and I follow myself over his smile to find my eyes, promising uncertainty and chewing on
my bottom lip with the hunger that resides in...
He rolled me over and kissed my dreams, his mouth became my salvation and I nailed myself
to the bedpost as we made love, my legs became morning while I screamed midnight to the
and I had never seen such a beautiful sunrise, I had never seen the beginning color herself so
I told him, as our eyes appeared shallow, as the light dimmed and he breathed summer on my
“Blue is blue, Dear, don't try to shade it with red.”
But he explained to me the art of bruises, he informed me the results were beautiful, and
he held up a mirror to my unmarked skin, places where the black and blue and...
while he sheltered my chest with his hand, covering my heart with his palm, and told me
the results still beat...
I cried, tears of the rain that once fell in April, and he held me, time slipping between
us, beads of sweat that spoke eternity and seven more months, and I spoke silently so he
could hear me, I whispered his name...
“God, you're beautiful,” he said on the second I realized the sadness had left me, that
she had found content and was studying the games we never played with the fascination of a
child, I touched his cheek with the surreal movements that occur when one has fallen and
been caught and smiled at the thought of us...
I sacrificed my pain that night, I handed it straight over to midnight when the day broke,
I blended the sunrise with blue and watched the sky turn purple with him right beside me,
I counted the minutes to eternity and he laughed at my obsessions as he told me I was...
as he drank my belief off my left shoulder with a kiss...
and I looked at him, in the light, my eyes deep with the memories of the sea, as I kissed
him, with a certainty I never questioned as tomorrow started forever...
and he would live inside me
Copyright © JeanMarie Marchese | Year Posted 2007
? ...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
Wind so cold.
Fondles my face.
The tears from heaven.
I wonder if i wish
to stop them
The little voice in me says,
Wait, don't go.
Stay a little longer. I plead.
Sing for me today, rain.
With the gliding rhythm on my piano,
Chilly Wind, caress my bare skin
with the pure coldness that you bring.
like it's my first time in the snow.
the fire tree never fades in the picture.
The yellow sunkissed leaves, too.
What is it about Summer and Fall
that I can't forget?
Memories. Sweet imaginations.
The chilly rain. The misty wind.
You are here.
Freeze me with the sharp coldness you give.
Calm me. Maybe, comfort me.
And, if you leave
Will you visit me when summertime comes?
Before it gets too late
And again I fold.
Copyright © Wendy Meyer | Year Posted 2013
All those years flew away
Then of course the headaches
started when weeping constantly
at the unfairness of my marriage.
You need to know that I didn't
love him but I cherish the family
we've created, you, my children
are the center of my life.
My hardships coping with
my authoritarian husband
drove us apart.
I started drifting away to
avoid being at his mercy .
I couldn't help myself to
get around those roadblocks
that at the time deprived me
from walking through
a new path of change.
I was stalling even in my silence,
aware of all the deceptions
that had come to characterize
I had learned the hard way
to stay calm and pretend
that I didn't sense what was
happening to me,
and let time do its magic.
I wore this mask for so long
I didn't feel safe without it
exposing my true identity,
it had to remain hidden .
I stopped blaming myself
as I was able to survive
my pain over the years.
Time has elapsed and done
everything to diminish
my anxiety and eventually
allow my soul to heal.
I cannot tolerate seeing
myself weep anymore.
I started genuinely enjoying
every thought that passed by,
ready to feed myself with knowing
I would not repeat the same mistakes.
I ended up riding this roller coaster
of emotions feeling everything.
I was able to survive the pain
when I was at the bottomless
My walks alone under the
imagining and wishing I would
never see him again,
craving my marriage
to become a memory .
I started feeling that I found
my silence smoothed my inner anger,
my passion has been real despite
my original skepticism.
Walking towards my cottage
I knew there'd been
a reason for it.
Somehow though the wilderness
enhanced the beauty around my
the clouds were getting thicker
running inside towards
I realized that I liked being
in control of my own life.
13 October 2014
Copyright © Therese Bacha | 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
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
love ewe and blue
aer rhyming words true
there is always inflection and poor attitude
limits of knowledge above snobbish refrains
trains run on time only in the movies
movies run on time only in a small town
there is very few movies shown on trains
blue can be an attitude blue can be a heart
love you can be used to start a heart apart from you
as you watch the blue southern train depart
from the blue stunted depot with the board walk floor
the little blue conductor yelling all aboard her
as the train takes the love and makes your attitude blue
soup mix tastes so wordy so blue so true and good
with a doubly heaping helping of a love ewe attitude
Copyright © charles hice | Year Posted 2012
Beauty is in the eyes of the beholder
It’s a common saying that is decoded from the look of a man
But of a truth, genuine and true beauty is beyond what the eyes can see
Only the heart can feel it
It glows with such power, even the ‘blind’ will perceive
Regardless of our status, rich or poor
Aboriginality, the language or cultural background
We all can see and perceive this inner beauty with the same view
One advice for my fellow brothers,
Always by pass the look go straight inward
And from the inward, outward appearance can be well appreciated
And advice for everyone
As you take time to make up the physical beauty
Create more time to nurture the inner one
For when you are inwardly ugly
The outward projection is nothing but a fake
Copyright © Joshua Akinwande | Year Posted 2011
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
Sitting alone again, wondering if you're okay.
being alone, i remembered how i wanted you to stay.
looking for something I can hold on to.
It's the pillow that reminds me of you.
Every time the clock ticks,
I would always find a way to entertain myself &
hoping i can do some magic tricks.
before i close my eyes & go to sleep,
every night , i hope, i can be w/ you for just a glimpse.
every time it rains, i would always go outside,
but i guess no one would like to hold my hand & be by my side
I touched my face & i was already crying under the rain.
will there be someone willing to cast away all this pain?
until now, no one would risk,to wipe off these tears.
The shadow of my past, well those are my fears.
i always want to hide myself from this world's madness.
I often feel that I'm inside a bubble or in a dark sanctuary,
where there is sadness.
I hope there will be a wishing star that will pass by.
I'll make another wish,to find the guy who cant make me cry.
i sat at the corner of my room, and in my hand, was a ring,
a question that even i cant answer,
"will i forever be waiting like an Angel w/ a broken Wing"?
Copyright © Marianne Nolido | Year Posted 2011
Peering out my bedroom window,
alarm clock's beeping time away.
although the hour's ticking on
time has stopped; forever gone...
a burning torch has lit the sky
field mice toil through cedar pine
a parrot tidies up her nest
hatchlings clamor at her breast.
In my mind, I've drifted off
to places where "old" time can't go.
I daydream here and stay a spell
however long, I could not tell...
enshrouded in a cloud of dust,
streetlamps warm sand flies.
rain clouds slip behind the moon.
tree frogs croak in tune.
I can't remember where I went
or how long I'd been gone.
but here, I'll linger knowing I'm
just fond of wasting time...
Copyright © Celeste Butler-Mendez | Year Posted 2009
Upon a beach I came to stand
And watched a child at play.
He did while playing in the sand
A point of life convey.
With scoops and buckets he did build
A structure tall and grand.
And to the child the beach did yield
A castle made of sand.
But as he left, I do recall,
Away I did not turn.
And with the coming night would fall
A lesson to be learned.
The tide came in, with force did strike,
The castle could not stand.
And I was shown how life is like
A castle made of sand.
And man is but a child at play,
His works they will not last.
For all he builds within days
Shall be by time surpassed.
Each thing we do, Each thing we say,
Each notion we conceive,
They all to soon shall pass away,
Yes, this I do believe.
We leave no mark, we leave no trace
That shall forever stand
Be sure my friend time will erase
Our days however grand.
Copyright © Stan Bradford | Year Posted 2007
She held onto Saturday, with hands calloused and nails bitten
to the quick...her eyes saw sunlight and denied it's presence while she rocked, back and
forth, back and forth, to the ticking of a dishonest...
He told her, in words that cut the air as they fell from a razor sharp tongue, that she
still played the part of the victim, her little girl costumes uncomfortably small, and she
refused to hang herself up, for she had memorized the part and her voice knew
Her lips parted, still stained with kisses and dripping with the acidic burn of
yesterday's stale tears, and she whispered the truth about choices as she unknowingly lied
He handed her the script with a brush to her cheek, and she shook her head as life tumbled
viciously around her face, her peripheral vision capturing sight of years long past, and
she informed him that she couldn't read it, she told him she was
He took her hand and taught her how to smile with the slight tickle of fingers that danced
across a lifeline that posessed trails she was ignoring, he showed her how to not walk
the appearance of Sunday if she didn't
She discovered the moment she was stuck and moved herself beyond the sunset, misty skies
so old that colors had faded and maybe yesterday wasn't as pretty as she thought, maybe
didn't lie, and she came to an understanding as she straightened and tossed her sight to
the windows that glimmered with afternoon light...
that glistened with the reflection of twenty years past the weekend and the eyes of a
woman that had seen the formation of a smile
Copyright © JeanMarie Marchese | Year Posted 2007
My night fades into
The bright numbers
Of a digital clock
I make coffee
Which at this time of night
As it slowly rolls down my throat
Beginning with a single thought
Ten thousand follow
That make no sense at all
All the while
I stare at the brightness
Of a digital clock
And suddenly realize
The number eight
Than any other number
In the darkness
Copyright © CJ Krieger | Year Posted 2011
I stood by your graveside this cold winters day.
A heart broken with sorrow that won’t go away.
I called out your name and shed many a tear.
And hoped in my heart that you would appear.
God took you from us that fine sunny morning.
Our lives now shattered without any warning.
Your work here on earth has finished this year.
Your books and teachings you spread far and near.
It was a pleasure to know you for sixty odd years.
And when my time comes I will have no fears.
You will be waiting to greet me as oft times before.
When I call to your house and knock on the door.
Each night when I lay my head down to sleep.
I will ask the lord your soul to keep.
And if you find any time away from your books.
Look kindly on me as I walk in those woods.
Copyright © Patrick Ronan | Year Posted 2007
down the stairs
and into the light of day
Into the blue
of the misty breezes
where the scent
of sea salt roses lay
and grow in perfusion
along the winding road
that lifts and dips
to the other side
of the Funday Bay
to cross the bridge
and rise again
to run away
over the distant hills-
screech and glide
high above the ocean spray
that falls in a mist
on the rocks
of the lower banks
behind our house
we run like the wind
through the fields
of fresh cut hay
as we make our way
to the rocky mantle -
on that volcanic plateau
worn smooth as glass
by the rolling waves
In A pool made
when the centre
of the earth
in that salty water
warmed by a blazing sun
our ears filled
with the sound
of the ocean’s drum
as it leaves
with the tide below-
We drift away-
Two little kids-
King and Queen
for a day-
In our kingdom
By the Bay
Author: Elaine George
Copyright © Elaine George | Year Posted 2008
God created hands for building things. Sometimes before you build something, you must first destroy something else.
Wildfires are never supposed to be put out. Their sole purpose is to burn the entire forest to the ground, transform living things to fertilizer, making room and preparing the soil for new growth.
It is almost paradoxical,
that there must be death before birth
My hands have stared the grim reaper’s reflection inside the pool of my best friends blood. An old student I used to tutor told me that I am the best brother she could have asked for
She said she will always love me
This was after I burned every bridge that traversed the gaps between us
Stared at her from across her desk
Told her that she will never be my sister. That our bloodlines will never match.
Our gene pools are just strangers that made the same wrong turn.
I spent so much time trying to find my way back that I never realized I was home in being lost I found something comfortable, without expectations. I only corrected myself after she spoke,
because I heard something familiar in her voice.
She sounded like family.
I have the scarred and wrinkled hands of a senior citizen
I’m only 22 years old
I once got my palm read
This gypsy woman told me that my lifeline should have been cut short when I hit 17.
That was a year ago.
What do gypsies know anyway
I have defied the odds my entire life.
Been broke down and built back up too many times to count
My fingernails chewed raw to the cuticle out of anxiety
I enjoy the taste of my own pain
Sometimes I use my own hands to destroy myself just to see who my real friends are who will build me back up when I can’t do it alone
My hands have a desire to learn how to cook, but I’m not that great.
So when I am alone,
I tend to be hungry, not just for food though.
I starve for someone to talk to
It never satiates, because it’s not you.
I know what it tastes like to completely give myself to someone.
My biggest fear is being abandoned.
When I look into your eyes, I am not afraid.
I need to cook you up a feast of myself, then feed it to you every day for the rest of our lives
Please tell me what I really taste like,
Years after my grandfather passed away, my grandmother moved into my aunt’s house.
Since I was 5, every time I speak to her she asks me:
“Spenser, did you thank God for waking you up today?”
I think to myself, I never did tell my eyes to open themselves. It just happened.
So I don’t know how to respond to her correctly.
I tell her that I love her, that I am writing a lot.
She tells me that she puts her hands together for me every night
Prays that I will get the job I want
I guess some prayers do get answered.
Sometimes two hands in the right position, matched with a conversation with God,
Can change things.
I even accidentally call that place home sometimes.
My dream is that my hands evolve into wolves, become part of a pack and work together with other hands to make a difference
Some days they will be the alpha male.
Full of confidence, at the head of the pack
Other days I need someone to show me the right way to go
Because if I’ve learned anything
It’s that I am not always right
I can not always be in control of everything
The only thing I have ever really wanted is to know
That my hands were truly
A part of something.
Copyright © Spenser Jones | Year Posted 2012
I yearn for when my troubles were as frost flowers; when the intermittent wresting
of my inner strings was natural , a part of growing up, and when, from tender stem ,
there emerged feelings of confliction that whirled into a strange collage-puberty's
design. But whether my ordeals then were unique, like the latticework of
snowflakes, or as simple as a raindrop on my pane, each one, wing footed,
eventually melted from my mind.
Later came the common plagues: marital discord, effects of growing old and other
irritations, weeds I plucked and dandelion fluff I blew away. These I could abide.
But other winters passing now have brought trials which are as a thorny web.
In unexpected times of drought, from seemingly nowhere. . . they sprout. Star
Thistles (over which I've no control) come time and time again to prick my soul.
Unlike the fleeting flowers of frondescent youth (whose memory retains for me some
beauty), these thistles of infliction are both ugly and unyielding. Surrounding me are
melancholy notes, and though the melody is rallentando, I think this dirge may
never have an end.
For Catie Lindsey's "Dark Prose" Contest
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2010
Now that time is getting shorter for the arrival of my new home it has put quite a
stress on Shirlee and Fred. They have had to do rearranging out at their place in order to
accommodate my permanent cabin, besides working their full time jobs.
Friday Shirlee was off and there were some fittings on the skelgas tank that had
to be replaced before it could be put to use. (Now my days on the Nebraska and South
Dakota plains I seem to remember our source of heat was called skelgas even though it was
actually propane. Well that was a day ago I think) We also had errands pertaining to the
mobile home so I went out and picked her up and we went from there. Actually she has just
started working 4 days a week, ten hours a hours a day with Friday's off so we usually have
this day together anyway.
I started the day with a light breakfast (so we could eat in town) and loaded the
things I needed to take along and pulled out of the driveway. As I reached the end of our
street and was gazing into the sun waiting for the cross traffic to pass I was startled by a
sight in the distance. Probably a quarter mile ahead of me was a lake and as a large truck
passed by on the interstate I was shocked to see... The Loch Ness Monster slowly working his
way horizontal with the lake shore. Totally stunned I was then confused as to which road I
should take out to Shirlee's. Finally I decided I would take the interstate. As I passed under
the interstate to reach my turn off I breathed a sigh of relief as the monster turned out to be
a tractor with double appendages raised in the air and a cab with a rounded top. I started
laughing so hard I almost missed the turn off and had barely gained control as I reached the
house. After greeting the dogs I proceeded to do a little chore as Shirlee went outside to do
some of her chores. When she returned I was all but rolling on the floor reliving the earlier
scene. I had shared it with the dog while she was out. After urging I finally told her of the
incident. Eye brows raised she said, " I wondered for a minute as I didn't realize they were
land animals too." With that we departed for town.
Copyright © Marycile Beer | Year Posted 2008
My dad is a brick mason and so were my 2 grandfathers so it’s easy to say I would
know a thing or two about laying brick. It has surely come in handy a few times in
my life and each time I’ve had to use that knowledge; I have become smarter,
quicker, more experienced. With each job, the joints look more clean, the foundation
more sturdy, are larger than the last, more effective, rising higher and higher. I have
found that some jobs were unnecessary and the walls would need to be torn down.
But as I get more under my belt, those walls are harder to tear down. The last wall
to come down started slowly, very tedious work, back-breaking, brow
sweating….many man hours went into what eventually resulted in a massive wall to
come crashing down… covering everything around it in a cloud of dust. It was a
most victorious day and well worth the hard labor. The land was cleared of debris
and life began to flourish where the wall once stood. But I’ve been out of work for a
while, no need for any walls to be built….until now. I thought my mason days would
be over and I could hang up my trowel….retire from this laborious job that has took
such a toll on me over the years. But now a wall is needed and it is time to dust of
the tools handed down to me from a father to his daughter….trowel, level, jointer,
and brush. This project is my biggest yet and will require much attention to details
to ensure that it will withstand just about any force of nature. That it will stand rigid,
unbreakable, firm. I dread the hours that this will require, the aches and pains my
body will endure for this enormous wall….a wall that no one will be able to rappel
over, with numerous defensives, so high and well-built that it will intimidate anyone
who dares to think twice about seeing what’s on the other side….a wall long
enough to encase a small city so that those who rest inside will sleep peaceful at
night with no worries of invasion. As I gather my tools together, I realize I had
forgotten how heavy those mortar mix bags were. Funny…you usually never forget
that or the effort that goes into mixing mortar. But I had forgotten. I start going
over the blueprints, going over the knowledge that has been passed down to me
and what I have acquired by experience….building my confidence up for that task
that lays before me. It’s time..yes I believe I’m ready to start my footer. As my
shovel strikes the dirt…I wonder if this is the beginning or the end of my career as a
brick mason’s daughter.
Copyright © A Rambling Righting Riley - Shauna Riley | Year Posted 2011
This image of me, now so many years later
each year looking, I’ve found some imperfections
Mirror-mirror, why should I ask - my time won't last,
peering into you, gray now, not young only faultiness,
Years passing, why my image in my mirror
should have creaked by, each year looking
will my image fade in front of my Looking glass
I did Love being strong, young, only gray I see
So now seeing time as if it stood still each time,
touching this image onto my glass of memories past
wrongs, rights, scars, life time stories untold all mine
My life has found it's way full circle to gray, at last
Things I see now in my looking glass,
are all part past, present, future, why I’m handsome
graceful, I see each year in me, as if with class
so I will leave my mark, "love" too touch someone
Copyright © Perry Campanella | Year Posted 2013
I had heard this song by an obscure artist, with a twist as it played verses
of 'Somewhere over the rainbow, with 'What a wonderful' world entwined.
It's simply melody strummed on a ukalele mesmerized me as I listened on the radio
in the car.
I remember saying to my wife, "I want this at my funeral." I was morbidly honest
Several years later, I was watching an episode of E.R. in which our favorite
character, Dr. Green discovers he has brain cancer, and a short time to live. He's
basically given the advice we all wish to avoid. "You don't have long, retire, enjoy
the time you have left."
Dr Green, plans a vacation with his daughter, who's relationship has been strained
since his divorce. For the next three or four episodes Dr. Green and his daughter
spend his last days surfing in Hawaii. Mending the relationship slowly, to a degree
of understanding only a father and daughter could know. He's still Dad, and she's a
teen working on letting go of her resentments.
In the last episode of the story, he's not doing well. He keeps passing out and his
strength is waning. He knows it's only a matter of days, possibly hours; but doesn't
share this with his daughter, the scenary is of a bungalo on the beach, white sands
surround the openness of the primitive bungalo, palm trees speckle the beach, and
in the distance lies the royal blue waters of the Pacific Ocean.
A day of surfing is suddenly changed as he suggests that his daughter go ahead of
him, he'll stay back and watch until his strength returns. So he sits in a hammock,
and watches out in the water as she strolls off to surf, Background music grows to
this song I'd so loved, by and artist named Israel "IZ" Kamakawiwo?ole and as the
music is playing softly, the camera pans in on the face of Dr. Green for his death
scene, and his last breath. The camera pulls back, from the back of his head, above
the bungalo, above the beach as if we are Dr Green's soul departing this earth.
Yes, I cried like a little school girl as realized that my favorite character had just
been erased from our show, with no chance to come back for a Cameo... What!? of
course that's why I cried! OKAY! it was a tear jerker! and the saddest part, was the
relationship with his daughter was still in repair . Moral of the story i guess-- You
never know when its your time, so don't hold on to petty resentments, and love
every minute of life.
I later learned, Israel "IZ" Kamakawiwo?ole; had also died
Copyright © michael hornschuch | Year Posted 2011
When I was young the stress clouds were more reliable, they came and went just like the light of day and the dark of night. As I got older, the stress clouds became more obstinate, seemed more serious, and stayed in my head as permanent residents. Then one day the clouds stopped moving. The dark foreboding clouds just sat there putting pressure on my body like an unattended pot of boiling water. That’s when I got the first message. One of the dark clouds spoke to me in my sleep and said, get your act together; there’s a difference between family and things.
After that, the stress clouds started moving again, changing their position in my head depending on the time of day. The pot of boiling water calmed down and the things got fixed and faded away into the light of day. But the family stress clouds were different. They had more energy and talked to me every day in the language of dying and the language of struggling and the language of trying. The pot of water continued to bubble around the edges making a painful clamor within my spirit.
That’s when I got the second message. It came from the bubbles and reminded me of an ensemble of singers. The music was warm and inviting and sounded like elegant thinking. Manage the stress clouds one day at a time they sang with an encouraging voice. Manage the stress clouds one day at a time.
Copyright © Howard Dion | Year Posted 2014
As I stand here in front of my closet , starring in to the space...
I wonder which black dress to choose, and how I am going to face..
All the guests that will be there , at your final resting place...
I look in the mirror and what do I see ?
But cuts and scratches all over me...
Although I don’t feel any physical pain...
Oh, what’s that I hear ?..could it be rain ?
I miss you already...what went wrong ?..
We were driving along just listening to our favorite song...
I remember the curve on that old mountain road...
And then heard the train crash... and then explode...
Time to go called out my Mother...
It was a cold November morning, and very heavy rain...
And I swear I heard the whistle of a train...
As I looked around I could see...
So many friends and family...
Standing in the crowd was Aunt Sarah and Uncle Fred...
OMG ! I thought they were dead...
And there’s dear old Michael...
I had heard he crashed his motorcycle...
All of a sudden I saw YOU stand...
With a bright red rose, you held in your hand...
What are you doing I wanted to shout...
But then I realized what you were about...
You dropped the rose upon MY grave...
It was then I realized You were the one that was saved...
Copyright © kj force | Year Posted 2013
Your time has come like the rising sun. Stand up for life created by God’s love as
the dove descends from above. He has a plan for you to be one with Him as He
is with you thus making you brand new. Your life should be more than just the
ordinary existence, let Him strengthen you as your soul runs the distance. Be
filled with His spirit and let your light shine. Manifest His joyful glory and
overcome obstacles in His name while unto Him you render an acclaim. Move
ahead and be the lighthouse of strength without relenting; thus ascending from
the bottomless pit into His eternal light of creation. Experience the fullness of
your destiny with God in the middle of your future. Build your foundation in His
word and spirit. Empower your soul with His tenacity; He will determine your
capacity. Be anointed by His grace and experience the reality of not just a
dream. A light lit for living liturgy. He has you covered with His Holy Spirit. Now
step out—your time has come!
Comments: A prose poem is written in prose form. It does not have line breaks
or varying topography as a regular poem. During the mid-nineteenth century,
Charles Baudelaire published Petis poemes en prose. Oscar Wilde, T.S Eliot
and others have written in this genre. The genre started in France and is now
worldwide. The use of concrete language and figurative speech such as
imagery, rhymes, personification, contrast, simile, metaphor, alliteration,
metonymy, synecdoche, abstraction and the like should be incorporated based
on the desire of the poet. The piece may focus on language, a story, or
something similar based on the choice of the poet.
Copyright © Joseph Spence Sr | Year Posted 2007
Does your money derive from health-regenerative investments?
Well, what could that mean?
Do you make your money, honey,
with both light and dark co-arising memory
of midway love and peace intent,
avoiding anger-fear monoculturally competitive
and struggles against others,
choosing to struggle with cognitive-affective
chronic neural-temporal dissonance,
indicators of imbalance issues,
and opportunities for more polyculturally nutritious
ecosystemic polyculturing health-trend outcomes?
Is that your elevator speech, or Pledge of Allegiance to ReGenerative Health?
I thought it was a question that assumed
you don't like elevator pitches
for more money being removed from your pocket,
whether asking or being asked,
bad timing to invest in one elevator ride.
Try it again,
what is this regenerative health investment
you think we both have in mind and body?
Is your time and money invested
in this cooperative stream of Earth's regenerate evolution,
co-arising revolution of transition crisis times
as ecoconscious bilateral,
and, by the way,
therefore evolving-emergent as bicameral-neural,
light of logos fractal-ecologic?
I most certainly hope not!!!
That sounds much too grand for EgoMe.
But, your most active stage of hope,
the one more important than all those that could possibly follow,
is always the permaculturist's nutritional Zero-Centric Zone of Ego/Eco
regenerative development and focus.
Before you in each relationship and transaction,
political and economic,
two primal principles of cooperative economic investment,
possibly of interest to philanthropic,
and large-scale public economic/political health-culture research investors,
but most certainly of interest to EgoYou.
Such a sweeping scale of regenerativity.
Are you sure you can deliver such rich fertility
with my money?
Where are your outcomes of such vast healthy wealth?
You need not search this mindbody proposal
to see if I am community invested,
if time and life are money-valued commodities,
my money and health and regenerative potential
for sale or rent,
in exchange for what quality of money,
what source of health investment
absorbing dualdark angry-past pathology?
This proposal comes to you
through deep-nested communities
of co-cultural time as light investment.
What are your layers of cooperative political
and economic investment,
where lie these mutually-subsidiary networks?
My communities are interdependent communicators,
rich paradigmatic intent and permacultural practice.
Are your health outcomes of potential interest
only to our human tribe,
or is there a cooperative DNA/RNA synergy
demonstrated in your proposal design,
and/or installation-investment plan?
Which cooperative investment communities appear
as higher risk potential divestors
due to internal monoculturally-dominant
political and economic assumptions?
How do you propose to avoid Business As Usual
Who do you propose will hope and plan to do business with you,
through mutual barter, and/or cooperation?
And who intends to continue doing business competitively,
without you? And why?
Who do you hope and plan to invest in
and not invest in,
to achieve healthy helpful outcomes,
and what and how,
whether barter, competition, or cooperative absorption
into our Help As Health Bank?
Your proposal outcomes,
for each moment and day and year,
like your own embryonic Ego life,
should demonstrate early investors,
how you will optimize polyculturally inclusive outcomes
of equitable harmony,
especially if you are not beginning
with a clearly articulated
to compost rich fertile health-enculturation.
I will consider your proposals
each and every moment of each day and night
of mutual ecoconsciousness,
asking where does this proposal fit best
within our cooperative health-as-help portfolio
with other potential investments at this time,
to consider in light of prior
and still ongoing
and their comparative health v. pathology outcomes
for future regeneration
of Earth's polyculturing Time.
Please be sure any investment opportunities
explicitly measure future polycultural sensory-health
against current comparatively monocultural,
over-competitive economic and political status-quo risks,
not only within your Nature-Investment Program Outcomes
but also how nutritional results
will be winnowed and seed-selected,
decomposed to enrich
your own future regenerative Interior Landscape,
your health lives of love
with your original and ongoing cooperators,
yourselves in aligning/maligning relation with others.
Perfect, all here and accounted for.
So, how are you investing and divesting
"Cooperative Help As Health Bank"
ecological economic and political health
within your own time as money investment portfolio?
Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2016
like evolution and poetry,
functioning with co-arising root systems,
nouns for action and reaction,
co-arising preaction Ego-faith perpetuating
regenerative prime relational
DNA-RealTime = RNA-LoveNowCoArising function.
Systems are dynamic ecoverbs,
to function systematically is why "system"
ecosystemologically includes biosystemologic,
as fractal-balancing ecological health-systemic,
you know, ionic and iconic dynamic transcripts
of mythic-logical 4D WinWin CoOperative Teleology,
confluent with us DNA-wanna-play-nice
with Gaia's Earth Rights of Birth-thru-Death-thru-ReBirth
Optimal ReGenerative CoArising Passage
through Great Transitional Events and Moments,
as well as BusinessAsUsual Evolutionary
slow-growth CoOperative Economics.
Culture likes each liveNOW,
both before taken over by anger
and after co-prehending fear of dualdark past
kosmic codex health regenerative prime-fractal-formed
nature becoming nurture-being
ecoself-perpetuating bilateral Time
positive/negative feedback-fold dipolar loop hypothesis,
ongoing through Time's bilateral co-gravitational
back and forth toward (0) ecoEarthTribe-centric
dialogical political and economic EcoCreation PolyStoried,
global cooperative health and safety language,
ego-nouns for ecobiosystemic balancing verbs,
exegete Yin's RightLeft Balancing Exegenesis,
revolution thru great transitions,
as Wisdom muses thru great literature.
As is love, synonymous with synergy, Fullerian-fractal.
Loves, with their hates, are lives
are dynamic Ego-discontinuous verbal ecosystems,
with their own lovely and angry and fearful births and deaths,
their own childhoods,
and adolescent full-bodied spring,
and sometimes mature autumnal wisdom
follows diastolic-dialectic ecologosing younger adulthood
of bicameral polyenculturation,
spreading viral love verbs
far and wide,
now going cooperative networked on-line.
Love functions synergetic-integral-unitarian dynamically,
what beloved longs for
as does belonging recall,
for longing is only able to see
the reverse face of love already nouned,
already known, remembered, labeled,
regenerating viral-vital-vive-live with notnot-live systems of degeneration
dynamites of cooperatively regenerate synergy,
integral integrity absorbing competition's age of LeftDominant suffering,
unitarian universality of ecovalue
nutrient enriched polycultural guilds of ecotruths,
bicamerally balancing ecofunction of life as love renouned.
like evolution of language,
draws in and out dynamic verbs,
functioning with co-arising ecoRNAroot systems,
nouns for action and reaction,
preaction and self-implicating embryo
children of Ancient SunGod-ReGenerative Productive Branch-Yang-Worshipers
thereby feeding all those YinYin
notnot double-temporal bound
fornicating feminist RightBrain dominant
forests of eco-neural-fractal root evolutionary-thru-revolutionary
ecosystemic cooperative economic
as political compost-fertile dynamite.
Or, perhaps that was Wisdom Literature.
I reiteratively interchange those paradigms.
I wonder why I am not alone in that,
as also there,
is also notnot yet politically begun economically,
where my bicameral Left mind ends up
is where our Right-Balanced bilateral BodyElders began,
in binomial balanced ego/eco Earth's RealTime Prime
nutrient value ReGenerating CoArising Integral-Unitarian
Health-Integrity Synergetic Commons,
Polycultural Outcome Integrity.
AnthroMythos creation-story-re-ligions EarthTribal Iconic Logos,
Gaia Goddess of EcoJustice, Rain, Water, Earth, Regenerate Fertility, etc.
we do our poli-economic hoky-poky,
as we turn our Earth-nest around,
where BlueHeaven still moon lights GreenEarth
in full double-negative temporal-bilateral fractals
of energetic frequency and healthy compost-function.
like Wisdom Literature,
great nutritional ecotherapeutic reading for insomniacs,
but be careful of which nutrient-choices you make,
whether reading or writing
some are healthier than others.
Polycultural diversity is usually our self-optimizing choice,
more permaculturally tested and researched for full-octave balancing harmony,
full-color witnessed and time regenerated,
loved and metasystemically synergized
as nature rhymes with nurture
and reason rhymes with season
and Bucky rhymes with Lucky
Plan ZeroCentric B/A Resonance.
like evolution as ego/ecosystemic bilateral balance
of mythic poetic Timing,
logos-muse of CoPresent Diastatic Now,
in our dance following past and hunting future Earth-nativity.
Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2016
The Time is dying
Mine is not .
There is an umbilical cord
Between my pulse
and your watch
This Poem written by : Salman Dawood Mohammed
Translated by : Laith Seher
Copyright © Laith Seher | Year Posted 2013
The location of the Spring Creek School was on a flat, nestled
between the cliff on the north and the Little White River on the south. The river
flowed in from the northwest, circled to the south of the school about a quarter
mile and wended it's way east departing to the northeast. Though I never saw it
in my day I imagine this was once a flood plain. Yes, at one time this could
easily have been the scene of flash floods. The waters tumbling and sloshing
their way across this insignificant piece of ground in a hurry to reach the exit.
Time had slowed the waters and erosion had taken it's tole, leaving the west and
south in twenty to thirty foot sharp sandy cliffs. The ground sloped to the east
leaving a two foot drop off. A sandy graded road approached the large heavy duty
bridge, crossed and continued on as a trail road.
It's summer and the Little White River gently rolls from bend to bend.
We are running back and forth across the bridge stopping now and then to lean
over the rail and watch the Indian children splashing in the only deep spot. It was
first comers got the choice spot. Big deal! Chest deep to a ten year old.
We run off the bridge south. The graded road crosses a big culvert
allowing a small spring access to the river where it fans out at the point of entry.
We run through the crystal liquid turning it into chocolate and leaving dents in the
once smooth sand. This is a child's paradise. Sand so pure, soft and powdery
warmed by the sun. The deeper we dig the cooler the sand becomes as it is
joined by the moisture below.
Our mothers put limits on our water sports. First: we had to wait an
hour after the meal to get in the water. Second: polio was a concern in our day
and we didn't get to play as often as we thought we should. Third: we were not
allowed to swim unless our mothers were with us. With the gardening, house
keeping and canning, we were lucky if we got to swim two or three times a week.
I guess that is why we spent most of our time on horseback.
On the ridge north of the school stood a lookout tower. In the long
evenings we would be found always outside, either sitting on the steps, running
up and down the fire escapes or in the front yard. This was the only real green
grass in the area. It was fenced to keep cattle or horses from trampling it into the
mirrored image of its surroundings. This enclosure measured fifty by a hundred
feet and was kept watered. A large tree provided the only shade
Copyright © Marycile Beer | Year Posted 2007
Fly away from the memories
The ghosts of past trailed, never stop to chase
A journey finally brings me back
Back to the same door that I used to open
The breezes that I never forgotten
The odor of the hall that never change
I stood at the edge of my gate's sanity, the lips of an old trip
Be ready for the first gusts of my treasures' pasts
Vacant room is just like what I've thought
No passer, no shadow, only me in this big hollow
I reached the dusty quilt, cover up my self
This is my comfort zone, while I sit among a loss
Tears of yearn never melt, I assume it has dried
Maybe it goes to some other places
Where nobody or nothing could even see or realized
Missing out this place, I think this is too much
The reflection of my bitter sweet memories reeled out
Playing the same scene at the same place where I stood
Where I can see those people who once ever filled this empty room
Those people who now fill the empty space of heaven's room
April 29, 2013
Memories Beyond The Door Free Poetry Contest
Sponsor Constance La France
Copyright © Yanny Widjanarko | Year Posted 2013