Walking through the land of shadows
wearing my yellow shoes
With each and every step
I created color and hues
The shadows started retreating
As color permeated the ground
Out of the darkness
I heard a horrible sound
"You do not belong here
I command you to go away
You are in the land of darkness
You must listen to what I say"
I kept on moving forward
Not sure what I would see
Where was the voice coming from
I looked behind a tree
Light and color expanded
Traveling up to the skies
The entity that scared me
Was right before my eyes
As my shoes banished the darkness
The entity was reduced to tears
Without the aid of shadows
He couldn't tap into my fears
I reached down to touch him
I told him he was safe
He looked up with confusion
As I gazed upon his face
"Are you here to destroy me?
Have you come to take me away?
There is a purpose for shadows
They create hope for brighter days."
I heard what he was saying
The shadows have their reason
In order for spring to come
We need a darker season
So I removed my yellow shoes
Watched as the shadows returned
It was time for me to go home
With this strange lesson I had learned
You have caged me for too long
I want you to just let me go,
I have to spread these feathered wings
I need to feel the wind's blow.
You know that I love you truly
I said that I would never leave,
I want to see the rain's dance
Not just sit here and perceive.
The scene never changes, day after day
I want to go where white roses bloom,
I have never seen an ocean's wave
And neither have you, I assume.
I need to see the autumn tree's change
I want to see the snowflake's glisten,
I am wishing on the stars as they fall
This is my dream, so please just listen.
I want to fly in the sky's blue
I need to feel the sun's burn,
When I have experienced these wonders
I promise that I will return.
If you sow seeds of kindness,
Then kindness is what you'll reap.
If you sow seeds of forgiveness,
You'll reap untroubled sleep.
If you sow seeds of anger,
of hatred or discontent,
You'll reap a crop of violence,
Discord and evil intent.
If you sow seeds of brotherly love,
Then love you will receive,
But if wickedness is what you sow,
Then wicked you will be.
The lesson here is pretty clear:
You reap just what you sow.
Therefore, strive to sow only good seeds,
And spread them wherever you go.
For SandyIvy's Seed contest
Green…you always reflected in my peripheral
And kept watch as I tried to color my world
But there I lay in my blacks and my blues,
lifeless and faltering In monotone hues.
Through kaleidoscope eyes, I envisioned my skies
But the pot at the rainbow was storybook lies
so with nothing to gain and nothing to lose,
I just shuffled around In my blacks and my blues.
Never did I imagine you!, Green… to be my savior
But there you arose, out of my dark abyss
With your bottle green dress and scarlet kiss
Your emerald green eyes and unbridled bliss.
Now my kaleidoscope dreams have all been unfurled
Since you Green, have colored my world
You rescued my heart, Green
You rescued my heart.
Heaven’s light source pure
Radiated light-years beyond
Man’s conscious knowledge
And cosmic understanding.
Various brilliant streetlights
Of the universe charting
Courses through stretches
Of eternal darkness deep.
God keeps this Starlight
True to his very word
For when darkness wins
The keys of enlightenment
Fall prisoner to Lucifer
Who controls them for
His advantage over Man
At odds always with God.
Starlight reflects the way
For mankind’s quest in
Seeking ethereal guidance
And spiritual illumination.
This heavenly pure light
Keeps mankind on track
Despite Lucifer’s intrigues
To do just the opposite.
Man’s Earth time is short
And his date with destiny
Finds his fate held in the
Balance of God’s Hands.
But there is always the
Chance to ask God for
His advice and help—then
Waiting for the answer.
And God’s answer is
Coming in different ways
And—at the end, Salvation
Is granted by the act of God.
Being in God’s arms and
Looking back the way Man
Came reflects that everything
Was part of God’s divine purpose.
God’s grace and protection
On each and every one of the
Stones on the way and back
Was part of God’s divine plan.
At the end it turns out that
Everything was planned
From the very beginning
By you and God together.
The godly part created in
Man is the divine guidance
Which brings everybody
Back into the arms of God.
Now being in conscious awareness
Of God’s plans and creation,
Man can enjoy with inner peace the
Starlight—Heaven’s light source!
Gary Bateman and Ingrid Krukenberg-Bateman,
A Collaborated Poem, Copyright © All Rights Reserved,
(January 30, 2015) (Unrhymed Quatrain)
The welfare poem is not for you
and not enough for anyone.
The welfare poem is very small
and not just given to everyone.
It's not enough to read for long.
It's just a little short.
It's not paid much attention to
and not the longing sort.
With thanks there's those who'll get it.
Those of who deserve it.
It's just some stolen words,
though I would soon forget it.
It's filled with much disgrace.
Those wary as they read.
It may be meant for you
if you accept the need.
I hope you have enjoyed it.
I'll cut you off for now.
But if you want more later
just beg there's more somehow.
Many voices from the past,
Always echoing in my head,
How long can it last,
I thought you were dead.
You always tell me what to do,
So I don't make a mistake,
Somehow you always knew,
How many I could make.
Because once I hurt you,
And you'll never let me forget,
But what can I do,
You're not quite dead yet.
Why won't you leave me alone,
Will you never forgive me,
I wish I could atone,
Please, just let me be.
The hollow echo of your voice,
Will linger on forever,
You've given me no choice,
It'll never stop, ever.
The sound of you used to make me smile,
But now it tortures me,
I will always be in denial,
So an end I'll never see.
Noah’s ark was real not a fiction
It had a door to escape God’s affliction
Noah delivered a warning message
But the folks mock their own presage
Men grew in sin and matured in transgression
And ignored Noah’s loving confession
The Door stood open a long time
Until time begin to climb
The Lord finally shut the Door
And the rain begin to pour
120 years of grace finally came to a halt
God administered judgment by default
The Door was a glorious type of Christ
He was the Lamb of God who was price
Jesus said “I am the Door of the sheep”
He is the only Door of that Great ship
Jesus is our Door of salvation
Wherein we enter and float as new creation
Behold He stands at your door this day and knock
Let Him in, you’ll find pasture as a partaker of His Holy flock
Then said Jesus unto them again, Verily, verily, I say unto you, I am the door of the sheep- John 10:7
An old herbal gard’ner turned bard
dedicated and well-versed
now works his pen from his backyard
in plants and poems immersed.
His choice nouns engender meaning
cleverly minted with scents.
Rare verbs gingerly gleaning
from time’s savory essence.
Somewhat focused on composing
but nettled by a drizzle;
causes his brain to fizzle.
Lo! His inspiration now gone
like the ink upon his page.
Mrs. Bard calls from the lawn
“I just watered the sage.”
Struggles and success,
Sufferings and happiness,
Dreams and Goals building to life;
Like colours of the rainbow making light.
A blessed day for you my dear readers :) Cheer Up, God bless
Roses are red,
violets are blue,
this flower bed,
is just for you.
Among the stone,
and in the mud,
a flower shone,
a beautiful bud.
It grew so tall,
proud and strong,
it learned all,
right and wrong.
Giving it water,
and warm sun,
your only daughter,
learned about fun.
Mommy come see,
look what I did,
now I can be,
a grownup kid.
This flower bed,
is just for you,
with roses, red,
and violets, blue.
Happy Mother's Day, Mom!
You have led me beside the azure seas
to see the crimson coral of the fallen leaves
so like the rainbows that exist within our kin
the colors that lay upon our souls within
There drifts our souls in the shades and hue
where we slip the streams of the colors blue
or light their soul in softest shades of yellow
when in company as delighted companions fellow
Or quietly lay in shells still and tinged of pale grey
like the clouds that hang within the low of day
or to climb the hills the foliage with its glistening sheen
are painted trees and meadows in the depths of green
Here in life the blooms that every spectrum see
and offered us its view the veneer of eternity
and not so transparent the crystals of our glass
and our lives the shadows of pigments cast
The cosmetic gloss that we can wear like makeup
that dyes the actions which our souls we take up
some like varnish are just cover for what is dull
like the iron and the steel that contains our hull
But the tints that wash and stain our soil
can be the colors swirling within the gleams of oil
where they run together as the eddy's in the water
there each soul its colors is contained a single star
COPYRIGHT © 2013 C Michael Miller
via Duboff Law Group LLC
From the dark cocoon, the butterfly emerges,
Finally realizing she cannot control her urges,
To witness the beauty of the midnight moon,
The butterfly emerges, from the dark cocoon.
She flew from the shadows, out into the daylight,
The colors on her wings had never shone so bright,
She was meant to be here, her brave heart knows,
Out into the daylight, she flew from the shadows.
No more sitting alone, back in her little room,
No more hiding in dampness, darkness and gloom,
She had finally found a friend to call her own,
Back in her little room, no more sitting alone.
Andrea Dietrich's contest - "Swap Quatrains. Let's See What You've Got!"
Behold my pen
that writes and scribbles
and bleeds blue ink
in drips and dribbles.
That crosses paper
in bites and nibbles
and weighs my thoughts
in spite of quibbles.
Words as strange as
this and then.
Letters and numbers
like S and 10.
Thoughts and feelings
I've had before.
the pen to bore.
Lines as long
as stretching can.
Jots and jolts
where each began.
to those I send.
that they might blend.
All these meanings
from the heart.
Behold my pen.
Their only art.
A test of the water,
A dip of my toe.
But bearably so.
Before I can swim,
I must get undressed.
I’ll start with my shirt,
And then all the rest.
I’ll glance about shyly,
Then just take the dive.
Returning for air,
Now I’m feeling alive.
This is how poetry
Ever will be.
A definite risk,
But a way to be free.
I show to the world,
What others won’t bare.
My vulnerable soul,
Under scrupulous glare.
Just as the clear water,
A feeble veil makes.
So scarcely can prose
Conceal life’s mistakes.
So under some metaphor
Or in simile
If you are looking,
You’ll find naked me.
What if I were Robin Hood
and Dave Wood was just a street name?
What if I were sick of an industry/kingdom
that's brought so much wealth and fame?
What if I got tired of fighting Prince John
just to have a bigger piece of the pie?
What if I long for more than Locksley
and in fact I'm more than meets the eye?
What if while you pen your next poem
you unknowingly hum a lyric I wrote?
What if I really needed a sabbatical
some time to clear this mind and throat?
What if the truth started leaking out
like warm tears from a broken heart?
What if here in the midst of Poetry Soup
I started feeling like I was a part?
What if I were dying inside to tell you
like a confession I really felt like I could?
What if it wasn't about Sherwood Forest
all along it had been to save Robin Hood?
What if a simple poem contest for glory
brought more riches than all the bling?
What if I've fallen hard for sweet Marian
to reveal myself could ruin everything?
What if all my new friends I read everyday
now feel closer than even Little John?
What if I decided to tell Will and Friar Tuck
no, not tonight but tomorrow at dawn?
Sponsor: Isaiah Zerbst
Contest Name: Robin Hood
I am a lullaby,
soft, silk sheets surrounding your ears,
such a lullaby
that sways the mind to halt its gears.
I am a lullaby,
the pill your heart swallows to fall asleep,
such a lullaby
that makes Death sing when it comes to reap.
Many a mind hurries past
the gripping splendour
in search of beauty, not to last,
while continuing in rejection of grandeur.
I look as the moments pass
at the wounded walkway.
The sand flows through the hourglass
and time conforms to seconds and seconds to day.
There, in the heart of pain,
at the crack of dawn
grows through the mundane,
purity, life’s mystery in an image drawn
Red bursts open in colours array
but expectation it defied
as time had not intended bloom ‘till the following day
and still nature’s scarlet tears are cried.
Dusk was meant to encompass
the brooding gem in the snows
but the bud unfolded in its stubbornness
and yet not its pedals froze.
I suppose the dark of night
and the bitterness of day
could not smite
what would have its own way.
The bud grew beautifully in strength
and blossomed in wisdom,
knowledgeable in great length,
yet its leaves forbade a future grim.
Somehow it lacked endurance
and what blind humanity refused to meet
became the trampling of our innocence:
the rose that grew from concrete.
I look you up and look you over,
better days have left you far behind,
you're older, but to me you're still appealing,
yet you draw comments that are less than kind.
You're neglected, not consulted,
when an answer is required,
hidden now behind the others,
avoided, disregarded, mired.
I massage your spine with oil and friction,
restoring your luster to cherish and keep,
remembering when you were readily handled,
sought after, popular, top of the heap.
I'm so busy these days with my key restorations,
I scarcely have time, and I don't have a say,
so you'll have to wait for my deft ministrations,
a labor of love, postponed for a quieter day.
Sorrow chokes sanity
in the brimstone fumes of Hell
that consumes all but memory
plastered against the walls of his cell.
My mind can't comprehend...
Perhaps he did wrong
or mercy he did not lend,
but here resides the angel of song.
His wings are torn,
tattered like his serenity
when he fell into heat's scorn.
Once he was beauty's epiphany.
The shofar's sound dwindled
to let screams take stage.
The music he once kindled
turned against him in bloody rage.
Yet he will rise once more.
The fallen creature in his cell
and will play a new music's score
telling of the angel in Hell.
His smile is like sunlight
He moves like poetry
His voice is an Arabian night
His love is a Red Sea
The seemingly tranquil sky
blooming with stars soon
pierced by a distant cry
that seems to swoon.
Beneath dense trees standing tall
to touch dark canvas painted
after dusk, prowls the epiphany of all
mother nature’s tainted.
The wise are often alone
and the dangerous hated,
but they express in moan
their solitude, once more grated.
Gradually their voices unite
in a song across the valley,
seeming to smite
all of innocence’s nest.
The moon in her splendour moves
to comfort the carnivores that commence,
and yet her beam soothes
not the beasts’ sense.
Torn between wrong and right
the moon spreads her swanlike wings amidst
the howls of her lovers, the kings of the night…
among the wolves in the mist.
Le Mot Juste
The right word indeed is what we poets always seek
As we use our imaginations in finding and identifying
A theme of interest and one that allows us to work and
To weave a tapestry of poetic virtue and enchantment.
The right word for the sake of poetic discussion can be
A singular word, two or three words, or even a group of
Words; yet it is how the word or words are placed in
Verses which account for proper emphasis and nuance.
The right word gives us that certain image or metaphor
So necessary as we dexterously process artistic thoughts
Which meld into verses conveying a wondrous message
To our readers yearning for the magic that poetry brings.
The right word often sets the tone and tenor of each verse
And as we consider the desired effect of each verse as it
Flows and follows or interlocks with the other verses in
A poem—the tone and tenor attributes are quite important.
Using the right word impacts what we say and how we say
It and how our poetic thoughts may or may not be correctly
Understood, which means “Words Count” always—and we
Poets should consider their effect in portraying our message.
Le Mot Juste in the French language very exquisitely means
“The Right Word” and seemed appropriate as the title for this
Poem to emphasize the critical nature of using the right word
As we poets seek to make our thoughts known to the public.
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved – April 28, 2015
*The poem appears in my new poetry book with a release date of
February 3, 2015.
The pen's a sword for carving poems.
A wand for measuring beats.
A whip to keep the rhythm
and a stick to tap the tweets.
It's silent to the ear-drums
when heard inside the head.
Words firmer than my chin bone
in notes from what seems dead.
It points to things I question
and scribbles errors I make.
And when it writes some new stuff
forgives me my mistake.
At rest upon my paper
it signals that I'm done.
And when I go to grab it
I'll click it just for fun.
Time runs fast when we are young,
As fast as human eyes can blink.
Turn away and there it goes,
What youth we have will slowly sink.
It runs with legs that won’t tire
So that your aging heart may sleep.
Close your eyes and let it fall,
The fruits you’ve reaped are yours to keep.
Does the river dry when you
Have passed the rapids of this ride?
Open your eyes so you may see
The world you’re bound to on this tide.
The days are water
dripping, dropping globules
falling from somewhere high,
past the clouds,
past the trees,
past the hands of the thirsty
trembling on their knees.
He always listened, hardly spoke a word
He heard everything but was hardly heard
Advice he never gave, counsel he never sought
“Good or bad, it`ll all soon pass”, he thought
All in one – newborn babe, man, woman, and child
With eyes wide open, in his innocence he was wild
A gentle warrior animated by glorious grace
Life was a gift he`d gratefully, blindly embrace
Animated by a breath of heavenly heat and fire
He`d never tire to aspire higher and higher
He was of the sun – and a son of heaven
Hardships, strife, adversity were to him leaven
Head in the clouds, feet hardly touching the ground
Looking up, oblivious to the world around
When he ran out of ground he’d walk on air
Follow him you fools, if you dare
From the pits of society's regards
I hear a cry.
Subtly breathing into oblivious hearts,
an anonymous sigh.
Singing melodious sorrows,
a still, small voice in the darkness.
A drum of war to whom luxury bestows,
yet a beacon for kindness.
Discarded bones regain their flesh
and the mindless their searches cease,
replaced by justice's harmony fresh
and the laughter of the heartless decrease.
A cry still ringing
louder and louder to be elected
in the court of hearing,
the voice of the rejected.
You are the air that I breathe
The sunshine on my cheek
But a shadow of a dream
Mi belle magnifique
How long must I eat, gorge and be bloated?
How long will I be to destruction devoted?
How long shall I stay blind with eyes myriad?
How long do I wait for the onset of a new period?
Forever anticipate the dawn of a new creation
Salvation lies in a process of permutation
What was built must be torn down and broken
Out of its tomb elegance and grace will be woken
Till then I take all that this world can provide
For without them birth of the new will be denied
Till then for survival I fight, from predators I hide
And dream dreams of another life free and untied