I can show you where the brimstone sun has no remorse,
and where devils on horseback, have burned our homes, have pillaged our farms.
A killing spree, the drum of guns, some tried to flee, but died,... each one.
The screams, I dream! Oh, the cries........the cries.......
I try to mute the sound of them
For..., I was there, I hid in fear, was somehow spared, but now I look for
something, ...something, ...something, here, ...someone to care.
A bit of food, a bit of shade, such bitter taste is in my mouth
A world of hate. To have no shoes,...a walking ghost.....
a blistered soul, I have no hope.... but nothing, nothing left.
My eyes are blurred, and fires burn, a heavy world, shouts out despair.
Where are the flowers that used to bloom, where are voices, that once I knew?
There are no flowers here...just flies, in waist-deep dust, and a hot orange sun,
that coughs up sounds of fear and guns, and swords and words against my ears, I
live in fear with no one here.
I'm just a girl, or at least I was.... for just a while.
I was defiled, when found by one
He spared my life, but did not see, I'd rather die than be this girl, who feels the
shame in being free.
I once had a mother, I once had a father, I once had a brother who made me smile
Where did spirits, lift and go, when the devils on horseback came to kill? Spilling
blood as if for fun? For thrill? For what?
Where were the Gods? Where are the ones who turn their heads?
In desert's dust with blood red crust. They poisoned our wells, burned out our land,
ravished and raped, and relished their brand......,
nomads came, leaving shame, evil and horror came like rain.
Janjaweed, the name, I cannot say... I live with shame, a world, insane
I try to sleep, but I cannot........I can't forget and I am lost, the cost too much,
a swollen tongue and calloused feet, across a land of bleached white bones
Alone, alone,....lost and done...a vanished heart......no one sees me
There are no flowers, there are no trees,
Famine as my lone companion, a pool of mud a home to stay,
Life drains out more every day, my belly swells....my eyes are parched,
and I can't tell
if I'm alive, or if I'm dead, dried up tears are what I shed....
Where are the flowers for my head? I've been scorned,
all I have, and all I see is wind and rain, sorrow and pain
thorns, and dust, and a grave, that waits for me
Devils on Horseback – The Darfur genocide (ongoing) The Janjaweed (translated,
devils on horseback) slaughter and rape the women, men and children of Darfur. As
of today, 480,000 people have been “exterminated” and 2.8 million displaced.
Let's not turn our heads away from this, or from other atrocities being committed
throughout the world.
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2014
One evening with her dad she met this man at a bar very
handsome well mannered visiting from England.
After a few visits she started feeling him approaching her
with nice compliments.
His attention made her fall In love with him
For months he took her out running to the beach
shouting out loud I love your body i love your eyes
you’ll never belong to nobody but me.
On a moonlight night he was holding her so tight
kissing her lips caressing her tits expressing his
desire to light up the fire that was burning in their
entire body and soul.
As he was her first this is what she thought at the
beginning she was very reserved yet she liked the
fire she was feeling they were new to her his kissing
was sensuous he smelled lovely he was caressing her
hair while sitting on the sand she was so taken by her
thoughts suddenly she heard.
Oh my darling let me love you my way let me make you
my woman without any delay I beg you to give up and
stop the fight I am promising at the same time to marry
you very soon I will ask your dad that you will become my
wife next Sunday at soon.
She wanted to believe him her head was spinning her heart
was beating to the sounds of his powerful movements
she was reaching the sky so quickly sensations of ecstasy
she was feeling with his compliments whispering his love
to her out loud while she was dreaming of the marriage
as being lifted up on a carriage listening to the horses
tapping on the course to the hotel room where they will
spend their honeymoon as she will become that bride
Before even her dreams were over she felt him suddenly
role over and ran away with no delay she could not understand
why ? Why? Did he leave with no good-bye.
Not realizing she was undressed hurried to get dressed ran to look
from side to side asking herself why did he hide he promised me
to be his bride? even if she was yet a child.
She sat where they loved each other looking at the ocean maybe
he will come back he must he told her he is in love.
Already it was dark in a low voice having no choice she ran
home straight to her room wiping her running tears and fears
covering her feet to feel some heat and fell asleep not to see
her dad as maybe tomorrow he will come back with an
explanation to his act.
Hoping not to be deceived and very soon to be relieved
when he ‘ll knock on their door and swipe her off her feet
tell her dad to fix their marriage.
She waited for days and days but that day never came
she knew then it was only a game and she`ll never see
him again and will never be the same.
That early morning she woke up before her dad to cheer up
herself for him not to doubt she had maybe made a huge
Having her coffee she pulled the newspaper and screamed
Oh Oh the man she loved was an addicted rapist being
searched from the Interpol in England, he had convinced
everybody doctors and nurses that he was cured.
Continuing to read she read his history that he was battling
addiction of raping teenagers for the past twenty years. Lived
most of the time in jail.
She cried and cried she was raped by an addicted rapist who
was never cured.
She could not eat or drink not knowing what to think
while running to the sink that’s when she found out
but couldn’t shout that she was carrying a rapist child.
Where are you? She thought you were honest
But you were only an ordinary man still battling
Forgive me Oh My God! Her dad
forgave her out of love to his innocent daughter.
She had to keep her child and trusted herself
to bring him up not like his father.
And she did her son became an international lawyer.
Contest for PD....Any Poem Goes.
Copyright © Therese Bacha | Year Posted 2012
All I hear are sirens echoing off tall buildings; a drunk man ranting, a prostitute looking for her next trick, a drug addict looking for his next fix. Young teenage kids who seem to have just learned the art of curse. A young couple fist fighting in the streets---more sirens. A homeless man pan-handling, picking up cigarette butts and smoking a hole into his neck, gum pushed deeper into concrete marked blacker with every step. All I hear are sirens and I say a little prayer for the person in the back. Trains and boats chiming in the distance, a stray cat limping into an unknown existence...must be nice to have nine lives! Yet, all I hear are sirens in this concrete urban forest, where trees are replaced with buildings and cars are the only waves I hear, street lights in place of the stars, sirens in place of the wind.
I close my paper eyelids tight, i can hear in this concrete urban forest of man-nature, for a glimpse, a stolen second in time, the sound of Mother Nature...she still sings and she's crying. She's crying for the people in the back of all those sirens. She cries for her bush the drunk man urinated on; the puddle of blood collecting on her blades of grass that a young man drew from his womans lips. She cries for her branch the teenage kids snapped for fun. She's crying - Mother Nature - is crying, because man - nature takes her place. In this concrete urban forest...all I hear are sirens and I close my paper eyes; i try to reach out and steal the tear off of - Mother Nature's - face. All I hear are sirens and im saddened, man-nature takes her place.
Copyright © amy epiphany tunks | Year Posted 2012
? ...GONE... ?
I never knew until that moment how bad it could hurt
To lose someone you never really had,
Days can be tough and at times cruel
To much for one to bear alone..
I was hoping that you would say
If I feel that I can't hold on any longer,
You'll take my hand and we'll go through it until together.
When the time comes, that if I can't stand on my own again
And I won't need you anymore, I will let go.
I will let go, if that would make you happy..
If you're lonely and your heart feels empty,
Just tell me and I will step inside.
But if One Day, you'll be needing that space for someone else
Don't worry and gladly I will give in my space..
Like in a painful, sad love story
It's amazing how easily to fall inlove with someone,
Who simply smiles, talks or stare at you
The only hard thing to do is to make that person fall for you.
They say that time heals all wounds, but all it's done so far
is give me more time to think about how much I miss You..
Okay, so maybe time heals most wounds, right?
Then why does it feel like it?
The wound is getting bigger and bigger every second.
Maybe Love is just a beautiful dream, and then we wake up..
Just as they always say when somebody leaves
When love is lost, do not bow your head in sadness,
Instead keep your head up high and gaze for the stars.
For that is where broken hearts have been sent to heal..
What is the opposite of Two?..
...A lonely me, A lonely You...
They say relationships are like glass
That sometimes it's better to leave them broken
Than risk hurting oneself in trying to put it back together.
Lost in my heart, lost in my mind, I'm lost in your eyes
Entire days, weeks, months, ...a blur...
Flickers of light in the darkness
Only to be enveloped in shadow once more.
And yet within the shadows of pain
Might be the faint flicker of love once fel,t
And that could make all the darkness worthwhile
Because a single "I Love You"
Is worth more than a thousand goodbyes..
I'm tired my Beloved..
of chafing my heart against the want of you,
Of squeezing into little inkdrops and writing it.
Ask me why I keep on loving you
When it's clear that you don't feel the same way for me.
The problem is that as much as I can't force you to love me
I can't force myself to stop loving you..
So I tell myself sometimes..
'Count the gardens by the flowers, never by the leaves that fall.
Count your life with smiles and not with tears that roll." ..
Though sometimes, these tears say all there is to say
And the scars don't ever fade away,
I am thankful that for a moment
I once met You, I once felt you look my way.
I once felt You within me, in my heart and mind
I once was happy and alive with You
I once Loved you and still Loving You... xoxo
P.S ..KYHYCYILY.. always.. ? ? ?
Copyright © Anna Lo | Year Posted 2012
He stands proud and strong, this kilted warrior
head held high against the unending pain
of a heart born out of sadness
for the loss of those who came before him
and thoughts of those who would
continue on when he himself was no more.
Proud men one and all
vows made, till surrendered in death
to defend that which
was their birthright, the very land
upon which he now stood.
The call to battle though long since silenced
came from within his very heart and soul
blood of the ancient ones raged in his veins
his sword by his side...shield upon his back
he stood ready to charge into battle
to do what was expected of him since birth
to fight as those before him fought
without fear, but with a strength
only a battle hardened warrior
knew and understood.
Copyright © Melody Coster | Year Posted 2007
"As I watch the blue skies
Suddenly turned into gray
Darkness easily surrounds
Their clouds, covered in haze.
The rain will fall again, I say
A nature's moment I dismay
Raindrops will soon touch the ground
The sad feeling, again I'll be hound.
Splattering rain, the sound that haunts
Sweet and sad memories of the man
Taunting me to remember once again
The love once lost, never be back again
Every drop of rain that falls, I pain
Each drop it falls, my heart is in vain
"Try to listen" to the rain, he once said
'Tis like a last goodbye, could not hear I said.
The sound of the crying heart, I still hear
The sound of a weeping soul, I can hear
The silent tears that they weep,
The silent scream that echos so deep.
Listen to every drop of rain
To it's agony, vain, pain,
Listen to the rain as it falls, maybe
There is your love, every drop after all...xoxo
Copyright © Anna Lo | Year Posted 2012
Filbert Crumb..... Gets His Wish!
A sad little man was Filbert Crumb....as he sat on the bus. "
Another lonelyday" He thought to himself.
Looking up, Filbert saw a little dog.
Neatly tucked into a little girls backpack.
Its' head was peaking out
and smiled at Filbert.
"See, even a dog has a better life than me"...
"I wish I was that little dog".
Filbert reached out to pet the pooch
in the backpack
and was surprised when the little dog
happily licked at his fingers.
“Hi there little doggie, How are you?”
And then the strangest thing happened.
The little dog replied back!
“I am wonderful..”
“Did you just speak to me?”
whispered Filbert to the little dog.
“Yep...Yep...Yep...I did!” said the little dog.
“But how is that possible?” asked Filbert.
“I really don't know, I am just as surprised as you are.” said the little dog.
“Are you happy being a little dog?” asked filbert.
“Oh yes, it's wonderful. I have a nice home, good food
and toys to play with”.
“I wish I were a dog.”
“Oh, you can be.
It's really very simple to do.”
Said the little dog with a wink.....
“All you have to do is this....
“Jump Up and Down on just one leg...
and spin yourself a round....
around and round......
and spin yourself around”....
Sang the little dog.
.“Really! Is that all?” said Sad Filbert.
Yep...Yep...Yep....said the little dog.
Copyright © Randall Smith | Year Posted 2010
Bathed by the ocean blue
There came a thought…
And it was solely of you.
How you’d dance across the night sky
With palms and the waves, waving good bye
With hopes and lights
All lost and wandering the night
Not at all lost…
But not at all found
I’ve wandered these towns…
I’ve wandered these thoughts,
Where has the time gone by?
No longer you dance…
No longer you play…
Just sit there in the sand
By the oceans nice bay
Dream with me tonight
Dream with me of all the things we once would do
Come back to life…
Dance with me one last time
Beside the oceans blue
Come back to life…
Give me one last memory of you
Copyright © Jessica Kuilan | Year Posted 2012
Painting 7: FORBIDDEN
Before darkness steals the light of day,
entering as graceful as the morning mist
in the window ajar, the bitter breeze:
My light clothes short - dances with the curtain
but like the clouds, calm; I stand. My splayed
hands upon the glass condensation.
I exhale in the cold, enduring dreams surge.
Over the years, my golden hair has grown
an old rugged toy is my loyal company.
My eyes journey into the quiet of the world outside.
I wonder what is beyond the sketch of towering trees
as each time the wind lullabies.
I behold their branches' dipping and bowing;
I wish to smell the pines released, they tease.
I am a young girl and I am full of dreams.
Time races and I am forbidden; the limitless
horizon lures. Oh how long, I've wanted to reach,
I've wanted to touch. I've wanted to fly,
I even cried and shouted, I waited,
and waited but no one frees me.
~~Inspired by the painting: Child in a Red Apron
(L’Enfant au tablier rouge)
__Olive Eloisa D. Guillermo__
Copyright © Olive Eloisa Guillermo | Year Posted 2016
Staring, vapor locked, at my Hammond B-3 console organ, which dominates my
kitchen. Surely a symbol of my madness. I can't help, but think, if the keys were
the days of my life, and the black ones represented the bad days, are there
enough black keys?? Fighting petulance, self-pity...losing...
Wondering if I can stand another minute alone. Atop my organ, music books,
and the complete works of Edgar Allan Poe, another mad poet.
Plagued by physical agonies that merely complete a perfect circle of anguish
and distress. Even to worrying of misspelling a word again. Pure lunacy.
Remembrance of my 1863 death at Missionary Ridge, something I became
aware of as a young child before I'd ever heard of reincarnation. Or just an early
sign of the madness to come??
I am lost in a befouling miasma of deep despair. My life's hopes down to 2
desires; one last music band, and taking my son to Disneyworld. Money is
meaningless to me.
I am well aware that death is as natural as life. And I would venture to guess
that the loss of my father, my young cousin Billy, my dear friend Mark Trotiner, and
too many others, are "Business As Usual" in this universe. But not for me.
Being terminally ill myself is something I have long since come to terms with.
And what a reunion it will be!! But I must continue to go on surviving as though I
cherish this long and barren life.
My writing, especially my poetry, my poet friends, my music, my musician
friends, and a few relatives and others; these are the meds that work for me; not
the 30 or so pills I must deal with everyday. So thank you all.
And now an addendum, one which brightened my day:
Mark Trotiner long maintained that he gave Mark Knoffler (Dire Straights) the
idea for his hit song "Money For Nothing", when Mark Knoffler came into the
appliance chain store he worked in way back then, where he bought, and drove
off with several T.V.s, singing the prototype words he'd gotten from Mark Trotiner.
Over the years, I tested him repeatedly, looking for the tale-tell deviation in the
story one finds in a false tale. He never faltered, he never failed.
Copyright © tom bell | Year Posted 2007
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 | Year Posted 2007
The question so easy
So difficult to answer
I know why
It leaves me broken all over again
I know the answer, I know, no, no, no . . .
I don’t want this
This pain that’s not all mine . . . hardly mine
It rips and tears and cuts
My heart to pieces
It bleeds and drains my soul away
I wish I never had one
I know why
Why did I have to teach myself the answer?
I know why
I wish I was blind, deaf, numb and uncaring
I wish you never made me
Why did you put me here?!
What did we do to you?
I wish I knew what to say!
Every time life turns good and gets better
You smash it all to bits and pieces
You rip and tear and shred me apart
Again and again and again!!
I know why
God help me I know why
It leaves me beaten, battered, discarded and defeated
Alone . . .
Always alone in the end
I don’t want to know why anymore
Take it away
You can do it if you try
I cannot stop myself from know why
And these words sound hollow empty like me
Why not me and not other
It was I who stole and ripped asunder
A world, a life, ahhhhh I curse you!!!!!
Not them, not him, not her . .
Can’t you . . .
Just go away and leave us be
Why can’t I cry for anyone or anything
Would someone please tell me
What good is a heart and soul anyway?
You break and take them both away all the time
Ask me why I don’t believe in you!
Ask me again why I believe I live in hell!
Why . . ?
Just tell me why . . .
Copyright © Neal Freeland | Year Posted 2008
(In a churchyard in Northern Ireland)
Through the broken and barren trees
Winter exhales its coldest breeze
From the wintry breath of northern seas
That can chill the warmest soul.
Thus in the churchyard by the sea
Nigh one broken and barren tree
Lies cold a soul once warm to me
Beneath the winter’s rime.
As the heart of winter doth unfold
I feel its touch, so dark and cold,
For I yearn at night to yet behold
That soul once warm to me.
But in earthen depths doth she lie
E’er below the moon and starlit sky
As yet unto her grave I wander by
And despair the winter’s rime.
O’ the winter wails upon the still
With its bleak and bitter chill
That conjures from the nightly nil
A soul once warm to me!
Copyright © Robert Liam McCallum | Year Posted 2015
As the sands slip through the hour glass of time
harsh realization dawns,
such as the late summer rose ceased to flourish and bloom,
while the season grows short,
dead petals scattered by cold winter winds.
Yet unlike the rose, graciously accepting it's place in the grand scheme,
man's self awareness becomes a curse upon his consciousness,
to possess the knowledge of his ever nearing mortality.
Life's unfinished dreams chased away by the bitter rising sun.
Copyright © JD Caperton | Year Posted 2015
Today, I had a chance to ask his widow, Laurie, about this story. She
confirmed that it did happen, and he came home from work that day excited, and
told her and their 3 daughters about the event.
And sure enough, shortly thereafter, the song became a hit on the radio, and
M.T.V., in those ancient days when they actually played music.
This news brightened my day considerably, and I'm happy to share it with you;
so when you next hear that song, remember my good buddy, Mark Trotiner, the
uncredited genius behind it.
Copyright © tom bell | Year Posted 2007
A huge monstrous olive tree
not giving shade nor bearing fruits,
existing in pains and disappointments
together with the others, they live
is the exact expression of my grieve.
Too hypocritical in being aggressive
and defeated by the contraceptive of my try
condemn and make me believe
I'm failure's chief executive.
How am I to know
that every attempt completed
is success' eve?
How am I to know
that more failure is effective?
How am I to know
that I ought to be vigilant
and be patient like a detective?
faulting the situation, myself I deceive
and landing in this mess
surely wasn't my motive
I should have been more creative
instead of staying sensitive to my senses
and searching for palliative methods
of scoring my goal.
I shouldn't have used
my cognitive functions this way,
perceiving challenges as dangers
always attentive to the red light
when it is in fact yellow.
when the push seems less attractive
and summing up the crash
to be definitive.
For all these years
the agony has been an adhesive
to my soul.
comparative to a privileged bridegroom
who outslept his wedding
to an undeserving bride.
As descriptive as that,
mine is even more corrosive.
Now I pay taxes to sadness
and my regret more lucrative than ever before
as nature chooses my heart
to be the dwelling place of sorrow
keeping my self-ruin well preserved.
I've tried to turn back time
I've tried to apply similar energy
and pretense is now my best talent
but all I get is NOTHING!
I'm only left with wishes
a million times have I made them
and a million times more I'll proclaim them
but they will all stand as cup-bearers
to my constant regrets.
as I forever say........
I wish! Oh I wish!
Copyright © Funom Makama | Year Posted 2013
~Born In The Slums.~
She was born in the slums
sixty three years ago
by a mother out of wedlock
delivered her all alone
In an empty dirty corridor
due to a mistake she
committed one night out of
lust, or maybe out of love,
we will never know.
New born first cry to freedom
Mothers last cry from freedom
New born first breath to live
Mothers last breath to die
Echoes of life and death
In that empty room.
A mother laying on the floor
In a pool of blood,
A new born attached loosely
To the mothers last breath
As her destiny short lived.
Nobody to welcome that new
born alive with no flowers
no balloons no father nor a
grandmother no doctor nor
a nurse no bed not even
sheets on the floor.
No decor for a new born baby
with no name alone nude no
one to clean her up, yet that
last link between mother and
daughter a cord separating
life from death.
Rescued by that stranger
living in the slums
He carried her in his arms
covering her fragile body
with his shirt walked towards
the church rang the bell
and delivered her
to the priest.
Today she wrote;
here i am today
grown up and happily
Copyright © Therese Bacha | Year Posted 2013
All men (the loser boyfriends/husbands) think that it's their right to be physically, mentally, and verbally abusive toward their female companions (girlfriends/wives), well they're wrong. Most guys are always beating their girlfriends/wives up every single day just because they didn't make their men dinner, do chores around the house, or whatever. It seems that these womanizing losers are way better than their women. Actually, they're not; they're idiots. Controlling these women and being physically, mentally, and verbally abusive toward them don't make these Neanderthals men; they're like childish cowards. All guys think that they're the only breadwinners in their families and the women aren't. But guess what--they're not; some of them don't have jobs. And does anyone knows what gets on my nerves? Men always cheating on their girlfriends/wives with other women, getting them pregnant, and not taking care of the children they already have. And those controlling, abusive men, they're always telling their female spouses/lovers what to do, what to eat, where to look, and who to talk to. I mean, who are these womanizing losers to judge other men and to boss these women around? I mean, who does that? Everybody doesn't even know why they'd bother spending the rest of their lives with those abusive idiots. This whole saying by these controlling abusive men have been getting on everybody's nerves and my nerves, as well: "You're-not-to-speak-unless-spoken-to," this "You're-not-to-talk-to-your-family" ordeal, this whole "You're-not-to-have-guy-friends," and this whole "You need me! You're nothing without me! You have no money! You have no friends! Everything's in my name: the house, the cars, clothes, everything I own! You're useless! You're worthless! I own you for life! And you will respect me!" Where I come from, the rest of us nicer guys, we treat our women with the respect they rightfully deserve. The last time I checked, the mothers have raised their sons to treat women and other people with respect, but they now know where they've gone wrong with those womanizing clowns. My suggestion for the women is for them to leave their abusive husbands/boyfriends before it's too late because if they don't, they'll end up in the hospital or the morgue. To be honest, these women, they never should've met, let alone dated or married those abusive men to begin with. And if these abusive men think that they can control those women forever, they've got another coming.
Copyright © Brashard Bursey | Year Posted 2012
The river flowing tumble of snow
jackets the buildings and the road
on the last twilight of 1998.
As the sky is slowly draped by darkness and coolness,
there I am on the coldest loneliest walk of my life.
All around, I can see some dancing colored lights.
The houses spells the happy shadows of families.
Some sharing a meal.
Some laughing out loud near their Christmas tree.
Some on the middle of a party.
Christmas carols flying free on mid-air like:
"...But heaven surely knows
That packages and bows
Can never heal a hurting human soul..."
With only a coat, long thick black hair kissed by snow
and some old worn socks to warm me,
I traverse the street--
finding, finding a place I can call home.
About six days ago... I was also with my parents,
so happy, though we only share some bread and cheese
plus porridge that Christmas day.
Me and my parents hugged every night
allowing me to stand the icy nights of December
under the roof of our wooden worn-out home.
My parents though they can't read nor write,
they diligently work day by day for our needs specially mine.
I wasn't given any gift nor we can't everyday eat some meat.
However, my days with them are filled with fun-loving memories.
a monstrous fire eat voraciously
our home and three other houses nearby.
My father though old with arthritis
carried me fast as he can to a safe place
and so my mother but ---
father ran back to the house
to save some of our things but unfortunately...
The roof of our home fell.
The fire so ferocious swallowed everything including my father.
My mom and I dealt with this pit of tragedy as one
but later I saw my mother slowly, slowly crumbling down.
She more than me is slowly falling down faster.
Her lamp of hope blown out.
And not long, past six on the same day my mother died.
Hence as the surrounding gets cold
so is the the life of me gradually reaching the freezing point.
***Inspired by the story: The Little Match Girl by H.C. Andersen
and with some lines from the song: "My Grown Up Christmas List" by K. Clarkson
©O. E. Guillermo
Sponsor Debbie Guzzi
Contest Name A Christmas Tale
08:33 pm, December 17, 2014
Copyright © Olive Eloisa Guillermo | Year Posted 2014
I BEGGED YOU TO STOP
You see me already sitting at the corner
heads down unto folded arms, bent on knees...
When tears and cries, all that left to say
still, your tongue is as sharp as a wooden ax,
slowly cutting me like that of a CT scan.
Sobs, groans rocked and rolled earthquake in my bones,
I beg hard for you dear mother to stop. STOP!
but sadly, you didn't... You didn't...
Left to right you again whipped me with shouts,
your eyes mad like that of a lion ready to devour.
Frightened, the most I can do is to stare down,
beholding my two pained, beaten bruised legs,
knees shaking despite my hands holding them tight,
also my fingertips dance in terror.
Again, I beg hard for you dear mother to stop
but traumatic, you are there but you aren't listening...
Like the disturbed tidal waves of the sea,
your palms non-stop lapping hard: thud! thud!
Even your digits keep on squeezing my skin.
A cheap make-up colored red and black
are scattered free all over my flesh,
except for some purple spheres in my wrists.
I beg hard for you dear mother to stop
but all your eyes mirror is remorse...
Stop! Please, please Stop!
but you never stop
my breathing stopped.
==Sponsor Broken Wings==
==Contest Name Any Poem That Received Honorable Mention==
10:01 pm , June 17, 2015
Copyright © Olive Eloisa Guillermo | Year Posted 2015
There… he… goes…
speeding down the mountain,
he’s just enjoying life.
He just wants to share
with his friend.
To his provider’s misfortune,
varies her lipstic – I mean definition.
“I was just enjoying MYself,
it wasn’t MY fault.”
“But you hurt ME.
What about ME?”
She was furious.
Her insurance rates became destined to go
THROUGH THE ROOF.
It’s so unfair for her,
she was just trying to provide for her man:
gave him a car and some freedom.
The interest her man once gave her, though,
sped off so quickly that it
deserved plenty more speeding tickets.
Deserved stars, road blocks, and helicopters;
and a much more somber ending than that of a life in Grand Theft Auto.
Once you’re caught,
You can still go back,
though, once you leave,
you’re gone indefinitely.
Everyone else must pay your debts now.
She became dull,
she got fat,
every Christmas present gets old by the time Santa comes around again.
Not that any of any of those
physical characteristics mattered,
It was true love,
so true that the betrayal was just as true.
But it was just a speeding ticket.
Copyright © Tyler Garlick | Year Posted 2014
Love has no reply-it just waits-
love has no reply - it just prays-
Love understands- as it hopes
that rage will be quelled-
That the core of your heart will
of the venial mind-are allowable
If you never intend to exhale-
then inhalation is inevitable.
Demons seek company -
Presenting illusions to keep misery
side tract' in sorrowful elegies
The cardinal mentation-will automatically
tick when you tock --
Tock when you tick-
You came here with no instructions--
Love requires no action
Does not have to reply
No matter the jargon
the meaning of "no"is the same.
Whether you wax or wane
with wagers parlayed
invest in the" WAIT" like the yellow light
"Spread your bet-green light- keep moving
Not always smart- to bet on a sure thing-
red light stop wait -think about
what you're thinking of doing-
win win situation
Prior truth is not necessary for
what is "yet to be believed"
should never be applied to A
The efficacious-ness of the syringe as a method in
seeking answers to concepts --is horribly ineffective.
Love has no reply--- No outside stimuli -
No dos or don't s ... from the I ...
Strictly and inside Job
Copyright © Vicki Acquah | Year Posted 2014
i am sick of love
such words and such nonsense
when love does not envy
yet its hard to live and not be green,
(for love is hard to do
and i am sick of losing such hard-time battles
that i can surely lose my mind before my next birthday
those young lovers(that young girl and foolish boy with his side-chick
that is not love, that is nonsense)
oh, i have seen nonsense come and go,
and i have cried my grief and laughed my jealousy
all those girls with broken hearts, i give them a standing ovation
for they are all fools, and i don't give a fly's bum for them.
(my thoughts have jumped,
up and down and up and down
summer autumn winter spring,
-love is destroying and i am not living a happy life
yet i sat there and took the blows and cigarette burns on flesh
and i smile, yet i sit and smile the nights and days away
and so-called friends say "why that way"
and I say "U and Me aren't friends... I have no friends-"
long haired beauties come and go,
chicks and babes and boys with egos bigger than their hot-air heads are floating away,
and back and forth and back and forth
party after party after party,
kiss after kiss after kiss,
and chests being groped after chests being groped
legs in nylon and high heels all around-
are all gone, cause they don't care anymore themselves
look now the negro and the white girl
walk the night train together
waiting for the first rail car to take them away from all things and all ways that kill them
and do not let them live
and i sit smoking a cigarette with no one and its quiet and i hope that tonight is the last night,
because i am sick of love already,
i am just sick of love already,
i am just sick of the damn games
of broken hearts and broken promises,
blue-eyed death come and take me away
(but first lets have a drink- a pink of whiskey or two or three or four
and one last cigarette before the night is through,
and i shall tell you before the clock sticks noon
how i am just sick of love
for i am a man out of luck-
kiss me blue-eyed death
(take me to your dark angel girls- and tell them to kiss me goodnight,
love me tonight,
as mortality has run its last grain of sand out on me-
and take me and take me and take me
too a place where love is just a figment of an imagination
-only a nightmare, a bad dream (too sleep the night away,
too wake another day, and be in a different place then this
and to know love is gone from me
for i am sick of love already... I'm through-)
Copyright © Chris Boskovski | Year Posted 2013
Here it comes again; softly knocking on windows at 2A.M, here comes the winter at a cold silent night, awakening my soul with the smell of dust after rain, the smell of mom holding me into bed, with the voices of my sisters playing next room, here it comes again with painful delights, here it comes again taking me back home.
Let the drops of rain knock on my door and let them ache my heart, let me taste the sweet smell in my tongue like a little boy getting wet beneath the rain, waiting to be rebuked, but none of this does matter because the burdens of life are slipping down with the rains being drifted on his coat, none of this does matter because the weight of life was just not this cold before.
Here comes the winter with empty corners in my head and echoes of laughters in my room, a piece of chocolate I can no longer find and a broken toy I’ve never thrown away, with good sweaters that never felt warm on a cold night like this, let the chilly breezes of winter take me back home again, to smell my father’s smoking cigarettes and my mother combing my hair, and the smell of coffee beans on one cloudy morning to refresh my day, oh here comes the winter, remembering me again and stopping by with few memories to take me home.
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Copyright © Samar Saleh | Year Posted 2012
Somebody’s Baby, lie still
Embalmed in pure white cotton,
Cocooned securely, like the babe in arms
within the shroud.
Seraphim cavort no more upon a form
once touched with shades of youthful innocence.
Somebody’s Baby, be sure.
Your time for dreams now spent,
No future beckons only time captured frame by frame,
Frozen in vulgar technicolor;
Close Up; Explicit, depicting genre yet unclassified;
The epic over exposed.
Somebody's Baby, be silent.
Grey and gnarled imposter in the cot
Metamorphosis contrives a landscape dry and gnarled.
No more seductress of tender ministry;
Solitary, silently; endures the travesty
Of human demise.
Copyright © CAROL ROBINSON | Year Posted 2007
REFRAINS OF WINTER SONATA
When fallen brown leaves brush a sepia picturesque
and the bubbly breeze blows a heated winter sonata,
the giant roses of clouds are teased, they shed
icy petals tumbling, drifting like little ballerinas
dropping to rest on branches of trees, grasses, houses
and down to window ledges clustering in lily-white hues.
Frosty mornings and nights lure the need for warmth
from brewed coffee, a kiss or just a minute of touch...
Absorbing the air, alone, I wander to the cover-walks,
I see children tramping and playing on hills of frost,
some couples carelessly sliding, they laugh out loud,
yet afar, some robins, deer and beggars frown in despair
as they are homeless. No fire nor a person to cuddle with.
No adequate food to eat nor a flowing water to drink too...
Cold. Wet. All white, frozen snow-tears are in their eyes
and so I am one afternoon, a year and six months ago.
The winter atmosphere can stir love passions within
but how can it all be when the only woman, I love.
I wanted to marry and ready to give my all: refused me?
She, slowly walking away, leaving me crying-- a snow.
~~SPONSOR: Broken Wings
CONTEST: Write ME A Winter Poem~~
__Olive Eloisa Guillermo__
8:16 pm, November 14, 2015
Copyright © Olive Eloisa Guillermo | Year Posted 2015
Close your eyes for awhile my friend, I heard there lies a moon far behind the black sky, I heard lovers were dancing beneath, can you hear them singing? I can feel their tipsy steps making rhymes on floor, and smell of perfumes filling the air, I heard a sun rises to brighten up their world, and birds do sing them charming melodies at morning, they say they have roses in colors and beautiful trees in the streets, and have they told you about the sea yet? They say it smells so wonderful and the delicate air of seas caresses their cheeks with soft wet breezes, oh my friend, what have we seen in the dark but the fragile ghosts that we are!
“Hush” whispered to me, “I lighted up a moon inside my heart and I smell lilies and jasmine in my nose, my dreams play tunes my heart dance on, they speak to me all night and there I see a starry night floats above, I feel the warmth of a sun in my soul as it hugs tight, whispering to me hymns of love and joy, lightening candles for hopes which had accompanied me amongst the dark, why have you closed your eyes my friend? Look through the colorful roses I painted for you with eyes wide open, let the lights off so you would see clearer, let the lights off so you can brighten up the world that hides with you, for my friend, what have we seen in the dark but the free spirits that we have become!
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Copyright © Samar Saleh | Year Posted 2013
There are some colours
that can never be repainted,
marks that can never be removed
and stains that can never be covered.
My past loved one,
don't hold unto my shoulders
as though nature formed us together.
We've once crossed that bridge
but even before reaching its middle
we had crashed into the river
and were swallowed
by the rocks of its depth.
Do you remember,
at first we built a garden
coloured in trust
and grassed with unbelievable care?
But we converted it
into an Oven
where love and hate mix
and our problems;
I'm the only one trying to fix.
of our heated drama
was already counting at thirty and six.
The beautiful songs of our hearts
as sadness and anger feasts.
Why shouldn't I leave
and prevent my heart
from an avoidable accident?
But you stick around
only to suffer from self torture.
My new and bright countenance
makes you wanna have sex
with other male colleagues, I flex.
It's barely two weeks
that makes you perplexed
well; it's your problem
b'cos I'm not bothered
if you're vexed.
Are you the first
to be an ex?
Just move on, my dear past lover!
It will be the height of folly
and the worship of loneliness
if you visit our world again.
Copyright © Funom Makama | Year Posted 2014
In the iron grey days of the 1950's change changed everything, good or bad,
Tom, who was the local coal-man for this area, a hard man of steel but kind,
He tried to speak but no words would come, he just pointed, on to the road,
Following his gesture, outside was a new motor lorry for his rounds, no horse.
In broken and heart wrenching sobs, he said, they had taken away my old horse,
He's been sold to another firm and I will never see him again, he's gone away,
Tom loved that horse, his life was built around it, morning evenings, weekends,
In his own time Tom would trim and groom that horse, it was his closest friend.
They never said me that my dearest friend was going I had no time to say goodbye,
He's probably in a new place now waiting for me to come and take him back home,
I know that horse he is my only family, I bet he is really worried he will so sad
He probably thinks I have deserted him because I don't love him that's not true.
I bet he is in a stable, his big brown eyes moist looking around all the time,
Any door that opens he will think it is me, he will be excited then really hurt,
He will miss our long talks together in the evenings he used to nod his long face,
He will be in a panic, like me, waiting for his dad who will never see him again.
A strong man who carried tons of coal everyday he had no family only his horse,
Brought up in a state run home never lucky enough to be picked by any families,
His horse was his friend who new all of Toms deepest secrets, tears and sorrows,
Tom left his new lorry where it stood, with heart wrenching sobs he walked away.
I watched him go, there was nothing I could say there was a painful lump in my throat.
Copyright © Terry Trainor | Year Posted 2013
Arabic poem by: Adel Said*
Translated into English by:
Inaam Al-Hashimi (Gold_N_Silk)
At the end of the line I stand
As should a professional homeless do
Exactly at the end of the line
Before the committee on homelands distribution
Among those who fall in the overflow
Over the needs and capacity of time, place,
At the end of the line I stand
Hanging like a teardrop in a funeral
Collecting what have fallen of my years,
And my extinct dreams,
In the bundle of my childhood that missed her doll
And my deferred share of my mother’s tenderness.
I have a flavor the midwife failed to sever
With the umbilical cord
In my heart, there is still a nursery rhyme
About a duck swimming in a river
And a songs about a fair maiden’s tear dripped down with kohl
And my fingers are still trembling
In fear of the lesson and the swish of the teacher’s ruler.
I have in the piggy bank of my life
Volumes about hunger and wars of social classes
Burned by the fascists
Who also snuffed out the tears of forbidden love.
I have in the piggy bank of my life
Dates I saved of palm tree’s yearning for the land
And some palm pollen dust still traveling in my lungs.
I have no signs of prophecy on my forehead
And no halos of saints
But my homeland that’s sitting there
Amidst the committee on the homelands distribution
Will recognize me
And I'm in the queue
I will not compete with the homeless comrades
For their homelands
And will not accept that illustrious one on the right
And not that opulent one on the left
I’ll accept only that one,
That one whose head is a palm tree
And whose arms are two rivers.
- You , O Mister!
You who was at the end of the line,
You haven’t been recognized
By any of the homelands gathered in the committee,
The exiles snuffed out your flavor
And withered your songs;
Despite the high level of adoration in you
No homeland on earth
Understands your language.
- Even that one? !
- Even that one ..
And out of pity
We decided to grant you a berth,
A berth that will never come to an end
You will waste on it
All that’s left in your lifetime’s piggy bank
Of dreams loitering outside the fence of life
And of years flying, like neglected pieces of paper,
Out of the window of history!
Translated by: Em. Prof. Inaam al-Hashimi
* Adel Said is a poet from Iraq who resides in Norway
Copyright © Inaam Al-Hashimi | Year Posted 2013