Three pounds a month they
ask, save the Tiger, save the
Panda, save the Jaguar, save
the rain forest.
Three pounds a month for
the children's hospital and
for the save the children's
fund, the RSPCA, RSPB,
Cancer research, just, only
three pounds a month, now
my pockets are empty with
all these donations.
Our governments, they also
donate, mainly to the
FAT CAT SOCIETY
yes those poor sods who
caused the majority of man's
suffering with their greed and
Please just three pound a
month for the Daniel
Cheesemans poetry fund.
Copyright © Daniel Cheeseman
Stranded in this place
I cannot recognize
Abandoned and lonely
No one hears my cries
AS i walk through this wasteland
Of wilderness and desolation
I am consumed with anguish
I walk this road with hesitation
On every turn that i come upon
The is more pain than at the last turn
Agony and torment spews from my pores
With every step i take more pain i earn
Until i am enveloped with grief
Buried alive on my feet
Dirt in my eyes,nose,mouth,and lungs
I throw up my flag of defeat
Each painful blow leaves behind a deep gash
That is constantly reopened never able to heal
Infection has now set into my heart
Slashes and scars on my body reveals the detail
Of the despair embedded deep in my soul
That tells a tale of a soul so lost
A soul wandering through this wilderness
A tale of what being born black cost
Copyright © April Mitchell
People make me smile the way
their eyes shine when they talk
about something they love
when they feed me food. Or tell
me how much they love me
when I look into someone's
eyes and see it I see that look
in their eyes I see love in them
When I see someone laugh and
have fun in what they do
The way they cry for there lost
When they give me a smile and
tell me how beautiful I am
People are beautiful well some
are and I wish someday I can
find someone who will look at
me and say "you have that look
in your eye" what look?
I want to find someone so
beautiful in the inside I can't
stay away they amaze me with
what they say an do how they
will dance in the rain and know
every detail about me
Will bring me Starbucks on a
rainy day and just talk about
I want someone beautiful
Copyright © brittney lopez
I bent down to pick up a penny from the frozen ground.
I could smell myself, the acrid stench of sweat and soot,
the taint of vapored vagrancy
that marked my movements, masking me from the reality that used to be.
I hate me and what I am, more than you could ever think to,
but more so becuase you do, with your limp laughter and scared stares.
I never knew my life never needed me to know it could all go away in a single day.
I see it all through dirty windows draped in singed eyelashes and gutter grime,
the pathetic gazes from afar as another afternoon of sale shopping and shoe sizing is ruined
by my appalling appearance.
"How dare you be here! What's wrong with you?"
"Go get a job you junkie, you slob, just jump a bus so you can't disgust us with your sewer
shoes and hard luck blues. You deserve the dirt and a kick in the teeth from the steel-tipped
toe of a jackboot too. No one wants to see a scummy sack of crap like you, bending down to
pick our scraps off the frozen ground."
The helping hand of man slaps the taste of humanity from my mouth with each volatile volley
of acid arrow analogies angrily slung and fired furiously from the bows of bastard
businessmen and bleach blonde bimbos.
My weary wounds fill with the sea-salt of sarcastic statements and unflattering finger
gestures from frat boys as I bend down to pick up a penny I found on the frozen ground.
"Head's up means luck," Abe smiled at me, and suddenly my thoughts began to run
I took a long look at the lingering light of one of the sweetest sunsets I had ever seen, and
the simplicity and majesty washed over me.
There was no use in listening to abuse and accusations and obtuse observations any more.
I was being shown a door.
Wrapped in the warmth of the amber and amethyst glow, I finally smile for a little while and
close my dirty windows against the icy winds of waning words.
Tomorrow, someone will bend down to pick me up from the frozen ground.
Copyright © Curt Mongold
She's sliding and if you look past, if you watch her.....
maybe you'll capture a glance of her yesterday.....
“Sunrise only falls when you don't believe tomorrow exists,” I explained, in my most
She bit her lip and shook her head, she followed me into my room and shut the door, she
locked us in, for an hour it seemed, and whispered in my ear....
“I can write pain better than anyone,” she informed me, “I'm brilliant at tears.”
And with this she tore pages out of my beloved sketch book, the one that no one is allowed
to touch, and just when my jaw fell with the shock of her brazenness, I shut my mouth as I
watched her pen turn letters into sobs....
I followed the words as they ran down, as ink turned into pretty swirls that screamed art
and I told her...
“Your angst belongs in a museum.”
I had never seen her smile before, I had never heard her grin, but her lips parted at that
moment as a single curl dropped down her previously wrinkled forehead and I saw the beauty
in eyes that cry and knew that she had realized I accepted it.
“Oh, but who would pay to hear me scream?” she asked, almost joking, as she crossed her
legs and sat forward a bit, as her teeth tugged on her bottom lip, as she looked more her
age and resembled a child instead of me....
“I would,” I replied, as I pushed back her hair and kissed her on the nose, “I would, if I
didn't hear you in my dreams almost every night.”
Copyright © JeanMarie Marchese
Trapped like a bird in this filthy cage
Where I am starved of compassion and understanding
Left to survive on meager crumbs
Of affection and tolerance
Held captive and unable to fly and be free
From the physical and emotional restrictions
Placed upon me by my keeper
Who’s only reason for my presence it seems
Is to stay its loneliness and insecurity
To feed its selfish need for control
Through its twisted concept
Of love and adoration
I am looked upon as a possession
Other than the living, breathing individual
That I long to be
So now I sit upon my proverbial perch
In my so called gilded cage
In the confines of my seemingly mundane existence
And walk though my mind confused and alone
Aimlessly wandering through the now empty spaces
That no longer hold the dreams or aspirations
Which I once thought gave my life purpose
Memories which were bright and alive
Full of promise and hope but have faded away
Into a past that is now grey and bleak
Devoid of anything worth remembering
My footfalls echo in the silence
Giving testament that these memories
Have been empty and forgotten long ago
My only hopes now are that my keeper
Will grow tired of my deliberate silence
And obvious disdain and release me
Whether through life or by death
At this point either would be welcome
How I long for the freedom
And comfort of the clear blue sky
The ability to soar like a bird
High above the reaches
Of those who only want to keep me
And fly towards the bright and colorful horizon
Where I know my future waits
And new memories and dreams can be made.
Copyright © Thomas King
I sat on the edge of your mattress, unsure what to expect; I kicked off my shoes and took in
your bedroom for the first time: the bookshelves, the plastic stickers wreathing the windows,
your little brother’s action figures mid-battle on the carpet, the clothing stretched out into
long piles beneath your feet.
I remember thinking you so strong and confident, wondering how we ended up beneath the
covers together. You reassured me as you crawled out to take down your blue jeans. I looked
away for fear of seeming too eager. (I wanted to look.)
Your hand trailed over my back, tracing my stomach. I had never been touched before;
every inch your fingers followed burned a path into my memory. I was sure there were
scorch marks on the sheets.
We kissed and kissed and I gasped and we kissed and I fumbled, I heard my pulse throbbing
in my ears and we kissed and I couldn’t believe I had gone my whole life without knowing the
feeling of skin on skin.
Then, you were forcing my lips to part with yours, and your tongue surprising the inside of my
mouth, a slippery, rubbery thing. I let it wander.
You curled a loose hair behind my ear. I imagine you framing my face in your hands and
bringing my chin for another kiss, but I find my memory inventing moments between us that
But, I am sure of the sleepy look on your face every time we pulled away, the half-pouted
lips, and the pressure of your hands on my back, urging me to never stop.
Copyright © Robin Lane
Storms above me, storms below,
Storms of violence, Storms of sadness,
Storms of anger
Storms of people laughing,
mocking my existence
Sorrow, and the joy of the few lights
of hope and friendship echoes
Through the storms
The storms surround me night and day
No land sight Poseidon’s rage is all I see
No mercy found, twix’t night and day
But for the brief repast
The gift night brings
To weather the storms
I travel unseen, unheard
Past those who give
the storm its powers
To the places in my dreams
Where night and day are side by side
And Wolves gather
below the moons
Midday and night, to sing
Their songs of peace
Of legends from long ago
Of loyalty to their pack
And the fight to survive.
To weather the storms
I look to the wolves
As a cub, to the mother
The strong live to be the hunters
Whilst the weak
become the prey
The storm takes all
Partial to none it hunts
One by one, boat by boat,
all fall to the storm
Human, Animal, Angel, Demon,
the storm resides in us all
waiting to take hold
to drag us to its depths
when hope is gone
until the Light is found
hope is gone
Copyright © Wolf Lief
We the old and broken, have become the pawns
in the grand game of politics. We are as in the game
of chess of the lowest esteem, expendable
if not worse unwanted, a barganing chip.
For three years we haven't even received
a cost of living increasee
while their income they have
They have as they so often do broken
their promise to us. Social security was a
promise made by them, that we paid
for when we were able to work,
extracted from every pay check we earned.
Those revenues where to be put in a trust
for us to draw from when the time came
that we had need of them. However our
government for decades have used those
funds as they pleased, for things other than
what they were intended for. Why am I not surprised?
because our so called public servants have
broken countless promises and in the process
lined their pockets from the spoils of their deceptions.
The Bill of Rights and the Constitution
they have shredded and the first casulity
was the truth, now we are the second.
Most of our fatrhers fought and many died to
defend the rights that they have cast into the
the trash heap. Our national debt is now beyond
any hope of us ever repaying, robbing the young of
any hope of a future or even a job, taxes they will have
to pay tremendous to pay for there folly. China Told
President Obama, We're not going to lend you any more,
sure can't say I blame them, probably never pay back what
we already borrowed form them. England is burning because
of the same folly of the politicians, won't be surprised
if the same thing takes place here. People with no hope
and no future what do they expect. They'll go on filling their
pockets with the taxes we all pay, the don't care it's all
well and fine for them. Will give themselves another big
pay increse next year, you just wait and see. Like mother
Hubbard everyone elses cubbard is bare, no bone for
the doggies anymore. They have destroyed everything
Along with, "One nation under God". This once upon a time
good nation has quite literally gone to the "Dogs". The only
Thing that I can say is that I wouldn't have said before,
I'm ashamed of what this nation has became.
Copyright © Jack Ross jr.
The Godliness of Adoption is...
Or is it not?
…A beautiful spring sprig floret of rose. A rose brought home from our humanity's colorful garden of trust? Yet, was it not all that long ago when cut was each stem, entrusted to its own gardener's worthy and caring hands?
Hands, now too soon stripped and emptied. Hands that were easily led astray by the coersions of now self-appointed zealots. They, with hands marked with ever stained bloody thorn pricked fingers, which now present each torn stem of rose on heaven-like sent pedestals; until met is a king's ransom; these thirty pieces of silver, being the ask of many an angelic broker.
Or is it not?
...An act next to Godliness when these angels of guise are loosed to search in the mist of this motherland? They, the finders of our pink and blue hued overflow spillage of souls.
Is this not the nature of their guised humanity. Delicately does it assist society in the dredge of waiting collection ponds, pools of tears that gleamingly mirror you and I; and from where our memory should fill with sounds. The siren-like cries of which, now link with our distantly lost... ...or coldly disengage of our not of want…
Or is it not?
...The beautiful water lilys of pond? Those that so serenely float above an ever skimming conscience that is this God-fearing nation; a polarized complacency so sweetly lost amidst its own mesmerizing shimmer. They, without inkling of shame. An innocence of eyes that fail to see transparency by such weakly given puruse. A view that cannot pierce the murkily veiled mire that hides just below its own watery reflection...
...And where underneath trails this triad’s tangled web that will soon unravel in route to tie with each long waited conscience…
Adoption is it or is it not our "Humanities with Consequence"?
Copyright © dave archuletta
I have a secret place to go whenever I feel the need. It is a place that is visceral,
dark, and so unforgiving that the joy of being there sometimes makes me want to stay
longer than a moment. There, I am like a beast uncaged, running free, and devouring all
that I see. When the beast runs, there is no stopping it. There is no leash or muzzle to
keep it at bay. There is no place that it cannot go, and its desire for retribution is
like an insatiable hunger in its belly. The beast there is ever hungry. "Where is this
place?" you may wonder. I always try to remember to take the key with me. For it is the
barren, lonely, and impassable door you cannot reach...it is the Id within me.
Copyright © Daniel Cwiak
Don't want to leave
want to pick you up
in my arms
kiss you and tell
you - I have
stored away and
this love I have for
Don't want to feel
Like the only way
heart is when it's
Making it seem as if
I hate you
When I just don't
want you to hate me.
I even dislike
I have endured-
Because I hoped,
and took the shots.
Realizing that my
defense was strong
my retaliation could
kick you into
I Love you
too much, to let
you continue hurting
yourself, to hurt
You won't see me
As I aggravate
your condition on
as I remind you of
well held onto
The truth is I want
hold you and tell
I want to clear your
let you see that
the love is here
It cannot be
I cannot complete
the task;until you
Copyright © Vicki Acquah
She sits there in the back of the class, doodling on her paperwork. Getting lost in
the scribbles, tuning out the teacher, forgetting all the madness around her, her life
fading in the paper. Slap! The sound of the ruler splintering across the desk. PAY
ATTENTION! Head jerking upward, she sits up in her little desk. Pencil dropping from
her hand, rolling off onto the floor. She looks straight ahead, back straight as a
board, eyes glued ahead as the teacher drones on. Drilling things into their heads,
eyes sharp like an eagle. Looking for every chance to catch someone falling asleep,
to catch someone passing notes, to catch someone whispering. The little girl quietly
picks up her pencil and her mind drifts to dreaming of playing dress up, drifts to the
path the lead makes on the paper. The curves of a woman, not a little girl. Dreaming
of growing up into a woman. Confident, pretty, smart, strong....someone people will
notice....a woman with a voice. Slap! The ruler across her hand. She jerks it back,
clasping it to her chest. Instant sting, instant redness and she feels the tears start
to pool in her eyes, her lip quivering to hold back the yelp. Pay attention! You’re not
listening! I asked you a question young lady. Should I repeat it? She’s so scared
that she can’t even speak so she just meekly nods her head. Hard as steel, cold as
ice, the teacher repeats the question. She hangs her head and answers but her
voice is barely above a squeeking whisper. Speak up! says the teacher. The class
can’t hear you, I can’t hear you she says. The little girl raises her head and repeats
her answer. WRONG! Slap! The ruler across her other hand. See if you had been
paying attention instead of DOODLING, then you wouldn’t have gotten the ruler.
You’ll make sure next time you will listen now won't you. The little girl doesn’t
answer, doesn’t speak up. She doesn’t want the ruler again. So she carefully and
quietly lays her pencil on her little wooden desk that bares the markings of many
ruler slappings. And on her little wooden desk, she rests her hands that bare the
scars of many ruler slappings. She stares straight ahead at the chalkboard,
unwavering, searing a hole in the chalkboard. She tries to find the dream of dress
up, tries to find the girl dressing up as the woman she wants to be. But all she sees
on the chalkboard…no matter how hard or how long she stares...all she sees on the
chalkboard.....is nothing but chalk.
Copyright © A Rambling Righting Riley - Shauna Riley
There's a void, now
Where once a steadfast heart beat time
The soul in perfect harmony with life's uncertain pulse
With those who clambered eagerly in solace or in joy
To scale that mighty pinnacle
The Rock, within the bosom of the family
There's a void, now
But marvel at the structure, the firmness of the ground beneath
The strata richly layered with wisdom of generations past
A fault free seam constructing firm foundations
Binding those within the bosom of the family
There's a void, now
A hollow cavern
echoing the anger and the pain
Trust time; it has no fear of finite elements
The source of unremitting pain
Within the bosom of the family
There's a void, now
So fill the emptiness and catalogue the memories
Harvesting the richness of their meaning
The fullness of the seed sown long ago
To bloom forever within the bosom of the family
Copyright © CAROL ROBINSON
They built the underground chamber well reinforced with concrete to the depth of
three miles into the center of the earth. NO steel girders were used. They did not
wish to be trapped when the atomics started dropping from the sky. They putt three
tons of food within reach for everyone to survive. Radiation suits with water in
drums to be used only in the event of the end of the world. They even used double
doors like saloon doors which could not lock them inside. But they forgot what could
happen iff Murphy is in charge. The SILO for this is the right title of this thing the
SILO for this is the designation of this thing the SILO drifted above them only 17 feet
away but it could not have been worse it could have been 17 miles for there were
no equipment down there for them to tunnel up or out. The spokesman for the
group turned out to be the worst the nerves evident in the strain of her voice there
is no reason left to us. So now we will die here entombed no one could foresee this
problem the concrete silo above us has drifted into the earth trapping us
underground for the rest of our lives. Which recourse will not be much longer now.
The lifer PFC Hice stepped up to the dirt floor roof just above them he took his
shovel from his pack then he began to dig slowly at first then faster faster he pulled
the dirt from the opening letting it fall behind him uncaring he begins to turn the
tunnel to the west to begin his task of getting to the concrete Wall of the silo.
NOTHING else matters now to most of them they sought out ways to help him. He
turned over here he is to sleep then wakes to begin the shovel urging the others
taking turns to come up behind him with the bucket then drop the dirt into the
kitchen or the stove they filled up every free spot in the effort to conserve room they
intended to win this fight for survival now. For where there is one free Man there is
hope for the others. It took too long to get the concrete tower open. They found
them there one September. They held open the tower door for the Prime Minister of
the world. He took one look to the Man on the tunnel floor. He smiled. It is my son.
He died he gave his life upp here down here trying to get them out he was trying to
save them. He brought him out into the light only to bury him further. Such is the
power of men. Such is there intelligence. One huge MegOHBlister.
Copyright © charles hice
of the night sky,
sit a while outside
my window and
sing your song
Your haunting caw
echoes of stories
brought back from
the battered ships
falling of the
in my head.
the rays of the moon,slicing off fragments of
light from a happier
O, wearied traveler,
bring ye news from
the tinseled and
the tattered remnants
of a moving-picture
Your beating heart
keeps time with
my tears in rapid staccato,
firing off little darts
to make new holes
in my head.
Copyright © Kimberly Anderson
(The writing exercise was to choose three poetry cliches and make them fresh)
(back stabber, after my own heart; and a soul of discretion; maybe more...)
He was a back stabber
After my own heart
Meek and sleek and sneaky
He wormed his way in
And 'innocently' uncovered
Skeletons in closets
They were all fair game
He was a back stabber
Not to be trusted
Such a sweet smile
That promised a soul of discretion
It was too easy to believe him
It felt good to trust him
He pulled his victims in
And it wasn’t until the court case
And the jury voted for him
That you realized he was a back stabber
He pulled it off with such panache
You had to admire the guy
Even while you staunched your blood
I wish – oh I wish
I had his skills
He was a back stabber
After my own heart
Copyright © KJ Hooten
Even in the dark, it doesn't feel right.
Even in the silence, I know it isn't you.
But I'm young, and I'm scared,
And he gets me through.
The first was lips,
Just a sweet, common meeting.
Only, I can't call myself his anymore.
It was a moment, short and fleeting,
But I won't belong to him ever again.
Three rotations around the star, He is all I know, so I let it be.
He promised it was friendship, and he wanted nothing more.
Then why is this happening to me?
The drink swims in my brain,
Watching the waves lap at the shore,
And I can't remember a damn thing,
I don't remember a thing more.
Scared. I was scared.
So, silent I was.
My heart was hidden, lies were snared.
I made the dark vacuum seem like a torrent of sound.
When his ideas of happily ever after fell through,
He ran with one last plan.
He ran squealing like a pig to you,
And I almost lost everything I wanted.
I let the lies break,
I let the tears fall,
Because although seventeen,
I felt so very small.
I promised, I swore,
And to that I've kept true. I
I've never again
Cheated on you.
Copyright © Erika Raiken
It's a sick world.
Men of power,
greed, and cunning.
Banal and sophomoric,
ohhhh such vile, vile, vile men.
cruel and callous men.
May they drown,
in the blood of angels,
and vomit, vomit, vomit!
Copyright © Robert McCall
I stood in the middle of the ocean's palm and travelled along its' finger lines.
These blue waves have stolen the infinity of sky, reflecting my fate signs.
In my heart there is a blank, as I am left alone struggling with a sea unknown.
If you could show me your eyes, I would place your hopes in stars to find height.
Instead, I am burned in fires shaken, in sweaty dreams that end with the first light.
In other words I search for promises, changing places and opening new doors.
Yet, this sea of rain rushes into my expectations, driving me to the same shores.
And I am wondering if life owes us our prayers, our tears, our sentiments of glory.
If not, then we are condemned to expect a fate, a Spring belated to show a fake story.
When nights exceed the dead ends I set, moon is risen laughing at my mortality.
In the cold breeze I face my humanity, fighting in a battle uneven and unfair.
As time passes through my windows, I betray my existence behind curtains flopped.
Eyes of solitude I can't forget visit me between Heaven's and Hell's Gates blocked.
I set fire to my pain and from the ashes I give birth to a fate, in which you are not in.
The greatest dreams I left behind, a compromise I signed and gained the right of sin.
Uncovered distances, chaos in my heart rhyme
For the losses I won't accept as my fear prime.
Copyright © valeria iliadou
A happy little girl. Bright colors and sunshine. She grows older and enters middle
school. She is teased constantly. Not the right hair. Not the right clothes. It hurts,
oh God it hurts. She forgoes colors. Black and gray are good enough. She gets older
and older still. High school; a new place, new adventure. Dare she hope...new
friends? Foolish, foolish girl. New friends? New enemies...new pain. Dyed hair...what
color? Black. Black hair, black clothes...black heart. Poetry, music, the only escape.
Dark, Pain, Despair...Destroyed. Heart bleeding and inside she's screaming. but no
one sees. No one hears. Alone...so alone. Who would understand? No one. Dying
inside. Drowning in pain bottled up. Invisible. Misunderstood. Who is she? Who is
she!?! Screaming, bleeding, dying. What a waste. That's what she is, a waste of
space, a waste of breath. Better off without her. The world's better off. Despised,
Copyright © Angelita Becerra
No news is good news we’ve all heard that before
that said I’d like less bills when I open my mailbox door.
If it bleeds it leads with more than enough yellow journalism
where facts are shifted and twisted then shown through a tainted prism
then a little tease to keep you hanging through long commercial breaks
this isn’t the news we’re being abused and it’s giving me a headache.
Copyright © Monty Newman
Why did you take my wedding ring? Did taking it give you a zing? Did hurting me give you a
double ring in your b b thing? Did the carats make your heart sing?
Did you think your new lady would like my ring? Wouldn’t it sting her to know whose thing
that was first darling?
That hurt more than anything. Why did you take my ring?
Copyright © Marie Harrison
I have the fury of hell trapped inside. I’m so angry that words can’t express how I
feel. Nothing in life could have ever told me that these emotions existed. I’m mad at
you, at everything you ever stood for. At the very fact that you were so charming
and happy in life only to die and leave me alone like you did. Angry at the fact that
your death could have been prevented, Drinking and Driving - were you just stupid;
careless. Did you think that you would never die? That you were immortal and could
defy even God. Well you weren’t, I guess you know that now. I still can’t believe
that your life could be wasted because you were too arrogant to wait till you got
home. You should've waited...
Copyright © Tirzah Conway
Waking to murmurs
Hum of smooth white noise
Or waves slapping rocks
Through mirror-like glass
I see russet wings
Dampened by dewdrops
Walk to the kitchen,
my feet soft and bare
on tiles cracked, and
wish the sea
Copyright © Jennifer Cahill
A tight fist of emotion sprouts flames in my chest
and I fan the flames with a chilled smile
chiseled like the block of ice
stored in the freezer for the party.
I have stood empty as a discarded seashell, perhaps a clam's shell,
whose pearl should sparkle like the sun spattered sea, that is its home.
But it gleams like the moonlight
castings its light across surfaces- changing them to white or silver,
like the tops of carved glaciers, drifting as they change the shape of the earth.
Too heavy am I to walk on these surfaces,
even if it is frozen.
Seabirds wind up and spin lazily,
calling the wind for their flight- or at least to float momentarily,
like my spirit, needing so much to be released
Copyright © Jennifer Cahill
Oh love do you really exist?
I cried when your call came to me
and left me sleepless in the twilight.
Your mesmerizing memories did fly as a crow
going away from home, spreading pity
of pathetic loneliness in ghastly forests
that glow in pallid colors,and a vapor cloud
devoured the gray trunks,the desiccated stems,
the rotting roots, and the lifeless land.
The pale plains did drive them insane.
This lifeless land did harbour many
ghosts in its hollows, who haunted
many travelers. Nightmares did rule
the day.Who are you to be happy?
Only sadness is allowed to be happy,
not you. A reaper stalks this realm
in search of victims. Try not to
hide for he shall find you quicker
if you try, for he senses your desperation
dripping from your temple.
Copyright © Victor Chavez
He's staring off into oblivion;
dead-lights, who of their own free will choose to illuminate
the gray matter microwave that is TV:
too vain, too vulgar. Thought Vanquisher,
brought to you by your friendly-facade-keepers:
the politicians pussyfooting on a pedestal
built of an uninformed (yet united) public -
whose belief in "connection" is in reference
to a wall socket. Not love. Not kindness.
Who unwittingly become hamsters on a wheel,
convinced of stars held in our pockets; while promises of prosperity
dangle on a string. Like Maya's caged bird we sing
- but not of freedom - to sing of that would be akin
to declaring the sun has risen in the east. Freedom is a given,
at least that's the belief that's bandied about.
There's a boldface lie in that belief . . staring us in the face.
Are we too ignorant to see or too coddled to care?
Organic antenna, playing a fuzzy station;
our loved one's voice like a pesky fly -
six-legged silhouette on precious phones.
Halfhearted hmms-and-yeahs exuding from lazy lips. A lone
wolf, misunderstood youth - the euphemisms of today,
tomorrow's regrets. The diarrhea of words floating
in cyberspace; ricocheting off planets, but never touching earth.
The constipation of passion - nonchalant bloodbath of values -
no one strong enough to carry the hearse. We'll have to work
together - in unity redirected - to carry the load of our ancestor's past.
We descendants who reap the aftermath; let's carry on and forgo the calm.
Complacency is no destiny to pursue; crack the bottle against the bow,
that ship has sailed. Let us dabble in truth, instead of sugarcoat lies;
deception maybe be sweet, but give it time, it'll go straight to your thighs.
Embrace controversy with a bear hug, and give tyranny a timeout.
And should our words sharpen swords instead of mold minds,
may the massacre be only metaphorical - and the white flag of truce
be mistaken for a canvas - painted with the blood of your passion.
Copyright © Timothy Hicks
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.
Copyright © Brandee Augustus
I hate waiting.
I don't like going
Patience is a
virtue that some
one else got;
cause it's all
lost on me.
Smiling is a googly
face on a cardboard
with raised eyebrows
so it looks like we
might all be smiling.
Foolish fools is a form
to flee. Something we
don't want to be; like
a bedbug or a dying elm
tree sign this here we
don't want to stop what
nature has started or was
that something humans
have done? Oh it's so
insipid. Maybe it was
the sun. Who's talking
here anyway, I'm still
Copyright © Gisele Vincent-Page