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 Playbill for the 9/8/01 show at Godspeed Opera House falls from my palm to the floor. Here I sit, with a drugged hangover but alive. The last thing I remember is a suicide note in the Underwood typewriter on my desk, beside an ashtray of Blanche's lipstick smeared butts. Putting back on, the bifocals that had been dangling from one ear; I frown. I can't remember arriving? A phone's ringing; I stumble toward the tone. Odd looking thing, I think, as I bend over. The note taped to it says; it's a cell phone? "What the hell?" As I flip it open, I'm tackled. My heel slips on a broken pencil; I'm down. "What did you do? You bastard," he bawls, waving an airline ticket in my face. Looking toward him, I notice the stage still lit. He grabs the cell phone, "What the hell is this? You a commie spy?"- The 'phone? screen?' says 'Fred go to the opera house by midnight or you're both dead.' The curtain parts revealing a pool of blood: a chord is struck.
It's midnight accordin' to the ticker. I have a moment's relief before my arm's wrenched behind me. I'm cuffed. There's a shout from the lobby and the sound of sirens. Lifting me, he shoves me to the wall; locks me to the door pull. The theater hall appears empty except for us. Through a door, he charges. "Back here guys." The SWAT team arrives. "Smells like the dead in here Marco's, where's the body?"
"Ask him. Take him out and open some damned windows will ya." Two of the gorillas toss me on the porch under the moth laden lights. Just when the cop was about to kick me in the head; a woman screams. The coppers run inside. I hear a crash and a half dozen clod hoppers trompin', then through the door rolls a single gold earring. I scream "Blanche!!!!!!"
The crew hollers CUT-PRINT-It's a WRAP. I smile as Blanche saunters out.
Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2014
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
©Alfreda Williamson, 6/29/12
Spring’s first day . . .
as cold as
Winter’s first blast.
Until . . .
as hot as, blazing,
Then . . .
as I stood in,
the midst of the seasons.
I felt it,
ever so softly, almost imperceptibly,
a brushing against my cheek,
a landing on my bare feet,
that I almost could not feel.
that I saw in my mind’s eye . . .
swirling speedily to the ground,
as if heralding,
TIME, catching up to itself.
SEASONS, catching up to themselves,
All at once . . .
Copyright © Alfreda Williamson | Year Posted 2012
I'm sitting here
Admiring the view
Thankful for it's beauty
I've been here before
So I can close my eyes
and picture it still
And I know it all.
Deep breath in
The scene is owned
Then the eyes open
As realisation strikes
- I own nothing
- I know nothing
I don't know
how each hill was formed
the names of the farmers who built the stiles to every field
or the names of those who now own those blankets of land
I cannot begin
to count every blade of grass
to measure the mist
to know the age and history of every tree
The past of the very bench I'm sat on
is a mystery to me
The winding roads have their own heritage
And I can't say who first walked it's length
Or where that plodding bus was built
Or where it's been since it's birth
The cars stuck behind are heading on their own unique journeys
I can't vouch as to where to or where from
Far less state the words and thoughts of those cocooned inside
Or declare the depth of any of the puddles they pass
I can't tell you the wattage of the bulb
Shining through that distant window
Still less how warm the sun will feel in an hour
Or the direction the wind came from, even ten seconds ago
The provenance and future of those clouds
Cannot be told by them
Let alone by me.
Eyes close once more
I know nothing but
the fact that this view
In this moment
Does belong to me
And that maybe, somehow
I'm all the wiser for knowing less
Copyright © David Lindsay | Year Posted 2016
The digital face displays a naughty grin. 5:23am.
Sliding into seat 23C, I double-check my ticket just to make sure:
Seat 23C on Flight 753241698, with a designated lift-off time of 6:08am.
Beside me, chuckles Robert Anton Wilson's spirit:
"See, this is exactly why we appointed you as a Cardinal(the bird?)
in The Church of The 23 Enigma. You are a perfect fit.
Son, this is a destiny you cannot change,
so why not just make the best of it.
The plane might crash, be refurbished or decommissioned,
but the flight itself doesn't ever stop. Ever.
Once you get on, get in, the flight stays on an infinite course.
Thank you for flying with: Synchronicity 23 Airways. Please, enjoy your flight."
Copyright © Chris D. Aechtner | Year Posted 2013
A Cardinal darts past, and I cannot quite discern if it chirps out of nervousness
towards the impending storm.
If so, the twittering of cell phones sound far more nerve-wracking --
portable typewriters encased in the soul-less facade of laissez faire;
of keeping track, of minding the flocks.
Yes, everyone is a poet these days, tapping away on miniature, plastic typewriters,
typing away the next narrative filled with prose pretending to be free verse.
Whether the majority is truly poetic or not, Frankenstorm surely is poetic;
named after Mary Shelley's, Frankenstein.
The poetic justice of it all amongst a tragedy of broken necks and drownings,
for the Shelleys were the epitome of Romanticism --
not of ritualistic bouquets bought from the florist who sells porn on the sly,
or of waxy chocolate made by children in clandestine factories built from the bricks
of Mao's dreams of anthills and selling short the power stemming from another poet
turned arms dealer.
No, the romance for life itself; to become poetry as poetry turns into us.
To find mystery in everyday moments; to distil this mystery, offer it to the reader,
so that the reader becomes drunken, swooning in a stupor towards worlds
that are 1,000,000 light years away.
Frankenstorm, the Haunting of Shelleys, lashes out at the dead poetry of today;
at the empty, listlessly inane, lazy poetry of today.
The brightest stars are falling into a void, turning away from the very essence
they so wish to express....only because they want to be unique, to be original,
to carve their own niche into the Jack O' Lanterns of a Hallowe'en quickly turning into cheap, dollar store decorations.
They still have hope. They still have hope, even if many further detach themselves
from their emotions with another dose of prescription pills meant to pacify;
meant to reign in the emotional beasts of imagination, until only zombies preserved in formaldehyde, remain.
I can literally feel the Haunting of Shelleys ask wot has become of us.
It used to be about work ethic and soul - one had to kick, tear, bite, simply to publish
a pamphlet that might be read by 10 people.
Nowadays, everyone is a supposed poet. A few clicks, 'submit', and people from all
over the world can read cotton-candy couplets, or a free verse rendition of another grocery list.
But we must embolster this with:
"They are only beginning; they need to express themselves;
they just don't care."
I don't want to be told about the pain, the tragedy, the beauty, the love.
I want to be shown.
I want to feel it.
I want to feel it squeeze my gray matter into a bitter-sweet drink;
I want to feel it go down.
I want to feel it warm up my heart, grip my stomach until the bottom falls out
and I am left careening down a shaft in an elevator with a broken pulley and rusted-through brakes, and just when I think the end has come, the elevator bursts through
a bottom which is actually the ceiling of a world now turned upside-down --
and by the time I right myself, have read the last line, there is still a remaining mysterious periphery of the cats that reside in the corner of my eyes;
purring, waiting until I come back to re-read that particular poem,
for it is so tantalizing, I want to come back to it over and over again
for the remainder of my years.
Storms will always come and go,
but I sensed the metaphorical message of the Frankenstorm very strongly.
Yet this doesn't mean that I will turn the message into fruition.
But I will certainly attempt to do so.
Within my delirium, I will continue to try distilling the intangible
into a drunken tangibility; even for the sake of simply trying.
And as I ponder, as I witness the present decay of humanity,
witness the state of today's poetry, I can only wonder how many more
Hauntings of Shelleys are possibly already brewing.
October 31st, 2012
My thoughts go out to those caught in the path of Frankenstorm 2012.
Such events move me very deeply.
*I have already posted this prose in a blog, because at the time,
the character-count exceeded the limit of poem posts.
Copyright © Chris D. Aechtner | Year Posted 2012
There was so much time to ponder
in the celery jungles of Canuckistan.
1 Creation is without beginning and without end.
There are intervals and cycles;
the Great Cycles follow each other,
while smaller ones spin within the greater.
These intervals and cycles exist within periods.
2 At the end of a period,
the universe is destroyed and re-created --
creation, construction, chaos and destruction
existing in a seamless infinity.
Many universes breathe beside each other,
each with its own Brahma;
this is the wheel -- immense,
beyond the grasp of mortal conception.
3 And along the spokes of this wheel,
exist even smaller wheels within wheels;
pockets of mortal consciousness.
In this consciousness, is a perception of order:
I and you, us and them, I am this and not that,
true and untrue, good and evil, white and black.
It took eons for this perception
to begin dabbling in shades of gray.
4 This new perception was born
in lonely forest meditations
and the heightened awareness of the hunt:
The universe is one,
there is a unity of this and not of this --
this great harmony, this oneness, this Brahma,
bursts into being as differentiation.
5 IT is visible only by an invisible non-unity.
Unity is diversity, diversity is unity.
And this diversity, every single particle of it,
is absolutely sacred,
because in the end, it is all One.
Matter and anti-matter.
Nothing from something,
something from nothing.
Life feeding on life -
everything is both the eater and the eaten.
6 Centuries upon centuries passed by,
and this perception became more refined.
Destroyed civilizations left an invisible imprint
in the minds of the next set of destroyers and constructors.
The words of the ancient seers,
those discoveries made in silent solitude,
were compiled into Vedas:
verses of formulas that reveal little
to the ignorant, but nevertheless
stirs the human heart and soul,
because the power of verse
is an immeasurable communication and conduit.
7 The Vedas show little,
but can tell a lot.
Those with the potential to see,
will eventually be granted sight.
But there is a downfall to collecting sacred knowledge,
and it is this: sacred knowledge held in the hands of fools,
leads to utter destruction.
8 Of course, destruction leads to construction,
but this specific wheel of perception was slightly varied,
causing the Greater Wheel to spin off-balance.
After watching this cycle in boredom,
I nearly lost my mind with frustration.
It had come time for me to leave the forest's canopy,
it was time for the emerald-eyed tiger
to be released into the streets of golden cities --
to slink around, giving the pillars of salt an occasional lick,
and enter into the very lines of sacred knowledge itself.
Copyright © Chris D. Aechtner | Year Posted 2013
Deep in the dungeon in the back left corner
Was a mere shell of what was once a man.
He was shackled to the wall of his own design
By the love of his lady so fair, and divine
The queen of a land so far away in time
With a king who held her ever so dear
Locking them away alone from peasant's view
None of his subjects gazed upon this mentally ill king
He had a smothering love for his queen,
Abusing her in every way
Never there for love, but only in his mind
She hadn't felt his touch in years, other than abuse
Then one day her knight came in on his white steed
They loved under moonlight each night in secrecy
Hiding their treasonous affair from the evil king
Until one night he caught them
The knight dueled injuring the king's ability to speak
The queen fearing their treasonous death
Plotted and schemed as not to be beheaded
To the knight's chamber they carried him
Dousing the room in oil laying him on the floor
Dropping the lantern the knight held
Flames rose in the chamber, consuming him
The queen screamed to the subjects for help
All the court came running to douse the fire out
The knight and queen really started
The true king was unrecognizable and couldn't even whisper
The knight came forward as her husband the king
The queen burst into tears,
Explaining how the knight attacked her,
Setting the room ablaze
All his subjects bowed before the knight, the changeling
I am sorry dear king, the subjects said
As the knight pulled the queen to him,
Ushering them to take him away, to the dungeon below,
Shackled, and chained, in his own kingdom
In the dungeon the king waited, to be beheaded
The knight secretly became the king instantly
Taking his spot next to the love of his life, the queen
No one suspected a single thing
She visited the king one last time before he died
Telling him how she loved him, stroking his cheek
Watching the next day as they beheaded him,
Hiding her head in her knight unknown
Her dark side she displayed
The day her knight became her king
And her king became some subhuman thing
He had truly always been
The knight now the king with his lovely queen
Ruled for many years, having ten children
Of tainted royal blood, but no one ever knew
Their secret love and darkest treason ever committed.
Copyright © Danielle Wise Baxter | Year Posted 2012
A gray dawn, a dark twilight.
Daybreak, dawn, dusk.
A flash of lightening across the horizon.
Windswept trees, in all bent shape,
Such is the result due to harsh winds
That travel for miles and miles.
And we have no knowledge from where it came from
Or where it is going.
But that its travel continues across the daunting mass
Oh how it churns the water.
I can feel the mist and spray cover my body
And tingle my hands.
Standing in the shallow the air blows about me
With sandy hair raging like fire, slapping my face.
A feeling of unknown,
Watching angry waves become violent.
And a shiver of coldness, trembles my body.
A sense of peace,
I have one thought;
Where did it come from?
Copyright © Elizabeth Brown | Year Posted 2015
Gingerly I walk upon the fallen autumn leaves,
Pondering as I stroll among the maples,
All around me living forest, sentient glen,
An unending maze, a whispering guide,
Golden blades pierce the brilliant canopy above,
I pull my coat against a bitter chill,
Whilst I come upon a trickling brook,
Liquid diamonds glisten o’er smooth pebbles,
A hop and skip atop the creek, deeper into the woods,
Shadows grow denser, I tread lightly on,
In wonderment I creep onward into the copse,
When suddenly my eyes behold a curious sight,
Within a small glade stands a mighty stone doorway,
An intricate design, though it’s edges crumble,
A relic from a distant past, a forgotten people,
The woods fall into a hushed silence,
Even the creek I hear no more,
My vision of the other side takes away my breath,
And slowly, I enter the curious doorway…
Copyright © Pendleton Arkwright | Year Posted 2015
I set off along the faint trail
it was one I had not noticed before
plunging me deep into unknown territory
stomach clenched in excitement as I strode on
Tall old Oaks, Aspens, Chestnuts and Beeches
cloaked the way ahead, I was aware of silence
rather a nervous paused silent as if holding it's breath
everything seemed to be waiting for something to happen
Deeper into the woods I went, admiring the new slightly odd
flora and fauna scattered about, beautiful flowers blooming
mushrooms two feet and more wide with red and yellow spots
sturdy enough to sit on while I took a rest
Slipping into sleep I traveled even deeper
until I came to the heart of these mysterious woods
a shout went up from elves, fairies and pixies
she is here at last, our soon to be crowned new queen
A magical glen with a throne in the middle
red carpet made from red flower petals strewn
jewels most wondrous glinting in the trees
birds so colorful that they dazzle as they fly
Clasping me by the hand the pixies lead to the throne
once I am seated, they serve me with golden nectar
tasty berries and cakes of flowers on leaves for plates
full of such excitement I gaze around the clearing
A place of tranquility and majestical splendor
little houses in the trees and small fairy lights
standing sentinel was an ancient gnarled Oak
branches waving as it moved towards me
Shaking as it drew closer and stopped before me
an elf handed it a crown that glittered with gems
turning to me it said let the crowning commence
with great ceremony he uttered the words
"Has any here just cause as to why she shouldn't be crowned?"
A deathly silence prevailed not even a murmur
Then turning to me he placed it on my head
all around were now on bended knee, heads bowed
The oak said "Now you are our ordained queen"
As a great cheer went up I startled back awake
the clearing, throne and all the little people vanished
All that was left behind was a feather of wonderful hues
and the crashing of a startled stag fleeing into the trees
contest In The Woods
Copyright © Shadow Hamilton | Year Posted 2013
And the westerly wind,
Will blow a sea of waving grass
And the sea's fine mist
Will breathe drops like dew
And the sinking suns
Will cloak the sky's horizon
And the moons of Autumn
Will beckon the golden fertililty of the harvest
And the violet tinged edge of night
Will cry for the white bursting of the stars
And the carved thrust of the mountain range
Will challenge the forever yielding blue
And the hovering tunes of the dawn's awakening
Will mimic the lullaby of my dreams
Copyright © Jennifer Cahill | Year Posted 2011
The impressive mighty trees
Are birthed from such small seed
Drawing resilience from the sun
And earth’s fertile garden bed
Trees wooden trunk has shaped
And sustained for centuries many in varied ways
Some over and upon oceans wide
Where waves stroke shapely hulls
And lull to sleep the hapless venturer
Trusting in woods durable strength and buoyancy
And from such crafted boughs
And whispered sounds
Her meekness and strength is seen and heard
Like the creaks of grandma’s rocking chair
Where the hapless wanderer was first rocked to sleep
Trees have cradled and rocked in their arms
High and low of this world
The greatest of these was in a lowly manger
In an animals crib
But for this one tree its destiny was marked
Chosen before time
For on this tree’s wooden shoulders
It bore God’s greatest gift–
A Holy Child born - Like it-
For one purpose only –
To become accursed - on its wooden cross
To bear the sins of All
The Holy Son then rose - triumphantly from earth’s fertile soil
Into His Father’s arms
© Brenda V Northeast 11th March 2012
Copyright © Brenda Victoria Northeast | Year Posted 2012
The cool dampness of the morn wraps its blanket around me inviting me come
sit enjoy..The gap in the hedge row calls my name; come into the mist be
shrouded and walk into the unknown as the rooster crows constantly stirring the
air with their vocals..The sun with its yellow light of illumination ever getting
brighter and warmer draws creatures of the sky to fly and sing praises..There is
beauty all around on this spring morn. .Silly Mocking Bird said Whip-Poor-Will
and for a second he had me totally confused was I getting up or going to
Copyright © Sara Kendrick | Year Posted 2011
Clouds in the eyes
Mist in the heart
Warmth turned to ice
Dreams turn to sand
Like water in hands
Seeping through fingers
Out of control
The mind a whirlwind of thoughts
Words a tsunami of emotion
Life is not always fair
A myriad of disappointments
Blowing in the winds of despair
To love, to live, to write
Swelling oceans running down cheeks
Dreams a whisper in the wind
Snatched away with technicalities
Withholding what was meant to be
Power play the game
Domineering throwing around weight
A thought positive
Still standing tall above it all
Shining brighter than before
Determined and confident
A ray of sunshine giving hope
Every cloud has a silver lining
Smile in the eyes
Radiance on the face
Patience a true virtue
No holds barred
Victory in sight!
Copyright © Shining Bright | Year Posted 2013
What is it about me
that I cannot place you
in the picture painted by the years
the life has already spent?
Do you merely lurk,
and leave at a much later time?
you are staying
If you may.
While I find a place (for us)
in the picture of eternities,
the gods must be
Ah, the grand scheme of things -
A familiar spirit we feel -
(Note) This piece was inspiredly written for the beautiful souls - even the
strangers - I have met along the way and will still come upon in my lifetime. To
each special one, you have stirred quite a familiar spirit within. A remembrance
of forgotten past, I suppose. Thank you for letting me peak through your
soul's window. The veil of forgetfulness has never been thin as now to me. You
have so given me a gift I shall treasure in the moments I may tend to forget
who I truly am - a being with a soul.
Copyright © Wendy Meyer | Year Posted 2013
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 | Year Posted 2011
Silent, the rains pierced the
rainbows, grasping colours
as they fell. Rolled the
Swallows wings, caressed
the Unicorns mane and kissed
the earth with kindness.
Roots drank and petals reached
out, Ladybird's waded ankle
deep in the ambience. Mellow,
soft kisses danced in the fertile
sunlight, roots pushed and buds
opened in serenity. Under the
arc of the rainbow the Unicorn
pranced as life danced, all was
still, the breeze gentle carrying
natures fragrance in tiny parcels
of sentient odour.
Was it a dream or was it your
eyes that gifted this vision to me.
Was it the dawn breaking or the
stars glinting that set this heart
Copyright © Daniel Cheeseman | Year Posted 2010
So, if a matrix is a body substance, in which all cells are embedded?
Then can I not spiritually say that the body of Christ is also a matrix?
Well, is it safe to assume or safer to not assume the differences in such?
If I have a World Wide Web with many matrixes, there must be a main.
How does one achieve the main matrix without a conversion of all matrixes?
Each living breathing organism has a matrix, but what supplies this?
Seems how all bodies have cells embedded in a matrix,
Is it not safe to assume that the universe has a matrix?
If so, where is the main universal matrix?
There must be a connection of some sorts,
Nevertheless, what is it and where is it?
Moreover, why has this not been thought of?
If the body is the temple of the Lord,
Then He must have a main matrix.
Matrix is Latin for womb.
So in which womb is this matrix?
Only a female has a womb.
There must be one that is required by none.
Now let us get even more difficult here.
We have a World Wide Web with many matrixes.
What if the World Wide Web is an individual womb?
It obviously has good and evil in its growth.
Could there have been two that fused by one?
Could there have been a conversion of all matrixes.
Or is there only one main matrix being a female?
Let us get back to the body of Christ and His matrix.
Let us even go to your own bodies matrixes.
An enclosure within in which something originates or develops,
This is what lives and breathes inside of you every day, a matrix.
Do we not develop Christ within ourselves, and He our originator?
Is it not safe to assume that we are the body of Christ?
Moreover, that we are of a matrix that has a universal main matrix?
®Registered: Ann Rich 2006
Copyright © Ann Rich | Year Posted 2010
Sitting there late last night!
I took everything in with my deepest breath about me.
I could quiver feeling the warmth sinking slowly in,
I was covered over distances which I could now see.
I had left myself.
I was gone again.
I was above and beyond the clouds,
Soaring deeply with every one of my though,
Higher and higher I rose,
Reaching loftiness’ I have never once felt.
I was a bird in flight!
Stunning with privilege I had brought.
Feeling myself from deep within!
Standing there that night,
The radiance beamed all around me so I took this in.
And lo and behold, there I went again.
I could feel myself while locked deep with my thoughts.
I was absorbed inside by everything surrounding me.
I felt the depth that my eyes could never ever once see.
Loosing all truth of myself, every sensation my soul had caught.
Further and further I rose, reaching capacities I had never felt.
I’m a feather in the air,
Gathering sensations inside of myself.
I lay there that night, mind, body, and soul with me.
I was calm with the breeze,
Inside of myself,
And once again I was a bird in flight soaring so high and much too free.
I was locked sound with my deepest thoughts.
More and more I rose and impact for impact I felt.
Feathers of a bird in flight and one of me I have surely got.
Ever since that night, many, many things have come to me.
One by one, gathered by the sensations carried all over me.
Touching inside of myself, again, again, and again!
Higher and higher I climb to reach the very tipsy top.
Gathering it all, I am more of me when more of me can be felt.
I am the breeze in the air touching the many feathers these birds have brought.
Many feathers just from sitting here, but each the soar of the wind has surely caught.
I’m a bird in flight gathering all that is real or not and all that is captured in of my-self.
I am surely the feather that fell from the very top,
Because I am now what then I surely was not!
I am simply that feather in the air falling loose and free inside of myself.
®Registered: 1997 Ann Rich
Copyright © Ann Rich | Year Posted 2010
Twinkling eyes that sparks, funny how emotions can takes over the heart
Impossible words that is hard to find, thinking one movement and he might cross
the line. He wore his pride like a badge, but the wounds in his heart is deep,
and for him to love again is just a broken dream.
Even through loneliness scream when he’s under his sheet,
He rather succumb to its sting, other than listened to the silence song his
Heart had to sing. Known his heart is a self made wall,
And he’s not the type of man she should tell how much she loved afterall.
Thoughts kept running through his mind when he recall
how profound he looked her in the eyes. Making him feelings so awkward that
he could not control all he knew is having her besides him daily, his love will grows.
He realize that her tender care is the only thing that keeps him alive, yet he
Settled with routine and afraid go beyond the boundaries.
She reaches out to feel his touch, but somehow had not get enough
Thinking of going her way, but she knew her mind will suffer in everyway
He took her in his arms, where she found security. Hands in hands
She looked in her lover eyes and saw the love inside and
Made him show the feelings, he always had to hide
Tears fell down his face as emotions takes over
his body language says everything and there things became clear.
Copyright © kelleyana junique | Year Posted 2011
Without him beside me, my future seems so bleak, being naïve,
i was told he was not meant for me. Ignoring this world of cruelty
and its power tear our world apart. Now sitting i ponder why I being so naïve from the very start
My tomorrow will never come, for I will forever live in his yesterday. Turning my back on the one who loved me in every single way.
Not even time can heal a shattered heart, but I guess somewhere in his heart he loved me after all
Many times I’ve dreamt of him and unable to hide my tears,
As I reminisce that sad day I decide we go our separate ways,
I pinch myself, as in a dream, knowing it is not true,
How could I let go of such a man, no woman would ever do.
I remember the look in his eyes when he dropped by and found my note. Pain crippled on his face leaving such a heart in pain, as he read along “My heart is with you but I will forever be alone, never will you and I share a place of our own. Rejected by all to cross the color line thinking my love is blind".
If again such a love should come my way, I’d break free of those dark days I’d confess my true heart and reject the rest and break through this racial barrier and fallow my lovers path wherever he lead to ease this heart that beat to grieve.
Copyright © kelleyana junique | Year Posted 2011
O death!!! Why is the
reason behind your actions
Where can our oceans meet
That l may accuse you of
injuctice and wickedness
Why does your action
transform vibrancy to
nothing but dust.
Why, why but why?
Why leaving the
condemned to commit
more atrocities and
The just spend but a
This may be because you
don't want them to have a
hard taste of corruption
Through your actions;
Homes are broken,
Hearts are divided,
Tears and pains abound
Think, think, thinkless death
Copyright © PRINCE IFEOLUWA DANIEL SHANU-OLU | Year Posted 2013
He is the sinking of the final red orange sun of the glowing summer
Warmth no longer oozing and seeping into the pores as I lie bare under the skies
Jeweled dewdrops on the morning grass to dampen bare feet all softness under
And the shimmer on the surface of the lakes like the diamonds in your eyes
He is the golden cusp pf Autumn's Fertility
The ritual dance of the scarecrow in the breezes
(Straw coming loose and flying towards you, most certainly
will brush up against you and tickle before he ceases)
And this thinner less lumpy all seeing scarecrow
Seems to be in no remorse: his knowing face will always grin
And his arms will always be raised in a wave to show
He will protect the yellow brown stalks that bend before him
He is the crisp wind that caresses the crinkled foliage
Their rustling like long flowing skirts on a 1940s ballroom floor
These winds chill the fingers and toes and your face with the stinging red roses
Yet when winter beckons the retreating light, we will be frozen at its core
He is silent snowfalls and many winter moons
And the brown earth beginning to expose itself
The uncoiling of green and mud beginning to ooze
And all new life breaking free from its fragile shell
Copyright © Jennifer Cahill | Year Posted 2012
Encumbered with the walker
blankets for the wet bench,
sheets of water splashing the cement.
I ventured to my smoking spot
face hidden inside my hooded coat.
I light my fire stick,
letting drops of water
reverberate on my hood.
My angel came walking by
called my name;
gave me her umbrella and kept on walking.
Copyright © Gisele Vincent-Page | Year Posted 2011
Her Fate lies on a
Of muted red
Darkness speaks truth
Though gifts are silent
Blindly, she feels for
The magical key
That will finally unlock
His lonely chamber
Her spirit is gentle
Ready to disclose the one
She has loved
’Drink the blood that patiently
dripped from my heart into
this Sacred Cask, and as you
feel me rushing through
your veins know…I love you’
Can he see beyond
Time’s Regal cloak?
Lift the veil of which separates
logic and emotion?
Sight and touch?
She’s coming for him soon
With the key to his
‘Meet me at the
Bottom of the Spiral Staircase’
The tears she sheds
Belong to him…
Within the nucleus of an
Love hurts that much
A seemingly black abyss
Answering to the Dark
The deepest place
That eats away at her flesh...
She’ll sacrifice her life
If one moment
His eyes see…
Copyright © Tamiviolet Manchas | Year Posted 2008
I can no longer see past the trees
They stand solemn in line.
Their dark outline
Weeping from the sky.
All I can hear
Is the faint heartbeat
Coming from my chest.
It’s getting faster
As my breaths
It would appear
That I am choking
On the fog.
My lungs can no longer take
This dense air
That’s creeping in my mouth
And filling me.
I start to run
Into the forest
How far can I go in?
Before I’m halfway out
The fog chases
Until it has consumed
Copyright © Faith Carmichael | Year Posted 2014
Copyright © Thomas Trento | Year Posted 2011
Napoleon the powerful fighter
whose mind was nimbler and lighter
than others whose malicious minds resided in lies,
and in vain and inane imaginations.
His brain's train of thought stayed rooted in reality,
Which gave him greater cogitations and a mind,
divine and higher above the rest of the world's imagination,
rooted in fantasy, and lies, in things that do not exist.
The emperor did worship the truth,
whose soul led him to detest illusions.
Copyright © Victor Chavez | Year Posted 2012