Sunrise against my neck
that no cheap tan booth could ever match.
I ring the doorbell in anticipation of joy’s injection.
I needed it.
Because I left my cell phone in the car,
as I didn’t want to hear any chimed email
or text annoyances.
And the car just got cleaned,
only for the birds to have their way
on its waxy shine.
Time to grab the flamethrower from my trunk!
But, before I could scream in Braveheart declaration,
there she was.
Her 6 yr old smile,
made of 1/4 inch gaps between innocence enamel,
captured me like no other could.
“Tio”, she preached in angelica sonata.
As she held me,
with puppy love warmth.
Even the rainbows fell to its knees.
She took off my jacket with ferret-like perkiness and
asked me to sit on the floor with her.
But, not before offering to toast me some Eggo waffles
with a big glass of Ovaltine…
…in her Little Mermaid glass,
proudly made in North Korea.
It even had the dictator’s initials and a bucktooth smiley face stamp, signed in glitter
Thank God I just took my online course in Child Safety.
I was ready!
As I sip on Little Mermaid’s curves,
shaped in plastic, swirly straw weirdness,
a sound blasts off from a Barbie radio.
My 2 yr old angel galloped into this heart of mine,
with Tinnitus piercing scream & laughter,
tackling me in Incredible Hulk lunge.
“Hi Tio”, she whispered, before she hopped back upstairs,
laughing maniacally with rapid head tilts, left to right to left.
Boys will fear her.
And I couldn’t be more proud.
After two moments of silence,
my 6 yr old angel places her Dr. Seuss book on my lap,
as she sits in front of me.
“I can r-r-read
with my eye-s
She carefully completed the sentence,
as my eyes instantly fill with leaky pride
and an ingrained smile.
10 minutes later, she shut her book and asked me how she did.
“I am so proud of you my angel.”
“You have come so far.”
I had to hold back tears because I didn’t want to throw her off.
Yet I think she knew,
because she kept her head down and smiled with gentle starburst.
And it was then where I heard her say,
“Those who matter don’t mind,
those who mind don’t matter.”
But she was quiet, looking at me with tilted head & smile.
For it was my inner child,
© Drake J. Eszes
Copyright © Drake Eszes | Year Posted 2011
It has been 9 months since your sudden disappearance.
That Hallowed night when your 5’11” nerd aura
Handed me my early birthday gift
A cold shoulder wrapped in a velvet bow
Made in Sri Lanka, sold exclusively at the Dollar Store
That was your appraised value.
But, today, revival’s whisper enters my gently waxed earlobes.
Candy coated revelations
For my allergic blood
“I said yes!”, as she flashed Cracker Jack ring
Filled with Monopoly dollar signs and “Go directly to Jail” Chance cards
I almost applauded, my hands sarcastically never connected
While my eyeballs rolled in epileptic banter
We scream in misguided nerd joy
As if we witnessed Monty Python & Darth Vader having a make-out session
Sudden urges to watch movies about Traveling Pants & Sisterhood
And PSing my I Love You
While we eat Dark Chocolate Klondike bars and Chipwich Ice Cream Cookies
My ovaries were bursting with INSANITY’S JOY!
But, WAIT, I quickly realized I didn’t have such parts!
It was then, reality crashed
As if Spider Man ran out of web during mid-air leap
My essence now halts at crossroads’ throat.
To my left, “celebration”
To my right, “other”
I chose to be a human this night.
Current time- 9:15pm
Current location- Reception Hall
A 5 course meal,
Including dinosaur shaped chicken nuggets
Smiley face French fries
And 3 glasses of Tang
Surrounded my space on the dinner table
Heavenly echoes of forks & glass,
Ringing in ignorant unison,
Give birth to Tinnitus in my drums
In their 9 months of togetherness,
They kiss with forcible ease,
Frogs refusing to show their true form
It is then, ignoring listless stares from guests,
I stood up holding my half-empty Tang glass
Which MIGHT have contained a smidge of Grey Goose
At the TOP of my LUNGS,
“Friend, I should be so proud of you. I would. I could.
You never responded to my open-hearted palm.
You left my vulnerabilities dangling at half-mast, as if I lost our final game of Hang Man.
But, TONIGHT, it is I & this delicious Dinosaur nugget that will HAVE a final say!
You are impeccably flawed, like I. But, I still wanted you to be a part of my tomorrows.
Yet, you turned me into a muted yesterday.
So, I will wish congratulations on your new slav…um, husband,
Pouring this glass of yummy Tang onto this stapled dance floor in a straight line
Each drop will be a symbol of how many tears he will shed, before that line is crossed.”
As silence slapped each other in its face
Across candle flame blanketed, marble dance hall,
With children pointing & laughing hysterically,
“Security” enters the room
As I hold hands with Cuban female rent-a-cop, her head warming my shoulder,
“Thank you for these 9 months. For now, I have given birth to a new me.
The Best Man that you will never hold again.”
©Drake J. Eszes
Copyright © Drake Eszes | Year Posted 2013
Travelling to a foreign land,
engaging in a cause not rightfully yours to join,
illegally taking up arms
with a desperate desire to save baby orphans
(only to dig them into the ground anyway);
is a life-altering experience.
There is an old line which goes something like:
"A part of my soul died on that cold, November morn."
But, such an experience can have the opposite effect entirely.
Yes! An experience such as this
can re-kindle a passion within,
so that every single particle,
every minute of each passing hour,
feels like a sacred gift -
the most sacred gift imaginable.
Yet upon returning home from such an experience,
after being grilled by Internal Affairs,
threatened with charges of International Treason,
Subterfuge and Espionage(but in the end,
you were only trying to save baby orphans
that you had to dig into the ground anyway,
so Internal Affairs drops the charges, telling you to scram),
you are inevitably slapped across the face
with an inescapable new reality....
....everyone appears to be whining and complaining
about the most trivial things,
as if everyone simultaneously feels wronged.
And this is wot you feel compelled to do:
you want to take these whiners,
transport them one-by-one
back to the foreign land with you.
After they see living skeletons
drag themselves across the dirt,
moaning, groaning, pleading for a drop of clean water,
a miniscule morsel of food,
you hand the whiner a gun,
point toward an ominous dust-cloud on the horizon,
and this is wot you say:
"See the dust-cloud moving closer towards us.
It is filled with psychopathic horsemen.
These psychopathic butchers are wielding bayonets, machetes and Kalashnikovs.
If you and I do not successfully kill these mad horsemen,
they are going to chop apart all of the baby orphans
congregated in the courtyard over there.
Do you see the beautiful baby orphans in the courtyard?
Yes, those are the orphans.
And if we do not successfully defend this camp,
yet somehow survive with our lives,
we are going to spend the rest of the night
digging the baby orphans into the ground.
So, it best be high time you wipe the tears from your face,
stop worrying about how so-and-so called you a loser or wotever,
how your retirement funds appear to be shrinking
and so you won't be able to play as many games
of hitting the little white ball across a course
fed with enough water to run an entire city.
Forget about your little boo-boo.
Pull-up your chin, straighten that spine,
and start squeezing the trigger like there's no tomorrow."
September 25th, 2011
Copyright © Chris D. Aechtner | Year Posted 2013
So I walked into my local supermarket
to buy my weekly shipment of Kit Kat bars,
Cinnamon Toast Crunch,
and Ovaltine powder mix.
As I shake off the snow on my fake Timberland boots,
coated in frozen animation,
thaws into warmth’s teardrops from
the supermarket’s 75 degree vents.
This moist sense of happiness was quickly interrupted
when I heard Wilson Phillips, “Hold On”
over the PA system.
Thankfully, the cutlery isle was just to my left.
So, now, I had plans!
But, before I could commit felony’s song,
I saw her.
A Portuguese goddess
with a strut that can ruin a man’s dignity.
She had Autobahn curves,
dark brown curls of hair & visuals,
and thick flesh meat that even Vegans would envy.
Her face lacked Maybelline coated misapprehension.
Cause I never did like clowns.
After staring longingly at her,
like a crack head with impulsive eyes upon a broken/unlabeled bag of baby powder,
she breezed past my stifled posture and clocked in to work.
She didn’t even get a chance to smell my $500 cologne called “Piece of Me”.
So with new-found urges to grab all my groceries,
like a burglar who really has to pee,
I rush to express checkout.
There she is.
Her register beeps in coupon lady’s rhapsody,
while my register needs a cleanup on Isle 9.
Now it’s my turn.
With girlish inner-screams of boy-band intensity,
I say, “Hi”.
She scans my apples, while I scan her melons.
The melons that the customer ahead of me didn’t want…
…they were on sale.
As if she read my mind,
“Are you feeling warm now?”
“All I want is to be the heat in your moment”,
which I almost said.
But, “Now I am”, is uttered.
As she smiled with seductive demure,
she handed me my receipt
with her phone number on back.
As I left the market,
I began to get cold again.
These winds of change
became gusts of numbness.
I locked myself out of my heart.
I turned around to go back inside.
Only to discover,
she didn’t have the key.
© Drake J. Eszes
Copyright © Drake Eszes | Year Posted 2010
I asked to my father
Baba, What is life ?
He politely said to me, " Life is Duty . "
I asked to my mother
Maa, What is life ?
She said to me with smile, " Life is Responsibility . "
I asked to my teacher
Sir, What is life ?
He said to me with love, " Life is Education . "
I asked to my spiritual master
Gurujee, What is life ?
He said to me with confidence, " Life is Devotion . "
Today my son who reads in class nine
Babai, What is life ?
I have said to him, " Dear, You are my life . "
SANDIP GOSWAMI, INDIA
( Father means BABA, BABAI and Mother means MAA in Bengali language . Gurujjee means spiritual master in Indian society )
Copyright © Sandip Goswami | Year Posted 2014
I couldn’t understand the language she spoke,
at least not all of it,
but the emotion pouring past her lips,
the tears in her eyes, her clenched and shaking fists
enunciated more clearly,
than any piece of English Poetry I had ever read,
and grabbed me, held me still.
…In that moment, her soul was in my arms.
In that finite, tender breath of our lives,
she was my mother, my best friend…
but I could not console her.
I didn’t have the words;
and my heart sank into the
concrete between us,
wet with the pain of God’s rain
and her tears.
…Were my tears
So, I simply opened my palms
toward her crouched form and
spoke the only words I could
fathom, that would be accepted
by a stranger on a dangerous street.
"I am sorry, It will be okay. God will bless you."
I knew she did not understand…
“que va a estar bien”
“Dios te bendecira’ “
the words were as messy as the overturned
duffle bag at her feet…and fumbled, slowly
from my lips, as my knees hit the street.
Two strangers, cried in the rain,
knowing nothing of each other’s suffering,
and yet we shared the weight,
together, for those few moments;
the barrier of language was broken.
Love spoke for us.
-James Kelley 2014, All rights reserved.
…Love transcends any language
Copyright © James Kelley | Year Posted 2014
For nearly 45 years I never spoke of that day; the emotional pain was too great.
I simply hid it in the lining of my soul, knowing in my heart you didn’t stand
a chance with me as I stood in the rubble of my life and let you go, wrapped
in my heart with a wish and a prayer- all I had to give. And for 45 years,
I dreamed of you and me playing in fields of daisies under blue skies as
I cried inside, wondering where you where, and if there was a part of you
that somehow would remember me- would remember the bond we made
in that single moment we shared together, when the nurse held you up to the
nursery window for me to see as I stood on wobbly legs, with my trembling
hands holding unto a pole with a dripping IV?
I prayed. Lord! How I prayed that someday, by the grace of God,
you’d come back to me when the time was right.
So I lived my life. Got back up and crawled out of the rubble that was me,
and lived with half a heart that somehow still managed to beat.
With the passing of time, I bloomed; sometimes red, sometimes blue when I thought of all the years we could have shared as I sat and listened to family and friends
tell me of the joyful times they shared with their children, grandchildren
and great-grandchildren as, I smiled and cried inside and dreamed of you,
and all the years of your life I missed and, all the years I would never know.
It was then I realized I was a very lonely soul. So, I wrote and wrote and
wrote, never suspecting for a moment that nearly 45 years later,
you would find me through a poem I wrote for you.
I know I can never replace the mother and father who raised you, for the bonds
of time shared are much stronger than blood. Yet knowing what a wonderful
women you turned out to be, beautiful, intelligent, compassionate
and now with a daughter of your own, is enough for me, and someday
when the time is right for you, I hope and pray , we will meet again.
This is a true story. It was through this forum ( poetrysoup ) my birth daughter found me.
Copyright © Elaine George | Year Posted 2011
Under 65 degree starry, onyx blanket
Containment of quarter moon identity
A whimsically soothing song exuded
In muffled taps & Prohibition era lyric
In the distance,
Snow-capped mountains reflecting lunar clarity
Off its tips of freedom
As we lay on recycled steel hood,
Made in 1950s USA, when it mattered,
Her silhouetted fingertips released from my right arm
While insistently looking towards stratosphere’s vocal chord
“Can’t it be like this forever?
Oh, how I want to just make love to the stars.
Become one with Orion while riding
On Sagittarius’s arrow”
“What about our stars?”, he softly questioned.
“I’d like to be your never-ending shooting star.
To ride on blue moon’s comet, by your side”
Cricket whispers manhandled his romantic clef
Mother Nature’s afterglow, upon her ears, fallen deaf
Inherent waxy build-up from illicit tongue,
She pat his shoulders like a dog
Being taught his first lesson
Her eyes, still sky high.
“Sigh, I like how you think.
You’re such a nice friend.
You’re going to make a woman so happy one day.
I hope to meet a guy just like you.”
As her eyes sighed with a powerful lack of substance
Into the arms of Leo,
A slammed car door supplants the reverberation of the car’s V8 engine.
He confidently turns back the hands of time.
Reversal gears become his new tune
“If you get lost going home, follow the stars.”
As he pulls away with majestic, amplified lyrics
Of Whitesnake’s “Here I go Again”
Going down the only road he’s ever known
While she stands in fraudulent gasps of shock,
Looking back up to the stars in blank wonder
As he accelerates into a new page in his book
Closing his chapter with wondrous questions
“Why would I taste your starlight?
When you never believed in our constellation?”
©Drake J. Eszes
It’s good to gaze at the stars and make wishes. But, be careful what you wish for. For Earth has its own gifts…
Copyright © Drake Eszes | Year Posted 2013
Some days the birds come out
They sing there beautiful song
They envelope my senses
I harbor their harmonious tunes
I long to hear them all my days
There are days when the sky is clear
The sky would be a cerulean blue
With white high cotton clouds
I lift my eyes toward the sun
And take in all of its golden rays
My pupils become very small
Just small specks in my eyes
Just then I see the tree-line
A magnificent sight to behold
Each tree within the calm cluster
Is filled with the beginning of life
Just as are some of the unknown flowers
That are alongside of the house
Those flowers that have been struggling
Struggling through these harsh days
The weather has been rough for all nature
The birds, the trees, and the flowers
All have had a hard time adjusting
To the tremendous swings of temperature
Cold to warm, warm to cold
And everything in between
My porch is a calming place
A place where I like to relax
Though today has been raining
Still it’s a calming rain, but very cold
I wish I could hear the birds
And see the clear day
With the sun’s warmth all over me
And I could see nature with its beauty
But now I see another part of nature
In its own beauty, the nurturing rain
Without this nothing would survive
So I still smile on days like this
The peaceful constant rain on the porch
I can only stand staying out so long
Because it’s too cold, it’s freezing out
But I still wanted to feel this part of nature
A real part of life, an influence to one’s soul
It never gets old coming out to my porch
I always bond with all of nature
No matter what that nature is that day
Warm and cloudy, hot and sticky
Cold and frigid, humid, stale, and calm
All of which are important in life
And I like to experience each one of them
Nature has its good days, and its bad
And I like to be in the middle of all of them
Now I will come in and will await
Await the time when I will come back out again
Tonight, tomorrow, or whatever time
I will venture out to my porch
And enjoy my time here, with nature
Written per the request by my friend Sara Kendrick
Copyright © Russell Sivey | Year Posted 2013
I wake up to my TV blasting episodes of Woody Woodpecker.
I wipe my encrusted eyes, which had a field day in that dream I had
Involving two Swedish women, a Latin princess
With curvaceous hips that could save me if I ever fell from mountain climbing,
A Sony boom box made in 1984 playing Duran Duran,
And empty boxes of Junior Mints, M&M Peanuts, & Cool Whip.
I walk to my front door to discover hundreds of blood lettered Post-It notes
Slid under by my friendly Mafia neighbors,
“Turn that crap down or say ‘HOLA’ to my little friend! Woody sucks! ”
So, instead of apologizing, I grabbed my power drill
Which I bought off this Mexican guy named Bob
Standing in front of my local Home Depot,
I thanked each of my neighbors by drilling Wal-Mart smiley faces
Smoking Cuban cigars & holding Shotguns
Into their doors
At this point, I popped in some Belgian waffles & French Toast sticks
Into my Cookie Monster toaster oven and turned on the news.
What was I thinking?!
News reports on Sugar Daddies being harassed by stalking gold-diggers,
Another asinine Final Destination movie,
More teacher-student scandals,
Celebrity break-ups & pregnancies
Oh, how the sheep live vicariously through them
Where’s that damn noose I bought off Bob?!
To remove my early morning frustrations,
I turned on my Xbox 360 and popped in Guitar Hero
In which I jammed out to Stevie Wonder’s Superstitious
While performing Riverdance on my hardwood floor
The neighbors below me added a nice, rhythmic sound with their broomsticks.
After my Pilates workout, I decided to strip off my clothes
So I can feel FREE like a Tree-hugging barn swallow
And fill my bathtub with a bottle of Tickle Me Elmo Bubble Bath liquid,
Which I also bought off Bob
Shortly after, I yelled “THIS IS SPARTA!” and performed a belly flop into the tub…
After waking up from my concussion, I laughed maniacally
With my face underwater
My laughs were heard through the popping bubbles rising to water’s surface
I passed out again with a drumming thud against my porcelain dreams.
Second attempt at recovery, SUCCESS!
I gathered all my utility bills
A filled, plastic gas tank, another purchase from Bob
And a Jerry Garcia branded lighter
As inferno warmed my screaming loins,
Blasting John Lennon’s “Imagine” on my 8-Track,
The local Fire department sliced my front door
With titanium axe and an inscription: “Here’s Johnny”
As hundreds of angry firemen & neighbors stampede into my child-like day
3pm, Day Unknown:
I awaken with lines imprinted on my Latin cheeks
From wooden office desk
Strange stares from coworkers
With “I’m all out of Love” playing on the faded, company radio
And a post-it note, “Come see me in my office”,
©Drake J. Eszes
Copyright © Drake Eszes | Year Posted 2013
The idea behind this poem came from reading a poem of the same title, written by Richard “Canadian Man-god” Lamoureux. Now, his poem went in an entirely powerful, yet other, direction than I thought it was going to go. I happily let him know that. So, he decided to have me touch upon where I thought he was going with his poem.
Some people really need to be careful what they ask for… ;-)
On an 8pm, Louisiana dream
Tastes of nocturnal, July humidity
Succumbs flagrant passions
With moistened grip, they tease
Coltrane whispers annihilate tense exhales
Under concave moon
She threw Mr. So and So onto Pacific Ocean’s waterbed
As if she was a professional baseball pitcher
His exuberance would shatter sound’s tattered walls.
Chemical reactionary bliss
Similar to Neutron bombs
Minus the consequences
Her tailored skin
Ready for gripped, enigmatic resolutions
She had to “freshen up”
“You’re already being fresh, don’t stop on my account”,
He says with Monday mourning frustration
As cedar scented bathroom door shuts with determined patience,
And running water with a mix of Celine Dion hums from her trained throat
He stands to gather his thoughts…
…until his eyes exit stage right towards her opened travel bag
A pair of satin boxers & edible, Cotton Candy hand-cuffs from Target
With a signed, perfumed gift tag,
“Can’t wait for tomorrow, Mr. Such and Such,
-Love, your Hedonistic dream”
As running water came to serenity’s halt,
She exited restroom with shedding curves.
Her strut became dislocated,
As she stared into his trembling pupils
Wiping the cotton coating from his lips
“Too bad you couldn’t chew your way out of this one”,
The other half of the handcuffs smeared in cursive signature
Against yellow-gold gift tag he hands her with unedited closure
With striking slams against Louisiana hotel door
Parallel to Mother Nature’s thunderous clap
He exits stage left
A proverbial slap
©Drake J. Eszes
Copyright © Drake Eszes | Year Posted 2013
To the seedlings sprouting in the 8 corners of the world:
An open communique can lead towards
a perilous precipice overlooking jagged rocks
being pounded by the relentless waves
of a cold, apathetic ocean --
in such a circumstance,
it doesn't take much to slip,
to be pushed, to be sent over the edge,
shattering upon the rocks below,
sucked down by an undertow
erasing all evidence of your prior existence.
We have come to an impasse,
the windows of opportunity
in the jet-streams of change,
are passing by at astounding speeds.
A true Anarchist
is not a Terrorist;
leave such decrepit despondency
to ultra-fanatic zealots and the New Gestapo.
A true Anarchist
should not fight for lawlessness,
should not wish for chaotic, wanton destruction -
such myths are propagated by automatons
and the controllers themselves.
A true Anarchist
should not raise placards in protest,
should not spray-paint graffiti
upon the walls of gaudy Bauhaus replications,
nor lob Molotov cocktails
at an establishment so entrenched,
four heads grow back
to replace every head, decapitated.
A true Anarchist
dons a masque of mirages,
reflecting nationalism, consumerism and Swastikas
back into the eyes of the pushers.
A true Anarchist does so
by donning the uniforms of business districts,
of the worker,
of the paint-splattered, ink-stained artisan.
When a true Anarchist
gains the confidence and trust
of Drones left in charge
of oiling the cogs,
a true Anarchist enters the control-room
not to smash instruments,
turns dials, flicks switches, presses buttons,
re-writes programs and codes,
in order to help alter the directional course
of the very Beast itself.
Copyright © Chris D. Aechtner | Year Posted 2012
The morning comes; all is still
as the sunbeams glisten through the curtains.
I sweep my mind of night's unconscious bliss,
when life was momentarily free
from the pain of dreams unfulfilled and
the inability to cope.
As my consciousness takes over,
the new day's plans unfold, and suddenly,
like a bolt of lightning,
new hope leaps into my heart.
This will be the day—
the day of accomplishment,
fulfillment, of peace with myself,
with those I love, with nature,
with my God.
At once I'm caught up
in the trivialities that separate me
from my hopes and dreams.
The early morning thoughts get swallowed up
in the day's tedious routine.
I follow my plan as best I can...
But life can exist by plan just so far.
The day is full of side tracks—
uneventful little nothings that slip in between.
And the day goes on.
Time speeds by in its steady way,
never looking back or pausing—but going on,
an unmerciful enemy,
and my plans dissolve
with the ticking of the clock.
Before I know it, it is too late.
The day is done; the quiet night sets in.
Yes, the night once again. The time to tally up.
Oh God, it has happened again.
It's been another day—
another day of little nothings.
Another day like yesterday,
and the one before, and before.
I didn't grasp the unattainable,
that moment of moments.
I lie in bed awake,
day's plans not even half completed.
A moment of failure, of self-pity.
What have I done today?
Worse still, what have I left undone?
Then that special night it came.
A time for reconciliation, an inner voice—
perhaps God's answer.
What is the matter with you?
Are you not alive and well?
Are you not loved, and do you not love in return?
Have you not helped someone today,
even in the smallest way?
Have you not made someone smile, or
perhaps comforted a child?
Have you not heard the song of a bird?
Or seen the beauty of a tree
swaying in the breeze?
Or felt the warmth of the sun,
and the cool of the night against your skin?
Have you not watched any one of nature's
mystifying wonders at work?
Each one of these things is likened
to a miracle in itself.
Each one, a unique experience
the importance of those little nothings
became magnified a thousand fold.
I came to realize a day is not an entity in itself,
but a building block of life,
each one of different weight and size,
depending on the kind of experience within,
and the little nothings,
the cement which holds it all together.
Today was not the same as yesterday.
It could never be the same,
no matter how trivial and uneventful
its moments seem to be.
Today is another building block,
different from the one beneath it.
Tomorrow is another day,
cemented to today by little acts of love
and giving of oneself;
by sharing and appreciating
the simple and wondrous
miracles of life.
Tomorrow is another day.
Despair is gone.
I am at peace with myself,
with the ones I love, with nature,
with my God.
Tomorrow is another day.
© Sandra M. Haight 2014
All Rights Reserved
Copyright © Sandra Haight | Year Posted 2014
Life is like a coloring book
with few or many pages
filled with complex
We are given a box of crayons
and are asked to color in the
background and spaces of the images
Sub-titles are allowed.
When the coloring book is finished
we are given a new one to complete.
REINCARNATION THINKING 2 -SOUL SEARCHING
Was I once before or never
Don’t know how or even whether
I was a firefly, a bird of prey
a centipede, a fish fillet?
A baseball fan to keep the score
a mockingbird, a carnivore?
A blossom in the midst of spring
a sign of what the day might bring.
A germ grown in a Petri dish
a chicken bone an unmade wish
All things and species could I be,
even remnants of a tree.
Of all of these, I leave this post,
I am for now what I am most.
MORE QUESTIONS ON RE-INCARNATION
As 'core' beliefs thicken so,
does it leave us room to grow?
As aging souls say we must,
complete the cycle which was thrust
upon our bucolic living place
turned upside down in whorling space
searching for a redemptive life.
But for you, dearest one, do you not remember
before you arrived, you took this bucking horse of soul,
tamed it, labeled it and proclaimed it.
To become what you needed in order
that your ride be contained and controlled.
It's name is 'balance' and it keeps you level in the saddle
so you don't fall off.
REINCARNATION THINKING 3 -
If, we are on a soul journey,
then what must that soul become?
A better soul? A wiser soul?
A sad soul? A learned soul?
Until one reaches the end of time,
There are so many lives to live out
to fully experience all aspects of this world.
Animals, plants - more souls searching?
One can speculate, but from my perspective
none of it makes sense.
Was the Phoenix reincarnated?
Or was its embers reignited?
Perhaps before a lowly worm or soldier bee
or brown turned leaf upon a tree?
A seahorse, a shark, which fish shall I be?
In fisherman's net to be eaten by me?
And when the cycle is complete
and x equals x on our balance sheet.
Can we then rest in a celestial lair
with memories gone and unaware
of trials by all things forgotten?
If choose I must or chosen by me,
I'll remain in the stars and just wait to see.
Copyright © Allan Koven | Year Posted 2013
When job positions within monopolies prevent us from working together
towards a goal far greater than lining the pockets of a few,
when schools stop us from educating ourselves,
and are instead, assembly lines churning-out tin soldiers,
when governments prevent humanity from achieving self-determination,
when media keeps us informed about current events,
rather than us becoming involved in the events,
then only in resistance will we find each other;
will we find ourselves in the purest sense.
The masqued ones are erasing themselves
within a society in which everything is under surveillance,
measured, quantified and appraised,
where everything is determined by resumes,
credit history, internet profiles.
Background checks, gossip columns, intelligence agencies,
conspire to drag every last detail out into the open.
The masqued ones live in an in-between world
being squeezed by other worlds.
It is a world existing in the hope of understanding reality,
by changing reality.
If the powers that be, can reveal the hidden world,
dragging it out under the searing spotlight of scrutiny,
under the spotlight of current mass-ideology,
then one more possible world reality becomes extinct
under the boots of Fascists using the freedom of speech
to silence the freedoms of everyone else;
eventually, even including themselves.
The controllers want to show there are no unchartered paths
leading away from the programmable masses of mundanity.
Therefore, the masque is seductive to those not fully conditioned
to become blind sheep led by shepherds, towards the slaughter.
The masque suggests mystery, unknowns,
alternative endings to a story covered in mildew.
The masque symbolizes a threat to an entrenched establishment.
The masque becomes the chrysalis in which a pupa
can evolve into something different; into something new.
....in warrens deep below,
Babylon-kids write love songs,
and above ground, people preach rights and freedoms,
while enslaving the world in the chains of a democracy
that has never truly existed.
Democracy is a dream turned nightmare,
so the Babylon-kids are keeping the dream
of a choose-your-own-adventure, alive.
Copyright © Chris D. Aechtner | Year Posted 2012
Of course on this night we are supposed to be asleep so Santa
could come, but we hadn't been home from Midnight Mass very long, and the
invigorating cold was not conducive to sleep. Even the hot chocolate did not do
much to help sedate the excitement.
We were hoping for sleds that year. The snow was perfect for
sledding especially like we did it. We tied out sleds on behind the car or pick up
and were pulled through the hills. We got our sleds. My dad and my uncle made
them for us.
No television and only in the late years were we allowed to use the
radio. Batteries were to expensive for frivolous use. We spent many hours
playing cards or games.
I took time out and went to high school and college and got my
My aunt taught there only one year after the Federal Government
turned the schools over to the local government.
The last time I was back there the out buildings had been moved and
Indian families were living in them. The school was dirty and unkept.
Now the school is gone. The ancestors who once walked these
dusty plains are gone. The Indians who were there when I was a child are gone.
They are Ghosts. Ghosts whose faces can be seen in the clouds.
Ghosts who still chop wood on those sub zero nights. And the drums we heard
in the middle of the nights are still beating. They beat as strongly as the heart
beats in a healthy body. The laughter of the children still echoes under the
The life blood of a culture, of a nation grows thin. The Battle of
Wounded Knee was the last battle to be fought between the white man and the
Indian on the northern plains. It's cries still echo across the land.
My foot prints in the creek did not last any longer than those they left
in the dust. But in my memories, this mile and a half by three quarter mile haven
still lives. And will live forever as a piece of unrecorded history.
Copyright © Marycile Beer | Year Posted 2007
I lay in my hospital bed after giving birth, Could hear the murdering, raping
Hutus approaching my bed
My baby was no more. They ravaged me. Left me alive...........
Could hear the battle getting nearer
All I was worried about was my mother, Home alone...
My husband was away was he fighting, Was he alive......
Clutching my dead baby staggered towards home, The smell of blood filled the
air. Then I saw them, The valiant Tutu's, Fighting for us. here and now
The sound of machetes clashing together. Limbs flying through the air. Like
The screaming ....The misery.......
When I staggered home. Found Mother in the water butt. Hiding from the
savages. She was alive and ok.. So traumatised
Many twisted bodies on the ground. Dragged them into a pile, trying to
remember who they were. To keep a record , for posterity. Poured paraffin over
them and cremated them. Praying for their souls
We buried the baby in the hard red earth. Couldn't cry, had no tears we were.in
Date was April 7th...
So tired, we slept. Hidden from view...
I am alive, my heart beating. Yet I feel dead. Dead inside....Why I ask myself.
Why is it happening....God only, knows.
Penned 22/08/2014 for the Genocide Speak for the Lost contest.
I used 100 days slaughter of Rwanda.
You can see the skeletons of some of the twenty percent of the tutus that were
Can see the open mouth of the cry of pain. They have been kept. A reminder to
the future generation
April 7th is called Genocide Memorial Day, the week following is a national
Copyright © SEREN ROBERTS | Year Posted 2014
Every time you listen to my songs
I will be sending you a great big kiss
And though I moved beyond your sight
Know all of you I will surely miss
Always remember the joy and laughter
That always found a home within my face
Always think about all the wonderful times
I took your mind and heart to another place
Please try never to shed unhappy tears
Each day my love ones while I am away
For there will be a time in the near future
When again in each others arms we'll stay
And tomorrow morning when you think of me
About the love you always saw in my eyes
Remember wherever you might be in your life
My spirit will never again leave your side
My family I miss all your hugs and kisses
Which I will always treasure, and I am sure
One day soon again we will laugh and sing
Together in heaven with our precious Lord.
A poem i was moved to write for Whitney, a beautiful
spirit, while listening to Stevie Wonder sing 'Love is in need
of love at here funeral!
Wendell A. Brown
Copyright February 18, 2012,
All Rights Reserved.
Copyright © Wendell Brown | Year Posted 2013
Tonight I felt the deep inner desire to conform, to feel at right with the crowd for fear of being scorned. But don't be fooled dearest reader, this ain't a story of morals and how I got consumed into a life of addiction or crap like that. This isn't a sob story, just written down at the drop of a hat. The real twist is that I didn't give in, but where does that leave me? A lonesome wanderer gazing at an infinite sea? A person dreadfully awake, in the midst of a miraculous dream? Truth be told I at times feel the luckiest, not drawing near to the most common follies of my peers. But at what price? For who, in a world filled with bubbly laughter, could hear the sound of a silent tear? Who, holding a hand of their own, following a path they love, could notice a shadow like me, so hopelessly alone? I love you all most dearly, but like the moon loves the sea... just out of reach but always in sight. I live my life as the rainbow kisses the earth, wishing for my colors to allay someone else's hurt, if only for a moment, a minuscule grain, on this sandy shore. I am really not so significant, but still I desire to be more. But in all honesty how can I? I'm simply an observer, a reporter looking in. I'm not the strongest, nor the brightest, the bravest, nor the wisest. I am just a man with an eye for beauty and an obsession for the safety of the bench. So still I watch in dread as others live and I just sink. I clutch to papers filled with so much lifeless ink! They are nothing but shards of myself, tossed and thrown in mile high piles, that none in their right minds could ever wish to file! Though the world I live in and the one which I've created, seldom collide, I sit still waiting on that perilous bridge, for someone else just as crazy, and just as lonesome, to sit it out with me, side by side. It may not be perfect but it feels right. And honestly who could hope for more at the end of the night? You have a destination in mind and a foot always in front. You have the whole world palmed in between delicate fingertips. So go on and take a swig! Ingest within you... the taste of a wish!
Copyright © Timothy Hicks | Year Posted 2013
I sat and pondered the things I’d like to forget.
There have been some bad times -
Lost love, both romantic and familial,
betrayals by a few I considered close friends,
and the inevitable hardships of simply living life
including its numerous moments of sheer embarrassment.
I contemplated which of those many examples of life’s trials
I would choose to completely forget. . .
Then I thought of my step dad, who passed away -
and not so quietly - those several years ago,
his mind stripped bare of any reasonable thought,
and all his recollections, whether good or bad,
reduced to the fleeting images of childhood’s ghosts.
At the very end, was there even a glimmer for him
of the recognition of anything at all?
I was not there at his bedside, but my mother related to me
the wild fear in his eyes
as he choked for breath while clinging to life
despite his apparent inability to even grasp
one memory that would give him a reason to survive!
Everything reduced to the blind biological instinct
simply to breathe. . .
All who were there at the end with him
were praying for him just to pass
quietly into the night.
With all memory ripped cruelly away
and still he fought to live. . .
So how could I ever declare wanting to forget even an iota
of anything at all in my entire life?
Written 1/18/13 for Frank's Contest
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2013
It is a sin
for Gregory to be a miser
even to himself
accumulating infinite fortune
with a half-bedroom to show for it
It is a sin
for miss Zane to gain special gratitude
from her male mates.
Coming late every night
with a different driver,
parading her flashy dividends
as she becomes a model for fashion updates
It is a sin
for Sarah, not taking care of herself
with her body becoming rounder
but still feeds more than an entire Orphanage.
Initially, a very attractive young lady
but now looks like an Old sorcerer.
It is a sin
for Baker to be a clergy
and at the same time a gambler
lavishing in style and losing without remorse
Hell will let loose
if his sponsor is the Church's finance.
Regardless of his anointing,
he's still not beyond the people's wrath.
It is a sin
for Dawson to drive through many open legs
as he jumps from skirt to skirt
and acquainting himself with all forms of underwear,
playing the bad guy who never gets caught.
It is a sin
to stay idle and observe them wrongly
drawing conclusions from every action
without minding their motives or reasons
analyzing closely even while sitting from afar
giving no consideration to the human Nature
which exists in imperfection and faint stains.
It is a sin
castigating the weaknesses of others
while overlooking mine
thereby condemning the crimes I do not commit
which does not make me better either.
As much as they do not know where I faulter
Judging them makes me worst than a sinner.
Copyright © Funom Makama | Year Posted 2013
So sad..Hopping in and Out of one' s life....
It's Peter Rabbit for Pete's" sake...
He comes by each and every year...
For this they say we should fear ?
Just to share a Spring holiday ?...
He's a horrid creature, so they say...
He has big ears and a cotton tail...
And sometimes he even carries a pail..
Full of candy, and colorful decorated eggs...
This day is between Valentine hearts , and Green Beer kegs....
He's rarely ever seen...
And has never ever been mean...
So why are all these American States...
Having all these holiday debates ?..
I await my basket filled with a chocolate kiss..
I only hope his picture does not end up on...
The Post Office " 10 most wanted list "...
Copyright © kj force | Year Posted 2014
Burning so bright
With new found life
Released from his ball and chain
Out of the dark
And into the light
Flying… on wings of freedom again.
As he writes his life
His soul ignites
In flames of wisdom and sight
His God given right
As his truth kills the evil ‘Black Knight’.
Copyright © Elaine George | Year Posted 2006
One individual called "she" stepped into the sheets of a life story
Sheets that used to be occupied
She walked back and stopped at a chapter which tell the story of an obsolete chamber
A space which stands for behalf of the memory and wounds
A diorama played by shadow
A story with no beginning nor end
They've been there with decent backgrounds and decent light spectrum but called gray
The view was frozen, the chatter was muted, and that feels fell into the melancholy
Those with the outstretched hands which too high to be reached
Those with the self existence but too blind to be seen
They abandoned as a figure of reserves without knowing the essence of a solace
And that individual creature went on her way back to the labyrinth of time
This time someone seized by the story of a root baste
Those roots were heart in shape and the hue carved a warmth, but once howled a bitterness
This chapter tells the story of a lush tree with the fruit of love
Fruits that contain the complexity of love, passion and a place to berth
And the fruit of love revealed its story to someone
Those who hide behind their false mannerism had carved their name on her shoulder
Those who have offered their hearts and bent on their knees
Those who play fire in a lust, fell into a seek
But the love that she wants still unable to cover the part of this story
From the fruit of love to the sheet's of light
This chapter tells the story of an old house with extensive bed of flowers
This house represented the aesthetics, peace and harmony
A house which brings relief, spaciousness and joy
In that house she knelt, release all her mess
To the house the journey was anchored
In every sketches that have been through
None could live without the presence of others too
Obsolete chamber, lush love tree, beautiful bed flowered old house
Those who were involved in each story of the bulkhead of life
Those who were crawling along and came from different angles of infinity
Those who were instantly filled the pieces of shoot and became the shoot
They are the perfect gift for the imperfect souls
Not as a complement nor as a reserves
Yet as the major part of the heartwarming life story
Copyright © Yanny Widjanarko | Year Posted 2012
What is orchestra?
Symphony, he replied.
Mingling of rhythms.
'It may be so,
But I find orchestrated rhythms somewhere else'
India a land of co-existence.
We create synthesis
Out of conflict
Of thesis and antithesis.
No view is final for us.
There is always the scope for further argument.
Religious tolerance is our motto.
If there is Vaishanava cult,
There are Shaiva and Shakta ideologies.*
So, India a perfect example
Of orchestra and symphony,
Of dialectics and tolerance.
*Vaishanava, Shaiva and Shakta are the cults of Hinduism.
Copyright © Dr. Nilanshu Kumar Agarwal | Year Posted 2008
wake up to serendipity
ignorant and unknown
shaken and not stirred
blond can be bond
Reality, metaphor and cliche
cheesy juvenile decay
Love, care and hate
past the use by date
of fights and torment
and well deserved lament
salute to the solitary reaper
with Metallica... I disappear
Copyright © Anwar Hussain | Year Posted 2009
You know....whomsoever(?) you are...in this reading(Poetry) my inquirlization is to
capture an emotional thought to factualization. The fact is that we're living in per-
ilous times, as life itself attacks daily with common everyday confrontation's; This
poem is my third installment into the Principle of "Never stop Believing". For I con
stanily will find myself dealing with issues sinfully & unspiritual, but I kept on be-
lieving on a Higher-Caller. With all my faultualation now being blame on myself.
NO! no-one else, falling in that same old pitt, I tried to forget, tried and tried, I Kept
on believing, now there's no regret. "A journey to the Mountain" represent our modern
day Moses appearing and that with his dream a black man can attain respect if he
believe's in the factualization that belief's comes through courtship with the Heaven's.
That place were this Higher-Caller calls out to follower's lost and abanded and also
spiritually confuse. Only sin they truly are devoted to is through the life of drugs and
alcohol, further ripping themselves from the Naturalization of generation of this ALMIG-
HTY-Friend", showing up (presently)faithfully in your life while you were to ashame to
acknowledge that he's the Comforter of realization. Say(to yourself)" Whosoever Will"
for it means you and I must "never stop believing", that always we're incline to achieving
the just reward of doctrintation. So all are welcome-whether white, black, red and then the
perilous ones would understand the burdens of Justification:
Copyright © John Streeter | Year Posted 2009
She slowly uncoiled her gray streaked hair that fell to her waist. She removed her
spectacles to see more clearly the windswept icy snow clinging to the branches. A
pause, settling something deep within; then her gaze shifted to me.
I reached out, but found my reach was frozen, too stiff to touch her. For if I touched
her, the burden we shared would lapse and slide away, slinking off to be buried,
uncoiled under the ground.
A pinched, dour expression settled her features into a mask that would never
betray the inner darkness which created a shadow of an existence. A mask that I
must wear as well, to ward off the hopeless life within me, growing every moment of
the day, days upon days retreating into the too long nights, hopeless to survive in
the world we have created, together as “want” and “ruthlessness”.
“I carry no idolatries, no false hope.” A breath are these words as I receive them,
knowing they are too bold to give forth a safe humility.
The nurse, starched clothing as stiff as her countenance, paused, a look of
condemnation briefly shadowing her face, the sun passing in and out of the clouds.
She could not help herself. No matter the role we are chosen to play in this world,
we are not free of a deeply flawed human nature, ice softening dangerously on a
winter’s pond. I turned away.
I came to hours later, the rejected life in me gone, a searing through flesh never
immune to a free will taunting, tearing the fabric of life so fragile. I would not cling. A
passing briefly witnessed, a single brown leaf blown by the window in the darkened
room where we sit for tea, hopes slowly elapsing like the sea waters
Tomorrow we can only envision; today we must let go of a part of us we will never
again possess. A coursing through the veins of life no more, we push, and push, an
existence wishing to sink into the yawning chasm of what is unknown and coming
Copyright © Jennifer Cahill | Year Posted 2011
Now that am older
I seek more answers
In the same manner I did
Those days gone, of fetching firewood to cook a cherished meal
I seek more answers
Not in the manner I did
Fetching sticks in the forest to be used by teachers for spanking and whipping
Oh how I dreaded those days, those chilling days of punishments for poor grades, tardiness and noise making
And there my hate for math began....fearing it even to this day
that math teacher that came drunk to class and we mostly got beatings for nothing
I seek answers to understand our family dynamics
Interesting, odd, sad, puzzling, beautiful, worrying, entertaining,
Is some of the descriptions
The reason we are the way we are
The beings we become in unexpected fate
I've heard your many stories of "emergency" during the colonial rule
I've seen your youthful strength that grows more beautiful with aging days
You always say "it's the Lord"
I remember how when we were little you always got us to wash our feet before getting on your bed
How you then proceeded to pray for your ten children, your many grand children and your ever increasing great grandchildren
Telling God each of their names
My sisters and I always thought you said some of the longest prayers
But now that am older I know why
The number of family members I have to pray for increases with new age
Like the last video i took of you singing and dancing with some of your great grandchildren,
The melody of my life becomes more fruitful with each new beat
Cucu, maitu (kikuyu words for grandmother)
Copyright © njeri hunjeri | Year Posted 2015
Could a sadder face there be?
Oh Crying eyes,
Please, don't drip
those salty drops.
So many kisses I'd give to stop!
I am yours
you are mine
we will get threw in little time.
For what is life?
A little race?
We set the gaols
we make the pace.
So with me run.
We will get threw.
You help me, I'll help you
Sure and keen
eye's on the mark
Let's give this course
a little spark.
Slow to see a river glide
forest green, country side.
Drink in scent of hewy blooms,
pause to touch in cedar rooms
Give this chase a pinch of spice
A season spent to melt the ice,
that grips us when,
we do fear,
of wasted steps,
Copyright © robert rekab | Year Posted 2014