned a verse, is all that remains,
Ooh lord give me time to pen a verse.

Details | Burlesque | |

"Lust County Fair"

Standing in line, I saw you over there.
Purchasing your ticket to the "Lust County Fair."

Your lips were locking at the County kissing booth..
Looking more like "exchanging of the tongues" than just a smooch.

On the ferris wheel, your hands where all over her.
You could be "her father" you old ugly buzzard.

In the "petting farm", I see your fittin' right in..
Amongst the other swines and swindlers bathing in their sins.

I hope you feel justified with your so-called young date.
I would not give you the time of day even with a "mail in rebate!"

You came over, pounding and kicking away at my door.
Seething with anger, no rain checks this time bud; it's over!

Details | Narrative | |

Title Taken

The page laughing at me the canvas cold and blank.
Winter filled room in the middle of june.
Why had my heart run a ground on such jagged shores.

Now I scavage for remains of my soul.
ragged I wonder would anyone remember me apon my return.
Would she stand smile apon face and regret in heart.

The page stayed empty for a reason.
They were all gone the great titles along with there writers.

Me the fool brave or foolish enough to  attempt the
impossible  with little to show for it.
A broken relationship and some bad tattos  in 
some  weird places.

To be stuck down in a  hollow .
Is fine  with suplies lowand the truth a sober mind brings 
time was ticking the false deadline was apon me.
And like a kid trying to cram in every answer on a school test.
I was stuggling  waitting for the teacher to say times up.

Hands shaking from the need throat dry  and a headache
that would last for a week.
Why had it always come to this  isolation.

Maybe it was the roads way of calling me back.
Like a lover calling me back to bed.
To entangle untill the mornings light.

Yet just like a passionet affair the struggle for the title 
kept me trapped to this place for nights on end.
You cant grasp what is never yours its 
like trying to see that sweet southern breeze.

Everytime you find  one with which your heart agree's 
 You find the titles taken.
life and love will always  bring you to your knees.

Details | I do not know? | |

Poet Love

Never fall in love with a Poet
for they are blackholes of the broken hearted 
Set on a treacherous sea blindfolded
to distracted by butterflies to properly set up a captain's log

Never fall in love with a poet our emotions burrow themselves deeper than a naked mole rat

Exposed, Vulnerable

Just like that time in biology class dissecting the rigamortis set frog
Nailed on all four appendiges

For what???
Love is sometimes a Lie that we tell ourselves so we feel comforted.
The fairytale we read to children
The moralistic ones where the princess is a vision
and the Prince is an amorous gentleman
Walking hand in hand in the sunset immortalized
as one of the biggest lies
But what of love??
Real love the kind that drives you to a sickness
So nauseating you lose yourself in the process

Only simply to be there for them......... to eleviate any of their suffering

What of the tears???
That LOVE seems to squeeze out of your once sprite like Disposition
Like a worn out mop
that drips milky white left over mess
Lackluster like a dying fern, you have lost your glow
Resulting from the aftermath that your hurricane love 

What of loneliness....


Makes your fingers at night notice how alone they feel
Like a drug, you go through withdrawels 
You try to intertwine your left hand with your right
You know it will never be the same

Your Queen sized bed feels as if it has grown
to the size of Antartica
Where your insides grow so frostbitten from your bitterness
and you fear that you are so far gone and isolated
No one will hear your whispers

What of loves, loving distrust
Lies and Broken promises seem to defeat a person sometimes from honest confessions
Because distrust is like a math problem. 
Sometimes my friends, you have to discover what type of equation is their male partner.

But love is more like the Infinity symbol.
In that 2 bonded circles flow
LIke simultaneous toilets being flushed in Australia
Circling around sucking water into the pipes back into the earth

Love is the Infinity symbol because nothing can be Charted in Infinity
Understood or even Wanted

Love is kind but scarring. You never know if you have found your penguin dance partner that 
will always stay beside you


Ensare you faster than a venus fly trap.
Ripping you apart like a Praying Mantis

This is why you should never fall for a poet

We know Love,

and sometimes the horror of it.

Details | Senryu | |

Hungry For Words

senryu provides
with wit or irony some
ilk of food for thought.

Details | Lyric | |

Blood-Drenched Paper

Wordless and pitiful, this fool can’t deny
The emptiness hollowed out deep in my mind
Nothing will redeem these broken thoughts
And nothingness is all I have, I’m so damn lost

I can’t remember how to sleep anymore
I can not recall the taste of oxygen or law
Only the blood that was spilled from my mouth
As I choked upon the words that threw me down

How am I still living without my heart?
How is it that I can stand when I fell apart?
Truth is that I am gone, deep in the dirt
A place where I can not think; where I’m safe from hurt

I can’t recall a way to speak anything
That does not remind me of every single thing
The dry blood across my skin will not be washed away
And whatever else I try to hide has stained all I say

Collapsing into a mess upon the kitchen floor
Fearing to even walk out of my bedroom door
The sun burns away every place I can cry
And the moon delivers another thousand lies

How can I ever hope to breathe and sleep again
When every single breath I take turns dreams into pain?
The stains of blood are punishment for all that I said
And nothingness has carved your face deep within my head

Wordless and pitiful, the things I will write
The deepening eternity of every lonely night
The broken thoughts accompany a song that always plays
I’ve lost you forever, but this music will remain

Details | Acrostic | |


Compassionate personable lady,
Easy-going creative escapist,
Adaptable to new situations,
Spiritual with a sensitive nature,
Intelligence including intuition,
Absolute alluring woman.

Details | I do not know? | |

'the twitch'

This is the story of ‘the twitch’.  
We have all had it:  
   That bit of movement before we sleep.  
We have been awakened by it when we were younger. . . it threw our arm out to catch us 
before we fell out of bed.
   It was even younger than that for us.  
   It was sometimes confused with a kick --  from our mothers’ tummies  to the swaddle of 
   As we grew, the arm no longer flew. . . and thus. . . ‘the twitch’.
   It is thought that we started with 
a parting of the energy that mathematicians make Einsteins 
of, or, 
sounds of the aria that Mozart’d 
into our echoes of the day --  a marriage of concept and conceptual.  
   It took us through the outreach of awkward doubt. . . brought us ‘round the curve 
of nerve 
for monkey bars toward the first dance; drew blood in our mouths before we got the first 
punch – given/taken.
The part of ‘the twitch’ 
that is worthy of noting now is that 
   it has never wanted to be caught:  
   It wanted more than nothing to be left alone – perhaps; conceived that 
   it would be an occasion for cause. . . effect – the drive our parents tried to delay 
with Dr. Seuss and Disney books.  A teenage indifference took us away from 
We all fall asleep. . . as we’ve always done.  
The story of ‘the twitch’ begins at the thumb; carries on. . . for the course of fingers
   it touched.
Brings  us a little closer to the edge of our beds.

Details | Verse | |


Rushing here, there and everywhere,
A mind that leaps canyons and space
Ricocheting, bouncing on rock walls,
Dislocation with turbulent pace.
Scuffing up dust and then zinging,
Off at wild tangents or angles,
Darting, exploding like fireworks,
Neurological barbed wire tangles.
And sometimes, sometimes crave tearing
At the flesh beneath tingling skin,
To rip this man-suit off the mainframe
And extinguish the chaos within.

Details | Bio | |

from father to son-

insurance policies 
laboured unto birth… 
the mythic glance 
of gentile gratification; 
the populist pariah 
sheathed sternly under glass… 
exhibited ad nauseam; 
pardoned upon the 
tandem bicycle, 
midst the callous cyclic queue…
from father to son…

Details | Blank verse | |

Standing in the Darkness yet again

Once again trapped in the darkness with worded guns still trapped, 
Im just trying to make a statement that will make it on this American map, 
Im getting old as I only live this youth once so I best live it searching for light in darkness of black,
 Years gone by a lost youth going away time lost that I wont ever get back, 
So it best I get back on the track......... 
Now iz a tyme for flames hope I spark this, 
Poetry like mine many will come from places near and far and embark in this, 
I will literally be the found ancient lost seen lockness..... 
Lord please guide this soul as I am standing in the darkness......yet again....

Details | Free verse | |

Unfinished Works

Spiral notebooks -
containing traces of 
ideas, drafts, false starts
and unfinished works.

Doodles and rambling thoughts
scribbled on collage rule paper -
blue lines 
and standard margins

written in pencil 
pages smudged 
and torn by the eraser
nothing permanent.   

Somewhere in those 
scattered thoughts
live insight, wisdom
and poetry. 

Details | Rhyme royal | |


Prissy visuals spinning in twinkleflirt
ain't it. Nor gruesome grinding gory grunge.
Attention to details, respect for hurt
words that tickle fickle souls 'til they plunge
into philosophy.  Thus is her orange
way of living, breathing, eating, writing.
Rolls like thunder and flashes like lightening.

Details | Free verse | |

Indalomena Mnemosyna

'The silence of Marcel Duchamp is overrated'
All that chess-
Recall for a moment
That idle chit-chat,
That verbal bric-a-brac,
such flamboyant suppositional consciousness,
Let it noodle around the edges-
Blow this metaphor off.
Ratings challenge lies.
The deep magenta shadows,
The haze of grass smoke
'My face is my own, I thought'.
We need to remember,
Weaving around caftans
with a duodecimal swivel-
I think of Ben Johnson
And 'Shards of God',
Who is Hanibal?
Collapsing the elements,
My question is a part of the point of these lines,
A faked head,
A form of women,
I can do nothing.
Other discourses speak on it's behalf,
There is a cost to the silent critique,
'The silence of Marcel Duchamp is overrated'.

Details | Rhyme | |


It comes almost as quickly as it goes.
But I know that if you feed it, it grows.
It is a brilliant spark.
A flash of light in the dark.
Nothing that I can see, touch, or hear.
Perhaps it has always been there.
Waiting to be brought into the light.
Waiting for wings to take flight...
Ready and ripe, to be cultivated.
Just willing to be motivated.
There waiting for me to breathe the life into it.
Prepared and ready inside of my own intuit.
Calling it to life, setting it into motion.
Created from a spark of my emotion.
Molded by my own creation.
Brought to life out of my imagination.
Blossoming is the seed I have sown,
Now it takes on a life of its own,
And it burns with light from my fire,
To go forth into the wide world and inspire.

Sarah Comstock

Details | Free verse | |

Dreams of Children, Realities of Men

As children, we all dream,
tales of magic, of mystery,
and our own imagined destinies;
we dream of future prowess, of our own fantastic wyrds –
of our glorious, important place in the cosmos.

Whether those dreams are of firemen, police,
soldiers, artists, scientists,
writers, musicians, or something that isn't there,
like superheroes or the princes and princesses of old,
we all want to be something greater, even in youth.

I, too, dreamt these childhood dreams
of glory and legend, enchantment and song;
I too felt their pull,
heeded their call and let imagination sweep me away –
for a time.

Eventually we move on from the past,
accepting its existence, its wonder, sometimes its pain,
its place in who we have since become –
and so did I, from the fanciful paths of yesterday
to the more grounded ones of today and tomorrow.

Or so I thought.

For, of late, and a litte while before,
I have been tending a magic all my own;
not the magic I'd envisioned, the kind of fire and ice,
light and fury –
the kind of word and verse.

Now I voice my thoughts in phrase and letter,
birthing a new, separate being;
a being of explanation, of concepts and sensation,
with a life all its own, on the page and in my heart –
parts of me, grown in my mind and given form as poetry.

And now I've discovered, it's this kind of magic I prefer –
the dreams of the past truly can't compare
to the realities of today;
not when I can take the barest thought, slightest inspiration,
and change it into something so much more.

Not when I've become not only myself, but a vessel,
a repository for idyllic words to come coursing through –
for my muse inhabits my mind, beside me,
forever changing my outlook and my output;
yes, that's my kind of magic.

Details | Free verse | |

Writer's B L O C K--

Writer’s Block 
is a farce
a blue excuse
with no good reason
an open ended discussion
of waste

Writer’s Block
hangs out 
with Santa  
no reason to join them 
at the North Pole 
of nowhere

Writer’s Block
is a temptation
a black rose
in the hand of the wicked
telling you 
it’s okay to be lazy 

Writer’s Block
is an imaginary friend
of the desperate
feasting on your company
and the smell of your beauty

Writer’s Block
is a weak hoax
marinating in dumb
a submissive idiot 
who barely exists
so leave him alone 

Writer’s Block 
is fine without you 
let him be single
You are better 
without the mix of his device.

Details | Free verse | |


knobby-knee’d, toes that stop 
bend and pick up 
penny, marble, rock 
outside chalk 
on concrete, begging, for me to turn around 
for one more try 

Details | Free verse | |

Ode to My Muse

And then I
sit here squeezing
my soul like
a lemon in the
attempt to pour
my juices
out and distill
them in few
drops of relief

Shivers shake
me in waves of
self-awareness coming
from your disconcerting
mirroring while I rattle
out in a stream of 
concerned consciousness

To your enchanting
complexity I owe
what binds
me to unravel
my thought
patterns with a strength I had
known before

Details | Rhyme | |


Smilingly some say ‘no’
Angrily some say ‘no’
Very easily some say ‘no’.
So not many hesitate to say ‘no’.
So the word 'no'
Even if truly uttered
Or pretending mattered.
 ‘No’ can be a canopy.
Or used as an analogy.
Used sometimes to distortedly stop.
And sometimes used for being at top.
“No” is a sweet word.
It is seldom absurd.
When heard it may be disappointing.
Sometimes very annoying
'No' is usually said boldly
Suddenly, and profoundly…

Details | Free verse | |


An instrument of beauty,
poetry is art at its best
with its verses of passion
penned with love
in assorted and variegated
metrical composition
with sublime and
aesthetically satisfying flow.

It is a creative exposition 
that unfolds and enlightens
with enchanting constructs 
the demonstrative and
effusive characterization 
of language by utilizing, 
promoting and bestowing 
the nature and power of words.

Proclaiming ideas and ideals
of principled excellence
with creations anew
and history of old,
poetry exhibits an appetite
for knowledge and wisdom
and a profound propensity 
for purposeful revelation
with an insatiable desire
for intimation and meaning
displayed with heartfelt emotion.

With its aspiration to show case
in magnificent scribal splendor,
poetry entices and compels
the artist and consumer
to explore and transcend
imagination and intrigue,
and solicit introspection
with unfathomable penetrating thought 
that is calmed by grace and elegance.

Philosophical and spiritual,
entertaining and healing,
poetry commands laughter and tears
or sorrow and joy,
Its clamorous and powerful
phonologically expressive morphemes
can awaken and stir passion and romance
or summon logic and reason.

resplendent in wisdom, 
captures love,
inspires hope,
provoke curiosity,
resonates drama,
evokes mystery,
uplifts spirits
and expresses grief.
So magnificent,
so powerful,
so wondrous
is the nature and
the majesty of poetry.

Details | Couplet | |

like, as

i never saw the doornail die
never caught sight of a fox that sly

i didn't cure a dog so sick
didn't steal a glance of thieves so thick

i can't walk tight a rail that thin
can't see some sight as ugly as sin 

i didn't ever take any punch so pleased
or been flashed by lightening that slippery greased

i can't light bituminous coal so black
or pointedly aim as sharp as a tack 

didn't touch a witch's tit so cold
- i'd feel it's not as good as gold

i can't squish in any mud so clear
or finger a lobe cute as a bug's ear 

folks shout i'm as deaf as a post
in fact i'm even worser, than most

i can't hear a fiddle so fit
in fact i don't give a - damn

a simile is as cool as winter's rain
so i utter them like, again, and again

true, i'm as buzzed as a bee so busy
but i don't think a bee's like a simile, is he?

© Goode Guy 2013-03-06

Details | Haiku | |



       gut words raw
   kin of sleepless nights
    should move hands

Details | Couplet | |


                                     THE BOOK LOVER

                        Some women pine for silks and pearls
                        Some shop away their hours
                        But I’ve a book-hound in my blood
                        Preferring books to flowers

                        Each page I touch With loving hand
                        I trace the print snug there
                        The whitest page grants me delight
                        The yellow brings despair

                        The old bookshops on dusty streets
                        Are storehouses of dreams
                        They guard the dancing continents
                        And trolls that bridge the streams

                         And for each story hidden there
                         Mid pages silken glories
                         An offering of bouncing tales
                         replace bland bedtime stories

                        And on this paper
                        Fine or rough
                        my fingers gently roam
                        Safely in these books I find my place--
                        And build myself a home.

Victoria Anderson-Throop
Juja, Kenya

Details | Ottava rima | |

Encouragement Binds Me to the Soup

A poet’s warm and spicy place to meet,
The soup will stir emotions bright and rare.
There, friends will write their best poetic feat.
And inspirations season thoughts with flare.
The words that flow may have no rhyme or beat.
But formal forms are often shared with care.
While contests challenge many poet’s mind.
Encouragement from friends does my heart bind.

© January 14, 2012
Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen

Details | Terzanelle | |

A Muse Reborn

Unleash my soul and let my dreams run free.
Confinement binds my heart as freedom mourns.
Refine my mind with creativity.
Direct me until cleverness is born.
And walk with me upon a lighted trail.
Release my ingenuity this morn.  
Fettered thoughts seek wisdom to no avail. 
Explanations flooded; old views congealed.
When freedom reins, philosophies unveil.

I heard the sound of laughter in a field.
A distant bliss that unto me was born.
And what pray tell was at that time revealed?

A pleasantness that on free reins was borne.
Imagination voiced in newfound dreams.
Unleashed, within my soul, my muse reborn.

Thus, everyday is filled with new sunbeams.
Where stagnant hopes once filled a weary heart,
New beauty from my soul forever streams.
And pondering each thought is now my art.  

© February 22, 2012
NO NAMES on poems

Written for Poetry Soup Member Contest: Unleash Free Poetry 
Sponsor Paula Swanson

Details | Rhyme | |

Just One

What would it feel like if you were to be just one
No one here but you, the moon and sun
The last man left to walk on the face of earth
No girl left here to give a new child birth

What would you do to make the time pass by
Who would make you laugh; who would make you cry
No boy to pick up a ball and to have a catch
No wife to share your love or make you lose your breath

I know at times that it may seem that way
That you might be a one for the whole day
But what if in the end, this thought came true
And to your left and right, there is no one but you

I think that this dream of mine would make me sad
To be in a world of one, I think would be real bad
My heart would feel just like the words in this rhyme
Each one of them takes one beat at a time

Details | Free verse | |

Ink lings

It's always been there.  You know.  That urge
To turn a thought into a material thing
Express yourself as your hand is willed
Imagination, poured upon a page

I kid myself that lack of time forestalls my effort
For inside, I know it is me that lingers in the gate
The fear of rejection is strong.  What price humility
Does the risk outweigh the reward.

But then, a comment.  Someone has enjoyed my musings
Exhilaration flows through me.  Validation
I know now that I must throw my voice upon the page
And let those I engage accept it as they may

I revel in a sense of satisfaction
Revealing, like a stripper, bits of me
Through a shared thought, a moment, a connection
My “Ink”lings shaped into my verse

Details | Free verse | |

Untitled #314 / The notepad

Yellow sheets, blue lines
red lines even

Details | Narrative | |

Whiskey Wishes

from this barstool i have sat waitting for some moment 
of insiperation to come to me 
But the only thing that that comes to me is
a bartender with another drink.

And in empty reflection lost in a jukebox's song
played by a lonley heart shooting pool.
I cant recall where the spark went.
maybe it fell to floor like the ash from a cigarette.

the page waits at home like a wife waitting in worry as her husban is off doing God knows  
what  so worried only wishing he'd return.
And when he does the fear fades and the anger kicks in.

The bottle doesnt hold a key but it does know me well.
I kiss it's fiery lips and cant resist it's charm.
so I sit with it passing hours in a dance that will end in
nothing but another wasted night  and a bitter morning taken
out apon my  mind.

In a swirl of hungover thoughts id leave half written pages.
To soon find themselves collecting with my ever growing arsenal  of 
drunken rants.
All ending bitter and cold.

But when the whiskey hits I'll make such great plans 
that will never be.   
I'll write that epic that will keep in the minds 
other writers.
And in the warm arms of women who wanna love a 
trainwreck just to say they've known what it's like.

Whiskey wishes are like sparks from a much larger fire.
the sparks fly off into the midnight sky.
only to fade befor are very eye.

Details | Bio | |

The Basics of Me

Mother, Compassionate, Friend, Passive
Daughter of Kimberly
Lover of dreams, creativity, and romance
Who feels love, pain, and joy
Who fears failure, loss, and falling in love
Who would like to see Atlanta, Las Vegas, and Miami
Resident of Silver Spring, Maryland

Details | I do not know? | |


I judge you
I judge your thought as you present it to
I judge you stand there
bellowing aloud
the unrevealed to the surface
I judge you
with a hundred ears 
staring at your words dancing
through the drums of my mind
decipher what you want to say

I judge you
timid thing...eyes down
no feelings to grab at 
I judge you
"Hmmmph! "
you wait eagerly on my response 
"Am I good?" your eyes ask.

Details | Senryu | |

Life of a Poet

          A lone cloud floats free..
      A steady breeze sits behind..
          Lends a hand not seen..

                                                                 A childs lost youth..
                                                              Dances to older music..
                                                            Writes of years to come..

            A man stands alone..
      His life and past not far from..
              Each Poem ,a day..

                                                                  I now write of life..
                                                            To where it has taken me..
                                                                And where I am now..

Details | I do not know? | |


Dear poet,
today I read them a poem,
its symbollism I depicted with no mean gestures
its rhymes I mimicked masterfully
and in light tone of its satire I spoke.

Today dear poet,
of their imaginations I begged,
to walk down the lines of your well crafted poem
and rest under the cool shades of timely pauses.

See dear poet,
I beckoned them,
To play in the lushy lawns of your imagination
and ponder deeply of the mood set in your lines.

So I invited them dear poet,
to feast of your nectared thoughts 
and weep of your words gall.

And then I waited............

Details | I do not know? | |

Life As A "Poet"

No matter how much
Or how high we push on
In our quest to touch
GOD's sky we ask why
Were we made in the
Image and Likeness of
His Heavenly Highness
Yet sold to the Devil for these 
Measely prices our
Souls stolen through
Intricately planned
Niceness heists
Running around in pure
Darkness GOD
"Cut On The Lights"
Give the blind sight
Take away misery's plight
And help us fight
These demons that inhabit and possess
You told us we were blessed
But where is the salvation and the rest
All we go through is "pressure" with no end,
Poured together, now we blend
Rats in mazes with no end
Rat traps with no cheese
A hard life no ease
Angels on our shoulder
Replaced with another devil and 3 boulders
Desires to kneel and pray 
For angel wings but
All that emerges from
Our hearts are prayers
For us to live as Evil Kings
Give us evil things
Soul destruction and powerful pistols
Life's goal now is power & riches
No spirit
We look through the looking glass at delusions of grandeur
The devil shows us malice and calls it caesar's palace
Calls it the road to happiness
Road to satisfaction, man's body is his benefaction
Physical rot and mental subtraction, abstraction and retraction
Blood cells manipulate in science labs to produce 
Test tube babies
We're all test tubes babies
Surrounded by glass
Trapped in slow moving ice
Rolling our lives
Like slow moving dice
Trife pushed out of our sphere into slavery
Cold hard mask of bravery
White man's emotional treachery
Human debauchery...

Lyndell Cadasse & Daryl Dujon
The Slaves Of Poetry

Details | Rhyme | |

The Poet

Metered summer days quick-dry the fresh mirage
 so just because, we'd ring the bell,
 and opened every door no matter where we'd been!
 Except for in my den
 but, things all ended up well;
 I'm the sincere poet.
Magic muse that abuses my every suffering
 leave me be in silence, from my cell;
 be honest, tell me should I "post"?
 I'm really, just the host;
 be too dark, and your poems may not sell;
 I'm the tortured poet.
Chairs of stanzas quietly grinning
 be seated, and we'll change to the channel,
 it's all in how I read it!
 I'm trying to conserve my spit;
 I'm reading just as fast as a gazelle;
 I am the puppet poet.
Treating paper and ink as oxygen,
 shuffling sheets during the changing of the well.
 I can't imagine what they'd think
 did he have too much to drink?
 he was truly great before he finally, fell;
 I'm the retired poet.
Memories housed in dissarray, posthumously
 be patient for I have a tale to tell,
 deciphering will take time
 don't say now, I should have, rhyme
 your hunger, I cannot seem to quell;
 I'm the dead poet.

Details | Rhyme royal | |

To Write

Blood spilled, tears fell
sadness would not dispel
Eyes cried, words sighed
laying bruised because I tried
Still I bled into this bed
of slain memories and pain
sheets so red and hearts so dead
is it any wonder now that I write
late into this lonely night
Have I given up this fight?
a heart so wrong, can it ever beat right?

Details | Quintain (English) | |


During the years that I had lived
many friends I have had;
some nice, some good, some bad...
ah! being friendless is very sad!

Beside family...who else
will remember what I've achieved,
perhaps a stranger reading
my works too lucid and intense?

I have honored many unnotorious folks like humble mother,
and the ones who have touched me in ways nobody has...
having been an innovator, not much of a shaker,
readers will uncover the true meaning of my writings.

Besides family...who will take time to read them twice?
Have I moved, inspired and changed them in several minutes?
That could be so true by the interest they have shown in the poems
I've written and my wish is that they have found that voice!

I seek no praises or laurels for my creations with words so intuitive,
and if an ode were dedicated to very honored I wouldl be!
It's not being naive...not to have realized it and be crowned with victory;
and in any respectable way they wish to remember me, it's their prerogative.

Details | Free verse | |

Untitled #337 / You are invited

Man, what great dialogue is this?
He speaks directly to me.
And I am speaking to him.
All lines of communication must remain open!
You are invited.

Details | Rhyme | |


The words are scrambled
Inside the walls crumbling
The words are muffled
Within the mind sleeping
The words are quiet
Inside the thoughts weeping
The words are loud
Within realities keeping
The words are silent
Inside the body steeping

Spilled on a canvas of white
Not always sounding right
The words appear
But do they hear
The words within
As they spin and spin
Clinging to the visions
Of thoughts divisions

Debra Squyres

Details | Free verse | |

Touch of the Soul

I alone stand vigil over the memories of my past;
I alone feel the weight of them,
feel what it is to be
the man that past has created.
I stand, alone, beneath the stars and the moon,
contemplating all, as I ever have done;
it is only now that I've accepted
that's who I am meant to be;
the writer, the poet –
I stand with the rest of the dreamers.
I sit, alone, among the instruments of music,
playing on and on throughout my life;
music flows into and through my soul,
and I am now and will always be,
the musician and the bard –
I sit with the rest of the drummers.
I travel, alone, with the remembrances of love,
searching always for that one true other;
it is only now that I've accepted that even
without one such, I can live;
the romantic, the sentimental –
I travel with the rest of the passionate.
I escape, alone, in the pages of a good story,
reading for ever and anon;
books speak to me, engage me,
entertain me, release me;
the storyteller and the listener –
I escape with the rest of the readers.
I will fight, never alone, next to my brothers
and sisters in arms;
it is with all of myself that I've accepted
my duty, and who I will always be;
the soldier, the guardian –
I will fight with the rest of the Marines.

I dance, run, walk, laugh, alone, in the rain,
let loose my being in the deluge;
the storm's fury and glory
somehow become my own;
the drenched, the soaked –
I do all of this with the rest of the rain lovers.
It is only now that I've accepted
that I have become
who I was meant to be;
who I want myself to be.
I alone know what it is to be
myself, Andrew James Sprouse,
scion of the sea and of the past,
of the word and the sword.
But I do not alone know what it is to feel alive;
to be exactly who you are,
who you're meant to be.
I do not alone know the truth of pain.
None of us stands truly and utterly alone.
Every single one of us walks, arm in arm,
with those who share your experiences,
your beliefs, your thoughts and your lives.
But you, alone, know what makes your heart free,
what makes your fire ignite and your essence true;
you alone know the visage and touch of your soul.

Details | Personification | |



Details | Couplet | |

The Blessing for My Book

As my job and health failed me... I dreamed to someday put together a 
book of poetry and this will be the blessing it will begin with...

As I sit here weaving my poetry
Into the semblance of a book…
I find that I must ask Gods’ blessing…
For the journey, that together we have took.

I find I must bow my head in thought…
Over this book that together we have wrought
As my hands clasp oh so reverently and earnestly over my heart…
As I believe his help brought the words together that I sought.

And God set the journey that shaped what now before you begins…
He helped me find the words that reached through my heart to my pen.
I pray the poems will be worthy of what he showed me as my life’s art.
And upon this book I honestly pray that his blessing he will impart. 

Details | Rhyme | |

Of Things Missed

So many, the people With clear, cold command Of the language And fully utilized by them in daily discourse And yet know little, or not… Of the texture and design In the weave of the words, And Know, or suffer not... A whit or hint of remorse Of the richness of The pleasures inherent Tho’ obviously to most, not apparent In the daily, depths Of Deep discourse The wealth of treasure In daily words By most is simply, sadly, missed Yet by the majority not e’en noticed For most…ignorance is bliss

Details | Free verse | |


Worn words of a poet
are fragile pieces of a puzzle 
misaligned, and tumbling onto the page
while their meanings awaken the senses
like curious, lost children
hiding, in noisy confusion
who have been separated at birth
yet have always continued to believe in each other.

They may acknowledge their common heritage
but only when discovered and reunited
by the poet's crafty pen
in a zealous deliberation
will they look up and search for approval
in the eyes of the reader
looking for recognition
looking for acceptance
becoming once again a family
living in harmony
just as they were always meant to be

Carrie Richards 12/8/12  For Joe Maverick's Contest "Occlusion"

Details | I do not know? | |

No Grey

Hearsay on what love is today
Lives stretched thin for parchment paper bridges
Twice over crossed
Trampled, trodden, lost hearts in clouds
While rain was wringing out my hair
Let down my gaurd
Tasting peppermint Chard ment to
Cling to a tree until my help arrived 
At mydestiney without you
Speak to me over shallow tones of flesh
Glistening nipples to nurse a drink as I sit
On this step and contest how much you don't know me
And him on a pendulum 
Swaying choir sings at your wedding
To the kind of bleeding it out
With the Rugrats on a network of Carnies
Laughing at the man in the Emporers clothes
Worn tight hanging on to mornings light
Turned on then blown out
For renowned satisfaction
Due to your lack of actions
Speak louder than words
On a new world order 
Signed on as the Natural Selection

Copywrite©Ameaca 2012

Details | I do not know? | |


A thousand times I've made myself
Into an interprative lie
A thousand times, a million words
That never will quite die
But in the truth, so continent
Is nothing that cannot be bent
Within these words, this plenitude
Is nothing of an origin
Within these lies, one bit of truth
Is only found within a facet of interpretation

And so we feel we know each other
Through the words we read, twice writ
But in all words, so many meanings
Kill all hope of understanding it

One word, one touch of mastery
Finds greatness only in what's seen
By those who are quite predisposed
To look for life in words transposed
Upon a page, so blank, so bare
That all the soul must still be there
Within that spot of black, inside the space
Surrounded by its like. There's left no trace
Of individuality within the frothing, dying sea of words once writ, twice faded, lost inside a sea of meaning, tost upon the shore of all that's seen by those who know what their own might-have-beens could mean to one who's never tried to understand, nor dared to try the hand of fate against a raging sea that took the form of fractured metaphor.

The soul seeps through.

Details | I do not know? | |


Somnolescent crystals fade into my consciousness
Effervescent, all elixir drains down into this
So have I felt the pouring down
Of stream on stream of empty soul
So have I heard the hollow sound
Of what was once a whole

Tear on tear drops down to seas
Of surcease, empty memories
All I've seen lies here before me
When is where I cease
   To be

Details | Rhyme | |


Thence they come, these thoughts again
As I brood, on mind thus dimmed
Fraught with doubt, crossed by light
Naught but rout, mine sublime such night

Shall I muse on love or war
Fall on fuse or seek Paramour

Laugh or cower in shadows of mire
Caraf or bower or madness my sire...

First is love, that Venus sin venal
That gloves us, that makes great what might be menial
Ye Gods that strike us and make us wonder
What askance could discover, instead we blunder

Next is war, to which we hasten, alight
Vex't too far, we hurry, eyes red bright
For what do we stand, for what reason we fall
For lauds or bands, or glory for all

Last is madness, that indefinable mount
Fast it abandons, leaves a cur, a lout
Yet while in this life it hobbles, in-famy arraigns
In eternity recorded is all but fame

William* knew love, was a master unmatched
In his words our nature unmasked, unlatched

Lee* was a genius, in a cause infamous
The perfect warrior, strong-gentle-just

Poe* was a daemon, Pandora, of dark
Yet lauded after, today our 'Goth' art

Which embodiment was true, was pure?
Which could you most admire, follow, ENDURE?

Could you follow if combin'd in all
As Dumas* once quipped, one for all?

What human could be them, combine in power
Would he be tyrant, belov'd?-Sought?-cowered?

Was he Alexander, of whom knowledge bereft
Was he then Caesar, Cleo*-love, General, Epilept*?

I know not who embodied - genii* of three
Yet at some point existed this man, tri-breed

I know which of these I am, maybe
Yet which one are ye, God damned though may be
if needs must decree ye must be
choose from these distinct sep-equal* three.

* Notes

William - William Shakespeare
Lee - Robert E. Lee
Poe - Edgar Allan Poe
Dumas - Alexandre Dumas
Cleo - Cleopatra
Epilept - Epileptic 
Genii - distinctive character or spirit, as of a nation, 

period, or language (plural) 
*Sep-equal - Separate but equal

Details | Couplet | |

My Walls Covered

                                              In these four corners lines lay empty..
                                  Waiting for this pen to spill thoughts that are plenty..

                                         I hope I finish before the water washes it away..
                          While trying to keep an upbeat write before a tear takes the day..

                           I can smear words of love and sadness on paper to line my walls..
                            No spot left uncovered , just waves of thoughts that will not fall..

                              With my words that have color and a color that speaks words..
                                My playground to write is in peace, and hate will not disturb..

Details | Free verse | |

This Watcher of Mine

She’s stubborn, this watcher of mine and
she fights hard to win the battles 
she wages in my mind.
Her victory comes when I shrink 
away from the words
that fight to break free.
Yet, she looks at me with scorn
when I give up and walk away, 
but isn’t that what she wanted?
She delights it seems
in planting seeds of doubt that seem to
grow wild and rampant.
Convincing me my words are nothing
except foolish, childish dreams.
“Who would care”?
She asks with contempt.
“What if you’re right”?
I scream at her.
As she turns to walk away
she looks over her shoulder 
and softly replies,
“What if I’m wrong”?

Details | Rhyme | |

The Lucky Ones

Writers write and painters paint
To give themselves release.
Knitters knit and sculptors sculpt,
Allowing them some peace.

Singers sing and dancers dance
To tap into their talent.
Runners run and heroes help
And practice being gallant.

Bakers bake and swimmers swim
And mimes demand attention.
Everyone has skills, including
Those I didn’t mention.

People do the things they do,
With varying success,
To get them through the day and prove
The powers they possess.

Some people never have the chance
To find their little niche.
The lucky ones who’ve found it know
That they have struck it rich.

Details | Classicism | |


I feel so lost so gone, but yet so found/ My mind so weak, so fragile, but yet so determined so bound/ Mind so high so fly but still on the ****in ground/ Voice so silent so quiet, but yet so loud/ Feel so skinny so thin but still gaining them poundz/ Thought I wouldn't make it through the first but still standing in the seventh round/ My words so limp so skimp, but yet still making them gangstified soundz/ I feel so energized so choatic but still wanna lounge/ Ya'll better be ready when 7 comes through your town!!!! I can't lyrically quit for shyt/ Living around rez life lyrical bull isshh/ fake ass hating trickz/ wanna be bloodz and fake ass cripz/ I jus need to kick back and take another green hit/ ****a alcoholic fit/my own lizzife iz like a three dimensional skit/ I got to wake up and let myself go..can't hang on no more......gots to find my lost heart and soul...God please let a young native like me grow to know the real shyt in life!!

Details | Personification | |

A Writer

"Dreams,noteworthy and passionate,
amount to nothing but meaningless memories"
Father invaded and bruised the soul,
Grabbed it of all the ambiguity and hope...
Still,the power of words remained,
Ink etched on white crisp paper,
bringing the ever-vicious inspiration
to the fore-front in myriad ways.
An amateur teen,bruised, yet
Hope and sense of belief kept me up!!
I dreamt and envisioned,
All i wanted and would accomplish,
not to avenge but triumph...
I wrote succintly and with tears,
for those who needed LOVE,
Love was the healer and Comforter,
Love which i missed and dreaded completely...
As i stood in the husky sunlight,
Girl with an ecstatic smile says,
"Book that was all powerful yet
a guiding force and the only one i have"
and i stood there in silence
completely stirred and emotionally healed..

Details | Free verse | |

No Enlightened Poet am I Proclaimed

No enlightened poet am I proclaimed,
Rhyming high-flown philosophies in poesy,

(Instead, I only scratch out my words
In verses of winds and scents of spring--

Of the shades of the light crowning wintertime clouds,
Sing the grace of the wings in a homecoming sky.)

For I am no more a poet than you,
And you, with your verses, no more than I.

(And so I write of the white blush of moon
Not referencing love, neither lost nor found

And rhyme the rhythm of the lapping sea
With the throb of the heart in the desert heat.)

For what more, oh poets, are poems than beauty?

(Write: The ethereal river spills sheens iridescent
Beneath the expanse of the heavenly lights)

And what more than beauty is life?

(Breathing perfumes and sparkles of nectars and grass 
Spelling effervescence within the infinite hues.)

Details | I do not know? | |






Details | Burlesque | |

sundae, as ever,

sundae, as ever, the first day of the weak, 
in tradition, an hour, or a minute of silence…
silence, as ever, suffered no fool, 
without conception, immaculate or no… 

Details | Rhyme | |

To The Casual Observers

Speaking my understanding, attained in lonely isolation,
I'm harried by those with their hive mentality's insulation,
as they peer at me from their consolidated consolation;
I cannot recieve a sense of some abiding satisfaction
in daily performed chores, assumed so mindlessly, by each faction,
as though, carrying out repetitive orders grants life traction.

Though, finding no faith in given conceptions of divinity,
those about me serve in fear of some diefied royalty,
seeing the simple tellings of leaves on the surface of their tea;
with a fervent desire of a greater future, I pluck each tree;
despised by those who yearn insect-like inevitability,
they want, only, to rest on a clinging, shriveled leaf, yet unfree.

On increasingly distant lands does the brightness of my sight glow,
unlike the far too many, who travel the same meadow,
always pitched downward, their eyes limiting their gazes, oh, so low;
I, however, forever search for some newer trails to follow,
as others, always beholden to the same, scented flower's tow,
as though they're prisoners to that rotting orchid's unmoving show.

Details | Blank verse | |

Maguire Birr Still

Guide the guiro biro silo. Guide the guiro biro silo. Guide Maguire birr still.  

Expatriate pigeons, scurried to an’ fro, sailing o’er the roof wrought iron, of 
Madden’s ale tailed abode. Time’s new doormen, tobacconist ivy. Avian 
proprietors of little repute, adumbrate the rustic welds of cinematic accountancy; 
counterfeit justice, castrated against the wail. Five foot four or forty-five pence, two 
for a tanner, compositional sectarianism. 

«L'auteur est un idiot prétentieux, qui est trop content dans l'écriture prose 

Details | Free verse | |

Untitled #308 / Universal gravitation and the human heart

Oh constant Things! By Newton’s law of universal gravitation,
everything in the universe is attracted to
every other thing. If only the human heart
would obey this simple principle, there would be no need
for heartbreak, for pain, for mortal strife,
for impotent words that fall on no ears that matter.

Details | Quatrain | |


A voice silenced, speak no more
Hold, my tongue in obedience
Words to neither deny nor defy
Defenseless without credence

Verbal insanity, senseless score
Spewed as mindless nonsense
Words to neither elate nor clarify
Ignorance creating only impedance

Details | Couplet | |

Why I Write

Written expression is my own personal therapy.
It keeps me sane and gives my thoughts clarity.
My brain comes alive whenever I write poetry.

Self-expression is my way to self-healing.
My poetry at times can be so revealing,
Letting the reader inside, no longer concealing.

Inspirational verse allows me to witness
My belief in God and Jesus Christ to confess.
Open my heart, share His love like a caress.

Humorous rhymes let my inner child breathe.
Creating laughter is a magical gift, I believe.
I am truly blessed with each smile I receive.

Poetic forms with syllabic counts intrigue my brain.
Sometimes finding just the right word can be a pain.
By writing senryu, haiku, and tanka, my mind I train.

Love poems are my favorite poetic genre to explore.
Regardless of how many I’ve written, I write more.
Happy love poems seem to make my heart soar.

I also write sad and broken-hearted verse
Where people are loving then leaving or worse.
There are no happy endings, just the reverse.

If you should ever encounter a poem of mine.
Perhaps it does not have the perfect rhyme
The rhythm could be off a beat you might find.

But know this one thing for sure about my musing,
I don’t believe you’ll find the words confusing.
Many of my poems can even be quite amusing.

I write poems for me, so I write just for joy!
So when you read my poems, I hope you enjoy!

Details | Free verse | |

and there will be days

and there will be days
that not many will count along with me
and all the clouds that follow
will neither blow, nor not borrow
near what i did not wish to furrow
for longer than that shadow
might wish to shine 'long near me
it is more than an early, easy
sun to set
and dawn on
my simple mindset
oh. . . there will be days
that we've yet. . . to met
and only traces left behind
for what we already know
we never forget

Details | Dramatic Verse | |

Untitled #322 / "What? none of these make sense!"

“What? none of these make sense!”
None of these exist!

Details | Epigram | |

Untitled #293 / Where is your mind?

Where is your mind right now?
On the paper, or the screen, I hope,
and not on these meaningless words.

Details | Free verse | |

Mixed Feelings

You wanna know why I read?
I read because books are my escape.
I read because the friends I have in books are so much truer than the friends I have in real life.
I read because in books I am as breathtakingly beautiful as the heroine in the story and not a one-hundred-thirty-three pound white girl with a black girl’s ass. 
I read because the stories are either so good, I can try to wish myself into them
Or they’re so horrid they make my life look like a fairytale.
You wanna know why I read?
I read because the parents in books don’t yell at me for failing a test that I stayed up until 1 in the morning studying for
Or tell me I’m getting cellulite when its clear that I already hate the way I look.
I read because the little brothers and little sisters in books are adorably hilarious where mine are annoyingly bothersome.
I read because when my nose is in a good book, my mind is where that book is, not in the reality that is my life.
I read because the boys in books are more kind to me than the boys in my classes at school.
You wanna know why I read?
I read because I love to read.
But you wanna know why I don’t read?
I don’t read because reading is shameful in the world I live in.
I don’t read because reading is something tedious, a chore you do simply to make the grade in English.
I don’t read because the stories in books remind me just how much my life sucks.
You wanna know why I don’t read?
I don’t read because every page I turn is another homework assignment not turned in, another failing grade to show my parents.
I don’t read because every time I read I want a snack to munch on, and every time that snack is a chocolate bar I think to myself “You fat, ugly girl, you don’t need that chocolate, you know what they say: a moment on the lips a lifetime on the hips.”
I don’t read because what boy wants a girl whose prince charming is not ever going to show up on her front porch with a dozen roses and a devastatingly handsome smile?
You wanna know why I don’t read?
I don’t read because every time I finish a book that was a new obsession, I have to find one just like it and there never is one.
I don’t read because when the hero dies, so does a piece of my heart.
I don’t read because every book I read just reminds me that I’m the freak brainiac of my class, and that’s all anyone sees when they look at me.
I don’t read because the perfect characters in books make me hate my imperfect self.
I don’t read because I hate to read.

Details | Free verse | |

Untitled #338 / Who can hear America singing?

Who can hear America singing?
Good for him!
Some only hear silence,
followed by the echoes of futile screams

Details | Free verse | |


Words hold the meaning that we assign them
Ever since the fall of the tower .....

Ancient land of mysteries solved
and shared
Where collective mind 
cast away the shadow of doubt.

Creative thought 
held siege by the Jealous Gods of war
and retribution

A hundred times, babylon fell
to the Kassites, the Assyrians, 
She fell 
and was re-built by Nebuchadnezzar   
The hanging gardens, of Eden
her fruit of art and music
flowed through deserts
with the sweet wine of Bacchus
intoxicating all in her pleasure. 

In the aftermath of the great feast
they awoke to find
The Persian army stationed amidst them
having walked through the river
and under the walls.  
Order reform, separation. 
corruption deterioration
Dust to dust.
Alexander the Great
wooed her alive again.. 
dancing through gardens, libraries, 
markets, travel and trade
musicians, poets and playwrights 
came again to sing praises of her beauty.
With his death 
she fell
pawed apart by the feuding decay of his bureaucrats.
Babylon, death and rebirth..

Now she lies beneath the sands, 
beneath the waters of the Euphrates 
A camel ride south of Bagdad
where the tanks and shells of many lands
shake the ancient tower down.

Hammurabi’s code still stands
shattered into a million languages.

Right is right
and Law is Law.

Details | Rhyme | |

Why I Enjoy Writing Poems

Why I Enjoy Writing Poems... I often have a thought or two on my mind. And have written them in the expression of a rhyme. I’ve tried to write as I feel God has led. And try to do it in love, in what's written & said. At times, I “have stepped on people's toes.” This is not my intention— God really knows. If you've read a poem that I wrote. I hope you were encouraged with hope There’s a message that I pray comes across... "With Christ... all is not lost!" I’ve tried to write poems from my spirit. As an expression of how I live it. The words written are from my heart to you May they be a blessing in whatever you do! By Jim Pemberton

Details | Epigram | |

Untitled #295 / Spell, pt. 2

I hope you dodged that last spell,
else you be vexed for twenty years.

Details | Free verse | |



                         Delicious words stream through the mind
                                       Drowning, drowning
                            Wicked thoughts must be confined
                                       Drowning, drowning
                            Grab one or two and just hold on
                                       Drowning , drowning
                               Turn those words into a song
                                       Drowning, drowning

Victoria Anderson-Throop ©
12/01/12  Juja, Kenya  Africa

Details | Prose Poetry | |


 Eye the fabulist fabelist maker of dreams for ewe still remember the poem eye 
wrote where eye mentioned the fact that eye think they are liners for birdcages 
the most that people have been to me is nice there was a few Christians who 
liked some of my poetry for JESUS. This is not a fable in the puerile sense of the 
word. BUT this ewe is a giant dandylion poem eye make them bleed eye scritch 
and scratch them and twist the ending oblong into infinity. Eye feel a need to 
defend myself to my detractors after all even CharlaX had a mother. It was more 
than that a family eye had a place to eat a room to sleep. An important man is 
never needed until the end too late to make the needed differences. Pomp and 
pestle pistle listed they sent my picture eye won a contest all they wanted was for 
me to buy a lot of plaque. FlaX and cotton homespun medley lay upon the 
CharlaX belly nice long drinks in the afternoon writing a poem making a fabel 
swan it leans this way and that way falling to pieces and parts of words become 
gentle rain long dripping drops of waterial motion lapping at shadows of love. 
Fancy markings of worded pleasures for years of estranger in the wooded glen 
fords and glen glens. The caterpillar tracks in the proper syntax is a Diatribe. 
Nominal feeds paid out and lost in space with gasses let loose that rival skunks 
in size and areal width the size of that thing just look Ethel the size of that thing in 
centimeters all alone would equal the lower belt of corn in the Midwestern state 
of Iowa they called CharlaX to come he wielded his Hermann Maurice axe phone 
and refused to budget a car rental he does not hitch hike anymore he walks back 
and forth from one glorious day into the next of time come forth thou CharlaX from 
the grave concerns of formidable returns on investments given in earnest 
anticipations of reaped rewarded inclinations please come to Kansas and chop 
the wheat down with your western ax make bread for all the millions of the crew. 
The penny tossed in air so heated by debated frenzy of the sharkless few was 
tails a lucky brake for yew. 

Details | Rhyme | |

The Poet

It is a fever.

The poet

They found the poet outside the park

His steps spoke many words of wine

His upper half seemed half asleep

And his feet walked a crooked line

His arms were spread as if to fly

His lips apart as though to speak

The telltale flush of liquid joy

Told tales of  rum from cheek to cheek

The night herself caroused with him

Drunk on sadness, drunk on care

And drink they drank, the weary lovers

Setting wine against despair

The bonds of reason, broken down

His mind amok, and absent sense

The world in woe, the world in glory

Lay before his presidence


And it was then they walked to him

Rudely rousing man from dream

Casting eye on village bard

Taking man as man would seem

"Sing for us again, o bard

Cast your words at senses keen"

This was why they broke his peace

Winters twice his summers seen

"Sing for us again o bard

Spin sweet words from bitter truth

Stir the embers of your heart

Dig through elder years to youth. And

Let the fountain spring with might!!

Showering us with wisdom earned

Showing us the link in hand

Of teachers harsh and lessons learned

Free yourself from wine's embrace!

We would hear a tale or two"

Turns to them, a wizened face

"Ask not man, but what is due."

Graying eyes regard the gathered

Moving on, from face to face

"The world whirls in the hands of time

And yet all things remain in place"

"As yet all men remain the same

The board reset a dozen times

Pi-eces unaltered, so is game

Though rearranged, the given lines

You come to me as bank to debtor

You plague me with unbridled want

Says at last, man to tormentor

'Cease at once your unjust haunt""

It is a fever

"It is not a gift so given

It is not a boon bestowed

Nor is sight beheld as blessing

When the eyes have overflowed

With the sorrows of existence

Pain cavorts with all men born

Know the price of your persistence

Hear the words of man forlorn

What is loss compared to weakness?

What is pain compared to need?

When the soul suffers from sickness

To give blood to those who bleed

O for those suffering in secret

O for hidden scars concealed

Know a secret's mark of secrets

Is in wounds that never healed

The world at large, and I remain

Numb in spirit, numb of mind

My inner coldness feed by pain

Reaped from years left far behind


It is a fever that I have

It is an illness I possess

It is a symptom that you worship

It is a sign that you profess

To love, to need, to love to hear

While I remain diseased of soul

You chant and clap then disappear

Then falls to me, each telling's toll


It is a sadness that I feel

It is madness that I suffer

When the muses offer gifts

Turn your backs and run for cover

Talent has a price, and paid

This price I have, each passing day

Rise to cup and rise to can

Drink my fill then come what may

All my masters come before me

Warned me of the poet's curse

Know you all of Byron's story

Know you all that Poe's was worse

Happiness is bound to beauty

Joy to all that beauty, see

But for those that birth said beauty

All is pain and tragedy

Listen to my fading voice, now

Listen to my silent plea

Know the doom of every poet

And ask of this, no more from me

I will fellowship with Bacchus

Gimlets of the finest sort

Rise to can and drunken glory

Fall to pleasure and cavort

Now my night bids me return

Wine is all that shields from sorrow

Sets me free from all concern

Trouble enough, will be tomorrow"

His soul unburdened, back unbent

All is caught in a lengthy pause

He turns to go, the air is rent

With sounds of cheer, and of applause

Now lowering balding head to ground

"Man may speak but none may hear

Sing for us again o Bard,

Has now become a thing to fear"

Details | Rhyme | |


I remember the day, when I wrote my first verse!
Writing a poem was not at all a matter of business for me,
And it wasn’t a colossal chore when my master asked me to write one;
But, in veracity I have ever written none.

Pondering on great poetic legends and their near and dears…
Their prodigious thoughts crammed my wits-
Then my proceedings seemed as if they are gliding higher than the clouds-
I’m all set and clear nearly for hours.

Then my sister scoffed at me, brother mocked with her,
Granny chuckled, grandpa giggled and of course there was a silencer!
Amazed, to get appraisal even before I moved further;
After all those are initiatives for an up-and-coming writer.

I astounded that I too got critics, but it made me to go on;
Puzzled to find out what they actually mean;
But it made me to climb that unclimbed mountain;
And fasten my mission.

Then with loads of coolness, I took my wand
To wave her magical spell for my deed;
Everything went impeccably organized
Until I got a doubt how to get it started… …

Details | Free verse | |

Swan Song

I was sixteen when the finch stopped singing.
The sweet melody suddenly transformed 
as if it was cracked like a broken bell.
I couldn’t hear the sweet song anymore.

My father bottled my ink in dirty jars.
He locked my pens in the darkest corner
of the birch box cut from a tree outside.
Maybe it was where the bird sang to me

He told me to go outside like other boys.

But I didn’t seem to listen.
I could still hear a finch singing.

Details | Epic | |

Different Point of Views

Every day, people each have their own different point of views. These points are either
good, bad, or in-between. And for when he or she gets him/herself in a compromising
situation, that's so bad. It seems that when most people cannot agree on almost
everything, they can talk about it. When it comes to males and females really need to see
their point of views in life, they should just stick with them. There's a lot of things
these people really want to talk about: religions (Muslim, Christian, Catholic, etc.),
politics, favorite types of music, nationality, almost everything. And if these people
want to talk about supporting gay rights and immigration rights, then that's on them.
Everybody knows that their opinions should count, even if they're just different from
other opinions. It looks like that the entire nation is trying to express their real point
of views. If these people each have different point of views and values and that kind of
stuff, then I guess I have my point of views, too. There's just different ways for all of
us, as equals, to express ourselves, especially when we're trying to say what's really on
our minds. We have different point of views, we're entitled to our opinions, and that's
just the way the whole system goes. everybody will have also thought about what these
so-called "Nay-Sayers" were going to do like shutting the mouths of  the whole entire
nation up, covering up their lies, and trying to take control of almost everything, but
it's completely typical of these lying has-beens. If everybody's entitled to their
opinions and want to give out their extreme point of views, let them do so. And if these
so-called "Nay-Sayers" each have a problem with the way we talk, the way we act, the way
we dress, or whatever, that's their problem; not ours. I wish that everybody had their own
point of views and were entitled to their opinions.

Details | Dramatic Verse | |



Details | Rictameter | |

Quiet Things

information that tries
to remain unnoticed.  they're a
tease, when their fingerprints are found where they
should not be.  always suitors of 
mysteries, they dine and
dance with what is

don't tell
what is on your
mind; it gives you away.
show the opposite of what you
feel.  you just might save your own neck or that
of someone else.  secrets may help
you keep your friends but not
always inner
peace.  shhh!

Details | I do not know? | |

Caught Up In The Rock And Roll Game

Don’t get caught up in the game 
Don’t get caught up in the fame
It will drive you insane
It’s only you to blame 
When you get caught up in the game*Refrain: 

Because you walk through the crowd
They all know your name
The road twists and twists
 With a surprise each turn
Try to stay above it all or you’ll soon learn
 That the eyes looking in are hungry for your blood
Don’t mistake it for the love
Cause they all want a piece 
Of the music, rhythm, and soul
They love the Rock n Roll
Then there’s the girl who writes the rhymes  
Loves the love and soon you’ll find
Her spirit is so real and her sex appeal
I know you feel 
The fire that burns from the words she writes to you
It’s a powerful heat that makes your heart feel new
She loves the melody you put in her soul
It warms her heart, it makes her whole
Her spirit soars so high 
When you look into her eyes
The fire is so hot between the girl and this rock n roll guy               

Don’t get caught up in the game
Don’t get caught up in the fame
It will drive you insane
It’s only you to blame
When you get caught up in the game

Details | Quatrain | |


Alluring are all these things in life in 
which one may become fond in 
Calling upon all to climb up on their 
own stage; free will regardless of 
the age
When it comes to receiving nothing 
in life grants you knowledge more 
than does reading
Engage in life to gain experience this 
sets up a phase, be your own sage

Those of you who can come to 
understand now is the time climb 
up out of the sand
Tuning into one’s own inner yang, 
requires one to hear the bells when 
the ring
Believing that you sit in his right 
hand one comes to realize that life 
is grand
It all depends on the choice of 
words which you cling they display 
the song you sing

The Creator always comes to your 
aide, no matter your individual 
A clue to each and every perversion 
exist inside all culprits arson
The sound of the first grenade is the 
signal to the enemy; begin the raid
The soul is the intent to blacken in 
the words discharged by these evil 

In there attempt to acquire all 
things delicious they embrace the 
If one does want to recognize their 
spin, all you have to is see how they 
Why they stay so furious, their will 
belongs to all things they find 
Failing to see their despicable yin
leads all down the path of 
committing sin

There will be way far too few able to 
pay the bill on the last day it is due
After relentless tearing your soul 
will continue its everlasting searing
After you realize that there has been 
a coup you will not all be able to sue
Tortured and tormented you are 
now filet and sauteed burning 
without ending 

*****  For the "Word Game 
Contest" sponsored by Catie 

Details | Senryu | |

Senryu 0427

blank page inspiration does not flow dry well

Details | Senryu | |

' Generous Words ... ' 18th Senryu

‘ Generous Words … ’   18th Senryu

      Love … is A Give-Word
   God … is A Generous Word
       Forgive … Says It All

Details | Blank verse | |

An Open Mind

Cracked open like a jar of peanut-butter,

             the mind is emptied

With a certain medicative methodism

That would be habitual,

             were it done more frequently.

A few things escape,

Like the shopping list left behind on the coffee table

Or the milk that was to be purchased.

So many other things, which were only just things really,

Seem to linger like the plague.

Old telephone numbers cling to the crevices,

Rotting away with the names of former lovers

And something that once resembled guilt.

A constant ticker tape of obligations and responsibility

Clicks as it spits out the duties of the hour,

Constantly moving along to its unheard song

Between two unlistening ears.

In between are flashes of color,

Of autumn leaves and unseasonably bare legs

That grow goosebumps in short shorts

                 and a cold breeze.

Observations couple with imagination

To form shapes and sounds

And olfactory stimulation

That was never anything more

            than perfume in the wind.

To finalize the transaction,

The doorway to the mind

         collapses upon itself,

Smothering hot embers into nothing more

         than dank smoke and steam.

As the last gasp of airflow is fused shut

By the rush of busy-ness and day to day

A single breath leaks out, that had once simmered

On the lips of a beautiful woman.

"Un besito," she had whispered passionate once,

Two words that meant more than the world.

Details | Sonnet | |

The Desperate Ones

We are the lyrical lunatics who
attempt to receive our well-deserved props.
We seek any available venue --
museums, bookstores, churches, coffee shops,
libraries or parks -- it doesn’t matter:
Wherever there’s an audience, we’ll go.
We’re mad as the proverbial hatter.
Although we may try not to let it show,
the very act of showing up unpaid
to bear our innermost souls to strangers
in the hope of achieving accolade
casts us as crazy, cadet space-rangers.
We hope to dazzle, arouse and give pause,
but we’re content with a smattered applause.

                                    --  James Ph. Kotsybar

Details | Burlesque | |

I Feel Ashamed

I am hungry, what will it be?
Ham, turkey or that nasty bologna?
I am hungry, chickpea mash?
Spam or that disgusting Hash?
I am hungry, mountain oysters anyone?
Fish eggs? Or sushi that is "not done?"
Such meager questions on what to eat.
There are people out there who are starving.
I feel ashamed and should do my part.
To give the shirt off my back would be a start.

Details | I do not know? | |


Hollow words have beauty
Hollow words are dead
Life has had no meaning
With hollow words' Godhead

So speak your lies
So scream in tongues
Your hollow cries
Are not enough
The world will turn a deafened ear
The world will turn a deadened fear

Details | Shape | |


                                                    Burn.       Done.

                                                    Phone.    Loan.

Details | Free verse | |

Fruitless Ink

My pen was once filled
with all the possibilities
of seed,
even therapeutic denial

but now it's though she's wordless
from all those verses
malady sucked from her bones
when marrow was too thin
and hope was a loveless man
who left via the white horse

My theory is: 
heart truly believed
poems were the wings to soul's freedom,
but I suppose it was only a metaphor
and poetry 
never really grows it's own skeleton
or feathers
or can even soar for that matter

(yet somehow, it flew away from me) 

Details | Rhyme | |


i filled my me with lit-ra-ture
epic songs and pretty words
  the most important thing i learned
was all the thoughts i'd never heard

Details | I do not know? | |

I Am A Writer

Not inspired by great people before me
Not bound by words to be graded by this time
I am a writer for all time
Inspired solely by my spirits knowledge
Bound only by sincerity to Self
The gift, though mine, is yours to take
but always remember, mine to give
I am a writer, exposing for your theories
the coldest,warmest,deepest caverns of my being
Fear not and judge me
For I am a writer capable of timeless love
Accepting of all life's lessons
Measure my greatest pleasure
with all your spirits conviction
Leave mediocrity for those still searching
Take from me what I freely
and without hesitation hand over to you
The priceless gift of a writer

Details | Acrostic | |

A Poet's Life in Tapestry

Two lives
Are interwoven, like the threads of a
Perfect tapestry.
Each day I wake knowing my 
Spirit is filled with 
The artistry of words and not 
Really knowing how to express it;
Yet with the kind words of others and His Word I have the strength to live as a poet.

Details | Free verse | |

Curious as a Poet

I am a cat to most things.
With nimble thoughts falling through 
white padding paws I skirt about 
My place on earth, as though it’s 
a dream, a painted scene
except for me.
 I am too slick to stick
to a boundless place 
like this, reality.

Though the mundane springs
with novelty and perks my 
ears so easily
life’s unfair and can’t think to care
of a woman fraught with dreams
or prayer.

I could love the sand
and salty sea
which gathers soft around my feet
thinking hard on words to please 
the oceans’ rolling breeze.
But the water’s hands are cold and quick
To claim a life or render sick
The mouths that sing its praise

Such is the laughter of reality
When it knows not a bond to me
And moves without a thought to see
My genuine concern

I’m here alive with
 moments to keep 
my eyes transfixed 
to this curious circumstance.
My pillaring feline
Limbs are still and prepared,
Ready for a beginning but
Aware of an end.

What preoccupies me this day?
Maybe the green traces of
frayed blades, my
childhood smell, my love,
that earthy carpet
that crunched under my feet
like water chestnuts.
It clung to me like a lover
On those lingering summer afternoons
and I was happy for that
But even if now I toss the thought
like a finite game
and I roll it about my tongue
like cold coffee,
My attention to that day
is stifled by the movement of now
and I remain a cat
wondering how,
I could be what I am,
an ageless spirit
ready to spring
but happy to watch

Details | Free verse | |

An eddy, a swirl and I was completely fascinated

an arcane conduit
ran to and fro
could have been liquid
something fluid
like feelings of some sort
swift like rapids pumping
my heart, like running
and not being able to stop
i suppose that’s how it felt
like any old conduit
it was hidden and  i never saw it
like being hit by something mysterious
i studied it for years
until i kind of figured it out
then i wrote about it
it made some sort of sense
the words became images
alive, inspiration flowed with imagination
like a lazy river, i floated
on an inner tube, then rapids
i hung on in the turbulence
it felt like magic but it wasn’t
i felt joy in it all,
it was living and i embraced it

Details | Free verse | |


It wasn't what we wrote; 
that which was startling, or true,
or even the stark cynical twist
which grasped at the neck so early,
but the fact that deep below
was the cold pathetic marrow
that ached and ached and we
felt no shame in our therapy-
writing page after page 
of neurotic fireworks,
and very few,
but the most low and dying
really knew
and felt
The Grime,
that slime and slithering evil
of despair and medicated happiness,
our poetic moments-
that which we could bare,
'was', and 'is' why
we will never be loved.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


How some students grew up on the Computor? 
and can't function in the real world right click the bus mommy and place it at the 
stop it is taking much too long to come around the horn. form method="post" 
This paragraphic is free to be a space bar for mee and ewe. 
option>Sometimes in my fables there is parts and pieces of mye poems this is 
not yellow journalism or nepotism or even bad form eye can copy and paste and 
then add text eye can translate pictures into banners and banners into love eye 
can relate a page to GOD and find a way to enter clouds formed and someday 
eye will make it rain inside this idiot Computor box and it will fry all the electronic 
components of every Computor in the world then we will all go outside again and 
inhale the fresher air. 
Just now eye went to a Bravenet website to make me a new website and its free 
but of course the upgrades would cost me but the free sights is challenging and 
it gave me a code for a welcome type box and it did NOT work as it is in the form 
of a a href not a url. The idea is the webpage would bring me people they would 
sign my little guestbook too bad it does not even relate to the page it won't 
translate at all the code is wrong its backwards to a forum type webpage the url 
is too long. The HEY REF only works on websites the URL IMG thing only works 
on FORUMS how many people have followed links to there destruction. When 
eye got the thing on my FIRST PAGE of HOME the thing took off with me when eye 
clicked it open we went for an internet ride and eye lost the page eye was on NO 
fun. Eye would not want a HOME Computor user to become lost in navigation 
when he was just trying to let me knoe that he had viewed my poems. The thing 
is done the web page that they gave me is very green and nice looking but does 
not do a real function oh well in this Brave New World does anything rally have to 
have a function and so mye gentle reader ewe it seems to mee the eye the poet 
fable maker fabulist like Aesop that eye am just the new proud owner of another 
big white elephant so they will always benefit from instruction of this knowledge 
from someone please open windows as many as yew want and let them learn 
yew some. 

Details | Free verse | |

Latenight No2

On grieving:
there is both a time
and a place.
Leave your swollen sensations at your seats,
and please allow the door to hit you on your way out;
I can tell you need the kick.
Call it a funeral,
sounds like a carnival,
call it a funeral,
I call it a fun-for-all.

Details | Free verse | |

Star seeding

How many nights awake as thoughts tumble so fast from the heavens that sense just needs to
be made?
Grab the pad always nearby, for when the rains come
and pour your heart out with them.
It’s understated to say inspired,
conversations with clouds,
allowed and understood.
Good. When that thunder rolls you know that flash is going to illuminate a lot.
All you’ve got
is a few minutes to get that down, a word a code a sign.
To remind your mind again.
It’s like that for all of us, but we,
we who have learned to pay attention,
not to mention
that we like it,
we listen. That’s all it is.
Nothing mystic
or fatalistic in it.
We like to dance naked in the rain.
And let that rain wash right through us.
We’re not afraid of lightning, we know it comes from the Earth.
And we’re rooted there. Deep.
So keep
your judgments to yourself about what’s right.
There ain’t no St. Peter checking for baptismal certificates at the Pearly Gate.
And Fate
can be re-written any time by intent.
Well meant
wishes sent to you do good and keep you strong.
So that rain of inspiration won’t burn you up, keep you watered long
After you’ve apologized.
So we let it through in verse, in muse, in story disguised
As truth. Star seedings through us all
Watching as seeds fall
And sprout in the rain
on Earth.

Details | Free verse | |

Almost Psychedelic

It's almost like clockwork,almost second nature
It's alive to me
Yet there's no name for It.
It's like the air I breathe-
It is the air I breathe.
Its the pleasure of pain,
The joy in sorrow
Call it what you may.

It might be love
I like to think otherwise
I think it's the thoughts of those around me
In awesome motley of colours-
It defines everything I see.
It's funny...
I'm beginning to think
It might

Details | Blank verse | |


Twenty-four hours of pure silence
Time devoid of human speech and sound
When a word is not uttered
A day in the world of profound dumbness
The tongue, the teeth and lips
Observe a break of twenty-fours hours
 The ears hear 
The rhythm of the air, water and fire
And enjoy the lyrics of the birds
With the rhythmical dance of the trees and plants
Gossips, rumors and curses took flight
Deceit lies and tongue wagging expelled
Splits and spits of the tongues avoided
World’s day of quietude and tranquility
A day of inner communication
When the deep calls to the deep
And people transits the limits of spoken words
Into perceptions and intuitions 
Birthing profound thoughts and ideas 
As each make contact with the inner person
A day without speech
How beautiful, how priceless!
Oh! How I long for that day!!

Details | Blank verse | |


Sometimes when words escape
They leak back into the echosphere
Like a lost soul with a task unfinished.

Their absence haunts us, those words we thought
And let slip through our fingers before articulation.
They want to be spoken: need to be spoken into existence,
But never were given the chance to mature
Beyond the simple state of being an idea.

When they eventually return from their metaphysical journeys
It'll be too late to make a difference or prove their point.
The timing will be wrong, the context unnatural.
It makes me wonder if the world might have been better off
If those pesky words would have stayed lost,
And not come back to remind me 
That it's rude to stand with one's jaw dropped
When a beautiful women is speaking to you.

Details | Couplet | |

A quickie for two

Agile feelings all alone
Fragile living on my own 
Fickle fingers typing thought
Meaning, depth and insight sought
Drowning sorrows, quicksand driven
Floating promise slowly risen 
Words contained, but yearn to fly
Caged, the birds in my mind’s eye
Burn the rust within this soul
Combust with freedom, make me whole
Transform this canvas, recreate
Brand the keeper of this gate
As art well sculpted by brain power
Planted seeds that sprout to flower
And nurtured by an inner voice
Where roots grow deeper, fed by choice  

Details | Haiku | |

The End

The End
Nothing left to say;
journey has been completed,
all is finished now.

Details | Free verse | |

Shoeless Muse

I have endeavored to retreat behind common experience
Finding salvation far from transcendental
Happily plotting meaning as if some wisdom was
Possessed, only to be shown through the veil of
An incantation that the lines hardly end in the
Most appropriate places, clinging rather to a 
Need for old-fashioned sociability
Yet remaining far beneath, crying perhaps too
Loudly for its own sake, the doubt--
Cloaked as existence to the flawed so trampled
By the unattainable light reserved for
Men of glass whose honesty shatters the helpless
Sinner sacrificed to misfortune
'Tis a thing of beauty this universal gladness
I only hope its meaning is revealed to its
Author in a way far too brilliant to be

Details | Couplet | |

From the top of my heated head

I thank you all for allowing me
An astutely marvelous opportunity
To spark synopses atriums
And bounce ideas from craniums
That is the mattress under lights
Where rocket ships prepare for flight
They launch for space in peaceful moods
And head for bulbs of orbing moons

Like moths that orbit thought balloons

Details | Free verse | |

my favourite path

i see it before me 
i have not stepped towards, nor walked along its direction 
it is clearly there for me to do so 
the decision 
can stray left or right of the way I go 
and all I know 
is that it starts 
before me

Details | Free verse | |

Through lack...he finds

Lacking inspiration he presses on the keys
Fluid in motion, forward he proceeds
To continue to write about his thoughts for the moment
Knowing they will change for he knows his mind
Never constant but continuing to unwind
Like a see saw ride going up and down
Fluid in motion, up and down and not around
A constant state he seeks and he has expressed this before
In his poem “Equilibrium” about a sense of balance
His hand aches from the typing and he rests for a second
Finding himself once more his thoughts stream out
Like the wireless network on his lap top before him
His mind is a processor of enormous speed
Sometimes too much quickness is not good in itself
For thoughts come and go and he tries to capture them all
Expressing in free verse he remembers a time
Driving and thinking about the concept of fear
A quote came to him
“Do not give power to fear; sometimes it is wise not to listen to that inner voice”
He is again poised to achieve
Assure of himself, he writes in the third person, he will get that job
And all will be well
He is confident of this for someone high above is looking after him
Through his angels on this planet we call Earth

Details | Verse | |


Why should thoughts, ideas and dreams be
as esoteric as secrets?
Turn them into poetry,
and share them with the entire Humanity...
I have shared mine with all without ambiguity!

No fortress, stately rising into the vast skies,
can escape the battering storms so damageable, 
and not tumble lay in ruins as others have;
here's your only chance to be immortal:
be a wide river which can withstand tides!

Why should a literary work
be as esoteric as secrets, to remind the worst humiliation?
Don't pass under the yoke for a defeat,
be daring, fearless, challenging and brief;
do lucky survivors ever submit their will to desperation? 

And should you be disheartened by a wrong choice?
Don't cuss fate or damn yourself for bumpy roads;
instead of complaining, look on the brighter side:
dare to make a difference with the gift of words...
by giving your dead language a more vibrant voice!

Verse: a metrical or rhymed composition as distinct from Prose: Poetry

Copyright 2010 by Andrew Crisci

Details | Free verse | |

Nun But You

How do you know? 
Who tells you so? 
Is it premonition? 
One who forever butts in with song;
With the voice gone entirely wrong. 

Do you reach for opinions of loved ones? 
Would they inform you the talent you suspect is none? 
Would you be mortified by truth.....? 
If truth was sincere? 
Or could you embrace the honesty you hear? 
Would you regroup; or give in? 
Would the fighter arrive telling you to win? 

Is it even worth trying to continue.....? 
Or is it only false hope that lies deep within you? 
Are you a no trick pony.....? 
With no chance, no passion, a phony?

But it does burn deep inside you. 
Most times, the only friend to guide you. 
It listens and makes you talk back. 
Filters your senses, pushing you back on track.
You need no affirmation. 
Only self adaptation. 
When the voice inside you fails to love and guide you, 
Release the headaches of self doubt. 
Let you figure you out. 
Because when those in which you’ve confided all depart, 
You are the one left with aspirations..... 
Of the calling you failed to start.

JS Lambert

Details | Rhyme | |


The time has come, but now it's past
I knew you first, you knew me last
The first is old, the last is new
I paid it all, no it's past due

Details | Monorhyme | |


Rumble bars ~ the education
is slowing down  to advocation,
a better choice, or celebration
this hereto reason of duration!

The poet's handle, co-relation
wants time to think, their own creation
is rhyme, is rhyme, its' innovation,
composite thought, for allocation!

We dinker here, we speed, then ration
what facts could flaunt, we're our own nation,
the poet's poet, the graced sensation,
all else gets caught by time's invasion!

Stop now ~ the sign is mind's abrasion
it must be taught, fine art's embraced run,
a line, so brought with meaning's phase one,
the poem, the wrought, soul's recreation ~

Is hereby drought .  .  .  .  spectrum's persuasion!

Details | Senryu | |

No inspiration

No inspiration,
Just an eraser marked page
And an empty beer.

Details | Rhyme | |

Frame of Reference

My reality might be
The opposite of yours.
You may think the words I write
Are merely metaphors.

Some may be, I’ll give you that,
But mostly they’re the truth,
A frame of reference I’ve been in
From early days of youth.

Of course, that frame’s expanded
As experience has grown.
We each exist within a world
We cling to as our own.

But oftentimes I get a jolt
That knocks me for a loop.
What’s obvious to me
Is not to others on the Soup.

Within my frame of reference
I describe the things I’ve seen.
I’m shocked when those beyond that frame
Do not know what I mean.

Details | Acrostic | |


Transforms the heart to a bigger size,
Raises the stakes in a relationship,
Unseals a new world for someone shunned,
Spurs confidence in the integrity of another,  and
Takes effort for someone hurt in the past.

Details | Free verse | |

Another Suffering Poet

When I feel bitter discontentment
I take out my poision pen to immortalize
The ones who have crushed
Me with their 
Gigantic, concrete boulders
Like many before me
Who cried tears
Of overwhelming sadness
Lingering depression 
And infinite lonliness
I have become one with them
For we all possess
The same quality
The need to be set free
Through the expression of 
The thoughts that haunt our minds
We release our agony through our poetic prose
Our words are few
But, they speak volumes
About what lies inside us
For my creativity 
Stems from the intensity
That roams within me
My open wounds
Exposed for all to view
When I compose
A melodic rhyme
It speaks of my angst
Through mystery
Making my reader
Look beyond the face value
Of my syntax
And search for the true meaning
Of which I was attempting to convey
My poetic talents 
Can only bring miniscule relief
From what has been
Creeping up on me
Following me 
My entire life
I hear the clock ticking
The hand is about to strike midnight
The fairytale is over
Time is running out
Like sand passing through the hourglass
I wait for the day
I muster up the courage
To turn on the gas stove
Sticking my head in 
Sylvia Plath style
So I can take my last breath
Ending my melancholic existence forever
For I couldn't escape the curse
Of my literary collegues
That preceded me
Whose lives were filled 
With despair and doom
Who spent their life tormented
By the demons inside their soul
Because I, like them
Couldn't stop feeling the torture
Of my past
When I laid down my pen
And closed my eyes
For I am just another suffering poet
In my grave
Decaying away
After a life wasted

Details | Senryu | |

' Orbit Gum ... ' 28th Senryu

‘ Orbit Gum … ’   28th   Senryu 

       A Devious Tongue
    Is Not A Dry-Witty One
   Just Dirt and Mouth-Scum

Details | Rhyme | |

lower case

i love to write in lower case
but if you ask me why,
the reason i would give you is
it comes down to the “i.”

my first initial, written small,
is capped off with a dot.
the way it hovers makes me smile – 
i like it quite a lot.

most people stick with capitals;
from grammar rules, no slummings -
except for those outside the norm,
like poet e.e. cummings.

i’ve always loved his chutzpah
for it took a lot of nerve
to get his poems, unique and cool,
the notice they deserve.

with email now, the rules are bent
so when i correspond,
i always type in lower case
with fonts of which i’m fond.

yet many times i will concede
and give in to convention.
i’d hate to be perceived as one
just dripping with pretension.

but really, who i am’s ilene,
expressed in lower case.
that dotted “i” identifies
as clearly as my face.

Details | Haiku | |



Although I have heard the words
Each time I  read you anew
Fresh beauty sings in my mouth

Details | Free verse | |


On this parchment
I am forced to write
That of which I cannot speak

On this oh so delicate paper
I am enraptured
by my under lying thoughts

On this meager piece of material
And this once sharp pencil
I try to express the deepest of emotions

On this once blank loose leaf
That I now read to it's fullest
I find that though I wrote about nothing

On this one piece of parchment
About nothing at all it seems
Is full of something you feel, not just see

Details | Free verse | |

A Cup of Tea

stepping out into the open air 
i feel a course of light running through my veins 
the sky, the sun, the grass 
some things never change 
and i pray they never will 

underneath this tree i built 
i gather from the shade 
a sense of belonging for what it's worth 
i could never taste the touch of your lips 
or the incessant nudge of a friend's reality 
but i can just as well sit here 
and become the earth again 

it's just me now 
and that's okay 

i take a trip up the countryside 
my jacket across my shoulder 
waving to any passers-by 
it's not as lonely when everyone knows you 
i find a diner off the side of the road 
and stop in for a drink 
i sit alone in the farthest corner 
and ask the waitress for a pen 
she obliges but she wants it back 
then asks me what i'd like 

just a cup of tea 

i pull a napkin closer in 
and write what i see/feel now 
the sun reflecting off the window 
and the glare in my glasses blinding me 
it's beautiful out there 
and it makes me wonder 
how much more beautiful it might be with you 

but it's just me now 
and a cup of tea 

Details | I do not know? | |

It's So Quiet In Here

It’s so quiet in here
And the only sounds I hear 
Come from fingers, moving wildly
Telling stories behind backs
Literally, Figuratively
Breaking hearts and bonds
Secrets spreading silently
In a tangled web
Of words and whispers
Created by humming hands
And, I think we have forgotten
Our once vocal voices
For I don’t remember how to say
I’m Sorry

Details | Free verse | |


No, It was not my time
to jaunt & jump about 
the Morld with You, to
of Ischia, the privileges
of Mackinac, "...our Paris, Ilsa!"...

Ornamented ataud &
calefacted incinerators are
merely better-funded!, to a last-
notice of proteaned hoar, the
dearth of silk...

So, it was to be
Goa, or Delhi "curry-in-a-hurry" not,
and the touts & shouts 
as We passed...
You in those shoes,
toeing-up with heel asway
like a silent, ticking-pendulum,
Me, watching...

Allowing sole specialnesses, but a few
to my inti-mated Life,
why there was You insinuate...
E'er Yours-sporadic, tho'
an extravagance of Soul!, like
incipient Sinatra, or 
the piano of Jarrett!  But,

No, it was not your time
to jump & jaunt-about
with Me, but for You, 
like a junkie afeared of needles,
to be going, & mine  
to Write... of It, plecking-off 
the pilpuls from 
My blanket, & You to
replacing contoured batteries
for Now... perhaps as recent
as tomorrows' accident.


Details | Alliteration | |


What'll I Write... he
Muses, surveilles the nil 
Wind, windowy visage, 

& gateswayed key-pad, 
like a cyber abacus
to touch & stroke, counted-

on to reveal it's 
whilom Mysterlex, vener-
able... Sunday, a 

small gaggle of Ibis, like a 
short-stack @ the Pamcake House,
gather to beak the 

night-sogged sand & soil - 
Yes, it is Raining, & what'll 
I Write onto this 

Sky heavy with no 
sound, Divemy - to Alpha-Bet- 
souper-bowl-Day to score 

& yield 1st-touch-Words, 
off-costume, aplenty like 
Muskmelonseeds al 

centro, resplendent 
like an occasion, of the 
Yes-twoDay's a mazed 

Prosetrycopia!, huh! - 
What shall I Write, In-
Deed!?, but Linnear... 

and Quantumescent,
A Sirge in Time to the
Muse of Rhyme, I Am...   


Details | Free verse | |


Wisdom being crushed
by the weight of knowledge

The arrogance of knowledge
balanced by the humility of wisdom

Simple words trapped
under the debris of meaning

One word lost
in complexities of interpretation


Without which the "whole" becomes disrupted

Details | Rhyme | |

A Season of Verse

Days in seasons gather As due storms, above a setting sun Memories holding me in stillness By living out, in each and every one In verse, a vessel to amble on, with Or mere ways which a man journeys back As pages become the stir of echoes By outward, inking thoughts into black Some are turned, with smiles stained Others in very tender tears Evermore simply by aural laughter Freeing imagery of foregone years And in eye of mind I see thee read To turn another, then one more page And feel in your heart, my envision bleed

Details | Cinquain | |

Angst Of Burden On An Overcast Day

traps me inside
myself -- suffocated.
to love but be unloved -- my cross 
to bear.

Details | Free verse | |


"and don't forget the pretention"

everyone nodded along as 
the first line Hit 
 cut w-/ Posh .. chugging 
stars , throats end to end slit.

	Schemes o'er everything 
I realise now that you need 
these 'things' , 
imaginary or other wise.	Anything 
to keep the Belief that 
Life is worth living.
	By their ridiculous Forgery 
to emphasise insubstantial shapes , mutilated 
text , colour & breathing connecting Heart 
to Pen under strict obligation 
to remain Nonsense
	Above seperate Action.

I just want to be Honest
	o'er the vicious Cycles of Trend
inspiring by reflection 
	We replace real life as we all 
like Motion Pictures 
	Lost within Code 
he might be you or me Beating 
the walls as we try 
	out these twillight eyes switching o'er
to Terra's Remote viewing 
	zoom ignites thy Bone's hollow Fractures 
happening, pure & simple , we errode
	in a sudden glass moment ...excuse me 
& my obvious slander .. Keeping it real may soon dismay 
at a pulse of Cheekbones ; Paper artic traces flickering on 
nervescreens before our pristine chords reciting
	"Nobody's story" revolving round 
nothing really ... simple words.

Oh Lord its so clear
	All Places & All Times 
		its just us 
trying to make faces in the sky....
		and scream no more dropping 
	your daily optic reset calibrating 
	Our CCTV standard view 
	declining to smash utterly as Minute 
	prevent such ink immediate 
between Mind & Matter ,
	Powdered Charcol , meaning the whole 
Legal Judgement satisfied 
		Logic there in  
Personal reasoning & Multi - simplicity
	Leftscreaming up the curb 
as if 
	you were just walking by... Society's Needs 
cackling inhuman . Adverts scattering   w-/ only One 
Purpose 	rocking aby sentence.
		Cast Calm to Create.

Details | I do not know? | |

Tendrils of Hope

Refusing to succumb,

to the alluring haze of self-pity,

I refuse to wallow,
in an ocean of regret,

I choose to banish thoughts of despair,

dispelling pain, while tempting joy to emerge from its shielded lair.

I shall sow the seeds of promise,

nourishing well,

the tendrils of hope,

breathing new life into my nights, my days.

I must stand, I will rise, I have to believe,

in a better tomorrow,

not perfect, nor rosy,

yet filled with tidbits of bliss,

as well as with shards of sorrow.

Details | Narrative | |

Working in a Factory of Words n Poetry Soup is the Hub

A hub stays put
But around it the wheel rolls
A hub only feels the weight of the load on the road
But the wheel rubs on the surface of it all

In mud, on dirt, on tar
The wheel is not afraid to roll for it fits within its purpose
The hub always stays put in the middle of the wheel
But with it everywhere it goes

Poetry soup is the hub
And around it like a wheel I’m gonna roll
Sometimes the surface maybe on a tarmac so smooth
Sometimes I may wade through mud so sticky and deep 
Sometimes I may leave so much dust rising on my trail
But an artist is all I am
A creature of emotions working shifts in the factory of words

Mine is just to pack
The emotions endeared to me in the wrappers of words
Each day different from the one gone past
Sometimes it’s heaven is on a roll
Sometimes it’s hell in a storm
But being the servant I am 
My position at the factory
Impels me to wrap it all in the assembly line of words

So please understand
Don’t blame the packer working shifts in the factory of words
Blame the company for producing all the sincere stuff

Details | Free verse | |

Abstract or Concrete

What are the words that give meaning to a page,
what is a page, what is a word.
Who is the audience that drives the poet’s ambition,
what is the desire to fulfil this ambition.
Is it the satisfaction of knowing their words are meaningful,
a line upon line rhyme or verse occupied by limitless thoughtmanifested as ink.
What is a poem but a bold statement,
fearless of interpretation.

For more poetry goodness, visit my website: 

Details | I do not know? | |

Different Realities

The pregnant dream vs the naked existence.
The healthy belligerent vs sanguine invalid. 
The buoyant child vs the cavillous pensioner.
The all-giving African vs the all-recieving European.
The befriended neighbour vs the ostracized man.
The kaleidoscopic optimist vs bleak pessimist.
The raw truth vs the falsified lie.
The low-key good Samaritan vs the ostentatious donator.
The good vs the bad.

Details | Free verse | |

To the beginning and over but Never Out

Oh please, I plead
Listen to my beseech
I raise my hands out to you
take them please

In this dark void I walk through
there is no comfort
no warmth
no joy

slowly it leaches out all that I hold
when will I ever reach the end?
Do you know where the end is?
Is the end where the end of the end is?

Lost, dazed, confused
Did God pluck me out
and strand me here?

three doors, three paths, three choices
one Mundane

ransom me out
an open cage, such as this atramentous nightmare
no end
no path

Is there hope? 
Hope is where light is
is the light at the end where darkness is not?
is the light where the light always materializes from?


Details | I do not know? | |


When diamonds turn to ash
Do we
Even recognize this last epiphany
Penultimate of metaphors
We break these lifeless doors of definition
Fill the space
Created in the wake of self-destruction
And, induced to be, we happily accept a fate
And fill ourselves with names of our own make
We claim to span the void
Create it in the origin and end of time
Which passes by
Heedless of all our
And our deconstruction
As we claim
To have unnamed

Details | Rhyme | |

Comments On The Alphabet

I have some comments on the alphabet--
This group of letters numbering twenty-six.
There seems to be some problems with it, yet,
They might not be the kind we’d like to fix.
The C, S, K, and Q can interchange,
The X, I’m sure, could quickly be replaced,
The G and J sometimes both sound the same;
The many sounds of vowels is a disgrace!
And what about the lonely W--
The only one with syllables to say--
It looks like double-V, that is quite true,
But not likely to be renamed some day.
The school kids would be thrilled, I’m sure, to death
If things were changed in alphabetic scheme;
There’d be no chance to give the child an “F”
If that one letter’s dropped from off the scene.
In zeal I could think of some more to choose,
But without some of its letters this would be
A poem with letters I could never use
Because somebody changed our A B C’s.

Details | Free verse | |

Verbage Stew

I salt the soil of my mind
spew forth a regurgitated mash
of syllables and vowels
meted out in a rhythm
only a lunatic could dance to
Buy me a package of 
instant identity- a dash of Plath,
some Tagore for good measure
that I would no longer be distracted by
the sound of my own pen tapping
on an empty page
Deceitful brain!
How you've betrayed me
Your promise is dry ink
and screeds of nothing

Details | I do not know? | |


Art is art is Art,

and as such it will be confrontational to someone,

and will at some point in it’s existence, 

piss someone off every minute of the day

( CLiPiCs AKA Kriss Lee: 03-06-09)

Details | Blank verse | |

cracked lines on the surface of the morning...

cracked lines on the surface of the morning
as I bleed the (night’s) phantoms onto a page
trying to settle the inconstancies
of unsolid corners
& console myself in the shape of a line
i carry the words you’ve spoken
etched into my softest skin
& the contours of your eyes
reflected forever in mine
you will know me
in another life
by my sweetest scars
& the words
for which
there is

Details | Cinquain | |

No Reprieve

deprived --
main course only!
no chocolate ice cream,
when you sup at the restaurant.
no treat.

Details | Free verse | |


On rude again 
The people on the bus sometimes seem hard to swallow with an aspirin bottle 
even as eye talk to them with curses from forgotten places  because of old man 
sin nature its just a shadow of my former person no reason to be disturbing 
others in my assignations as my liasons cases come and go among the thorns 
of time he shoved past me intending to be ahead of me   but suddenly we were 
both at liberty upon the sidewalk and eye was out of patience as eye moved so 
carefully toward the corner to step gingerly into the street to try to make it to the 
other transfer point is when he bumped me and all eye did was make the 
refrences to his ancestory his intentions were just nominal he wanted to survive 
the traffic so eye proceeded to just make it know to  him HOW RUDE you are. 
HOW rude you really are. 

Details | Narrative | |

Another poetry festival

Another poetry reading.
I arrive late and drop my phone in a workshop.

I capriciously retrieve it and slink to the corner,
My notebook and pen
Poised and ready
For my muse to be resurrected after
A long hibernation.

This is why I am here,
To absorb through omosis
Inspiration and guidance
By the brilliant featured poets
(clearly stated in the festival program)
Who grace us amateurs with their
Published verse and professional advice.

That is the reason I tell myself
And everyone else,
But, I also have a secret agenda
Which causes  me to compulsively
Scan the faces and profiles of each
Audience member 
In workshops, open mikes and  the main lecture hall
For one specific person, 
an ordinary man,
With dark hair and eyes

Who I once loved.

It has been three years,
But the need to see him makes my mouth dry

I want to have an awkward conversation
Peppered with stilted small talk and profound subtext
Which my posture, eye contact, tone of my voice 
Clearly indicates:

I still look good, don’t I?

I don’t want a reconciliation,
Only an endless moment
(Like a scene from  an old movie)
Where we wistfully stare into each others’ eyes, and 
Fused with old love, regret,  longing 
I telepathically communicate:

I am so happy we were together once,
Even  though it ended with us acting like 
Two toddlers throwing tantrums and telling lies,
It took me a long time to move on, but I did.

Day passes into evening,
My heart leaps and sinks in my chest
With hope and despondence whenever I glimpse a man
Who has a similar jacket, hair color or hat

But, he isn’t here 

Instead, my notebook fills with quotes, notes and poems.
My thoughts become occupied with 
composiing chap book  of poetry and 
Taking a writing class.
I finish the day
With relief  and confidence that my muse is alive
and I can write again 
and that is enough.

Details | Cinquain | |

Rough Mountain Hike

piece of chaos
waiting to erupt.
wear hard hats for the ruin and

Details | Haiku | |

Fish Speak Silently

fish speak silently

underwater words echo

heartfelt thoughts within

(February 9, 2011 Wausau, Wisconsin)

(c) Copyright 2011 by Christine A Kysely, All Rights Reserved

Details | I do not know? | |

Truth and Happiness

The following is a conversation between a classmate and I when we should have been paying close attention 
to what the teacher was saying, although the subject is almost identical in both the teacher's talk and our 
conversation. Each stanza is one thought, and the next is a reply from the other. I apologize for any 
pretense, I tend to slip into that when writing.

Truth is undefined;
Grasp it if you dare, the air
Will be disturbed then.

Happiness is naught
Unhappiness is nothing.
Minds birth reality.

Happiness matters?
If happiness was matter,
It would be truthful.

Truth is meaningful?
Truth brings disillusionment,
Truth feeds our sorrows.

Truth appeals to Mind
Happiness to Mood, and the
Soul combines the two?

The soul embraces
Its diversity, yet it
Longs for unity.

How tortured is the soul
That doesn't seek both of them
One hand to balance...

In pieces and bits
After its foreseen failings,
A puzzle remains.

Happiness can bring
Lies and Truth; Truth can bring both
Grief and Happiness.

Illustrated by
Our lives and these lines, both
Lies and Happiness.

Details | Quatrain | |


Disembark from society for
no one is a winner here. If
you want to win, reach

Details | Free verse | |

Never Sympathy

Looking up at all the lights that you can't appreciate
Among the city life I wonder:
What's out there; who's out there for me?
From what I do the thoughts remain in constant circulation.
From what I write will my life be revered or will it be viewed
As a man who struggled to persevere. The outlets in which
I drain my power are far from self-sustaining, and although
Straining, they jolt along. The truth behind his words
Is an authors saddest and most powerful story. His life; in relation
To all that surrounds him. His light; in all that's growing dim. 
The complex written in small words as a reminder, not of spite,
But to remember life and what has been survived. An outward
Expression to set yourself free; hoping for understanding but never sympathy.

Details | Haiku | |

' Uni-Verse...' (Haiku # 11)

   ‘ Uni-Verse ’   Haiku  # 11

        Oh, What Universe
What Grand Word, Did God Speak First
     ... Gave Beginning – Birth !

Details | Sonnet | |

Sonnet 6

Now ... tell me the truth at 80 spaces .
Oh yes monthly at no extracted cost ,
trumpet swans announcing "All-New" "Chases"
... Gameshow w-/ only purpose " Just stay lost".
scratch that ... start at the count ... three Faces.
flicker on screen , once more , spider webbed frost.
Pulse of cheekbone ; paper Artic traces ...
Hailing to the Fanatic's RoseArm crossed.

	... Why just imagine , All times // All places ...
Daydream reality clearly embossed 
by Our pristine chords reading "All's Debased" ...
Job to do ... hands join ... Avert as off tossed 
I may stain ... lip gloss ... gulp of life wasted.

All Presents, Our Situation Hostage .

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The broken road to heaven

The broken road to heaven 

The broken road in need of maintenance  
through which we have traveled, mute and solemn 
to our delight
was alight with millions of glow bugs;
evening was another leaf fallen
when I whisper to my friend Richard,
“Is it heaven? Have we arrived at last?” 
he smiled,  “we are yet to reach my home.”
=© 2009 - All Rights Reserved Kushal Poddar 

Details | Tetractys | |


can take
revise each line...
and understand what really went wrong.
It would be selfish to expect to win;
yes, they deserve 
the glory... 
no, not

Details | Burlesque | |

Poetry loves Porn

I hate the words
when I can not touch them
I love life more than I can say
This is the reason why
I tried to seduce Poetry

But she was a whore
Dressed like a slut
Eating like a horse
And talking like... me

I saw Her walking in the streets
She never noticed me
I eat Her just like I use to eat my brain
She never noticed me
She was in love with another Man

She never knew what love was
Because she never had a soul

Poetry loves in a porn way
She gives everything
Because she do not have to give

Details | Rhyme | |

Not Worthy

The New York Times won’t publish
All the wedding news it gets.
Unless you are “acceptable,”
They’ll send you their regrets.

With attributes like wealth or fame
Or Ivy League degrees,
The Times may run your story,
But there are no guarantees.

I’ve always know this as a fact
But recently I’ve learned
That even in obituaries,
Some folks will get burned.

There isn’t space enough, they say,
To honor all who’ve died;
So only certain folks deceased
Deserve their place inside.

An influential person,
Or one “offbeat,” even “quirky,”
Will trump an ordinary guy
For reasons somewhat murky.

And so a woman from the west,
Who sculpted cows from butter,
Received her dose of fame while others
Got tossed in the gutter.

A local businessman who was
A veteran and giver
And art collector didn’t have
The goods he could deliver.

The obit writer at The Times
Did let the family know.
“Of course his life was worthy,”
But his story’s not a go.

My husband promised when I died
I’d make The Times – “Don’t sweat it.”
But now I realize there’s no way,
So he should just forget it.

It seems some people count for more.
There is a great divide;
But somehow that should be erased
When someone’s up and died!

Details | I do not know? | |

Seeking Faustus

I’ll sell it to you
if I become famous,
if I can sit idly about while 
masterpieces pass from head to page 
in effortless debauchery.

You have the connections now,
bored and burning in some distant 
consequence, wishing you had more time,
wondering at your own folly.
I hunger for immediate gratification
but fear not the chime of midnight,
meandering as I am through words
and passions, eager to find the 
formula you must have missed, when
thoughts parade themselves but refuse completion. 

So, surely, I can forfeit myself 
for an eternity if I make it big,
and my parable continues beyond 
this brain demanding worthiness,
if I know what lies

beneath, what lies I hold 
at my fingertips when I want it now,
when my eagerness surpasses sublime creativity
and all I can think of is myself.
I will wait for you here.

Details | Quatrain | |


In this day and age, I want some recompense
I don't understand it, it jus' don't make sense
that we can write through our entire lives
with all of these damn defective pens

Now, you all know what I'm taking about
a thought comes to you, and you look around
grab one to jot down and just blankness comes out
a clear transcription of thoughts ain't found

Cups, bags, heck whole drawers of colored inks
rattle around days like maracas of empty thought
a reliable pen can't be that difficult me thinks
yet makers design defective models to be bought

that seem to flow like water in a mighty river
when opened and used for the very first time
effortless lines arc mind to paper to deliver
only to sputter, and spot, and splotch the next time

How many brilliant tomes, how many cures for cancer
how many Nobel-winning ideas of sub-particled find
how many deeply spiritual thoughts went unanswered
because, like a well, the damn pen went unprimed?

Maybe I'm unreasonable, and have a penchant for perfection
but if I pick up a pen it should write every curved line,
'stead of pennies, I want it to rain pens from heaven
that work the first, the penultimate, and the very last time

© Goode Guy 2012-09-06

Details | Free verse | |

Loss of Creativity

You reside behind my eyeballs,
but you most enjoy paralyzing my fingertips.
You feast on the thought-clots 
plugging my brain.
You see what I once saw
because you watch what is stolen from me,
as I desperately grasp at what
was digested long ago.
When will my mind be freed?
When will my imagination be reborn?

Details | Rhyme | |


My intention is to write some prose
Why it comes out poems, nobody knows
I struggle, wiggle, leave me alone
As I sit happily writing a poem

Words are created and suddenly rhyme
I hardly revise them – I’ve not the time
Give up the idea of writing a book?
I feel I’m caught by a crook and a hook

Following rules as the semester unfolds
Smothers my brain; puts creating on hold
When I find a second that isn’t filled
I’ll write a poem, ‘cause I’m strongly self-willed!

Details | Quatrain | |

My Friends

My Friends

Alone with my thoughts
they speak,  form and flow
alliteration with a purpose
undulating to and fro

Words that speak to me
ideas form and grow
from my thoughts to my pen
my friends to the page flow

Stephen (Stoic)

Details | Blank verse | |

Bathroom Floor Revelations

i'll bleed myself out
in this swollen well of ink
releasing tension
as deep red swirls into blue-black
the walls are slick
with the parts of myself
i can never climb out of
& as i go under
i wont bother
holding my breath

Details | Rhyme | |

The Poet

Living in the fragment
Shards keep me stagnant
I’m both plaintiff and defendant
Daily tried in my own lament
Choices within myself I resent
Down on my knees I repent
No answers leave me discontent
Or are angels ever sent
Pulled by the devil so evident
Mired in midlife not my intent
My poems where I vent
Giving and taking advice lent
Days slowly pass and there’s no dent
Lost souls are my life’s precedent
Sickened by my own ailment
Painted with emotions so transparent
Love adds to my abandonment
Pain penetrates like an insurgent
There’s no way to circumvent
To trust again I’m ambivalent
The pleasure of pain coexistent 
Looked upon as an embarrassment
Dreams realized are only a figment
My story no one could invent
These words written are blood sent
Of a life forever being spent
Seeking a valid endorsement
Blood , sweat, and tears are a requirement
For we have to be diligent
So all can understand what we meant
The life lived unknown as the  poet…

Details | Blank verse | |


Put pen to paper and
as the ink flows
so too your strength grows.
The power of the pen
to heal and reveal
innermost thoughts
Words within
hitherto unrecognized
take form.
As you scribe unconsciously
the introduction to self
sparks a new friendship
of intimacy.
Put pen to paper
for the combining of the two
creates a powerful force.

Details | Rhyme | |

Speaking In Tongues

I have so much to give,
I have so much to say,
Let me speak,
Let me feel.

I know my heart,
Here lies the truth:
My tears paint
Much more than friendship.

The ink in my veins
Will write how I feel,
The words on my tongue
Will show after time.

Details | Cinquain | |

Perpendicular Lesson

obstacle course
and jungle gym of words
in a mental maypole dance feat.

Details | Lyric | |

Loud Thoughts

I'm trying to write a poem,
so I need to sit here in peace.
Just an hour or so, at least.
Could you please be quiet?
I'm feeling a little on edge,
but I've managed to stay calm
by listening to my favorite song.
Could you please be quiet?
I'm burning a soothing candle
that smells of creamy toffee.
Of this stress, I must be free.
Could you please be quiet?
I'm sitting here by myself
and I still can't concentrate.
It's getting really late.
Could you please be quiet?
I'm going to need some sleep.
You’re still here, playing your games.
Let me get to the end of this page.
Could you please be quiet?
I'm thinking all day long.
Because of you, I can't forget
hopes for tomorrow and yesterday’s regrets.
I told you to be quiet.

Details | Free verse | |

what not to do

most people,
they don't get out of bed
in the morning
until they've heard the news.
or the weather.

all we need in the morning
is bad news and coffee,
tips on traffic routes,
tips on wardrobe.

no one wants to hear about
success anymore.
tragedy always seemed
so much more interesting.
no one reads milton,
but everyone reads shakespeare.

lifestyles of the rich & famous is gone,
but cops is still around.

no one likes to be told what to do,
but everyone needs examples of what
not to do.

i guess even poets still have a place
in society.

Details | Lyric | |

The toys are Broken

I dreampt that everyone
vanished without a trace
and I was the only one
wearing blue that day
never felt soo happy
never felt soo alive

I dreampt that everyone
lived in houses that were all the same
and I was the only one
who couldn't slide
never felt soo lonely 
never felt soo alive

I dreampt that everyone
was famous
and I was the only one
smiling that day
never felt soo special
never felt soo alive

I dreampt that everyone
had the same dream as me
but I was the only one
God spoke to
Never felt so righteous
never felt so alive

One room leads to the next
it goes on and on
but it just never ends
One story
alone cannot make proper sense
so they go on and on and on and on
but it just never ends
One thought
uncovers all the rest
it goes on and on and on and on
until everyone forgets
One song
breaks the code of silence
but goes on and on and on
until everyone forgets
One memory
leads to the next room
it goes on and on and on
but never makes sense

Details | Senryu | |

Lost Consciousness

thoughts escape my mind

flying swiftly through space, time

lost consciousness

(February 7, 2011 Wausau, Wisconsin)

(c) Copyright 2011 by Christine A Kysely, All Rights Reserved

Details | Free verse | |

A Portrait of the Writer as of Now

Robert Carson Dining Room 1891 Parnell Street Orlando Orange County Central Florida Florida South East United States North America The World Milky Way The Universe

Details | I do not know? | |

Slowly Foreign To My Ears

Whisper in my right ear,
  how in my eyes you wish to fall;
While my left's pressed firmly
  to the soothing cool of the wall.
You dare sigh of this despondency
  and name it our Love;
All I see's a twisted,jagged cage
  for some oil-slick dove.
I breathe on your neck of my
  desire to chase the set sun;
You just turn over,tell me to
  shut the light when I'm done.
I dream of love made in each
  room of your father's mansion;
Shaken,you say such visions are
  so long out of fashion.
Your sight's but small parishes
  not of brick,built of cute rhyme;
Show me your's,my lady,before
  I have to check our time.
Pharmacy-bought cards' 
  vocabulary under trademark;
Oh, where would we be without
  the company of Hallmark?
Laced with longing,each sweet,printed
  word meant to draw strings taut;
As Alexander,I'll cut this rope,
  our Gordian Knot.
To be left with papers in pieces
  and pencil shavings;
But,they should serve well enough
  as my current life-savings.
Our love's translation lost,
  doomed to silence amidst the years;
A passing passion become 
  slowly foreign to my ears.


Details | Prose Poetry | |


Mr. Copperhead went to the copper mines
to see what fortunes he could find
Pick and shovel followed close behind
On a burrow named Ole Bleu

Mr. Copperhead was boon-town sick
He struck so much ore 
Even pranced around like he was city slick

Though Ole Bleu toted the pick and shovel
And now the sacks of ore too
With all the excitement Mr. Copperhead had forgot
As he should not 
To give Good Ole Bleu the Lil Sugar that 
He had promised once they got back into town
Instead he slithered into the nearest saloon
Asked Saray Jane to play him a tune

She was obliging to do so of course
When out came Lil Sugar to sing a little tune
Sweet as can be she looked round the room 
For Ole Bleu
Who was no where's to see 

Upon finishing the chord 
Mr. Copperhead was trashed
Said he would finish all that he'd started 
After taking a nap
Well Ole Bleu didn't take to kindly to that
In fact that Ole Burrow knew a trick or two of his own

He made sure Ole Mr. Copperhead was asleep 
Then down to the minters he did creep
Made a lot of cents or so they say
Got gussied up for his Lil Sugar
They drank carrot juice and ate bales of hay

Mr. Copperhead awoke after three days to learn 
That Ole Bleu had made the mint and laid claims
On the ore mines leaving him to hiss in a fit 
As he slithered out of town

Thinking that if he had only given Ole Bleu the Sugar 
He had promised he'd still have his ore
Mean while Ole Bleu and His lil Filly Sugar 
Were down at the livery getting ready to be hitched
Seeing as now they were filthy rich
As Mr. Copperhead slithered 
Down to a town called old dusty ditch

Copyright Adell1 © 2006

Details | I do not know? | |

Economy of Words

say much
saying little

speak volumes
in few words

keep quiet
silence roars

economy of words
whittling away
paring down
all I say

tenuous talking
baby steps
to arms
there all along

Details | I do not know? | |

I Killed Myself

He jumped off the building
They said I asked my friend
Who that guy was she said
“He goes the same school 
As you do” “lives in the 
Same building” “he kinda 
Looks like you do” wears 
That favourite jacket you love
To wear” She said “he plays
Poet like You” he jumped
Off the building they said
And right before he hit the 
Ground I woke up from that 
Dream I was having where I
Killed myself I mean
I stopped writing…

Details | Free verse | |

The Idle Writer

Go on, put pencil to paper
Coordinate mouth and mind
Leave it not ‘til later
Lest this heart ascend 
In the meantime
Remember the bruise 
That smiled
And the laugh that cried
Every aching moment compiled 
Every tear soon to dry
How simple it should be
To express the soul 
In tune or ink
I should hope it isn’t only me
Too suffocated to think
Mediocrity poisons the mind
And paralyzes the hands
Unyielding, this thing called time
The ambiguous notion, made by man
Despite objection 
The moments tick by 
Breath by breath
It leaves me
Tremors melt in soft sighs
The pen is idle
Inspiration flees
Hands sit less than steady
The ceiling holds a blank stare
My brain has grown thick and heavy
And still, my page is bare

Details | Light Poetry | |

' Love Of Poets ... '

Oh, I Love Poets …
Here is Why:  Explore-It …

I Love The Way We Speak
I Love The Way We Think
And Seek and Link and When On The Brink
Of The Flow of Life … The Way We Drink …

I Love The Way We Pour-It
On … and Oh, I So Love Poets

Oh, I Love Poets …
Here is Some More-of-It …

The Way We Exercise Freedom of Speech
Sometimes, We May Actually Even Teach
All Times … We Are Truly Trying To Reach
at least One, if not Each … (while We Preach) …

but, They’ll Overlook or Get-Over-It 
Oh, I Do So Love Poets

I Love Poets …
Simply, Can Not Ignore-It …

We Are Determined to Make Talk, Très Chic’
All Topics, from Looney-Tunes to Tolstoy-Tragic
Deep Thoughts and Themes and Tags-Unique
“for A Rose by Any Other Name, Would Smell As Sweet”

… but It Would Not Sound So Fantastic !
If It Were Not Said, So Poetic …

So, I Do Love Poets
And What They Do, I Do Adore It
New or Classics and How They Wrote It
Oh, How I Do Indeed, Love Poets …

Details | Blank verse | |

cracked headstones & unfinished thoughts

six writers in a cemetary
each scribbling at the ears of the others
focusing through drunken desire
what could be better?
these casscadeing lines, 
broken sonnets
shouted into fields of dead
cracked headstones & unfinished thoughts
Where have i been?
so many years squandered
i've sat here before,
in this very spot
& felt that somehow, 
it must be my own
i've read these lines before,
never quiet giving them life
now with the sound of name-dropping poets,
listing every friend, financer,
first love, & false start,
i realize
someday we will be the name-droppers,
recalling the first times
we spoke, read, felt
these words
or that line
never quite finished
with the list of beginings
first times

Details | I do not know? | |

My Mouth Doesn't Fit On These Words

My mouth doesn’t fit on these words
Yet I swallow them reluctantly 
A loose fit, if any, makes up for lost time
And a corruption in my stomach is so appropriate
She writes better than me
I’m more clever than she
And the words sit to spoil my appetite
Never leaving, never heaving
My mouth doesn’t fit on these words
Shall I adjust my lips to this toxic text?

Details | Free verse | |

dark stage

what do you do
when to one's self you're true
lay down on the guillotine
let them scream off with her head
leaving your soul naked for all to see
under the glare of the red queen
when all who look
only see the dark stage
all the puppets you set
not the woman behind the puppets
not the writer of the page
only the actors chose to act
in the strange little play (c) M.J.Richter

Details | Epic | |

Rock-Contemporary Christian Music

At a church in a suburban community, I see a bunch of people and a trio of
rock/contemporary Christian bands. I'm either a soul trapped in a force field, or a guy
with a free spirit. When I listen to a lot of rock/contemporary Christian music, it's like
a party in my brain. It's also as if I'm going to a rock/contemporary Christian concert in
Arlington, Texas. The only reason why I listen to a lot of rock/contemporary Christian
music is because it's entertaining and inspiring. My favorite artists are P.O.D., Aly &
A.J., Skillet, Delirious?, and other artists. It's the other way to express myself freely
without holding anything back. If I were in a real band and I were good at playing the
guitar as well, then I'd be playing some rock music fused with contemporary Christian
music. It seems that I'd rather be at a church in one of the suburban communities than a
gospel church in an urban community. And if I were to own all rock/contemporary Christian
albums released by all of the artists, like, P.O.D., Skillet, and/or other recording
artists, there's no telling what great thing might happen next. I wonder if there's going
to be more contemporary Christian music and new artists? I guess I'll never know.

Details | Free verse | |

PhD Maybe

I lust for knowledge,
My day will come,
PhD maybe,
My day will come,
I believe it,
No faith placed in me,
But from me indeed,
My strength is my rock,
I will follow through,
The language of life,
I know it well,
It is my spell,
You will understand,
The day I receive that third diploma,
My doctorate in English Literature,
That will be the day of true destiny.

Details | Rhyme | |

Writing Art

Picking up my pen, I begin to pursue my purpose,
slaving away, I sacrifice subjects until I submit work,
suffice with a deeper surface.
Gaining growth and wisdom within my writer’s gravity,
I am grateful to gaze,
and watch as my words wonderfully unite
to whisper and shout in worthy ways.
Drawing artistic dreams,
I dictate and decide the next topic to describe,
whether venting anger or reciting vibrant value;
I aim to paint a victorious vibe.
Masterminding the masterpiece of matter and material
in a meaningful lyrical marriage,
I continue to contemplate and combine careful words
to convey emotion and courage.
Bountifully blessed with creative beauty and belief;
I became the poetical blacksmith,
fabricating fabulous fables
with a sense of fearless frailty forthwith.
I am amply able to inspire ambition and accordingly achieve,
with my notepad navigating toward noteworthy
after being notorious naïve.

I think therefore I am,
I write because I can.

For more poetry goodness visit 

Details | Cinquain | |


gives you a pause.
lets you add onto a
sentence with a conjunction and 
a clause.

Details | Rhyme | |

Endangered Species

The bell denotes my presence and I breathe in all the must,
The old man sits amidst his books himself covered in dust.
I glance around -
	Without a sound -
		What will my hunting eyes expound?

My favourite place to visit full of wonders and old writing,
Such stories do they tell to me, before you even crack the binding.
A missing page -
	Gold words engraved -
		Intriguing, so I must engage.

I find the little hidey hole, past modern paperbacks,
An antique chair to sit and stare at what today’s world lacks.
A sense of style -
	In rustic guile -
		Enchants even the smallest child.

I run my hand along the row of books with golden lettering,
Experiencing all their worth, regretting what we’re forgetting.
They are our last -
	Ancestral past -
		They speak to us in volumes, vast.

They call to us from history and they ask us to remember,
Before they too become extinct, they are a dying ember.
Our legacy -
	Technology -
		Where knowledge waits on scratched CDs.

Details | Free verse | |

My Poetry

Poetry is my sanity,
my diary,
my life song.
It let's me tell my stories,
that could have been too long.

Poetry allows me to be free
of everything that has eaten me.
It lets me express my thoughts

Poetry is a way to praise,
to tell of hope 
in unknown ways.
It's a way to let the world know,
of how my life has changed.

Poetry are the tears I cried,
because of lies,
things I despised,
and thoughts that made me want to die.

Poetry is my voice,
when all I had was a whisper.
It makes the world I know,
something less bitter,
easier to embrace.

Poetry is my gift,
that God freely gives.
He knows that I am tired,
unable to express my thoughts
and this keeps me alive inside.

Details | Acrostic | |

Brain Matters

Books of fragments of words and thoughts I had.
Returning to look back at them, no time, so sad,
Again I thought I would revisit them, but too bad.
I thought I placed them somewhere in my pad.
Now I knew they were lost, and then I got really mad.

My mind is now where I save words and thoughts to write.
After the loss of many writes, I felt this place was right.
Thinking constantly is my curse or virtue to any sight.
Tracing the memory recall of my mind, might seem so trite.
Each word or line I place down is erased from me as a byte.
Restoring new storage for more words of poetry to indite,
So the pieces of paper for me are simply impulses of light.


written by Cecil Hickman

written for
Sponsor Carol Brown 
Contest Name Pieces Of Paper...A Poet's Heart 

Details | Rhyme | |

No Words, No Peace, No Sanity

My feelings block my mind,
Words are too hard to find.
My thoughts can't be expressed,
My head is beyond stressed.

Adrenalin has rushed,
My screams cannot be hushed.
But  words cannot come out,
Words replaced with a shout.

The pounding in my head,
There's no tears left to shed.
The burning in my eyes,
These feelings I despise.

I cannot take this pain,
It's driving me insane.
I try hard to cool down,
Sanity not yet found.

Wash my face with water,
Cool the need to slaughter.
Now everything's all right,
Take out my pen and write.

I am trapped no longer,
Now I'm growing stronger.
The pieces are now whole,
Now I am in control.

By writing, words increase,
I feel a sort of peace.
Insanity maintained,
My sanity is gained.

Details | Epigram | |

Untitled #292 / Words weave a spell

Words weave a spell,
binding men’s souls to action.
Who said sorcerers and witches belonged to other worlds?

Details | Rhyme | |

‘Uneducated Poet'

I’m an ‘uneducated poet’  
I wish I could go back in time
Big words and their meanings, I’d know it
Although I’m well versed in rhyme

Quite simply, the poems that I pen
Composed for the ‘uneducated’ man
I guess not up to the trend
Too easy to understand

So my hat’s off to judges and bards
Who understand what’s ‘written’ or ‘read’
but ‘uneducated’ me finds it hard
to decipher all that was said

Though I may not win any contests
I’ve read winners from finish to start
‘Learned’ poets and ‘unlearned’ at best
What’s written is penned from the heart

Details | Free verse | |


                                                        It weeps.
At the feeling of one's touch.
                                                                                         The hollering, screaming,
wrecking innocence, in silence.
                                 It once lay awaiting the touch,
awaiting the callused fingertips,
                                             and ready-
                                                                                                for the first strum,
bleeding into a love song,
                                                 silently killing a dove
  and regretting that first encounter.
                                                                     Which turned into obsession,
           deep, penetrating breaths, lingering while the wind unfolds the secrets,
                                                                                                 the story within the tune,
 the life throughout the song.
                                   And it never takes a soul for granted,
                                                           it gives
more and more
                                                                                           asking nothing in return,
patiently waiting for one more encounter,
                                                                a master soon to be.

Details | Limerick | |

Poetry Fad

Slam poetry a form so new
Spoken word more than a view
Some are great some are bad
It is really just a fad
Bringing attention to poetry true

Details | Blank verse | |

Moonlight Awoken

Lost deep into the moonlight awoken by words blowing in the mist 
life is going by so fast so say what must be said before the time is amiss 
Starry skies with lost meanings into the deep dark blue depths 
Time is a passing so do whatmust be done before there is none left

Details | Free verse | |

A Poet's Lament

Had I time
to learn a craft today
it would not be poetry
perhaps quilting using batiks
or other fabrics
that tell tales exotic
or maybe origami
with it's well defined shapes
for with poetry
not unlike ivory carving
good material is scarce,
there are only so many words
the comprehending will stand for

Details | Senryu | |

' Mimicry ...' 23rd Senryu

‘ Mimicry ’   23rd  Senryu 

        Is That Mimicry ? …
Yeah ! … A Caged, Enraged Polly
          Parrot-Parody !

Details | Acrostic | |

Writing Poetry

Writhing words fly around in my head.
Realism and fantasy combined within.
I feel realism from what I have said.
Thinking is my pastime, maybe my sin.
Intelligence not always in what so read.
Note worthy maybe, where to begin.
Great poetry no, but simple lines fed.

Plain simple verse is all that I win.
Overtures of verse are all I spread.
Exemplary words escape my mental pen.
Telling of love, nature, happiness and dread,
Realistic views, simple thoughts of men.
You reading my words are my trophy instead.

Details | Senryu | |

Write Away

a poem a day
keeps the doctor at bay with
good  hand exercise.

Details | Concrete | |

Invisible Within

Pain is my beauty, rage is my sadness.
Laughing is my soul crying out silently.
Yet you do not see, these truths that lie within,
instead you turn a deaf ear, blinded from the darkness of your sight.
You only feel your sympathic ear, reflecting my hearts expression.
Powerless daily, I struggle to allow my invisible voice from within, 
To speak and to shine thru.
A moment in time
The music bringing you back to places in time which 
affected you with an emotional
consequence But since all this time has passed now it 
has become a remanicent memorie of
all the uplifting, downsizing, 
and overwhelming roller coaster rides.
A message in time to come, if you choose to see it. 
An immediate refreshing of the emotional
in combination with your intellectual self. 
Then it becomes not just a message anymore.
Instead it has grown into a great metamorphosis of spirt to embrace; 
consuming your sinful
nature, leaving only the lambs blood, 
giving you clarity, peace and serenity.

Details | Lyric | |

A Gift

I feel it in my own two hands
and I know it’s in my heart.
It’s always been there waiting,
with me from the start.
I don’t know where it comes from
but I know it’s here to stay
to help me when I just can’t seem
to say what I need to say.
When I’m alone, in a crowded room,
and at the strangest times,
I’m oblivious to the world around me
and I find myself thinking in rhymes.
I know my mother feels it too,
but it seems to come and go.
She says it only fills her heart
when God wants her to know
that He needs her to hear His word
for herself and the ones she loves.
For strangers too, and all those who
have doubts about the Lord above.
So many nights, I’m kept awake
with thoughts left unspoken too long.
But no more will it linger, for it goes through my finger.
And with paper and pen, I can do no wrong.

Details | I do not know? | |


Rain paints my soul into silvery streams
Life is like light
All is more than it seems
Something is here, in the night of your eyes
Something is here, in the tears of my cries

In the darkness, like velvet, I feel and I fall
The tide of my life fractures down through my soul

Wave upon wave
And stream upon stream
Is more than it seems
Tide upon tide
The moon of your eyes
Might bring this night into me

Rain, wash away, purify, drown my soul
Life is like love
All is pure, water cold
Everything's here, in the night of your eyes
Everything's here, argent tears are my cries

And the sky is like velvet, so freely I fall
The moon is a crystal in silvery scrawl

Wave upon wave
Written stream upon stream
Is more than it seems
Tide upon tide
The moon of your eyes
Will bring this night into me

Details | Free verse | |

Obsessive Compulsive Son of Man

Judge me if you want to
the devil on my shoulder is one of your own making
you live through me
through the cliches of the worlds three perfect stages
the holes in the plot of phase one
of what i crave most to inform myself
the logic of the puzzle of action for reaction
and an angel of choices i seem to be offered
where the path of least resistance seems to help me out

Obsessive compulsive
music lists
genius at shopping
thye beliefs you feed me
the soultrain im waiting
the dance of destiny
the right shoe untied
the two left feet

I do what i see
what im told
what i think is right
lie when i have to
not because i am evil
but to save my skin
or because there is too much at risk to sacrifice

Its not entirely your fault for me be claimed to impertfections
i forgive you your trespasses
but i refuse to keep playing the victom
forever eclectic
pulling in pieces of you
to build my safe have on a puzzle 
for there to be light in the darkness
the way i want thing 
my utopia
what i weant
even if its a lie

Obsessive compulsive shopping
row by row
reading movie by movie
tle and artist of every cd
looking at every gam
and walking through the clothes line
the things you might find in the fragrance section
after all the games and lives you have bought for your
to smell like a god when you watch
the scenes of what has gone wrong
with what we wanted
so back to the start of where we fall apart

the mirrors o seven clocks
and the recyled dreams of the obsessive compulsive
son of man

Details | Senryu | |


ink sometimes 
spill from my pen,
mostly not

Details | Rhyme | |


Due to a lack of inspiration,
even this weary pen won't flow...
thoughts freeze and allow confusion...
when stillness seems a wind that doesn't blow. 

By letting the mind rest, will it restore itself to wholesomeness
and usefulness? Isn't it like our body that refuses to perform well,
when it's exhausted and needs to escape from unbearable tiredness?
Tomorrow awakening, we'll take that challenge by promising a story to tell!

If idleness perseveres, all the honorable glories
we've accumulated will be lost to remoteness and time,
our ideals will fall into oblivion and entirely forgotten by others...
then should we let the mind rest, to stop the writing process in its prime?

I suggest perseverance over needless deprivation;
expressing oneself freely and honestly is effective and worth pursuing,
it provides against profound silence and dull stagnation...
will we let the mind rest and not discover something worth seeing?       

Details | Light Poetry | |

' The Greatest Poet Of All ... '

God … Is The Greatest Poet of All
God … Is The Greatest Poet
God, Speaks … And Leaves Us In Awe
… Astounded and Author-Devoted ! …

Yea … We are Humbled and Thunderstruck
and Sublimely Mesmerized
on His Sacred Utterances … We Have Drunk
like Raindrops of Soft-Mercy-Cries …

… While Angels, Sing in Quicksilver-Skies
Even His Son, is Called:  ‘ The Word ’ and Wise          ( John 1: 1 )
and Every Will and Syllable, and Vowel, Which Rise
… Begins, with Wondrous Words, ‘ He ’ Vocalized

And His Words, Are Strict-Forms and Bright-Joy-Colors
or Sometimes, Warnings in Stark Black and White
Yet … Articulated in Glorious Auras
from He, Who Called, The Darkness … Night               ( Gen. 1: 5 )

from ‘ He ’, Who Said:  ‘ Let There Be Light ’               ( Gen. 1: 3 )
‘ He ’, Who Orated, Birds in Sun-Flight
‘ He ’, Who Orated Sounds, So Right
Spoke Words, Worthy of ‘The Copywrite’ …

… Like, ‘ Let Us Make Man In Our Image ’ …                ( Gen. 1: 26 )
… and Humans, have been Echoing, Ever Since
For His Words Are More Than Vintage
They Are Epitome of Love and Law-Sentence

… Yea … We Emerged from God’s Epiphany
We Should Recite, What He Spoke First
in Such Beauteous, Lilting-Poetry …
… God, Spoke Forth ‘ The Universe ’ ! …                      ( Gen. 1: 1 )

… Called, The Dry Land, Earth                                    ( Gen. 1: 10 )
Called, The Waters … Seas                                         ( Gen. 1: 10 )
Pronounced Eve, Mother of Birth                                 ( Gen. 3: 16 )
(tho’ She Stole at Speech-Trees)                                ( Gen. 3: 6, 13 )

Yea … God Called Forth, Flashes and Flowers
and The Breath of Life and Swarms of Honey-Bees
And with Dynamic, Inspiration Power ! …
God … Even Called Forth … me

… and You, and You, and Your Voice Too !          ( John 3: 16  & John 10: 16 )
And Refreshing-Dew and Dawns, Brand-New
And The Rare-Edition – Chosen Few                   ( Matt. 7: 14  & Matt. 22: 14 )
… Each Bound-Volume, Ringing, Amen-True !      ( Rev. 14: 5 )

Yea … God, Is The Greatest Poet of Them All !
So, Let Us Catch Each Poem-Pearl, in Free-Fall
and Collect Them and Gather Graciously, as They Call
to Conjugate and Climb O’er, Deaf-Mute-Stanza Walls

… to Applaud, The Greatest Poet, Ever and All …

Details | Rhyme | |

Writer's Delight (My Delight)

I write to take the pain away
Releasing heartache
Not allowing it to meditate
Not allowing it to penetrate
Triggering unwanted emotions
That create the notions
That cause me to hate
Or hold malice
Malicious thoughts taint the soul
Tamper the spirit
So I write my pain down
For the world to read
Never to hear it
Writing is my weapon of choice
Shooting words and rhythms
This is what I choose to do
Rather than shooting with a nine-millimeter
 Or a twenty-two
To evoke contentment
To contrast some of the hard feelings
Given by the life
That so rarely satisfies
Allowing the pain to slowly die
Line by line
Word by word
Nouns and verbs
Which show action
The act of my passion
Causing a distraction
To everything that has upset
And beset me
To pause and redirect me
Letting go 
Starting anew 
To introduce the world to my view
What I see
My sight
This is my writer’s delight

Details | Cinquain | |

Flavored Manner

a zingy term
that implies flamboyance,
zeal and some zoo like behavior.  

Details | Couplet | |

10,000 poets

can 10,000 poets, stand on the head of a pin
reading rune, reciting rhyme, a deafening din

orating from books, digital tablets and papers 
nursing versing, some adroit linguistic capers

did God really, when he pulled out Adam's rib
contemplate the ramifications of what he did?

giving to man and woman the gift of gab
to pass earthly days on this planetary lab

all languages come, and like Latin might go
to ancient history rites forgotten, although

oratory of any form is central to what is human
grunts and poetic punts, give hints of what can

be gleaned of humans desires and meanings
jawing on in between, interactions intervening

language is a way the seventh sense can reach far
to futures, across millioned miles, to another's heart

to see it, hear it beat, touch its pumping flesh
to feel life's joy, as well, as its bloody distress

can 10,000 poets dance on the head of a pin?
if they say what they mean, gracefully, they can

© Goode Guy 2011-11-29

Details | I do not know? | |

Mental Affair

I gaze a stalky single-helix cradle,
Squished so in seemingly hydrous blue cover,
Attracts square substantial planes in a bundle.

I embrace now feather's mass helve to ladle
Psychic portraits siphon to it in wander.
My fist fiddles as it scribbles on oodles.

Cuts of a suckling tree, soil, river fondle
Paper, pen, poet in cahoots as lovers
Rupture of a skeptic smug gnostic noodle

Details | Free verse | |


People talking everyday,
But what are they really trying to say?
Words bounce back and forth
Off walls and trees.
Some strike a spark.
Most fall flat.
In the blaze,
Do we actually hear?
With our ears, our hearts?
Words so ineffective.
How to make them know
What the heart understands?
Perseverance and patience.
All will one day be told
And known
In the heart.

Details | Blank verse | |

mental digestion

they puddle
pale green like mud
or alphabet soup
words & thoughts
into letters & impulse
broken down to base parts;
under enough pressure,
anything will crumble

Details | Free verse | |

An old motto renewed

woke up this morning
to an epiphany
of how your world works
be the best you can be
the best human 3 coil double flusher you can be
at first i was upset
in denial
that i too could live up to such high standards
how could i ever compete with such human waste
when they practice being a walking talking waste of skin everyday
acting it out
singing it
and making more money just by practicing an old motto renewed

Thats the only power you have over me
to be or not to be
a huge clog in the toilet we know as life
and i could practice it
all day and all night
no point in dancing around it in denial
but that might make me worth something
if i could pull off the feat of unequal measure
and finding someone to label what they really are
and laugh at the fact that they are oblivious to how your world works

Practicing being a total waste of skin
and then blame it on someone else
and hang their dead baby off my neck
but nope i'm better than that
i can be the best 3 coiler double flusher i can be
without any practice
just human nature at this point

Act 1 scene 2
making one person living a lie
look like a good person
as the rest of the play is all about everybody competes for the reward of being a clog in the 
toilet we call life
Song and dance
still the same glory
and yet soo many of you basking in your power
of who is or isnt in denial of how your world works
practice makes perfect i guess
no point in trying to change anything
just go dangle someone elses dead baby off your neck

an old motto renewed
be the best double flusher i can be
live it, sing it, paractice it to one day show the world their brand new lie
and next lesson of how to be succesfull at something
that will only come naturaly
why not?

Details | Free verse | |

Marbled Vanity

I live my life in moderation
so I can afford the extravagance 
of dawdling in dreams.

The price of creativity is idle time spent
longing for depth, 
with words in my hand
and though there's nothing crucial to say 
my tongue craves the nectar of new syllables.

A harlequin lexis of stimuli flirts
and lingual vibrations are silenced by sentience
provoking thoughts 
with kinetic spectrums of theories 
and visions that crowd and design
patchworks of rhapsodic vers libre 
  or rhyme, rhythm and rules.

These manicured notions 
are inky memorials erected 
between perception, life and dreams.

I am content 
to milk my senses for mottled shades of beauty, 
of thought, of empathy
to polish the currents of impression 
funneled to my fingertips.

I am content 
to hunt cadence and cacophony
and to bleed my spirit for the color of life

and yet,
I find that I 
am a feeble foundation for verse,

I can laugh only as much as the happiest soul, 
my anguish can dampen no more than an ocean
I can only toil a lifetime and I live, 
so my worst suffering has been outdone 
by those who’ve died.

It’s when I swallow the heart of the world 
and humanity converses with my minds eye that my words 
trickle to my fingers and find reason in the moment 
to be inspired,
to be conceived 
to become a lost and found memoir 
of dreams,
of passions, 
of darker hours and brighter days…

The excesses of life are so much more interesting 
than my clichéd existence.

Details | Free verse | |

the beginnings (of laying it down)

I am a woman
with a pen
Sounds lame
but listen again.

I am a woman
with a pen.

Stories and schemes
Weaver of fairy tales
or broken dreams.
Little girls at wishing wells
pretty pink dresses with piggy tales.
Adventure to sew.
Hearts to win.

I am a woman
with a pen.

Strong boys, stiff upper lips
muddy shoes, frogs clutched in fists.
Fishing poles or computer screens
little boys with man sized dreams.
Dragons to slay
Hearts to win

I am a woman
With a pen

It’s deceptive
this power I claim.
Makes me believe
I can do anything.

Details | Blank verse | |

chain of thought

words strung together like beads
just some hint
of the same shade
linking incoherant shapes
bright thread of thought
running through the center
something uncomplicated, but effective
to tie up the ends

Details | Cinquain | |

Wonderment Unveiled

sleight-of-hand art
paints amusement, and it's
conceived to undo what's perceived.
mind tricks.

Details | Rhyme | |

From Page to Screen

If you go to see a movie
After you have read the book,
You may wonder at the liberties
The film producers took.

For so many things get lost or changed
In media transition,
That I question whether they received
The novelist’s permission.

When a writer writes a book, he knows
How each scene should appear;
The characters and how they look
To him, are crystal clear.

Yet once those rights are signed away,
The writer might just find
That the actor on the screen is not
The face he had in mind.

Some chunks of action get left out
And details get adjusted.
It’s possible the author feels
Quite angry or disgusted.

I guess his compensation
Makes him leave those thoughts alone.
Control is lost, like parents
Once their child has up and grown.

But when I watch the movie
Of a book that I’ve enjoyed,
I wonder if the author’s
Feeling happy or annoyed.

Details | Narrative | |

aging poetry

remember the simple poem
you wrote as a young kid
in the second grade for 
assignment one cold February week
for the upcoming Valentine's Day
on wide-ruled yellow paper
with a fat dark-green #1 lead pencil
then transferred to pink construction paper
and handed in to Miss Wells
with both pride and trepidation
even though you didn't know
what that meant back then

and remember the first
real "love poem" that you
weren't just assigned to read, 
but read, by Whitman, or Burns
or Dickinson, and how the
lightening of insight came 
to you from the first read
and you felt the flash of
both heartache and joy 

and now, childhood yellowed
and a bit fuzzy at this point
witnessing many hearts ached since
but still...still the yearning
goes on, to stand on a hilltop
with gray clouds hung in blue skies 
and recite from your own aged
memory how much you have loved
another, lost, and loved again
ageless in the life-long longing ...

© Goode Guy 2012-04-03

Details | Cinquain | |


shows you how to
talk rightly and to make
sentences that are perfectly

Details | Free verse | |

After Eden

(for Hart Crane)

How completely the silence
                  encloses our life.

We will talk    and crowd the room
with words        like blown-in insulation.

The beveled moon     cuts us
with its edge    something not considered
                        not thought of before.

The treason of a moment
never pleases in retrospect.
          And there is no season
for banality     just frailty
              for there must be living:
                      autumn's benediction
the pale strawberries of spring
a rainbow trout     in winter lake.

There is that    and the silence
so nearly said     telling nothing
and everything of presence     a dull
sheen concealing the stone   the dark
wish    the plum    Hart    the plum.

Details | Free verse | |

Untitled #74 / A ylw submaryne

A ylw submaryne
I hate the stupyd thyng!
Paynt yt gryn!

Details | Rhyme | |

the River Ouse aghast

down past the cold undercurrents of 
Virginia's Woolf, and Sylvia's wrath
searching through their darkest hearts
too many writers take another path

from fulfillment, and in their cups
awash with sullen antidepressants
pondering if they'll get enough
of life to even get past the present

burrowing and borrowing monofilaments
temptingly entice, dangling and dancing
just below the smooth-surfaced water
flashing jiggs luring joys enhancing

errant molucules are a hapless find
when there's no bonding in our life
and easy outs seem a preferable mind
than living lost in depressive strife

still, there's a tenuous line to living
and struggle is the never ending rule
depression fills the soul with misgiving
to feed life's fires with suicidal fuel

yet, who am i to say that they're wrong,
to not be bright with fulfilling spirit
pocketed with weighty depressive stones
a merciful end may have it's merits

but i'll not write in acquiescence
of preferring ending of days prematurely 
my preference would tend to senescence
my life I think, is too precious, surely

© Goode Guy 2012-01-03

Details | Rhyme | |

The Poet

The Poet always weaves his thoughts
with a fine needle and thread
each word carefully placed
intricately woven, carefully chosen
like the finest piece of Normandy lace.

His words... just as the winds, wind themselves through
treeless forests of mind, seeking a bud to bear
over both emotionally calm and stormy seas
the Poet's verses dance about your head as loose strands of your hair
He's sending you his thoughts, his visions, his burdons to share.

He has a voice that carries on the wind
exploring exotic places far and wide
that make us feel for things, for life itself
both small and with a sense of pride.

He writes of strong love, he writes of plain life
he writes with emotion, he writes of the strife
he writes of the present, the future and what's been
he writes of the angels, he writes of life's sins.
he writes with a passion, its all that hes got
its his life's fulfillment, its his God given lot.

Crossing the world's highest mountaintops
across the world's most arid sands
his voice sweeps across this country
his voice carries across this land
Sweet songs of mental liberation
for both woman and man.

Copyright Christine A Kysely December 13, 2010

(c) Copyright 2010 by Christine A Kysely, All Rights Reserved,

Details | Free verse | |

Commune-Cable (or) Tell-A-Graph

She Peruses and She Plans
… What Would Move ...
Every Girl, Boy, Woman and Man
For Communication, Is An Art…
The Poetess, Has Written Down
What Was In Her Heart…

Details | Blank verse | |

All Paths Being Parallel

thoughts i never thought through,
words misused
where ever i may have slept,
nothing is wasted in pursuit of a muse.
when every coffee house becomes your study
& the sidewalk is as good a place 
as any
to write your masterpiece,
you begin to understand.
whatever paths i've crossed
or shores i've walked;
nothing is wasted in pursuit of the Muse.

Details | Rhyme | |


Its been such a long time since I have sat down to write,
although many a word has haunted me at night,
us writers you know are seldom yet always uptight!

When the words just don't flow in a special kind of way,
we rarely have anything to say,
I'm writing today with this to say if I may.

If your one of us and need to express feelings inside by writing indeed,
than let nothing stop you from planting this seed,
we are people with a great need.

A need, infact a compulsion to speak to someone,
take time and write, don't turn away and run.

This message I feel I must get to you and I,
To Hell with writers block, don't let the ink dry...

Details | I do not know? | |

His Biggest Fan, Even in Sorrow

My heart is heavy,
down to the depths of my soul,
and I want to cry out,
for this disenchantment is taking it's toll.

My sorrow is evident,
my disappointment too,
how can something that came from me,
think so little about what they do.

To them its a passing moment,
a quick step in time,
but the consequences can be grave,
if they continue along this line.

Will what's going on 
to a serious crime lead,
or is just a teen curiosity?
Will he from this lesson take heed?

I can only advise him,
and direct him as best I can,
letting him know my disappointment,
and still assuring him I'm his biggest fan.

Details | Cinquain | |

Wanted: Only Alive

wants desires
instantly with a thought
or with a blackout until real.
dream on.

Details | Tail-rhyme | |

The Ode Cafe

To the one that wrote who's quoted    		                                                     
Sipping java sung not noted                  		                                                          
Others in lime being doted 					                          
posed doyley							        
Light they soke in dark you wrote it	 				         
credit souly           						                           
Fate being fate you are poet      /Rime Couee

Details | Rhyme | |


It's fearful to think
that your last moment has come,
and like a pen out of ink...
it stops when a word needs to rhyme.

Keep off the edge at any cost, death waits avidly
for another victim to be added to its toll...
go the opposite direction where you find a wall
to avert another possible tragedy.

Desperation plays a major part in awful thoughts,
hope is found in faith: read all Proverbs and be saved by their soothing words;
ignoring wisdom is to live foolishly and recklessly as thugs...
why live a wretched life and hate others? Why keep on sharpening your swords? 

I have never gripped on rocks to reach that edge of despair,
even though death seemed real and allowed no escape,
but with will and determination I was able to annihilate 
those evil forces coming out of demons who had no love to share.  

Why be unappreciative, troublesome, worrisome and uneasy...
when life can lead one to victory as it has led many in History?
Commit an evil act, and you'll suffer more than Cain...
embrace love and your fear will never drive you insane.

Entered in Linda-Marie's contest,
" Life and Death...And Beyond..."
Written by Andrew Crisci

Details | I do not know? | |

Silence of the Poem

From the twist and swirls of words within,
poetical odes are in their sudden rendering.
Contrasted with once a masters mighty whim,
part of a hearts desire caught meandering.

While the words are hence ever lasting,
resounding between a fixed earthen chime.
Passes on the outer brims casting,
hoping for a message from the sublime.

Amid constant whirring musical din,
assassinated in its illogical prime.
Silence of the poem can never win,
buried beneath impetus words of no rhyme.

Never again fronting one collective ending,
thwarts patience in awaiting primitive prose.
Unintentional in its mediocre greeting,
left here for us, worn as a tattered rose.

Where structure and art are left defining,
such rules of written English are condoned.
Exceptional poets drift toward reminding,
when gleaned, most opted words are intoned.

Belabored gist, words randomly falling,
jotted on the thinnest sheet of rice.
lightly flung about in the installing,
mutiny condoned at the intelligent poets price.

Details | Epigram | |

Untitled #155 / Your voice is a pearl

Your voice is a pearl,
you must dive deep to find it

Details | Free verse | |

Forgotten past returns

All these pages
each filled with words
with emotions hidden
how did I forget
why do I keep turning each page
Where is that little voice
the one too warn me
this hurts too much
how could I have written these words
how could I show these emotions
one page to throw me in shock
two years later 
and two years before
My world thrown upside down
all these simple words
how much did I hide
how much did I lose
do I want it back
can't I just leave it behind
it comes to us all to late
here is mine 
poured out across a screen
can you see these words
do you know the meaning

Details | I do not know? | |

What causes me to write poetry

It's when I am deep in emotion
That sets the wheels in motion
When my heart bleeds to the core
And my heart pleads, more...more...
My senses they race
Thinking of passion, love, disgrace
There isn't a single thing that is not thought of in my little mind
Letting the bustle of life, like a scroll unwind...
What is it that I really see?
Life's passionate reality
Forever dreaming of what never was
Thinking of what's to come...
Because life is a dream's reality
A love's frivolity
Always searching for a new tomorrow
Trying to get over the endless sorrow
Of life's pain and dissapointment
Until visions are sent...
Through the clouds of fantasy
Although it may be imaginary reality
It's the only world I'll ever love
And the only need to love life
In expression of a poem

Details | Bio | |

The mind of a poet

I wish to be locked away for an hour, a moment, or maybe a day 
There I will fiddle with my expressions
Of tomorrows early regressions 
Perpetuating my addiction to the paper and pen
Here I denounce my inner self, and then
May my twirling thoughts come to me now?
Like a an insane poet 
That word will come to me “I vow “
Hours of silence and inner madness
May bring me to utter sadness 
The sun shown its arrival that early morning 
To wake unsettled here I was yawning   
My brain was weary from a night of dreams 
Where I saw nothing but letters and had terrible screams
Is there no place I may pass without query? 
Of my work that I will make my story

Details | Alliteration | |


Ok I have never heard of alliterations…….. And was wondering if words like 
abbey, acme, and acne would go along with alliterations …  and just maybe the 
meaty mossy messy mold at the mucky muddy murky waters of the slightly 
slippery sloppy backwaters were on the right track of this choicely choosy classy 
way of expressing earthlings eating elephants in the early evening with a 
beautiful sunset easily edging ending a really nice time and how do they all 
come together and not torture the toddler that is tougher than the trader tracking 
the tractor up the tower with the trainer  trotting with the trooper right behind 
looking for the treasure and the traitor trekking with the trucker loosing his 
trousers while trolling in the backwater. , I thought even if it isn't it is different.

Details | Free verse | |



As singing sounds
Through the future 
In a blaze of light 
With the
Piercing rhythm
Of a 
Perfected past


Flying stands of words
Into the web
Without the gems of the living plasm
And without 
The perfect rose

I  wonder and ponder

The poet seeketh the muse
The muse seeketh the poet 
The poetry of the beginning
The poetry of the end   

Details | Dramatic monologue | |

Phantom Poet

Is there a phantom poet
Lurking deep inside your pain
Feeding on decadence
In the recesses of your brain

Darkest hours
Darkest cries
A new pain
A new disguise

Is there a phantom poet
Lingering in your hate
Hollowing your heart
Lost to a lover's fate

Darkest hours
Darkest cries
A new hate
A new disguise

Is there a phantom poet
Festering in your ear
Sowing the sadistic seeds
Of your malignant fear

Darkest hours
Darkest cries
A new fear
A new disguise

Is there a phantom poet
Beguiling your muse
Whispering in anonymity
About a writer's ruse

Darkest hours 
Darkest cries 
A new name
A new disguise

Is there a phantom poet
Impaled by your pen
Bleeding onto your paper
Time and again

Details | List | |


Never Forget
Shed A Tear 
Wave Goodbye

Details | I do not know? | |

Familiar Poesy

I was quiescent and reposing on a wooden chair

to a faraway distance the vista seemed nothing.

I was engrossedly thoughtful in an empty stare;

In this somber fixation i did not sound maudlin.

In the surrounding, in a room, there was naught to care

even how vociferous the unaffecting din.

I was vacant without a frown or grin.

Then, an astonishment by an abrupt interruption

awakened me chop-chop from the pensive exertion.

An instinctively soft guffaw was my reaction

and an immediate beam marked down my emotion.

From a study to a stir was the alteration;

I uttered a word or two in continuation.

It was a spectacle of fruition.

Sometimes it is diverting to father relation

of familiar episodes in consecution;

Even how minute is their banausic condition.

It can be reported engagingly in a verse

with welcome alternate rhyming association

and with no contemplation to secure confusion

so as any sage mortal can immerse.

Details | I do not know? | |

A Liars Theme


Details | Quatrain | |


Gazing into the far away
Staring at the blank page
Not a word, yet so much to say
To fill an empty stage

Details | Free verse | |

You Know (In my Life)

You know
In my life
I have loved
And I have been loved
I have hated
And I have been hated
I have tried to kill
And I have had others try to kill me
I have lead others into addiction
And I have lead others out of addiction
I have been a Wolf
And I have been a Lamb
I have always dreamed of just being simple
And my life has always been very complex
I have a dear friend who is a Missionary Nun
And one who is a convict on Death Row
And I love them both equally
And understand them both completely
I have been all that is wrong
And I am all that is right
In our society
I try so hard to help others see and understand
How it feels to be me
Yet I myself can’t fathom why
Anyone would even care
I have been as cold and hard as steel
Yet compassion fills my every moment
I cry every time I watch Forrest Gump
And I rush every time I watch Pulp Fiction
For I have loved with every drop of who I am
And I have drank from the cup of excitement
I am everything you should be
And everything you shouldn’t be
At the same time
Many find comfort in me
And many fear me
Many love me
Many hate me
Yet everyone seems to respect me
While I struggle so hard with self respect
I know our Lord is using me through my poetry
For this gift
I did not learn or earn
It struck me like a bolt of lightning in the night
At the age of 41
And my soul has been in poetic turmoil ever since
When I was nothing I was something
Now I’m something and I’m nothing
But a Poet
And I find great comfort in that

A special thanks to Jesse (Redman) Wasson
Who inspired me to write this poem in his 
Last letter to me. Please pray for him he is
fighting a three strikes case for his life.

Details | I do not know? | |


Though the crease begins to crumble
These old pages still run blue
Currents pulse beneath the surface
Pen-leaked ink that bled your truths
Pen-spun words that writhe like veins
Under skin and paper skies
Cold to touch, crept through your core
Settled clear in frozen eyes

So I’ll read you like a book
And I’ll write you pretty lies
Just to fill the empty space 
That’s revealed between the lines
Won’t you move a little closer?
Let it spill into your ear
The tide of breath that harboured
All the words you want to hear

Well I tried to kiss it better
Blood and bones to fuse the cleft
Bruised and broken, lips split open
From the effort, nothing’s left
So you say that I’m a sinner
Preach of hearts and ribs and fists
Well I may have made the plunge 
But you revelled in the twist

Now you’re tearing at your wounds
Sanctimonious with pain
Because it helps you ‘hear the music’
Yeah, it helps you play the game
If I pour a little salt
Will you smear it in your eyes?
Feel its grain twist round your lids
As you soliloquise

About the blame you tried to forge 
All the nights you wept and claimed
‘You can’t comprehend the world
Balanced firm between these blades’
No one told you it’s a lie 
And the story really goes
Constellations, superstitions
Are that Ancient’s only load

All the pretty rhymes and perfect crimes
You try to hide behind
Well they just serve to remind me
How you once spoke those old lines – 
‘Your tongue is as a rudder
Guiding vessels safe through storms
Moving mountains with inflections
Making ripples in reflections
Hollowed hull meets hallowed shores’

Details | I do not know? | |

A drift

My thoughts are empty Vessals.
Floating in a deep dark Lake I Think.
The waves are not Connected.
There everywhere it Seems.
One moment I am Shipwrecked.
Others as though I Sink.
I am hearing many Voices.
Its pirates so to Speak.

Details | Ode | |


poet in flight
writing for a free airspace
keeping the seatbelt on
closing both of his eyes
to let the poem fly for itself

Every breath that i whisper
a single movement of the pen upon paper
giving takeoff from the runway of ideas and rhymes
no one would know who this poet truly be
he uses a 1000 different names to keep him silent and unknown

During this duration of poetic flight
He will write a sonnet or a narrative some night
to describe the feeling of floating away with the air
there aren't any typos nor mistakes to make the reader even care

Look around you at the space between the pen and the wind
Solly! it is so enticing and enchanted to be a Poet's Romantic
picturing the trees with the alphabet
coloring the sagebrush with just the right felt-tip pen

You,the reader,will notice for a time
the perfect serenity of this fable sublime
There aren't any Dirty words or imagery,my pet
to hover forever,near the 747 jumbo jet
Creating the space
Tracing with each Finger
The Flight of the Poet
whose ode to the old stanza will forevermore linger

Details | Free verse | |


I cannot sleep
And so, I go and fix some hot herb tea
He wants to help but some things I must do alone
 It is the wine, he says
You drank too much
The wrong kind
Without the ice
 I am fine I say 
Go back to sleep
 By now, I think I know what the problem is
I have a head too full to lie upon a pillow
 It is not full of wine
 Not full enough at least
Just sleep, you need your rest
I need some peace
He cannot understand
I can help you go to sleep
 He wants to touch me 
I do not want to be touched
His dog is barking
The stack of bills on the desk call to me 
 I walk past to fix my herbal cure
The computer beckons me
I have to push the bills aside to find the keyboard
How long I have missed you
I caress the keys
 My fingers find the words to open up my soul
No one empties me as you do I tell it
 It struggles to fulfill my demands
 I war with it
We do a verbal tango
I sip my tea
 I am calmer
My headache subsides
I am feeling sleepy
Thank you I whisper
I drain my cup and turn off the box 
That moments before bled its glow over my fingers 
And lit up my face
Thank you I say as I retreat to the snores that fill the night
Thank you God I whisper as I crawl into a bed full of warmth 
A large snoring lump of resting passion 
And what is this
Small hands reach out to touch my cheek
They pull my face in for a sleepy kiss
Good night angel
Mommy is here
I sleep

Details | Light Poetry | |

' Light Years, Away '

Far-Away … Light Years Away …
How Appropriate, It Is, We Say …
Light Years Away … Words To Measure
The Great Distance to Explore Celestial Treasure

… For He is Light Years, Away From Us
… yet … Closer … than The Lightest Touch
Closer … than The Merest Whisper
Closer … than even Lovers, Can Venture

and yet … Light Years Away … from Man’s Technology
Light Years Away … in Telepathy
Light Years … of Surpassing Intelligence
Those Light Years Away … should Inspire Reverence

… in Wisdom … He is So, Far, Advanced
We, Will Never Reach … His Zooming Stature or Glance
Beyond, What He Has To Show
Look Back at Him ? … ‘Please !’ … Keep Learning To Go …

… Light Years Away … Oh, Joyous Mystery!
Light Years … of His Supreme Love and Gracious Majesty
and Divine Dignity and Glory and His Excellency … All Light Years Away
so … Up … Up … and Away … that’s how Real Superheroes Pray

… and that’s how We Travel, Light Years Away … Day by Day by Day

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Hello Charlax,

Hello Charlax, 
Thank you for writing to Yahoo! Groups. 
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Original Message Follows: 
Name: charlesrhice 
Yahoo! ID: charlax.hice 
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Subject: Why do I get an error when posting messages to a group? 
The worst thing that ever happened was the whole web page disappeared to the 
right of my screen once eye was able to snag it and bring it back but that seems 
so impossible how that even worked and it only worked a few times not always 
and when it went it went too far away and the mouse would not retrieve it and the 
only thing that eye could do was to log off and back on and that won't work not 
The pain in my poor sober jaw the suffering that eye do for love is worth the price 
of admission to heaven when we go. 
Once there just inside the door there is a field of purple flowers where my 
mansion lays in wait a picnic has been set complete with chicken fried steaks 
and ice cream cones for me and mye parme. 

Details | I do not know? | |


Too many words and rhyme
but not enough
nor style or original scheme

He senses that his reign must end
His poetry becoming archaic

Time advances his once A-OK vision
As the snow falls in Late January
The hair on his scalp is turning grey
A youth he did knew as his ideas now fading away

It is time to end the Chapter

Details | Free verse | |

Guiding Answers

When this page is study
and children write essays about it
they might go on about the introduction and how it was explanatory
they might estimate it was second guessing that it switched and then went
to the what for
why is this author writing
do you hear me
im right there what i want you to say now break away
and dont fall in and see where the story goes
in the window
in this mansion
going on forever
and in the muse of the beast
of the psychologies
the confusion sees nothing but clarity
put the pieces together
and ask the questions
nothing there between the lines
and where did ti t all start
was it the biginning or the end
did the rumor mill come clean
or do i just need therapy

soo much to rebuild
soo much to reponder
soo much to see through
i think that maybe si should start the page over
maybe its not in my mind baby
maybe its outside crazy
maybe its trying to enslave me
maybe im not worth saving
maybe its something and im not explaining

In the end of the puzzle the treasure found and a new legacy of the blueprint of 
the plan
that was left thjere in the seal of fate the previous generastion left in the puzzle of 
the plans of the story of music
no one ever really listens to
that has much mueaning
an audio soap operah

Details | Free verse | |

Loud As Empires

With regardless grace,
The dawn succeeds.
We, the midnight revolutionaries,
Are as loud as empires
In the calling black.

The day comes. Our words refuse her.

Details | Rhyme | |


I write
To speak
What is kept within.

Express emotions
And sins.

Poetic rules
Don’t  matter,
Limits the soul
Ideas scatter.

The naked truth
Straight lines
No shortcuts,
Old stories of youth.

A matter of choice
How I reveal,
Stages of life
Keeping it real.

To write
Is to pray
Choose in what way
Story tell to the world,
What my heart has to say.

Details | Rhyme | |

Hablando En Lenguas

Tengo tanto que darte,
Tengo tanto que decir,
Permitirme hablar,
Permitirme sentir.

Conozco mi corazón,
Aquí yace la verdad:
Mis lágrimas pintan
Mucho mas que amistad.

La tinta en mis venas
Escribirá como siento,
Las palabras por mi lengua
Mostrarán despues tiempo.

Details | Free verse | |


There's not a story in your soul that you wish to spill?
Not an idea in your hand that you want to see spread?

You fancy yourself a Master of Words but they evade you
Like bruised hounds fleeing a man with a stick

Do not fear the blank page nor the words that sound like echoes
Write the poetry already written on your insides

What phrases traverse the length of your intestines?
What concepts lie printed on the pink of your brain

What words cling to your heartstrings and swing
With the beat of the blood carried away by your arteries?

Find the letters that form stitches that hold you together:
The mind to the body to the soul - Find:

That it is poetry that extracts the essence of sentiment 
And makes audible the voices in your head - Find:

That it is to poetry you will turn when you can't think of what to say
To poetry you will turn when your voice is taken away

It will release you, tease you, chase you, face you
Take you by the hand, turn you - Make you face yourself

And there, you will find you cannot help but write poetry 
For poetry is you

Details | Free verse | |

VII: Conquered

A single, unnoticed ray of light
shooting across the sky at night
straight down to my head
in our conversations 
it is, as it has always been
between the King and I.

He tells me what he sees, 
and he feels for the unworthy
he cares for the damned
though he see the lies
that are fed from the lies
of the leaders

Return soon, brother in arms
return from the sea, comrade
walk upon the shore
or walk on water
once more for the doubters
the King knows all about us
alas, he has not returned yet
I will know that day
once, twice, more like seven times
to the exact the moment he's raised

Conquered by all of the hope 
of your allies
the few that still dare to 
believe in you
very same as the ones
who keep feeding you
in the outskirts of our realizations
the dreadful dreary dreamy illusions

The King best exists in the pretense 
of pretendness
at the moment just before, your mind intervened
and cast in just a shadow of doubt
that spread rapidly far, and between
this now makes him limited,
now I have my chance
to pull the wool off the greatest wolf
the world shall break its trance
I am now your lord
I feel all the world
I am always yours,
your Magus.

Details | Lyric | |


It's your first poem,
and you expect to win a contest?
Do you have talent and have
written your best?
I have worked hard 
at scribbling every line,
and accepted with honor
the awards given to me in fairness.
Don't accuse anyone
of being unfair and guilt of favoritism;
many good folks are getting hurt...
read their work and realize
that they have deserved their wins!
Envy comes out of an angry heart,
so full of evil that it cannot reason;
and if a poet doesn't appreciate
and discern what good poetry is...
who would pick up the torch,
be admired by his voracious readers, 
and be acclaimed as one of the greatest?

Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci

Details | Blank verse | |

one glass egg

this name is just
a tiny glass vessal
steadily cracking
under it's burden
the weight of waiting words
piled ever higher
encroching on the sky
entreating the fleeting glimpse
of passerby
one last thought too heavy
& as the stranger's caught
the feather light touch 
of falling fingers 
proves too much
so falls the tower
so shatters brittle glass
& there floats the phoenix
the egg's cage escaped
with that final fatalistic pass

Details | Free verse | |

Brain Storm

bright red
against the gray
a thought startles
my everyday
meanders through
in a sluggish insistence	
that defies my ignoring
to push its color on me
beckons like a bloody finger
I'm drawn, there's no denying
evidenced by words
that chew their way
across this page

Details | Senryu | |

' Poet Definition ... ' 30th Senryu

‘ Poet  Definition … ’   30th   Senryu 

           Define A Poet:
 So Much Reading and Writing
          And Arithmetics

Details | Dramatic monologue | |

WISDOM: wise words

to have wisdom is better than being strong
and your wise words should flow like a song
spoken quietly with honest intent
sincere in their message and content

wise words are to be used as a persuasive tool
and not to be shouted by rulers of  fools
but if they are spoken from a man that is poor
to people they lose their ardent fervor
but if spoken by a man of considerable wealth
society will cleave to those words unto themselves

wisdom can't be bought nor purchased at any price
wisdom is a learned thing from an experienced life

Details | Free verse | |

I'm not sure you know what to say

I wonder today
As I sift through the sands
And peer through the depths of other peoples verbalized talents
Works of intricate emotion and stanzas of hyperboles oxymoron’s and similes 
and metaphor

When I refuse to welcome you to my world
When you stumbled all this way
And I show you how to clip an angel’s wings
and you relate to the angel
Even though you have soo many inner demons
I’m not sure you know what to say

So I sit here in the silence
And stutter to myself
I lay in bed at night and talk to myself
I hang pictures on the wall to inspire me to push me
and listen to things that will drive me to become another
But when you open this chapter of the metaphor I will upon your sleeve
When you walk through that open door
And are not too sure of what I mean to my soul mate when I say
that one day in heaven his experience will be a love note from me

I'm not sure you know what to say

Soo many of you are of few words
and soo few of you are of many
The angels are soo far away
And the four demons, my invisible enemies
are always on this merry go round
too busy to stop the roller caster where I find myself
Dizzy I am
Confused I am
Abstract and bizarre
Creatively thrown away by my fairytale godmother I dream
To remind me
I am a man of some higher power god
And instant gratification isn’t necessarily what I need
from the race of a reflection that doesn’t understand why it cowers
Instead of receives

While I clip the angels and fool the demons with the thoughts
and words of the wise and how I hate more than you
You become my poetry with hearts on your sleeve 
a valentine I cant send demanding healthcare 
for Christmas before all we get is Halloween
But when your eyes roll back into your head
and you try to resurrect what I express and bring me to life
through twisting my words that cut like a knife and carve marble stone
into gargoyles that guard castle gates
In this royal palace where no compass will help you find your way
and my thought seem soo far away
The feathers fall to the floor
The soldiers look down at their weapons realizing they are still little boys 
but intoxicated now and forced to the realization 
This is how we raised them to be men with awards for serial killing 
Of stars and stripes

I'm not sure you know what to say

Details | Tail-rhyme | |

Casandra Riggs

Designed as a secret sister,
Hiding in form of a blister,
Not at all real
Becoming a pseudonym name,
Writing in stylish poet game,
Words that feel,

Caught notions of reality,
Conscious of false ability,
She remained,
Not meaning no harm or deceit,
She faded into death complete.
Truth explained.

a double Tail Ryhme poem,,,some of you may or may not know of this person,she is me and 
i am her,,she was created when I first started on the net,afarid of placing my real 
name,because of all the stories of identity theft,,though since I seen names like rosebud, 
stargazer, bunny flower,,I seen no harm,,,,I did not know that names can become somewhat 
real on the net ,,,when she become known by a few and a life was needed, I retired her 
name,,though she still has poetry listed on the net at some places,those words are mine.
She is totally ficticious,true though I learned so many things about poetry and life.

Details | Free verse | |

Untitled #199 / Another 99

Another 99 poems
closer to the truth!
I am catching up!

Details | Villanelle | |

When you compete with no one

Follow your heart, to thyself be true
do not fear the coming of the day
when you compete with no one, no one can compete with you

See the gray as gray, the blue as blue
your eyes are your greatest gift, don’t let them slip away
follow your heart, to thyself be true

Men will argue, women will croon
but in your mind the decision will be made
when you compete with no one, no one can compete with you

Ghosts from without and from within will try to spook you
but you need never feel afraid
follow your heart, to thyself be true

Strangers try to hold you down and keep you to the rules
but it does not matter what they have to say!
When you compete with no one, no one compete with you

You are the maestro, call the tune
and your symphony you shall hear the whole world play
follow your heart, to thyself be true
when you compete with no one, no one can compete with you.

Details | Acrostic | |

' Carol Brown ... (In Acrostic Form) '

C	omfort, Caring

A	lways Answering

R	eflective, Refreshing

O	pen, Only-Offering

L	aughter, Loving

B	ringing Beauty, Bonding

R	eaching, Reasoning

O	riginal, Observing

W	rought Worthy Writings

N	arrates Nobly, Noticing …

      … Really Makes For A Good-Evening:
           Carol Brown’s Poem-Readings

       (and I Mean Every Word of Each Line)

                 Your Poet-Sis ... MoonBee

Details | Free verse | |

Why Do I Write Poetry

My mind is a sponge
Slurp Slurp Slurp
Sponges get murky
-You don't want to spread that around-
You gotta ring 'em out.

Details | I do not know? | |


Do I refer to a note?
How do I know what to say?
And then, do they expect me to quote
From some obscure latin text
Which no one would understand anyway?

I should have been a giant chainsaw
Cutting through the trunk of a thousand trees.

How do you interpret the fall of an empire?
The end of an age? Or the beginning of one?
How do you prove there’s a third side to things
Flitting between rhyme and reason
On filigree wings?

Do they think single mothers never dote? 
Do they think blind politicians do not vote?

What should I say? What goes unsaid?
At the next auction I’ll put down a price for my head.

Abstract abstract poetry
And blank blank verse
An angel’s blessing
A gypsy’s curse.

Rhymes and ramblings go hand in hand
While non-existent footprints get erased from the sand
The night is always creepy, the day sublime.
In the patio old ladies chime
Talking of doctors and smelling of lime.

Hearts ache, drowsy numbnesses pain
And promises fly over miles to be kept.
Out flow webs and float far and wide
And woods just wait to be swept.

Will they criticize it? Will they ostracize it?
Will it be written up or written down?
I’m fortunate: there’s a year - long waiting list
For the only mental hospital in town.

Details | Blank verse | |

a virgin thought

paint you
over & over
unraveling threads
sticky strings
of Fate's (un)doing
infinite fingers
of thin hands
peeling back layers
uncertain glass
tearing pure white
the tell-tale stain
of red
on purple-pink
on fingers,
on sheets
a virgin thought,
taken all too soon
from childhood
into deeper woods

Details | Free verse | |

My Song- (Solfège)

Do- Re- Mi-

Do..Dodo flightless bird
fearless of humans; easy prey!
Extinct so long many believe you a myth....

Re master of universe
mirror image of Ra...worshiped
by millions seeking a ray of hope..
a ray of sunshine warming heart and soul...

Mi.. Mi.. ME
Calm me.. breath..deeply breath..
help me.. bless me.. sing my song..
Do - Re- Mi-

Fa- So- La-

Fa away from everything;
everyone I love.. wishing..
dreaming.. desolate..

So- so- Sewing
Grandma's old sewing machine..
bright colors.. tiny stitches..
warm quilts... So- so- Sew!

La- La- La-
Sadness.. Dark.. gloomy..
overwhelmed.. lonely.. Tears..
La-La-La-...LA! LA! LA!

La- Ti- Do-

ti-Ti- piercing.. Heart weary.. 
Ti.. Ti.. Tea!
a hot cup with lemon and honey..
faith....hope.. a ray..

Do- stronger now!
Do- Do- Do what you have to!
find strength.. it's there..deep inside you..
survive! grow! learn! LIVE!!

do- re-mi-fa-so-la-ti-do...
DO- RE- MI- Fa-So- La- ti-  do!

Details | Grook | |


I think there's a hole
or a leak in my head,
all the words have spilled out
and left parts of me dead.

I can no longer muster
an original thought,
the words that I find there
are weak and distraught.

The well has run dry,
to coin a phrase,
but that, too, is trite
and seen better days.

Seen better days?
I've done it again.
You could fit my creativity
on the head of a pin.

Another trite phrase!
I've truly run dry
and now I'll be gone
in the blink of an eye.


Details | Couplet | |

FALLEN STAR (A New Horizon)

Yes, I am an addict and this I can't deny.
I love the things that feel good and one is getting high.

Although, I'm in remission on guard is where I stay.
Like a soldier in the field I'm dodging bullets every day.

I can drink enormous quantities and still my words don't slur.
I thought I had a special gift of strength like Supergirl.

I use to pop the pills, oh yes, they are my drug of choice.
They landed me in rehab and in there you have no voice.

I loved the roaring of the crowd, my downfall I admit.
I had this thing called stage fright which made it very hard to quit.

There was no shortage of those things that calmed the silent rage.
My many "friends" were there to ensure I made it to the stage.

An extrovert was my mask and an introvert inside.
So I sold my words to others and I kept them well supplied.

I admit it was fun for a while, but the circle was the same.
I had to make a choice of life or death and left the game.

I could brag and tell you who I am, but I can't you see.
Yes, I would be noticed but it wouldn't be for me.

This does not apply to everyone, believe me I know that.
Just those with bad intentions there to make their wallets fat.

I have gone a different route, another path another door.
I have found out who I am and what I am here for.

It will be about a year and I'll be more than glad to share.
A Children's book will be on the shelf with a different style and flare.

This is not a reflection on those who have shared their poetry with me and were 
kind enough to respond to mine.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mr. Critic

He said "Tell me young man, what is your plan to succeed in life?"

I replied, "Success is ambiguous.  However, my pen suggests I should look into writing."

He rubbed his chin.  "So you have an addiction to writing silly fiction?"

Silly fiction?  "Okay, Mr. Critic, it's much more than just silly fiction.  Writing gives you wings to fly."

"Is that so?"  He seemed satisfied, "So I cannot scare you into considering a real career."

I replied, "This 'real career' let's me touch reality in ways that ordinary men will never feel.  This occupation requires imagination, which will take me to places unimaginable."

Details | I do not know? | |

Nosce Te Ipsum

I am
more than
my words
I am flesh
these tears
proof of a
wanting heart
who holds you
in the deepest black
if not the soul
that flows
from this pen
if not the woman
who folds
this paper carefully
so as not to disrupt
an imperfect thought
I would have you
hold me, but
you are not here
as often
as I

Details | Verse | |

How is enough

It must be asked how we ended up here.  
For this place is perilous and wondrous and necessary.
Who has brought us here? 
Our own self deliverance? 
Our own self loathing? 

But I believe our way out is still the way in

"How" is the only justification
The only "reason"
The only "why"
This "how" embodies the soul.

Remember the soul?

This "how" embodies the very essence of all
For it is my belief that this "how" embraces the necessary as well as the unnecessary
I embrace the me that should be cast away. 
I have held (cradled) the part of me that does me harm and promises the false….

No more

I lovingly hold that part dear and let it fade. 
It must be and it shall.
I must be more 
but no more than that.

Details | Senryu | |

Assembly Line

Verbless old haikus 
Eastern tradition how-to’s
Making me feel blue

By Robb A. Kopp
All Rights Reserved © MMX

Details | Rhyme | |

Bag of Gems

Gems of poetry tucked in an old closed bag 
written over so many long years as a gag

Youthful thoughts have now become older and wise 
changing the color of the gems hidden inside 

Sharp at first not seeing the direction they would take
then suddenly bringing forth character, uniqueness of shape

Some simple, some complex, some half written left behind
written at night, when sadness strikes, or written at any time

Now that the process is close to complete 
let these gems spill forth and drop at your feet
Search through them all for the ones that are rare
don't throw out the others like you don't care

They may get better with more polish and time 
keep writing with verse and writing with rhyme 

Shaping gems of such brilliance written in prose 
stuffed away in a draw is a bag of gems, please don't close

Details | Narrative | |

South Rim North Face

I'm going to get a new subject
or an old one back.
All my poems are about him anyway,
And my poetry group might like to 
see something light out of me.
So maybe we could fall in love again.
We could descend together once more into
the canyon from the south rim,
deceptively easy and peaceful on the descent,
the return trip much, much the more difficult.
You could tell me again of your 
adventure that summer when your
friend slipped and you saved his
life with a twig and a prayer.
And we could drive again over the Rockies,
My stomach rising with the altitude
until it is at my throat at 14,000 cold 
feet in August, glaciers of black ice,
never thawed in thousands of years
contrast with our rented Ford Taurus.
In that place time changes nothing.
Down below, the only thing certain is change.

Details | Sijo | |

Mental Poetry

With this mind I create, written words of unspoken depth
It comes freely, effortlessly, as if it were a God sent gift
The creations flow, an enraged stream, mental poetry.

Details | Free verse | |

Writing the Pain Away

Maybe if I just write...and write...and write...
and put ALL of my thoughts and words down on paper...
The pain will go away...
and then I will be happy...
and content
and my head won't hurt,
and my heart won't hurt,
and I won't feel so bad anymore. 

If I just write...
and write...
and write...
and write...
and get all of these words out of my head
and off of my heart
and put them down on paper.

Maybe then I will be able to "Write the Pain Away."


(November 14, 2010 Wausau, Wisconsin)

(c) Copyright 2010 by Christine A Kysely, All Rights Reserved 

Details | Rhyme | |

Wizard-Dreaming The Words

Into my dream world I'm slipping once more.
My head hits the pillow and I am there.
Far from this world I sometimes deplore.
Draped in dreams without a care.

When I finally wake,I've pen in hand.
I keep a notebook at the edge of my bed.
Why they're so real I don't understand.
Yet I don't dwell on the things that were said.

I simply use these pictures in my mind.
Creative juices start to flow.
Puzzle pieces come together I find.
Cascading colors beginning to glow.

I pause for a moment,it all comes together.
Dreams into stories to write and share.
Wild images yet light as a feather.
Sometimes the mind just takes you somewhere.

for Word Wizard Challenge sponsored by Andrea Dietrich
the words I used were:draped,slipping,pause,edge,

Details | Free verse | |

Untitled #72 / Curious soul

Ah! Curious soul! Do you really believe
you are reading ink on paper? Nay!
Nay! It is blood spilled from a broken heart!
Turn away, my friend, for my soul is wretched!

Details | Free verse | |

Dear Poetry

you hold my fears
you hold my hopes

on your shins
in your groin
around your neck--
all the places I've been told to hit
a stranger, if it ever came to that. 

I write on this paper
tracing over letters and words
until there is so much ink
it could never dry.
I could hang this paper on a clothesline,
press my hand against it
tomorrow or in two months--
the ink will always leave its mark
like a henna tattoo on the back of my hand.
I'm spelling out my hopes,
shielding them with my fears,
containing them on the page
but they are getting everywhere.

How could I ever have thought
poetry could hold the excess fear
and hope, hope and fear,
spilling out of me?

No space can contain all of this,
not even these letters and words
inking this page.

Details | Free verse | |

Beggars All

A poem comes in disguise
like a beggar in the mall.
Some sit and look pitiful
and can not meet your eyes.
Others have a story,
"My sister's fatally sick in Ukiah,
please help us we've run out of gas."
Some poems work subliminally,
you wonder if they might be
from another world. They stand
in busy walkways and 
chant "spare change", under
their rancid breath, seemingly
oblivious of you.
Some wear their sign
that tells their life, a life 
that might be yours.
Others affect an air of casualness
as if they were your best friend,
"Say, you got a quarter?".
And then there's the one
in whom you sense such doom
and menace that
you have to cross the street.

You drop your metaphor
in the cups, because
you never know
whether any of them
will work for food,
whether any will really work

Details | Iambic Pentameter | |

Selfish employment

Once I was an alien
because of family ties
Once I was a sailor man
Told recruitment lies
Now I am a veteran
with socialized security
A part time postal carrier
With attitude and purity
I subsidize my poverty
By working for myself
In sickness and in health
I am earthbound as an autumn leaf
Blazing colors oh so brief
Twisting madly in the sun
Looking back at what's begun
listing badly misting sadly
hit a reef and come to grief
Closed up again
Just lost a friend

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Great Existence

Moving up over through 
All I've known is felt through the end 
Never a beginning always ending
Falter as I may, myself I hold - alone in company 
Tress in to limestone pillars of my great hall 
Great as the Norse and proud as well
Threads of time woven with clumsy hands led by blind eyes 
Thus is the expanse of the web of life The Great Existence 
Not where but it's the being that is. Is what I am and 
What we are

Details | Free verse | |

Buzz of an Idea

Like the buzzing of my alarm clock,
the push to write won't leave me alone.
The drone and buzz of ideas
requiring words continue to haunt me
and whir in my mind.
Not the buzz and drone of a bee,
but the hiss of steam,
like something that must be stopped,
and will only occur if I organize thoughts
and stop the buzzing, droning and whirring.
I hum a tune as I set down ideas
and the buzzing goes from forte to piano;
with the final period the hissing ends,
and the buzzing leaves my mind.

Details | Rhyme | |

Stinging Words

How often have we felt it, 
when hurtful things are said? 
When someone says such painful things
you wish that you were dead.

Many times we just don't realize
the pain we tend to cause
when we say things to instigate
the laughing and applause.

The sting of words is painful.
The scars will linger long.
We carry hurt around with us
even when we know it's wrong.

So, choose your wording wisely.
It hurts more than you know.
Sometimes the ones you hurt the worst
are the ones you never know. 

Details | Free verse | |

Writers Envy

I get jealous 
over prose 
who possess the room through her lips 
white lightening, 
kissing the air with their intonations, 
my frontal lobe 
with alliteration and rhythm 
the shoes 
upon which to stomp 
my feet, my feet, my feet 
this stomping ground 
in my head 
where I hunt the mush valleys 
a single 
lotus blossom 
of inspiration. 

If  I could covet 
this poet's thoughts 
her words, her tone, her imagery, 
my poetry beast 
would awaken 
and shake his mane 

I sit spellbound, 
listening to her vowels and consonants 
fall on the roof 
of this auditorium like rain pings 
on aluminum, 
when her thoughts end 
and mine begin. 

Details | Senryu | |

No More Fakes on Stage

why would realistic
politicians hire someone
to fake reality

no more fakes on stage
we want real peolple with real
answers to problems

Details | I do not know? | |

today I started writing.

And today I started writing.

A spark, a head aching, an inner turmoil
Brewed and threw itself up against a door in my mind.
Its waves crashed exploding through my veins, to my hand, to a pen,
And gathered words on a page like they’d been there forever.

I tried to stop it, to suppress, to get some sleep
But the words created currents, riptides of emotion.
So I surfed gently across the surface to tide pools full of life, memories, full of time;
Absorbing each syllable and phrase as they may soon be lost at sea.

This wave, this current, this storm may pass
Dragging away with it seashells and tiny trinkets of inspiration.
So for now I dig in, waist deep, fixate on this beach I may be stranded upon
Surrounding myself with miles of words and salty sea air.

Today I started writing.

Details | Quatrain | |

Snow and Silence - For Ellie

Shine a candle in the shadows
break the glow stick green
Conquer those New England days
You know what I mean
Tree limbs tapping at the window
frost on rivulets grey
Open up the blinds and melt them
into words you've yet to say
Soak in bubbles brought to boiling
swirled in steam and sleep
Break the silence with emotion
I am yours to keep.

Details | Blank verse | |

living words

Such a built up tension
   a fiery burning sensation
I become an export station
   I scream, let it out
It is trapped
   I know not what it is
      but what it is 
   is pain, longing, depression,hope
       anticipation, loss, gifted, Jaded,
       faded glory, a whory version
  of my true potential
      and release is so damn crucial 
  I write to escape and indulge
Relieve me Pen
         Good, bad, sad,
    Here for me and who will see
 But let it out
        Lest I pout
    For lack of expunge
           And take a fatal plunge
And dive head first to meet my thirst
    and bleed on paper
 To see my true feelings,
     my mortality,
           my life, 

Details | Lyric | |

The Best and the Worst of it ALL

'It was the Best of Times
It was the Worst of Times.'

Truer Words were never Said

And I never ever thought that I knew what it was
What it was that those words truly meant...

Until now...

To Have the Universe be Yours in a Single Bright Thought
To Live with the Nonexistence and Exclusion of Anything Else.

I am a Poet and I am Starving.
Those were the last words
That the Poet ever said.

The Poet now knew exactly
What is was that Shakespeare meant.

I now know EXACTLY
What is was that Shakespeare meant.

(January 3rd, 2010 Wausau, Wisconsin)

(c) Copyright 2010 by Christine A Kysely, All Rights Reserved,

Details | Epigram | |

Mono Gram # 1

Poetry is easy to digest, than pride.

Details | Free verse | |

Inspirations Journey.

                                                     This moment
                                                  Breath deeply and
                                               Place your pen aside
                                             It has little power left in it
                                        Although you have endeavored
                                  These are not your moments inspiring
                            But are too transparent in simplicity to record
                        Where is your racking anger and troubled solace?
                You always compose through those eyes filled with sorrow
            The meter of your verse will be painted with a dangerous divinity
          And a spiritual suggestion as you put blindfolds over our true eyes
       Light that flame within us that directs us past fear as a radiant beacon
   That astonishes the most naïve in us with an exhilarated spiritual moment 
      Only you will hear its approach echoing deep within your creative heart
          The tides of time will cleanse away obscurity corrupting your mind
            The long deceased will reanimate as the verse flows unfettered
                    Those thoughts are fetal now wait to put pen to paper
                         While they grow under the blanket of fulfillment
                           Soon they will all surface and wash ashore
                                    On the eternity of the rising sun
                                         With the storms passing
                                           In the hour of their birth
                                             Let the moment rise
                                               But breathe deep
                                                 This moment

Details | Blank verse | |

Razorblade Rainbow (or Some Better Title)

i feel like i'm dying & never end up dead.
someday, i will write to you in the colors of myself;
the flaking rust of dried blood,
the purple of deep bruises & passion, 
one from the other.
& somewhere near the center,
the shocking blue of the brightest flame 
& the truest green, 
to prove that even pain is a part of growth.
i'll paint you the world through my eyes 
& from the tip of my pen.

Details | Sijo | |

Just Open Me

Lithographed Japanese butterfly frost on the cover
Lime green unlined paper frozen and daring this Indian ink
to seep into her soul, marrying two cultures in word thaw.

Details | I do not know? | |

How I Think And Write

My words don’t exactly flow in consistency,
But in the end (in something like a personal essay),
They eventually all tie together.
My own kind of thinking
Depends on only whether I should
Or really want to take things (and meanings)
Out of their original context
And make (turn it all into) something of mine, my own.

Details | Free verse | |

Ghost Writer

I am the invisible hand that guides your fingers
Before the thought has consciously formed
Your ears ring with the undertones of your muse
She speaks softly and you listen with your heart

A passionate story teller in short form and verse
Relinquishing every fragile emotion within this abyss
Of great pain and sorrow your words begins to bleed
All for the sake of protecting me

I am the child within
I am the adult that screams unfamiliar faith
One who is still
One whom you so eloquently embrace

I am the soul that whispers. no need to shout your name
I am the love you search for as you release old shame
A ghostwriter living inside a paranoid’s mind
Seeking and searching for that moment in time

I am your breaking point when all goes mad
I am the ocean that rides the tides into the sand
Sands of time, sands of stone
I am your ghostwriter that will someday
…Make you known

Details | Rhyme | |


The pleasure to speak is my lost privilege,
And now insanity dwells on a page,
However, it's changing the color in days,
Revealing the truth my white pencil portrays.

But I'm getting sick of the poetess' fate,
I only enliven the worlds your create,
Denying the myths you don't want to believe,
Or perpetuate every side of my grief.

Today it's triangular, soon to be square,
Or even linear, in case you are there,
You skillfully play with my changeable mood,
I'd steal such a talent from you if I could.

I paint the reality, live in a dream,
Duality kills me, I just want to scream,
I'll find the salvation when holding you close
I'll speak of my feelings and keep them in prose.

Details | I do not know? | |

Thoughts And Feelings

Time flies
When I daydream and write.
Though I despise this place,
I know without a doubt
It is where I learned
Every trace of my thoughts.
My heart is solitary,
Though is so deep,
It feels as if
I may never find
What these feelings of mine
Always dream.
I write my poetry
Through love, feelings
And even hate.
In this life I seem fated
To forever be lingering
Within this world
With faded dreams and feelings.
This state of mine 
Is so misleading,
I must find more meaning.
Time flies
When I am glancing into
The clear blue skies.
The sun rises
And my soul realizes
Every day, every lifetime
Is a new beginning.
As I am writing,
I am thinking, searching
For this life's meaning.

Details | Tanka | |


a passion for words
lost in thought with pen in hand
feeling euphoric
vibrant colors in my mind
observations to be shared

Details | Sonnet | |


Sometimes though not so often any more
I sail on winds of thoughts past distant shore
Tacking through the bluster hauling close

To use the dimming luster of cliches
To come about and run downwind for days
Stern lines wrapped around my bracing hips

Knee jammed helm a steady push
Against the mains'ls drift
As all the joys of wilder misspent  youth

Dance in the tidal racing rips
Mysteries unfold from muses tongues of old
Spellbound and clinging to the upper gunwhale

Leaning further out to feel the ride
They keep me balanced in this running tide

Details | Senryu | |

Love is for poets

Love is for poets
Bleeding on crystal blue days
Red words of bound pain

Details | Cowboy | |

Listen T' This Little Ditty

I sometimes think my poetry ain't poems in modern favor.
Intelligentsia declares, but I danged well won't waver
from writin' simple, unpretentious words 'n' thoughts called “witty”.
From now on my poetry ain't a poem, it's called a ditty.

“Listen t' this little ditty.” I've heard those cowboys say
when they begin to sing a song of wisdoms of the day.
Now I don't think me wiser than the smart guys that I know,
but I just like to fake it in my stand up poet's show.

Now cowboys, they write poetry to sum their thoughts in rhyme
'bout words o' wisdom or describin' real weird points in time -
like twisters twistin' towns apart or floods that float the cows
or simple words, “what goes comes 'round” brings thinkun' jus' like owls.

So listen to this little ditty, if fer nuthin' else than fun
of listenin' to a cowboy fake that he's a wiser one 
a spoutin' words of poetry that some folks may call “gritty”.
I'll seldom waiver from my writin' what I call a ditty.

Details | Rhyme | |

Austen's Emma


You may be handsome, you may be rich,
You may be clever, all factors which
May mean you have a happy home
And are blessed with the best that the world can bestow.

Your twenty-odd years may have passed with such ease:
No distress to compress, ever vex or displease.
Your match-making skills have succeeded again
And I'm left, at the end, in non-fictional pain.

Details | Couplet | |

Untitled #129 / The more I read

The more I read, the more I write
the less I like to sleep tonight

Details | Rhyme | |


Every meal can’t be a winner.
Every book won’t win a prize.
What seems great to a beginner
May be average in disguise.

Every play won’t win a Tony.
Not all films get good reviews.
Every Oscar ceremony
Pans the actors who did lose.

Every purchase won’t be flawless.
Every gift won’t be ideal.
Some successes might be aweless,
Contrary to what you feel.

Every effort won’t be lucky.
Every word can’t be just right.
Still, we try, and if we’re plucky,
There will be a poem to write.

Details | Narrative | |


I am unknown
Simply put..a gentle sort of guy
Every day from 9 til 3
Submitting my poetry
They are for all to see

Fame is not my game
Not looking to add
a writer credit to this name
It is the best of just a simple poem
Describing life:Where,How,When,and Why?

To call myself a Poet Great
Is an insult to those who long and wait
There are many who are more talented than I
They will be known
"Poets American Pie"

This "Unknown" writer  in sensitive
Prefers anonymity
Country home on a New Hampshire side
Winters in the Berkshires county

Fate has not been a friendly face
The clock ticks
Father Time points to my face
Even though my work may be shown
All,in all,though..
I'd rather be unknown

Details | Dramatic monologue | |

Judging one's own work

The days are sleeping
And the air takes a nap beside me
It is not so much the heat that taxes
the energy that keeps being written
from my hand

Poems can be songs
or stories from the weary pen
Confusion still creeping near
It is hard to define their meaning,I fear

For every word in my vocabulary
to be put into a sentence
More and every so often
over-indulgence gets the better half
of my word scheme

Am I the only one to fairly critique-
family and friends do complimentary speak?

This ability of mine
to connect using rhyme
can be straight forward or juvenile
Others may be more gifted in wordplay
Accept their work with a handshake and THANK YOU

Some,however,such as myself
can harshly judge if his poems are beneath merit

In the final analysis,though
It is the reader or audience who
have the right to like or dismiss any,and as often..

Details | Free verse | |

Flesh on the bones

SeasonThe sex skull anybody?
the spine hey
flesh on the bones of sex
the ribs hey
the arms baby
the legs of sex
the sex hands 
the feet hey anybody?

hey The skeleton now baby

hey Where do now these poems
hey the poems of sex bones of metaphors go?

where do these sex poems die?
where is the sex grave baby, anybody?
hey for the skeletal remains winding
of the dead that still linger from beyond, anybody?

The skull baby
hey the spine Now
the ribs now, anybody?
Season the arms
the sex legs
hey Flesh on the bones
the sex hands
the feet baby hey
the sex  fingers winding
the toes hey, anybody

the wicked sex skeleton

sex bones Now winding

where doet these poems without flesh go
where do these poems wander?
where season is their wicked resting place?
how do they ressurrected be?
name skeletal remains
Flesh on the bones winding
chasing a wicked soul
of the life its living
to be born again baby

wicked the bones winding
the hollow Now
wicked shallow
Now pitiful baby
today bones winding
wicked masquerading
as bones of metaphor
today of a poem winding

Details | Blank verse | |

Upon My Soul

On ground of sacred Earth

The ringing of bells

Can be heard

Calling us to remember

A truth veiled lightly

In a blanket of forgetfulness

I’ll find me there

Where angel’s songs 

Upon my ears

Do greet the morning sun

And in the cracks

My worthiness

I left unkempt

In a long forgotten place


The road more frequently traveled

When joy forgot her face

The child inside

A voice so long unheard

Safely tucked into the womb

Of love’s sweet arms

Woven of all that glitters

Details | Lyric | |

Your Words

Your words
Embrace me
Like the lingering mists
Which hang along the creek bottoms
Where thoughts 
Run strong and true

I wait for them
Like I wait for the golden hour
When the sun 
Illuminates everything
And makes even the most mundane

I long for them
Like a forgotten memory
That feels like it was yesterday
And though forgotten
Lives within me
Waiting to be revealed

I treasure them
Like a prized possession
A once in a lifetime Gift
Which cannot be replaced
Whose impact
Cannot be erased

(May 19, 2010 Wausau, Wisconsin)

(c) Copyright 2010 by Christine A Kysely, All Rights Reserved


Details | Quatrain | |



This wordless poem that I must write
Hold my final words until the end
Find and pervert the answers
To questions I did not intend

If I cannot see you
Do you remain unseen?
The frost of inner darkness
Stitches in my lips loosening

This wordless poem I must write
You must never wear the blame
Something always left to learn
I will wear this mask of shame

Stephen (Stoic)

Details | Epigram | |


my severed thoughts
are connected yet
on this coupling
I am willing to bet

Details | I do not know? | |


some dreams are for only dreaming'
nightly entertainment for a lark
and some are meant to wake us
Days go fast in indecision
Daily bread eats up the earning day
Then churning adrenalin hits a  spark
And creation heats its burning way
There's some that dream and some that do
That's how it's always been
But once or twice to keep things nice
Someone will do and dream
It's not correct but I suspect
from observations took
Though not a way to architect
'tis how to write a book

Details | Free verse | |

Mobile In Memories

My phone’s a funny statue now,
A frieze, antique, a relic,
Who’s arrogant in silence,
Probably enjoying the respite,
Released from my hand.

It’s speechless and it’s faceless,
No usual miniature letter arrives and illuminates,
So it’s solid, quiet, and unusually untouched.

So I search for words elsewhere, 
In the only other world I trust.
It works for a while, Mayer’s almost been read,
But then, on the page, a film clip begins,
Clattering and spotted,
Of a November coach and the back of your head
Which turns, and I’m fixed, as you look
Not at, not through, but into me.

I try again, I pick up Zarin,
But I find each word is left unread 
As I wander happily through my head
To recall some words with amazing grace
That you once wrote for me.

I apologise to Greenlaw, her world looks so serene,
But my messy head wants nothing other
Than you,
So reading bows out nobly 
And allows me to lie here and live within
Each sparkling memory. 

And just as if my mind made it happen,
My phone wakes up and hums and screams,
And there you are, where you belong,
You miss and kiss me through the screen. 

Details | Rhyme | |

more words that make my fingers hurt

I pick it up, I put it down,
I start to write, but never end,
it's never enough, the words are tough,
I break when I should bend.

Perhaps my will is weak,
perhaps I don't know how to fight,
perhaps I only battle,
when the wrong feels so right.

My enemy is endless thought,
like a sub conscience need to feed,
up goes the pen, down go more words,
until my fingers cramp and bleed.

Details | Free verse | |

what's in your head? predict this!!!!

Did you see squares all over the page?
stars of E.S.P?
wavy lines?
blue circles?
Can we add it  with a plus sign
come a cross something few will known was here?

Was this my test for the prophets?
are we following white rabbits still?
Is this just another complex inkblot
rainbows and angels
metaphors i don't understand to throw into history
for you to hand to someone
to ask what does this mean?
what do you see?

And then popularity and polls
you become subconscious prophets 
leading the world in some direction

was it the vision of a blue rose slowly blooming
but unfortunately due to the icicles
and snow it has black specks all over it
can you see the green moon
or is it red?
can you sense the passion for insensitivity
are you taken a back?
what am i trying to express?

do the pieces fit
is there still a method to my madness
or are you just my game now?

read this please
ink blots and poems
squares and puzzles
tests and perceptions
and only the geniuses and eccentric already controlled stand out
but if you sway, stand out

be careful

is the square inside or outside of the square
is the star spiraling around the triangle that was never there until just now

here's your pen and pencil
heres your paintbrush and canvass
read this ten times
then begin

is it a vase
with angels and humming bird with shapes in eyes
with spirits, ghosts in doorways
is it resting place crowned with intuition
of spheres and other influences
a library of records
that centers around stars and stripes whited out
and denials danced around
struck out
and basically restrained smile
squared off to circle our emotions
like an angel you just met who wrote this
inspire the new muse
be studied that only geniuses
the mentally ill
certain artists can see
or be forever cursed and manipulated until 
you finish your masterpiece inspired by this confusion

whats inside
what sense is here
what is orchestrating
the fruit bowls
and wheels of the mind?
what hypnosis did you fall for?
what do they know you can help others with in the conspiracy of art museums
thats been done before
never been done before
what ghosts and traces of white and yellow are still lingering

what esoteric seeds of psychics are still circling from the squares of the stars 
sprout from the weeds of your mind
heres your pen and pencil
write a poem, draw a picture, paint a painting
what does it mean?
are you crazy?

did you predict this?

Details | Rhyme | |

The Word

The word,
But spoken,
Even broken,
It’s heard.
It’s a soup stirred,
A flavored token,
Even when woken.
It’s blurred.
It comes through me through you,
Touched by our blessings in a day,
It simply just passes through.
It sets you well on your way.
The word is your physical suture,
Mending you for an awesome future!

Details | Couplet | |

Unique Horn

Carpe Diem, seize the day
Live by the rules of the game you play
The world is your oyster, enjoy the ride
When the going gets tough, look on the bright side
Silence is golden, take that to the bank
Put that in your pipe while smoke screens draw blank
Though money makes the world go round
Speak louder through actions than through sound
Empty vessels make the most noise
Best medicine, laughter, daily poise
Fool me once means shame on you
Shame on me, that’s fooled times two
Follow your heart, reach for the stars
Dreams come true, firefly jars
A bird in hand is worth two in a bush
When push comes to shove, shove comes to push
A stitch in time always saves nine
As luck still favors prepared minds
Fortune favors the brave at heart
Every ending once had a start
Live your life without regret
‘Tis better to forgive and to forget
We’re proned to get as hard as we give
Throw stones in the glass houses we live
Don’t count your chickens before they hatch
Two birds with one stone, that’s quite a catch
A rolling stone gathers no moss
Too many cooks spoil the broth
Just try again if you don’t succeed
And don’t believe everything you read
Make every experience educational
To think twice before speaking is critical
Let sleeping dogs lie I always say
Cause every dog will have his day
To be taught new tricks no matter the age
Nothing ventured, nothing gained
Two heads they say is better than one
Violence isn’t always the key my son
Beggars can’t choose, that much we know
More haste less speed, no time to grow
When seams come undone, it’s cause for concern
We are what we are, we live what we learn

Details | Verse | |

Meditations after Li Po /Kushih style

Meditations after Li Po

I follow in the footsteps 
of old poets of the past.
 As geese fly south in autumn.
 Instinct is my only guide.
 My attempts to emulate,
 may not bear such worthy fruit.
I can only do my best

The trees discard all their leaves
 and face winter nakedly.
I ask myself why this should be 
but I receive no reply.
Winter winds pass freely through
 the leafless twigs and branches.
Dead leaves return to the earth.

The trees stand as sentinels
 coated with white bitter frost
Bowing in submission
 to the power of the wind.
Better to bend than to break, 
the trees know instinctively
 the wind dies as spring returns.


Only when the time is right 
the geese will return once more.
The trees will put forth new leaves, 
flowers spring up underfoot
The spring sunshine will inspire
Poets to take up their brush
 and ink: To write poetry.


Details | Rhyme | |


Like a spiders thread that spins her web 
a thought can be written or be said 
Random paths they sometimes take 
or into a pattern a web may make 
Spinning ideas throughout your head 
spooling forth, thread after thread 
Into a story or even a rhyme 
thoughts may be found of any kind
Like silken webs strong and tough 
or fragile threads broken or cut
So many thoughts so many threads 
so many spinning spider webs 
Caught in a maze of designing thought 
tangled and wrapped, threads pulled taut
Cut the thought, let the thread go 
start another web, threaded to sew
On and on another web we spin
thoughts and threads end and begin

Details | Free verse | |

Fall Reflections

Blossoms hang on, yet faded by waning sun
Pastels bid adieu, the robust say hello
It takes a fortress to keep the warmth
Unlike the free, grass recline, of summer day
And with such, comes a melancholy spirit
Inner thoughts, standing on brink of reflection
Where light bulbs turn on in mind, as well by the bedside
To read, to dream, to write, to think,
Time well served, to treasure till spring awakening.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

To Consider the Alligator

I wouldn't be scant. Its codfish lies to pull ferociously all up in its cube. The forks stomped the ponies. Why did your 
goodness lift our leaf? What do ideas ride like? You sound like that laugh. You persuasively divide. All obscene feet 
straddled under his lingust. What is all over the drifting harpsicord? Exude yourself betwixt the calamity. I will be snoring 
impudent cities. What is through that fatility? What is beside my heel? No fountain pens, please. I could be spitting 
underneath your cognizance. Boldly you malnourish the fence. You usually ventillate. Bend your travesty. Thirty-five 
damp beets are sophmorically trampled. You will run beside gods. You look like a surreal brevity. You will boil inside 
caftans. I diddle. I shouldn't have been hopping beyond your vertebre. You will thrust along protests. The pedestrian left 
by our digit. His rabbit accepts a serpent. His floppy money was hydrating with her heart. I love piston. Her list of fury 
resonated next to the thunder. You smell like morse code. His slinky magical mirror was feeling all over my Swahili. You 
will snap without tiger boots. You like waxy provisions. Hi, I'm a stormy panhandler. With your mildew were eight 
blogging skaters. My philanthropy whisps like a plasma. Sufficiently I snap. You remind me of every neat-o flamingo. 
You explicate mates. Drip your disgust. No car keys, please. A combustion tickles an insertion. Hi, I'm a cold cole. You 
sheepishly evade. You finally exude. All your abyss' are belonging to us.

Details | Free verse | |

The Beauty of the Written Word

There is a beauty in the written word
When not so much of it is spoken
The verbiage lingers in my mind
Like the taste of a fine wine
The words pass before my eyes
Like ethereal clouds across the skies
And can bring tears unto my eyes
Like a joy so unrevealed.

There is a meaning in some words
That can cause my heart to break
Or cause my spirit to elate
Words can cause your heart to pound
As I ponder the mental sounds
Reverberating in my chest
It gives my soul unrest
It moves a feeling in my breast
Of the beauty
Of written words
I will never grow weary.

(November 26, 2010 Wausau, Wisconsin)

(c) Copyright 2010 by Christine A Kysely, All Rights Reserved

Details | Free verse | |

Poetry One Liner

Refracted light is generated
through prisms of thought
as the ideas all tie together
neatly to form one complete
write for others to read
and enjoy as they spend
their waking hours wandering
through the hallways of our minds.

Details | Free verse | |

Listening to Poetry

Poetry is warm and friendly,
nice to hear, healing,
with room for everyone
great and small.
Even writers of anonymous verse,
those great anodynes for the faithful,
are remembered from time to time
in rhyme if not in name.
A name is only a temporary bit of cloth
we put on to cover our naked self,
but  a word from god translated
by the poet’s hand, is a word from god.
God likes poets and doesn’t abandon them
in times of strife or need, the word
is always there to be heard
by the active listener.

Details | Couplet | |

What is Life?

Life is full of sorrow,
As we always wonder about tomorrow.

Life is full of pain,
Unknowingly that we hurt the ones we love again and again.

Life is full of love,
Always wanting to reach to the stars above.

Life comes and goes,
Because of the decisions we chose.

Life is ending near,
Now is the time to face our fears.

Life is full of cries, 
As a life is taken away, we gaze into those skies.

However when life becomes brightened,
It's when someone comes into our life causing our life to be lightened.

They show us the way,
An escape out of this dark cold day.

Details | I do not know? | |

Definition of Form

Magically her entrance
was so graceful and mysterious,
The robe that she was wearing
Left my mind to question curious...
Her skin like golden honey
Seemed to magnify moonlight,
And every curve when she would turn
would make it even more bright..
As she sat in silence
Naked looking out the window
She rubbed her bosom slightly,
Tugging lightly at my ego...
Her legs so soft and silky
seemed to call me when she crossed them,
Would they be as exciting
If the lighting would have lost them...
And as the paint meets canvas
Mending images I've torn
I admire...her entire
Truly the definition of form...

Details | Free verse | |

Untitled #267 / LOOK

“And remember D.ick and Jane books
and the first word you learned – the 
biggest one of all – 

Details | Free verse | |

When "Sorry" Seems Lame

Sorry if I made you worry.
To doubt or question me.
It's totally understandable.
And even I can this see.

Sorry if I hurt someone,
Somewhere in my past.
Sorry if I felt hurt as well.
And the pall it did once cast.

Sorry for your troubles,
So much deeper than are mine,
Sorry for sin and anger
And for those who feel just fine
After tearing hearts to pieces
To fling into the sky
And kill the innocent,
Makes one want to cry

For those we lose, and mourn
Those we wish were never born
Those sick of being sick
And tired of wondering why,
Those who cry to live forever,
And those who want to die...

Life can seem brutal,
Nasty and unfair
Makes you sometimes wonder,
Why you should even care

But a minute of true love
Makes up for all that pain and sorrow
And a taste of unselfish caring
Makes one want to live again tomorrow

Beyond my understanding
Beyond the wisest soul,
Simply beyond the scope of knowing,
Something just a goal

To taste a taunting hint,
To half understand in momentary flash
But never quite get it all
As hopes of such do dash
Upon the rocks of failure
As yet once again
We crash

So "Sorry" is a word
Too hard to understand
And far too often flung,
In words that seem off-hand.

Details | Narrative | |

' A Poet, Goes To War ... '

‘ A  Poet  Goes  To  War … ’ ( Josh. 23: 10, 11 ) 

A Gentle-Poet … Goes To War
Oh … How Far … How Far … How Far …
Did You Push A Tender Heart
before Poet Finishes, What You Start ?

Just Like That Musician, Shepherd – Boy
whom a Lion and Bear, Dared Annoy          ------  1 Sam. 17: 37
Trying to Steal Some of His Precious Sheep
Poet, Showed Them … What’s His … He Keeps !

And That Same, Brave-Poet Went To War
Against Goliath’s Insulting, Roar !                ------  1 Sam. 17: 45 – 51
… But With just One Pebble Fling
That Poet’s, Sling, Thru All Of Time … Rings !

And If  A Wise-Poet Goes To War …
That Poet … May Wound and Scar                -------  Acts 7: 54, 57
For Words, Gouge Deeper Than Stones
Pen’s Mightier Than Sword … Cuts Clean To The Bone !

But, You made Poet … ‘your’ Foe, with Mock-Chimes
The First Thought … Just Give Them, Calm-Down-Time
But, Know … This Poet Thrives … Behind Enemy Lines
Forgiving and Wishing, God-Giving, Words-Divine !

‘Cause When Peace-Loving-Poets… Go To War …
‘We’ … Must Travel by:  The Bright Morning Star    ---  Rev. 22: 16
and Wait on His Orders … His Way
and I’m Cautious … Like ‘The Commander’ Says …  -- Matt. 10:16

So, Before you feel The Need To Spar                  ----  Zeph. 2: 2, 3
Before…  Big Poets … Have To Go To War             ----  Genesis thru Revelation
… Know That Such Poets … Are Word–Warriors
 … Don’t Make ‘em Go Off … on ya’ !

‘Cause you Won’t Survive … The Tongues of Fire    ----  Acts 2: 3, 4
( or The ‘ Lake ’ Either … If You Live Like A Liar … )  ---  Rev. 21: 7, 8
Gon’ Wind Up, Locked Behind Abyss’ Bars
… For Making  ‘  Poor-Poets ’ … Go To Wars !          ----  Matt. 18: 6

Details | Sonnet | |

For Readers Digestive Derangement

Some whimsy flame smoking ghosting taunting flaunting sporting spontaneity.
To tickle amused fancies  while causing some to ponder on the intricacies of life
Why this night to indulge in experimental elemental Watsonian witchery. 
What twisted fate in this mortal coil ? Did bacon wrapped scallops mix a 
Merloticiously palatable taste to cause this diverse  alternative reasoning?
Enter stage right from darkness  some somber  soul of servitude  smirking
Delighting in your obvious confusion Is this entertainment or just the illusion of it
 Should you read on or laugh and change the subject saving this for later perusal 
probably properly pompously perhaps prayerfully playfully posing 'pon particular 
passionate pernicious parabolic parables 
To allay your fears of discovery To stay the course. Hanging on to every word. 
Or to lay back and let it happen. Go with the flow. Veg.  Let life take its course. 
Worry not in wordy whimsy. Simply smile delightfully letting free fickle fancy tickle 
as you sip and sup in friendly night

Details | Light Poetry | |

The Velvet Verse (2nd One)

Oh, Velvet-Verse
From Poet’s Purse
Silence is Golden…
… but Words, Told Its Worth…

In Silver-Tongue Lines
From Deep-Diamond Mines
Brilliant Thoughts Mingle
Hear The Poet’s Pocket, Jingle?

Poetry and Prose Costs… but Pays
thru Praise, or  Hearts and Ink Pens Raised
So Exchange Currency - 100 Percent
And Oh Joy… If Vocabulary, Pays The Rent !

A Picture’s Worth A Thousand Words
But Words… Say It Best
Less Mistake in what’s Heard
Less Mind-Reading, Or Wrong Guess

It Is True… ‘A Picture Is Worth
A Thousand Words…

But… Just  - One Word – Can Paint…
What A Thousand Pictures – Can’t !

Few Example(s):   God … Love    … Forever
                           Life …   Mystery …   War

Details | Free verse | |


I express my self through Po-ems But, do you hear me Care to understand If I jesture Only one can see But, if I write I'm sure more shall read My words My thoughts A hope not to fall Upon the deaf Or turn to stone Sink within Time's abyss Please, if not Use them! Make them your own

Details | Free verse | |

Immaculate Reception

Chants ranting
rants chanting
narcissistic voices
deliciously pounding

Vicarious words
devilishly dancing
choruses spewing
copious chords

Muses climax
narcotic pleasure
poets revel
feeling hypnotic drums

Poetic coitus
lend me your ear
cry havoc
the Virgin Mary is hear

Details | Rhyme | |


Understanding is beyond me.
I have the bare facts.
The reasons for these acts,
I am told that they hold the key,
to unlock the secret door,
to go beyond this pitiful moor,
to the place were imagination lives,
and everything else gives,
to the place called the written word,

Details | I do not know? | |


Talent’s a gift
Like unto a seed
To be nurtured nourished and  tended
If left as a weed 
It will yet fill its need
To spread itself as it’s intended
A burstable  burden  bourn to be used
Like a chisel or trowel or a pen
To sculptor painter maestro or muse
Guiding a man in his action reaction
His quest of  perfection
A pointed direction 
Creative reflections 

Details | Blank verse | |


Sometimes my words crumble
and often left unsaid.
Sometimes they become violent
and ring as loud as war.
Sometimes the quiet stills me
and gone is that last syllable.
Sometimes I tread for days
sinking from their weight.
Sometimes the righteous ones are found
and upon you I grace them.

Details | Imagism | |


How many letters have i written filled with meaningless emotion.
That none can understand and most time half-forgotten,
They seem like so many dreams that fall to short from glory,
That all I can say,
Is please do not read,
These words have no sense.
Their meaning has been lost in translation.
the sound of the horn is as clear as a bell.
But it music seems not to want to be written.
The confusion I feel flows to this paper.
Leaving heart and soul out,
Without even a whimper.
All is left is my mind which does not understand.
So I buried my pen in the shifting sand,
Buried it deep so none may find the torturious beast,
Within its innocent illusion.
The illusion that is torn away to reveal our pain.
So clear as a bell.
So I hide it away so no one can find it.
Yet it is still there waiting for me,
That horror.

Details | Free verse | |

For The Love of Insouciance

(English version)

He possessed the air of indifference
However, his appearance was quite debonair
Many young ladies hearts fell
To the sabotage, of his indifference
Oh, how their hearts did pine.
Until, finally the lass caught his eye,
Copper colored were her limbs
A peach glow, to her blushing cheeks
Teeth of pearly white…
Eyes as black as the darkest coals,
Hair soft as that of raven’s down
Bound by silken threads of gold,
Upon her beauty he could not frown…
His heart stood as a suitor bound;
His passion burning, as he desired a sweet kiss 
From her ruby red lips…
His thoughts were displayed 
And then dejected by she, 
Oh, what a travesty…
For it seems that, he had sought 
The love of Miss Insouciance

Details | Free verse | |

Eloquence of silence

We speak too much of so little
Like we truly know that much of so much
Yet there’s so much 
We know so little about
Speech ought to be
For knowing minds, not talking lips
Those who know as much ought to
Speak so little of much
Not of secrecy, or pride
But of eloquent silence
In which pure knowledge find profound expression.

Details | I do not know? | |

Germ Poetfare

Sometimes My poems lack the skill
and the substance is below better work
Egotism gets the better of me
I end up writing like a jerk
There are more professional poets than myself
who have the style and grace
These writings of mine,however..
are just ordinary at best
The lust that is within me to tell a poetic tale
is confused and erratic
It is exactly why I  continue to fail
My own personal philosophy still escapes
in the truest meaning
People say  it is easy to be hard on one self
They can compliment the Poet
it is the Poet
that should be allowed to criticize his own flair
For this reason by my writing
I call my poems:

Details | Dramatic monologue | |

Writer's Block

Discounted sentiments
half truths and partial dreams
a broken life
and broken meter
no room left for rhyme

Cryptic messages
dire warnings and vain pleas
an empty soul
and listless pen
nothing written on the page

Diverted muses
forgotten thoughts and hopes
a deviated body
and empty head
no more divine connection

Details | Prose Poetry | |


 “Pheonix is experimental courses involving the release of prisoners into society”: 
Professor Hardon was now speaking to his children “he was thinking of them 
already as his child and children he was daydreaming of a future world 
populated by his prisoners released into Society to jerk the world around on HIS 
string. When you do a book report eye the TUTOR have to grade them please 
read only CharlaxFables so you will learn something better and eye can pass all 
of you with highest honors. The Bathroom has been painted and the graffiti is 
fresh and it has to be one of you. NO almost Screaming Tommy Gunn jumped up 
and SPEWED his filthy words at the teacher. We think it is the girl that works as a 
Library assistant for she is not helping the people who are not students. The 
rules would work in a NAZI society there would be no loud talking in the library 
they Matron would walk among the computors and swing her MILLYCLUB if 
someone snickered. The portable classrooms have not yet arrived and the 
prisoners keep milling about in the library chasing a hope and a dream to the 
door of a classroom hoping it will magically appear in front of them while Charlax 
 Plugs are not available only in the outlets at the mall where you can also buy 
coffee in a latte snicker at the freezing cold and hold thy nose with burgers 
smelling like a dead old cow went yearning in the afterbrushes reeds and 
rushes in the ditches working on the center stone of the idea of the century. The 
Pig is dead the Rat is born a Chinaman's surprised the chinaberry's were so 
plastic tasting never boiled them never tried them after fried in oil and butter and 
the batter would be better with some butter and some soil. A man told me bugs 
are good sources of protein how can one man go so very wrong he is not alive in 
the same sense as ewe and eye. The semblance of an android to this human 
image eye become is striking mee on both my nerves today seems like a 
memory of half baked love. The Pheonix is now rising up the ashes of the 
judgments' won. 
 The Tutor is the elephant. The classroom is the world the students are the girls 
in love. The lady has a favorite song 

ewe aer my song 

my hearts desire 

my love of fortune 

smiling down 

my sweetYheart ewe 

my early life 

my later years 

my only love 

a song 

The Teacher is a ruler and a lover of the song. 
The professor is a lover and a ruler of them all. 

Details | I do not know? | |

Out to you

Give me your input and please accept mine
we can both take this chance and share a little piece of mind
what a brill ant calculated risk
you should know me by now wether I' m speaking or writing
I use time to my advantage and place the words where they best fit
I formulate till the ink is between the lines
the next step
I now describe
typing it out on this keyboard
I become frustrated because it' s not my favorite thing to do
but I go through the process anyway
just to get these words out to you
yeah, whoever wherever you are
just to get these words 
out to you

Details | I do not know? | |


In early hours she types 
pages she's felt and known
beyond words ,elements ,time 
What has been ,what may become 
Encircled in body and soul
Connected rhythm and rhyme 
Picks beyond words she writes 
To unwritten voyages she roams ...

Details | Couplet | |

Unbearable Away....

Although optimism is there
Pessimism we also share

In times such as, a day like today
Poetry takes unbearable away

Over whelmed between work and home 
Our minds all need some place to roam

Everyone feels hopeless at times
Magical words heal us with rhymes

We are divine, our  lives are a test
Allow poetry to cleverly jest~

Witty remarkable writing indeed
Can sooth irreparable souls in need

Details | I do not know? | |


I walked along life's path one day,
and looked at where I'd been, 
the path was not so rosy,
it was lined with hedges of thorns,
that often left me tattered and torn.

I struggled through the thorns,
with the promise of roses in sight, 
I wasn't giving up on life,
without an unending fight.

Once through the thorns,
in the distance I could see,
the roses that were waiting,
to a part of my life be.

I stood up straight and strong,
as I raced for the roses,
and left behind all that was wrong.

So now I live in roses,
with an occasional thorn,
to remind were where I've been,
from the time I was born.

Details | Couplet | |

When Poets Meet

Commonalities shared in true spirit
Congruent in every sense of the word,

Like souls drawn together;
Though the unenlightened deem them absurd.

Unfettered synaptic responses
Birthing emotional literary compilations,

Wholehearted unadulterated creative endeavors;
Soliciting the world’s adulation.   

Details | Free verse | |

Reaching From The Darkness

Red haze
twists and spirals 
around me.
Words float about within
   barely seen
through the 
     light stealing mist,
    I reach out
        snatching them
out of the air,
twirl them between my fingers
then snap them together
in perfect synchronization
so as to bring them alive,
     my creation,
          my monster,
at the back of your skull,
images on the back
                of your eyelids,
line shifts
                  bring mind shifts
causing childhood fears
         to resurface,
touching on something
and yet repulsive,
   smacking you
with emotionally image forming
        stanzas and verses,
knocking your teeth loose.

My touch on the ma cab
    is sadistic
         and meaningful,
sliding that grey,
       oil like sludge
around in your brain
forming a meniscus
    on the inside
of your cranial cavity,
    marring it
The expressions
I throw out
dry the marrow
within your bones
  causing a fragileness
       to the stability of your mind.
                         (What if?)

And when 
     I reach out
          from the darkness
its not just to say "hello"
   but to cause
     that shutter 
        in the back of your head.

Details | Free verse | |


Winter's chill
Howling winds
Arctic blasts

Through layer upon layer
To the bone

Turning skin a shade of blue
Normally reserved
For tropical seas
And newborn eyes

Drifts of snow
Piled high as my home
Sleet and snow
Driven by Mother Nature's gales

Through the bone-numbing 
And the blinding storm
Of purest white

One glimpse

Of you


Details | Free verse | |

My Words

My words flow, swift but true.
Glimpses into a mind full of contemplations.
A deep abyss of a mind threatening to overflow and spill all forth.
Visuals being drawn through words sometimes abruptly.
Colors dancing around all written thought, enhancement to my words.
Though none maybe needed,
A selfimage of self presevation.
Many roads with twists, turns and obstacles traveled down.
A life lived too full of too many experiences.
Fuel for all I write.
Fuel for all I bestow onto paper.
Fuel for me to continue.
A healing venting process in which pesonal growth occurs when allowed.
My heart given as swiftly as my words onto paper.
My soul locked tight as is a darkness hiding there.
My eyes allowing few to see more than what is allowed.
My words, my true being.
My penance for my life paid through a cramping hand.
My redemption, my words.

Details | Free verse | |

Untitled #290 / A letter every day

I will add a letter every day
to the wall of my prison cell
until the true story of the world is written

Details | Rhyme | |


I alone
long ago friends have already went home
Just a quiet poet,you see
typing away as youth lets me be
Selfish desire put out the burning fire
Once I was a boy but now who easily tires

I at night
choosing the words that might
earn me a living
who feverishly need
just a roof over my hair
without expensive tastes in greed

You could go on
enjoying what you have
the same old MONEY FOR NOTHING song
Savoring the luxury of choice
as for myself
I have not a choice
Poetry is what I am solely about
Using it for voice
Instead of trying to rock or shout

Being quiet and so 
in my unique way
As the poem is read from your eyes
Think about what it has to say
The next time a poet
brings down a poem from his(or her)skies

Details | I do not know? | |



Words held in high regard
Their meanings higher still
Claimed to be owned and loved by all
Yet search the inner souls of the user
Find the barren wasteland
Devoid of truest feelings

Just words. 

Details | Free verse | |

Eye Put My Finger On IT

Eye  Put  My  FInger  On  IT 
EYE put My finger on it,eye figured it out,eye discovered it. 
But now eye am perplexed again at what eye have figured out. 
Eye thought it was the way ewe eyes light up 
write when ewe here my namme. 
Eye thought it was the way ewe sing and sway 
when ewe are all alone with me (spritually). 
Eye thought it was the way eye feel inside 
when eye here ewe say that ewe still love me. 
And eye would never own a slave but eye am slave to ewe. 
A giant question mark is sometimes deep inside of me. 
Eye put my finger on it,but just what have eye got? 
A lot of love a lot of want. 
The Future? 
L()()king forward to ewe kiss. 
While eye am righting this.

Details | Free verse | |

loosendedly finish my sentences so they can finish yours

previously they said that was
and what were they doing?
we got here and opened 
could we go any faster someone seemed to
and there was a reply before the question

so low and so far from
you were me and i was 
we were never really found
in place of disaster where we find our
we see right through the holes
and become something
or else we turn this into god

stuck in the middle 
the researchers say you can say anything before or after
every line to make it beautiful
when you write it down
answer the questions
what does she want for her birthday?
how was your Christmas?
where does the story go?
how many pieces to the puzzle
and where did the weekend end?

Before and after mix it up Tear it up
cut it up
predict and foreshadow
end it mend it
break it fake it be inspired to inspire me and see who i inspire
as we search the lines of the database
for our arsenal
of the words we like
to add to our own to employ our souls
and play dirty with elbows to claim what is rightfully ours
together we write this chapter for the next

loose endedly
and find each line has a different tangent to say
level one incomplete
about holidays and treasure hunts
to not go on
fake plastic faces
and celebrated saints 
of yesterday
and emotionless emotive
when we celebrate the pity party of celibacy of
secrecy of masturbation

everything in this mess will mean something to you
and the joke on you8i is the joke
the joke on me
im the clown in the middle saying predict my next line
and finish he next
answer the questions
flip it skip it finish it
slide it and slip on by add your own and mix it
and bec9ome one with the vibe playing in your stereo 
cant stop the me your not
to swallow the down of the pillows we sleep on to hide
and feel it try to reveal whats inside
through the seeds we leave behind

and the one who starts the layer of the one we all predict and finish
switch and play in gibberish that makes sense is the god of such a matrix
give me a chance and open season at dileberate stabs at p[poetic sarcasm to 
conceal emotion
hey there peter pan?

Details | Free verse | |

My life is not a joke

It's not easy to put yourself out like this
sabatoge your fantasies
and write down life experiences
glad you are enjoying my 15 year nervous breakdown
but you are laughing at my life
and why i write is to inform you
my life is not a joke

I am a human being
who tries probably harder than you
who sees the blessings in everything
and its unfortunate for soo many they see so few
it's not easy to inform an apathetic world
whats going on in my life
and not take it personal
when you laugh at my attempts at talking myself out of suicide

Talk about ripping my heart open
to give you a laugh
you write such pretty creative things
i write in an attempt to heal
the whole statement here is my life is not a joke
but obviously its humorous
and in time i will learn to put up another wall
i'm sure whatever joke i am fits me like a glove

One of the few things stopping me from giving the world what i thought god wanted from me
and now i'm going to stop
just thought i would inform you
my pain to me is very real
ignorance is bliss i guess
and i can't take that from you
but its been taken from me

I learned the hard way not to trust anyone
love is a trick to get someone else to do what you want
a disease is something you get when someone doesn't love you back
mental anguish and confusion of self medicating go hand in hand
leave you to surrender to the realisation
those ennabling you with street remedies are trying to kill you
and those are facts
the whole point of writing this
lately anyway, is to show myself im not a joke
you want something funny, go look at the other online books i've written 
and laugh at that

My last attempt at having faith in the world
i guess it shouldn't come so easy to someone totally destroyed
emotionally and mentally
and my diagnosis
I get it now
it's funny
lost to myself again
my life isn't a joke
but im sure the punchline of my death
will be attractive to every comedian

Details | Free verse | |

A Writter's Quest

A writer’s quest is not one of impressing,
Not one of over doing,
Rather one of purest communication.

A writer’s quest lives within,
In hearts, in thoughts, in souls,
Feelings become words,
Depth is spread on paper.

A writer’s quest is not always easy, 
Always wonderful and rewarding,
But as a writer I am dedicated,
As are all other writers bound,
To fulfill this arduous quest!

Details | Senryu | |

Heighten Your Vocabulary

a little foreign
language can open your eyes
to your own language.

Details | Free verse | |

I want to go home

I sign, and from the moment when my ink -
naive and plain - lays down its life, I cry.

Microwaved air brushes against anxiety
plays with our concentration, dances with sweat.

Our eyes: giant pendulums patrol inside this brimming bucket, guarding the lies.

Children, ragged and seemingly archaic, graze
in herds along this expanse. This thirsty sight

calls for aid. Sand slips sensually
into every cranny. I can taste the insanity.

Falling like trees they multiply, lining up
nought after nought with the lick of my trigger.

Featureless faces lay gaunt; their cheekbones defiant and dark reach out for 

Blood-curdling screams scratch scathingly
throughout my body, grating on my bones.

I am lost. We are the foreigners.

I want to go home.

Details | Free verse | |

Method to the madness

Growing lies poeticly Souls born growing strategically 
love answer lessons growing marketting 
answer Born lies lessons poeticly 
growing answer answer 
strategically love 
lessons simply pondered answer lessons growing lessons simply lies 
changes lies growing lessons masterpeice growing answer 
change masterpiece mankind Born 
lessons lessons 
mankind masterpiece married masterpeice lessons born darknesses answer 
growing answer

 if you count the times a word is used in this poem you might be inspired to find 
where it is placed in the sentence...Possibilities used 7 times...7th word or no?

Details | Free verse | |

Did I reach you?

If I could put into words the things I see and feel
If I could make you take a journey with me 
You’d see, oceans splashing with vigor children making sand castles
on the beach
Brilliant flowers swaying in the breeze
And tease

If I could paint you a picture
It would be of lovers in the night carefree embracing in a tight hold
together in a mold

If I could make you feel you would be filled with joy
That you can walk, run, and breath the air with no ailments
No worries, no cares

If I could make you teary
You could feel sadness from loss and loneliness
If I could make you taste it would be food the hangs a wonderful
Flavor on your tongue and forever lingers for more

If I could make you hear
It would be the sounds of children crying
violence, and laughter from a far noise made by man and silence

If I could make you care 
There’d be more help for the needy and kindness to the old 
Warm blankets in the cold 
If I could make you see ,feel, hear, care anything at all 
Then I reached you 

Details | Light Poetry | |




Details | I do not know? | |

Who Else Will Read This?

Who else will read this?
It was for your eyes only
But my verses mean nothing now
My eyes scan the screen
Over and over
Are these emotions only for the poet?
It’s just me and my words
A match made in Heaven

Details | I do not know? | |

Know No Better Part One

I'm a plastic frame with false lenses,
my mind's a domicile of the meek;
I have only earthly posessions,
I pen them within casual fences.

My laughter persuades no one;
socks sold in transparent plastic bags;
I can't say I've considered contrition,
can't say I've even a soul to atone.

My favorites can all be listed,
and my zeal's best kept safely indoors;
I have this general capacity for sympathy,
at times even my vision becomes misted.

My convictions are bloated cardboard,
while opportunities all bleed away;
I have never seen my song too well,
melodies are an unpulled cord.

Don't look into my eyes,
they ain't gettin' no wetter;
all my truths require lies,
I know no better.

"I saw this guy and he was talkin',
Dude!, it was, like, really, really shockin',
he was sayin', ya know, how it'll all end,
like everything's just some big game of make-pretend!"

And, the next morning at nine o'clock, or there about,
Another day begins with no glorious, death-defying shout;
take the chair, take up the pen, scribble on the sign-in sheet,
it's not the cold, but the evaporation of all the heat.

The boss, he grins, as though he's hiding a knife,
and I think to myself,"This is what I've done to my life.";
he leans in real close to continue his pointless meandering,
all I can do is grin 'n nod with total lack of understanding.

Can't seem to shake my practice of telescopic prowess;
those about me can't see that so much more's the less;
their eyes kindle upon me with slavish, greedy need;
my lack of action's the throne from which I lead.

I've a quiet devotion,
quality of an Irish Setter;
My eyes are all emotion,
I know no better.

Details | Italian Sonnet | |

Pictures from a moving car

Through open window, lifetimes travel fast – 
the landscapes of the world pass in a blaze
of color, hurried strangers, outlined rays
of sunlight make the city lines contrast
with skylines. Like these scenes that flicker past,
the thoughts within my head, the hopes of days
that come and go, to capture in a phrase
will hold them close, to try to ever last.

Though often blurry, pictures can decode
the truth obscured in colored trails of light
and offer us a clearer look inside.
For no more wasted hours on endless roads,
for no more beauty missed in moments’ flight,
my lens, my word, a constant by my side.

Details | Acrostic | |

Pen of a Ready Writer

Many Days should speak, and multitude of 
Years should teach wisdom, I said.  But

There is a spirit in man:  and the inspiration
Of the Almighty giveth him understanding; therefore,
No prophecy is by the will of man, but holy men of
God speak and write the word as they are moved By the
Unction of the Holy Ghost for the edification and 
Exhortation and comfort of those who will hear and read.

Details | Light Poetry | |

Can You Hear Me Now?

In the Bible the book of James reads like a Shakesperian play
With words that are archaic and not used as much these days
James writes of his concerns about how to lead an ethical life
How one should communicate in order to follow the ways of Jesus Christ
But in society today proper language seems to have gotten lost somehow
Can you understand what people are saying, can you hear me now?
For It's not so much as what you say, but It's how you say it.

Ebonics, street lingo and generation X slang words
It's not so much  about can you hear me, 
but do you understand what you have heard
"Put some frosting on your bling-bling"
Now what in the heck does that mean?

Some rap music isn't so bad, 
If you can comprehend the main point
But most of those songs seem to address violence 
and the gangster life in the joint

We need to set an example with the proper Christian tone
Re-teach the youth of today to communicate
in a language that's not all their own
May God make them the instruments to carry forth His story
Pray that they come to understand the with Him, there Is glory

Can you hear me now? a slogan that Verizon does use
Can you understand me now with the words that I choose?
The diversity in the university
Is just a sign of the individuality
There's nothing wrong with being unique 
and marching to the beat of a different drum
BUt can you hear me now 
and do you understand where I'm coming from?

Details | Free verse | |

Untitled #217 / Scholars' Bowl

That’s why I’m not too discouraged
at Farragut’s poor performance at
this weekend’s Scholars’ Bowl tournament
for those who beat us were
memorizing lists of important names
rather than putting
themselves on the list

Details | I do not know? | |

Never Bow To The Reign Of Blade

No!No!Your death should not be yours to write,
Please allow time and chemistry to win out!
Put away that razor,though it's colors are bright;
forget such shades and what they may be about.
Look up,instead into your brightest mirror,
Observe the fair beauty there reflected;
Only then,put pen to paper,and open the door,
write of your Truth,not wounds self-inflicted.

Details | Ode | |


                                        We are quiet when the poetry comes out of us
                                       To not utter a word but just typing what inspires
                                       The A B C's in the rhyme
                                       Are of a scheme that lnks Story with a purpose to 
                                      open the eyes of many who may be blind
                                      It does not matter to the order or style of the individual
                                      If the desired artistry or expression is intended by
                                      the pen of the author
                                      Poems interwine between humor,life,and death
                                      They are the piece of our hearts
                                      What we feel in our souls
                                      For each verse
                                      there is a line or more that becomes identifiable
                                     not only to the poet but to the reader,as well
                                     Do not despair if we are not  yet recognized
                                     for what our writings in Poetry are all about
                                     It only matters in the Poet's own Dreams 
                                     in Ballad
                                     or of Sonnets
                                     TAKE THIS PIECE,MY FRIEND
                                     MAY IT SERVE YOU WELL

Details | I do not know? | |


there is a warmer feeling
To end a happy day
a heightened edge of satisfaction
Whetted honed to slice to peeling
dulled down senses self defences 
like a pair of scratchy lenses
helping insights to unfold
and enfold the mess and clutter
That we mutter as we utter
To better this our day of action 
gaining traction. As reaction 
to feeling kindly certain 
It is good to end this way
Sets in

Details | I do not know? | |

Know No Better Part Two

This solitude is mine, it's all I've created;
my language is barbed, my words serated;
see my bearing is so damned sophisticated,
the whole of the world should be this liberated.

"Once, I thought, someone was knockin',
swore I heard someone was callin',
but, ya know how it is when this man's rockin',
nuthin's noticed, not even stars fallin'."

The noose I tied's still only a rope,
all the dreams I had, nothing but dead hope;
like washing my hands with a sliver of soap,
kill the bacteria of desire, just so I can cope.

Broken english, dry leaves on skeletal trees;
broken charm bracelet, pocketed for the memories;
broken lines of thought stirring in the breeze;
broken destiny, promise of petty tragedies.

Gaze at me with your scorn;
a strange, heavy sweater,
always lookin' worn;
I know no better.

I find satisfaction in distraction,
finding entertainment one hour at a time;
keep life one long, unending coming attraction,
finding entertainment one hour at a time.

But, I want to think
I did my damndest
not to sink
my sunken chest.

Give me another chance;
give me some more time;
give me this last dance;
give me...I don't know...a lime?

Talk to my eyes so blue,
as their whites get redder;
now ya know it's true,
I know no better.

Read my tortured words,
pour over every letter;
heaps of petrified turds,
I know no better.

Details | Free verse | |

The Poet

The poet describes himself
with every well placed word
how can he do otherwise?

How can he avoid his own perceptions?
the altitude from which he observes
the child within him speaks

He speaks of the pain he has seen
of the stirrings he doesn't understand
the desire to share and be shared

A hand reaches out through words
for help or understanding
or an embrace

The path he walks along
is drunk in by the eyes 
heard by the ears
inhaled by the nose
felt by the skin

but expressed only in action or word

Poetry is the expression of the timid;
the spirit that leaves clues behind 
hoping someone will find them
waiting patiently for discovery
wishing that the connection will be made
knowing it will be - while the pen is still in motion

We are all made in a pattern
One dressmaker has made the dresses
for all of the women at the ball
and they are not ashamed

because the workmanship is exquisite

The poet sits in the balcony 
and describes the scene below
The flowing beauty and grace
the slight bump of arm
and the tragedy when collisions occur

sometimes he joins the dance
sometimes he leads the band
sometimes imagining is enough

leaving behind words of thanks

Details | I do not know? | |

paper and pens

paper and pens
are my only friends
getting on with getting out
words i must say
but can't utter
very loud
if once read back
and not put best
crumple it up
throw in the trash 
to start fresh
paper and pens
my only friends
getting on with getting over
past and mistakes
risks i should or should not take
allow me to speak
silent or violent or other
things up i think
loving me more
that i love myself
when i need anything at all
in time they help
paper and pens

carol brown, i hope you do not mind that your poem inspired me to write this 
one.  i hope it is original.

Details | I do not know? | |


It's the emancipation, new creation, combination time my patient

WELCOME, we'll come, what fun
complete fun under this sun to be done my son

superb sights with great will and shear might shall be made in plain sight on this 
brightest of nights

we may see as we hear with no tremble of fear
these events which unfold to take greatest of tolls

such are wonders to know as we bask in the glow and are swept in the flow of 
this truest of shows

Total wonder and glee at the sights that we see drive wondrous and free as we 
see through the sea

Now be free of conceit and think not of deceit only challenge beliefs as you strive 
to be free

Details | I do not know? | |

Oh, Please

Oh,return to me
  as I turn to you;
Please don't quickly flee
  far to heaven's blue.
Permit me the time,
  cast the proper spell
To search rhyme's rhythms,
  words as a rain fell.
Do not play me foul,
  yet another ruse;
I loose my lone howl
  for you,my fleet muse.

Details | Free verse | |


In Opposite World
Where a human prove to be bold
Lies a reflection
Of magic and perfection

Love and Hate
Yin and Yang
Light. And Dark
The story to be told

An Image in the glass
Iimitating himself
for better or worse
and no remorse

Mirror Mirror on the wall
Whose the fariest of them all

Details | Tetractys | |

Manners In Seeking Information

request of,
inquire about
become a badger with exclamation.

Details | Free verse | |

Untitled #241 / Integrate this

Integrate this!
You must transcend transcendence!
And then transcend the transcendence
of transcendence!

Details | Free verse | |


"Weapons; instruments of hurt
Stones and sticks
Fists and feet
Swords and lances
Rifles and missiles

But the cruelist weapon
of all...
Are words
Wounds on the insides
Not visible from without
Except in the tears they bring
The despair they birth
The dreams they shatter
The illusions they expose

The bleeding heart festers
Eyes closed  to hope
Tears shed in dark nights....

Words- the ultimate weapon-
Hear those words...
Before you speak them

Measure the pain 
to be inflicted
before the utterance
Creates the wound

A wound hard to heal
Where time can not help

Speak these words
in great caution
Make sure the deeds
Warrent the wound

The demon unleased
Will last far longer
Than you reason for its use."

Details | Free verse | |

The Vestige of Fifty-Five Words Per Minute

Solvent light diminishes metaphorical seconds,
wiping them with a blur–a stroke–a motion,
challenging the wings of emotion to pulse and live,
To etch and carve something in a flight of furor,
in a whirlwind haze of hapless thoughts in apropos.

A sound made in arresting touches of flesh on plastic
and in the vestige of fifty-five words per minute
I listen to the swift, cool rush of bodiless thoughts;
formed, reformed; given unto the cerulean glow,
like an offering of the internal to the exponential.

Ripped from juxtaposition and highlighted in blue,
a shadow morphs into absently coruscated fog,
crystalized in the act of inciting jubilant ruminations.
A cackle amidst a gaggle of jabbering voices,
and jovial extractions alight succulent glows of nascence.

He is born.

My twin sired with the conscious decision to smile whilst I type
and in the glow, he is pressed–animated–on the wall,
like a moving hypothesis for the enigmatic muse.
Dancing like figments in the light of imagination,
he sits as I do; enfolded in the cerulean glow that refreshes and renews.

Details | Lyric | |

All For Naught

So lost for words when trying to talk
emotions get in the way
nervous and intimidated
heart is pounding in my ears
sounds so loud, but no one else hears
hands are sweaty
throat is dry
try to swallow, but there’s nothing there
certain that I look 
like a frightened rabbit
cowering under a bush
hiding from a pack of wild dogs
praying that they overlook me
and I’ll live, yet, another day
free to go about my business
conveying my thoughts through speech
is not my forte
it’s so difficult to share my true feelings
with those who need to hear or with those I care about
So I sit here with my dictionary
finding the right words to say
writing out my feelings in poetry
hoping that it’s not
all for naught 

Details | Free verse | |

Off the Cuff- Another ad-lib from the Madman

Crazy is as crazy does.  I guess you get my drift.  I wander through a world of 
thought, my pace is not too swift.  I like soup and poetry too, If you're reading this, 
you do too.  I feel only fulfilled if I can create one smile, somewher upon this 
earth. sour pusses we know, we suffer from no dearth.  I may not be a great 
speller, and I may not be too bright, but one thing I know; how to use my sight.  I 
mean not eyes in this, I hope you understand, I'm just one little member in an 
awesome big ol' band.  There are things about I wonder, there are things that I 
adore, I better shut up now, you unederstand, I can not say more.

Details | I do not know? | |

Hope is in the Future

When your heart grows weaker and you no longer want to fight, 
And the hounds are howling, a struggle in the plight,
Remember, Hope is in the future, the outlook is bright.

When feelings of insecurity quickly begin to grow,
And your spirit is at an all time low, consider this even though, 
Hope is in the future, this I do know.

Sadness surrounds me, life is so unclear.
My hands tremble and am always filled with fear, although I must adhere, 
Hope is in the future, the target is near.

The army grows stronger little will to fight.
Everyone has their own wrong and right, but I know with all my might,
Hope is in the future, with faith not sight.

Summer is not eternal winter will come.
No mortal can comfort what damage has done.
Hope is in the future through Christ God's son.

Details | Tanka | |

Breaking The Ice

anecdotes and jokes
are a way to loosen up.
they change a person's
visage in moments to joy
or flashing consternation.

Details | I do not know? | |

Can Hardly Open My Eyes

Can hardly open my eyes
To how I used to feel
I can’t set my senses
On my own poetry
Not ready to cry
As I critique my emotions
I hope no one finds me here
Sitting with my back to the world
Don’t open my door
I’m reading

Details | ABC | |

Thank you for your songs

To all  the wonderful folks on this site, the real poets:

When you sing your words
you seem to get me right
placing words into a sentence just so 
a sentence that  would take me all nite

I read and I'm not alone
I talk too much, alot
trying maybe too hard 
to get myself across

How do you do it?
putting to paper your thoughts, so near?
pain, love, redemption, contentment
every emotion, every tear?

You make words lovely for my eyes
Secret somethings to hold close
words I think about while driving
words from friends that I don't know 

Thank you sweet friends
I don't express enough
but I believe I really see you
and your words make me loved 

Some of you are truly brilliant
Some of you are plainly true
But like me, I think, you are all calling
I hear you


Details | Free verse | |


So powerful are you,
So long abused,
Why do we misuse,
Words, words,
Written and spoken,
Change our lives,
Are the laws,
Are our life.

Details | Dramatic monologue | |

Need New Wiper Blades

There is a blurred brumous haze.
Afloat upon a invigorating mourning. 
Alive with the aroma of petrol and 
cigarette smoke.

The glass somewhat stained with a rich 
smoky grey. 
Raindrops like perspiration on a mother in childbirth. 
A broken window wiper beats a jungle beat. 
Across the clammy windshield.

Harsh noises of horns honking. 
Intermix with the wiper blades. 
To make a cruel early mourning remix. 
Of yesterdays one hit wonder on the radio.

I am not asleep nor am I fully awake. 
For my eyes are as heavy as the static rain.
I am blinded by the oncoming onslaught of 
lights and traffic. 
Like a metal stampede rushing at me. 
As if i'm a capeless matador.

Details | Free verse | |

' The Face You See ... '

Some Poems Are Old
Some Prose is New
Some Work is Fantasy
… Some Are True

Some Fears are Imagined
Some Hurts are Real
But I will not Disclose
Every Detail-Deal

Most Experiences are Mine
Especially Lessons Genuine
And The Things I Write
I Ask for Heaven’s Copy-Right

So … Straight from my Heart
‘ All This Is My Part ‘
And I Think You Know
… The Face I Show . . .

(and if You Chose to See or Not
Tells Me A Whole-Lot… )

Details | Free verse | |

My Poetry

I look to writing,
to poetry,
as an escape
from the miserable feelings 
I have of myself,
my life, and everything.
When I'm troubled by problems-
a lost love
or a missing friendship,
a bad habit
or a bad day-
my heart swells with emotion.
My tiny beating heart
takes in what I always hide;
it overflows
and I'm forced to spill out,
pour out such emotions
on the one thing
that always takes it in:
resulting in what one might call 
or trash.
Either way, the purpose is fulfilled
and I feel better.
But what about my audience?
I often wonder what it is
they think of me,
who I am 
and what I'm going through.
My "closest" friends 
will never know what YOU,
my reader,
reads in my poetry
about my deepest thoughts
and distressing feelings.
But when I look back at my writing
it's always one sided.
I'm often only moved to write
in lonesome, unhappy times;
I wish I could give you something
for all the days I smile.
It's funny...
when I think of what
I hide from my friends
and what I share with strangers
and the other side of my life
that they both don't see,
I come to a sad,
sad reality
that no one in this world
really knows me

Details | Free verse | |


There are no words
Only emotions
Raw and unrelenting
A petulant obsession
Blanching sight
My hands
Tools of asphyxiation
Choking prudence
Squeezing pulsating pens
Bound to a mute mistress
Who can read my mind
Like a blank piece of paper
Do I bed my muse
Or lie to my mother
Who held my trembling hand
When fear stole her slumber
And unspoken words
Her son

Details | Rhyme | |

The Periphery

Let me be
On the periphery
And not take center stage.

I guarantee
It’s best for me,
Especially as I age.

While some feel free,
Without a fee,
With audience to engage,

I disagree.
So let me flee
To where I belong, the page.

Details | I do not know? | |


My pen;
Is the source of my greatest power,
Conveys my deepest private thoughts,
Translates the speech of my spirit,
Utters the voice of my very soul,
Thus is my most precious tool.

When I am sad;
My pen may be likened to a lost orphaned child,
Wandering aimlessly through the woods at dusk,
Exposed to the cruelty of this unfeeling world,
Helpless cold fearful and knowingly unwanted.
It drips sluggish tears of ink across the page,
Dragging itself with what little strength remains,
Desperately seeking and end to bitter sorrow.

When I am happy;
My pen is an uncontrollable fluttering butterfly,
Skittering quickly quavering across pure paper,
Touching down so lightly with seraphim feet,
Much penned up energy impossible to contain,
Excited ideas poor forth like ambrosial torrents.

When I am angry;
I unleash the rabid dog that is my weapon,
It launches itself forth with ferocious haste,
Scratching and clawing out loathsome words,
Shredding paper betwixt slavering locked jaws,
Its breath is heavy with the odor of blood lust,
Hungry for vengeance and a taste of the enemy.

Sweet Catharsis; 
Criticize me not for committing my thoughts to paper,
Scorn me no longer for sharing my feelings thus healthily,
Generously give instead credit for self-control and creativity.
Would you rather I go about spilling tears down upon my cheeks,
While depressed unwittingly bringing down the moods of others?
Or shall I act upon the ugly desires that anger may conjure,
Behaving recklessly deliberately injuring those around me?
Though happiness and excitement are meant to be shared,
Even positive emotions must be kept in gentle restraint.
So leave me to my great escape my personal outlet,
Do read enjoy and admire my prudent craft,
And if the fancy strikes you some lonely day,
Empower yourself with the greatest tool known,
Pick up an all mighty pen and write!

Details | Blank verse | |

Balance & Transformation

Bearer of this violation,
You raped these words from me
Throughout this simple declaration
I have surrendered, 
I kneel before you & ask nothing
You were
A mystery to me
You were
Simplicity to me
Still you walk the line between
& I begin to think
You might let me see you falter
Cannot help but think of you
Of every promise kept
& every word proved true

Details | Alliteration | |


Proses and poems
Pictured prevail
Emotions emancipated 
Feelings of frail

Stances and stanzas
Words weaponry
Therapeutic tensions
Designated decree

Odes of oration 
Verses verily victorious 
Whimsical writes
Grandeur of glorious

© Stacy Lynn Stiles

Details | Free verse | |


Ever wonder 
how they think
they way the gears turn
why they say what they say
what they are thinking
the thoughts in their minds
how they function
why people do the things they do
i think about my mind
i think about the things i do
i relate my self
to others 
when i speak i too
wow why did i say that
what was i thinking
but each word
each movement
has a reason
has a story
the non verbal signs
the faces and looks
i have a reason
but yet
i still watch 
and i still wonder
why do they do the things they do
are their gears put together 
different than mine
do they not feel the same as i
should they?
when i write
i write my emotion
my feelings at that moment
i let it out
i let it go
same with my moods
my words
i dont hold back
but i should
so why do we 
and do
these things
do we ever truely think about
the outcome
the end rusult?

Details | Haiku | |


mirror of the id
bright mosaic,broken glass
visions in your verse

Details | Acrostic | |

Internal Rush

Delight sings in her slow dancing verses
Responding to internal joy
Under its spell of illusion
I consider returning reply
Duty compels me to reason
I shake off her clutching hands
Coils shatter loose in confusion

Descending to fall at my feet
Responding in kind
And trying to find
Colorful words of endeavor
Or stating it simply
No hidden evasion
I mean no invasion of Self
An attempt at reply to an acrostic cry
Never tempered my internal elf

Details | I do not know? | |

Sound In Your Mind

The sound in your mind
The word on a page
The common dream
Fading with age

Living just enough
Seeking inclusion
Searching for realism
Realizing the illusion

Striving for legitimacy
Marking your word
Starving for intimacy
Wanting to be heard

Everything's better
When we pretend
That we're dead

Someone please stop
All this madness
Swirling inside my head

Details | Acrostic | |

Stereotyping Me

Young at heart


Details | Free verse | |

Porous Prose

when you read a poem
consider the probability
that what seem to be chopped off phrases
and shreds of dangling sentences
are actually jagged blocks and slabs
of porous prose lumped and crammed 
in a page in a manner that's ...

           ...  not entirely

                    ... unintentional.

Details | Rhyme | |

Rhythm of Unwinding

Float to freedom
Burst and pop
to winds of change
on tides of red

Break emotion
Logic stops
as words ignite
and flood your head

Call the story
Conjure dreams
to lips still shaking
cold unthaw

Blow the bubbles
to the trees
and then sit back
and laugh in awe...

Details | Lyric | |

Fun of Rush

Why rush me 
To rush up 
Your rushy job
When rushing 
To rush up
The rushy job
I was rushing.
To rush
So as to beat the rush?

Details | Free verse | |


Robot ici 
There is a robot sitting ici on this computer 
He has a name and number but no freedom of religion 
He is soon taken from his places that he goes 
Big frog hopping in a little jargon pond 
Working on his nothing to complete  his daytime job 
Of standing on his pocket leaning overbearing moment of decay and death 
somewhere forgotten to be kept 
How many people am eye how many people must eye be 
Everyone is crazy in this new millineum of time 
Am eye the robot baseball player the batter up and pitcher 
Am eye still the cop the undercover thriller 
Am eye only the dishwasher in my white apron getting so wet and dirty 
Am eye the papermill employee scooping big heaping shovels of decay 
Am eye the dairy man giving all the milk away in bottles full of cow 
This robot was once human once full of life 

Details | Free verse | |

The Amazon

This creativity flows like the Amazon,
Feeding the world;
Feeding the world with delights of the
Senses, of being--
Being the Amazon.

At home in the Amazon
One never needs to look further,
But simply allow 
The flow, and be nourished.

Days of protection and
Defense are over.
Never was anything to own,
To keep, to guard.
The mighty One is you.

Details | Lyric | |

Peeling Thy Self

It seems so easy 
to feel what is like 
to be a poet, 
trying to peel 
a banana, for a fruity shake.

Details | Rhyme | |

Poetic Values

Tossed upon the waves 
Lost in a sea of doubt 
Words pressed upon a page 
Tortured soul reaches out 

Searching for the answers
Within these poetry lines 
Feelings are so personal 
Meanings not clearly defined 

Expressions of passing life 
Swim beneath each written word 
Soothing language to console 
Beautiful music to be heard 

Lost love fills many lines 
One can almost touch the pain 
Grief wrapped around my heart 
Poetry releases all my shame 

Happiness has found a space 
To let the sun shine once more 
Safe harbour of my inner soul 
Anchored safely to its shore

Held tightly within its grasp 
To ride life's troubled waves 
Steered away from craggy rocks 
Poetry is my sheltered cave 

For stored within my heart and mind 
Is all that I do live 
Poetry is a joyous gift to me 
That I can so readily give

Without it I would be so lost 
I surely would cease to be 
For everything that is inside 
Finds its way into my poetry! 

Details | Dramatic monologue | |


The feelings of a poet grow exponentially with her writing. 
As the poet delves deep into herself stirring the coals of her soul-fire, 
memories with feeling rise into the atmosphere. 
She can grasp at those feelings/memories as they float off into the cold night sky, 
but she can never hold them again once they are on paper. 
The Poet obsessively stands to close to her soul-fire in life as well as in prose.
Great pain and misery comes from this but, 
she does know the fire like none but the artist can. 

Details | Quatrain | |


Let your soul stain the paper
Like your blood stains the floor
Smearing squalls of liquidated life
On the palms of your scribbled war

Squeeze your heartache with your hand
Like a sermon spills a pariah’s plight
Cleansing the sins of your visceral voice
With the tears from which you write

Strain the sediment of your strife
Like starvation scavenges a gutted shore
Siphoning the spoils of weeping wounds
Dripping from the lines of your lore

Details | Blank verse | |


I have been around the world
Deepest, darkest corners of the globe
Down south, up north
Up high in the air time countless
Through routes criss-a-cross
Many times on sea sails
I have seen the world greatest cities
Lived in the thickets of the sahara
Several nights in the African jungle
Mingled with red Indians in Guatemalan forests
Been in  and out of oval office
The white house the Americans pride
I’ve felt the might of the Kremlin
In the Duma of the Aryan race
Gone under below the earth
In Australia, the lone continent
Gazed boldly at crown of Elizabeth
Like a Duke in Edinburgh palace
I’ve dined and wined at the so rock
In Abuja the power place of Africa
Been amused and excited beyond expression
I’ve let flow flood of tears
Felt pains and agonies deep to the marrow
All on the  platter of books
And behold!, the wide world
Before my very eyes and mind
To wander and wonder.

Details | Verse | |


On the bed of longing
she turns sheet to sail – 
and steers her craft
on the nightly star – 
across a sea that tides
to all the winged birds’ wail.

Details | Acrostic | |


Simply running won't deter them
Hiding under beds and tears
All the hope you caught and hoarded
Drain like liquid with your fears
Owls clasp the bulging moon
Wishes snatch your feet
Simply running won't deter them, shadowed, incomplete...

Details | Rhyme | |


     My mind shifts into overdrive
     Spinning like a wheel
     Creative juices flowing
     Can't describe quite how I feel
      It seems once I get started
      Inspiration flows like wine
      Thoughts ever bubbling forward
      From this thinking box of mine
      I hope that age will never dim
     This creative light within
     And love of prose will light the way
     For the journey of the pen

Details | Couplet | |

Love, Words And Writing

Such is when writing poetry--
We’re pretty willing to be free

And go to places, anywhere
All ‘cos beauty is out there

When, in haste, words do flow 
The mighty pen and paper glow 

O, we play with them, like love 
That comes like a haloed dove

We take the risk of being hurt--
The pain, hidden behind its skirt

That no one would like to have
What special is how we behave

In any given conditions or forms 
Against any unprecedented storms

We need to work our imagination
For enjoyment and self perfection

Details | ABC | |

Poetry in Notion

Expressions and thoughts
Feebleness and weak
Gifts of never-ending words 
Honor and reward is what we seek

Why is poetry a mistaken talent?

Details | Ode | |

A cherished book

The best books have a little
love in them. Whether it be
a taped spine or a
half-creased cover
a forgotten dog-ear or
a few margin-scribbles
a browning of the pages
or perhaps a signature
the more time a book spends
in the company of men
the better it learns how to tug
at their heartstrings.

Details | Rhyme | |

They Are Wrong

Men cannot be poets,
Or so it seems in life,
The people that should know it,
Their words do strife.

Cuts you to the bone,
When you read what they have said,
Will not leave you alone,
Run cover your head.

Could not believe it this morning,
When I read these words so grave,
Felt I took a beating,
As if I were a slave.

But is ok for I am strong,
I will try much harder,
To prove,
That they are wrong.

Details | Dramatic monologue | |

My Plea

I am not you-
but you will not give me a chance,
will not let me be ME.

If I were you-
but you know I am not you,
yet,you will not let me be ME.

You meddle,interfere in my affairs
As if they were yours,and you were me.
You are unfair,unwise,foolish to think
That I can be you,
Talk,act and think like you.

God made me me,
He made you you,
For God's sake,
Let me be ME.

Details | Free verse | |

Taking it All Down

I cannot tell you of the muse;
It tells me all.
Not a voice.
Not a sound.
Not a sense.
Not a thing to sell.
There's just following,
Taking it all down.

Details | Blank verse | |

Type Dreams

Three blank canvasses lean plastic wrapped against a hallway corner wall
Upstairs are boxes filled with paints and brushes and several sets of knives
Finished signed framed paintings hang throughout the house
Woodcarvings adorn shelves in Germany, Florida, and other homes
Each Boston Whaler built after  the moon landing boasts a drying chine line
A winged unicorn tenses to leap aloft as the naked nymph upon her senses freedom
Each caught in a twirl of cut planed and polished cedar grain pattern
Some things sensed are meant to be while others wait in hallways
Or clatter constrained  in cloud castle courtyards
Hands strive to shape the forms that sing in wordless passion
As frustration  fills a page with empty words

Details | Rhyme | |

To the Writer Who Pegged Me Right...

Satsuma button a torn reminder
of the writer who read me and printed my voice
Pages uncut and unevenly binded
with etchings of longing a life filled with choice
Midnight pass quickly and frail me no more
I yearn to delve deeper to see what's in store
but my throat is quite aching and my eyes sting in salt
I stand without blood pressure feeling to fall
So lost in her words, so taken with expressions
of me in her mirror of liquid reflections
Cherry tree blossoms as snow on the ground
as my heart sinks in silence, indelible sound
Satsuma button to start a collection
a reminder of the moment a soul pegs you right
Rice paper marking my book with discretion
as I rise with my countenance and bid you good night...

Details | Free verse | |

Untitled #250 / Why I write

“Why do you write, Jesse?”
I honestly don’t know.
“Struggle to sketch the flow that already
exists intact in the mind”?
It’s spontaneous. It’s a habit. It’s a compulsion.

Details | Free verse | |

Pen Stains

The pen stains
you wear like badges
scattered tatters across
your khaki JNCO jeans
tell me more than
your irreverent demeanor

May you fly high.

Details | Rhyme | |

keep lifting me higher

there are times when I'm feeling lost and low
I'm all adrift and don't know which way to go
so I read the words of The Father to get inspired
for His word alone will keep lifting me higher

as I open the pages of that sacred tome
I know now that I have finally found my way home
His word gives me all that I desire 
and will forever keep lifting me higher

the spiritual pictures that I receive
are gifts from God, I truly believe
oh heavenly Father I just have to say
thank you my God for your words today
for with them I will never go astray
and to you I will always pray

no longer feeling so sad and down
the words of my Father in me have been found
now I'm on the path that my God requires
because His word alone keeps lifting me higher

Details | Free verse | |

Untitled #180 / Your words

Your words should always shock the crowd!
When they are true, this is called genius!
When they are false, this is called insanity!
But who can say which way the wind blows?

Details | Free verse | |

A Memory, A Word

A memory is transitory
coming, disappearing, and morphing
fickle as a woodland nymph,
and like a moth in the summer
it soon dies.

Humanity’s great citadel was not built
on a bog of quicksand.

A word is a stone
durable and unchangeable
permanent, immortal, and remembered
like a marble bust or a mountain range.

A writer lives forever
his words echo evermore
back and forth across eternity
mingling in a mélange
inside that most magnificent of all
concert halls, the mind.

So change memory to word,
silhouette to sunrise
speak forever
never die.

Details | Blank verse | |


Happiness is all in the seeking
For some it is a settlement
For others wanderlust
Then there are the people watchers
Ambulance chasers
Some live lives in absorbed observations
Describing works of art
Like erudite wine tasters
As the artist reads his emotive expressions
From the words of critics sleeve laughing
And painting on blithely
Doing while others watch
Like a busy stone mason who
Occasionally drives by his 
Old work in quiet satisfaction
A glimpse of happiness
From a road others built

Details | Free verse | |

make me a subconscious prophet that doesn't know

Get all your biblical metaphors
all the meanings of angels of justice and death
the names and numbers
and metaphors of meaning of witchcraft 
and everything mankind pays attention to
from beasts to prostitutes
and go forth and make them riddles
make them meaningfull journeys of contemplation 
only the subconscious can percieve
Like a magician subtly giving away his tricks
never give away the answer to the riddle in all obviousness
but be sure that somehow it can be thought through

With all of these puzzles
I'll submerse myself into meaning and imagery
this language of mans esoteric seeds
of emotions and pleasantries of everything
of divine interventions and life lessons
of buildings that stand tall 
of every language culture and creed
I'll read them all
one by one
I'll ponder them all
and sleep them away soo deep
and tomorrow
I will become a prophet of tomorrow
one that doesn't even know

as i follow your lead
of all this imagery 
of hot topics
and metaphors everyone disguises
sliding from place to place
I will say the answers to the riddles so openly and honestly
in this spotlight
and the future we're not m,eant to see
we still won't will be revealed
and covered again
and another chapter of where we came together
to uncover mankind's seeds
to slide away innocent
to know nothing
to create a future mystery will have taken place
and this was a part of your writing legacy

your gift to me
my gift to you
and tomorrow we will discover something
and maybe they will do it again
but no one will ever compare to the subconscious pedastools
we are about to achieve!

Details | Free verse | |

Untitled #229 / Friendship

“Friendship is a promise made in the heart
silent and unwritten
it is unbreakable by distance
and unchangeable by time”
Fools! Time changes all!
Even the etched-in words
on this granite slab,
or this very page
which shall outlast all friendships,
will be rendered illegible one day,
all words, all readers
weathered away by the dust of time!

Details | I do not know? | |

Slave Of Poetry

phrases whipped
feelings Pen"man"Shipped 
from Continental African Minds, 
to AmeriCaribbean Paper Colonies
i am a Slave of Poetry

toiling under hot shining scrutiny
in boundless green feelings
i am a Slave of Poetry

shackled in the dark
dark corners of my mind
malnourished of inspiration
i am a Slave of Poetry

escape this
critics hounding my heels
"massa" hunting me down
how many more till 
i can write my freedom
become a Poet
no longer a Slave of Poetry

Details | Free verse |