He caught a ride to somewhere going nowhere;
first hopped inside a slowed-down limousine.
The driver felt a chill and turned to stare
at someone seated in the back unseen.
A new car’s scent; the passenger smelled nothing.
The seat of luxury he could not feel.
The driver then off-key began to sing
to no one as he slowly tapped the wheel.
His passenger joined in and crooned unheard
that ancient tune “It was a very good year,”
his old blue eyes once clear becoming blurred,
and down his cheek there rolled a single tear.
Again compelled, the chauffeur turned his head -
then saw a small spot where the tear was shed.
Just as days long ago, when decorum resolved,
before composure, and poise,.. were corsages, unknown
Where propriety mattered, and was favored as gold,
high society, has gathered to flavor their tea
There's a trellis, embraced by a rose climbing vine
Places are set, for dining in jade
beneath shadows that stretch under arthritic old trees
While slivers of sunshine, squeeze through the branches
of silver leafed limbs, in magnolia bloomed shade
Tea will be served, by large knuckled hands
at several round tables dressed with Swiss lace designs
Wearing lavender silk is our proper Grand Dame'
who fits her surroundings, as vintage as wine
Voices are lilting like the birds in the trees
Laughter and chatter, mingle with soft, summer breezes
A bouquet of old friends, around a few scattered tables.
Silver coifed hairdos, to make celebration
Crepe myrtle and wrinkles, beneath ashes and maples
Water cress munchies, and triangle creations
Sweet honey-suckle, tucked over the porches.…
Rose petal blossoms, are painted on china
Bridge cards, tumble by Blue Willow dishes
Biscuits from England, crumble sublimely
Large bosoms bouncing, and big floppy hats
Gossip dished up with lemon-sliced frowns
Up in the tree is the neighbor's calico cat
who catches a glance, and a chance to crawl down
Are they ladies of leisure, from a time that is lost?
Or a painting I've seen on the wall from the past?
Inspired By the Garden Party Contest
Sponsored By Cyndi McMillan 6/6/14
There was a warning came one day
It said disaster’s on its way
An old volcano in the distance
It could erupt in any instance
The molten ash came pouring out
As neighbouring village was in doubt
Folk were running to and fro
It seems they had nowhere to go.
Buildings were cracking one by one
Blocking out the golden sun
This thing did turn our day to night
As everyone was filled with fright
As the Earth did turn to lava
Many prayed to the holy father.
Vera Duggan 16 August 2014.
(A Blank Verse Sonnet)
In June, we traveled south to Memphis town,
a public poets' fete with Southern flair.
The mid-south heart unfolded nationwide,
an open cloak of warmth spread far afield
in concert with the sound and sense of rhyme.
A graciousness so coupled with its pride
to sharpen all who came in studied hope
and reasoned well effect, to prove result.
Yet seasoned poets put their pens aside;
the books they found, devoured with eyes and minds
already voiced the thoughts mankind repeats,
our ageless chants for hearts in love or pain.
The weather's pull to southern ports advanced
the lure of southern charm from heart to heart.
NIGHTINGALE'S SOUL LIGHTS
Plain spotless uniform so pure and white
Modest neat gear rendering tender loving fight
Day, night 'till wee hours, eyes a must wide awake
Extending a hand, shaking off all aches
Tiptoeing like a sly in and out of rooms
Dim ~ quiet same as white garden tombs
Grace under pressure upon first newborn's cry
Wiping tears from a gentle old man's dying eye
Evenings so dark and mornings so bright
Everyday a nurse sees life kaleidoscope lights
Despite some voice rudeness to foul remarks
Kindness,her soul's sweet perfume, larks
A nurse appears unfeeling firm when mankind bleeds
Within her are hidden soft golden beauty deeds
July 06, 2014
Happy birthday to you Jenny
Hope your big day brings you plenty
Keep a bright smile all the way
Your mom sings your praises today
Soon you will be driving to school
Don’t forget to follow the rules
Enjoy your day with a buffet
Your mom sings your praises today
Happy birthday to you Jenny
Don’t forget to save your pennies
Wish on a star on your great day
Your mom sings your praises today
Happy birthday to you Jenny
Your mom sings your praises today
© Joseph, 8/20/2007
© All Rights Reserved
This is for the the daughter of our own poetess, Kathy.
The Kyrielle Sonnet is a French form from the Middle Ages. It has 14 lines (three
rhyming quatrains and a non-rhyming couplet). It has a repeating line or phrase
as a refrain in the last line of each stanza. Each line within the Kyrielle Sonnet
has eight syllables. There are times when a French poem links back to the
poem’s beginning; therefore, a common practice is to combine the first line of
the first quatrain and the refrain in each quatrain as the ending couplet for the
The cityscape flowed into a winding trail
that took me into the green heart of the park
and I shrugged off a mindset overly stale,
as light teased a creek that stowed waters dark.
Weak, I found a seat, low and ergonomic,
a stump that offered me one hundred rings,
so I sat and listened to sisters reed and willow
touched by the teachings their humility brings.
Others walked by, most plugged into iPods
They never noticed the blue heron that stood
deep in holy shadows painted by our God
now cast aside for wireless serpents. Woods
shrink as new iDols sow unoriginal sins,
Technology’s church grows just east of Eden.
I did not wish to leave your warm embrace --
I did not wish for our sweet love to end --
And though your chauvinism's a disgrace,
I cannot help but see you as a friend.
Perhaps someday a sweeter girl you'll find,
Who'll do just as you wish for her to do --
A girl who doesn't have a thoughtful mind,
So she can focus all she is on you.
She'll nod her head, and brainlessly agree
With anything you say, to make you smile --
She'll cook your meals and serve you honeyed tea,
And never stop her chatter all the while;
So when your brain cells rot from lack of use,
You've only you to blame, and no excuse.
Inspired by; Constance La France’s Native American Portrait
Nikan is a man who once stood proud and true all across this land
in symbiotic relation with nature endowed by the great creators hand
passed onto him by his ancestors to never take more than his fair share
and always be kind to this land for it’s the Mother to all whom she shall bare
When times are lean we all will grow thin together for together we are one
with one voice to sing in harmony for bountiful harvest to our Father the Sun
and give him thanks and praise for warming and making fertile our Mother
who blessed new life into the birthing seasons for every Sister and Brother
Great spirit hear my song of hope that I sing for my people who will cry
we are mighty on the earth give us protection or your children they will die
and our people’s blood will flow upon our Mother like deep rivers of raging red
O’ Father I can see no solution will you spare us from the white mans dread
I could never make claim to imagine this great man’s woeful sorry or despair
Nikan's song is a lonely tune played for the spirit of his people upon the air.
Nikan traslation from the Potawatomi "MY Friend"
Baamaapii Nikan.......until we meet again my friend
From his mama's own mouth, this story came
Her travail to carry him, a long trail
Of tears, loneliness, suffering and shame
A hunger for which hope made no avail
And then the hemorrhaging, her vital blood
Like common mud, tearing his world apart
Your life and her life in that tragic flood
The sudden silence of his beating heart
Sirens, Hospital, still he died, once, twice
The doctors testified, for they helpless stood
Perplexed, frustrated with every device
God alone that day turned evil to good ...
Made his purpose seen in life's providence
Restored hope by frail wisp of evidence.
A pimple of flesh, great folds of white sheet
The child like raisin in its crumpled spot
Seemed more alien than a baby sweet
With shriveled skin, and head a global pot
O the tense days, miserable and lone
The furtive prayers of a mother's heart
"As bad as can be, Lord, make him my own,"
The nervous scanning of the daily chart.
The little blimp became a form, a frame
A sense of gladness, a kindle of dream
A moon's memory that gave spring a name
A fresher hope from lost of true esteem.
She called him "David," went to work again
Lifting the load of pain, bearing the stain.
And there in that dark environment he
Like stubborn cactus in dry sand made root
Sucking up the elements, the salt sea
And violence, the meaningless of truth
War and poverty needs no moral code
Survival survival was a luxury for him.
Harsh, and cruel is desire where abode
Drought an, d scarcity, their horizon dim.
We burn trees for coal, cannot make storm
Wealth provides small control, the poor has none
No shelter from life's threats nor men's harm
Nothing is secure, no, not with a gun.
But jackals make them, the frightened keep them
Like buzzards over our sweet Bethlehem.
O David, you should have left that day. You
Should have held your rudder firm 'gainst that breeze
But too little strength was left in sinew,
To heavy the armor that bowed your knees
And deaf the heart that heard the voice before
And answered at eleven. Hope endures
Through even darken deserts, light has a door
To love no human sad ever ignores.
God saved your life twice on the day of birth
And did three more times when you turned your back
To sealed your purpose in your spell on earth.
From the brink of hell, God's love brings you back
To be his Paul, his missionary bright
His little tiger flaming through the night.
I am a pacifist I despise war.
It’s the only thing I actually hate.
I’m never able to brace myself for
Diplomacy that deteriorates:
Recriminating dialogue amuck
That results in irrationality.
Adults become intellectual schmucks
Whose mentality in reality
Is equivalent to a chimpanzee
In spite of our advances in science.
Our mentality still swings from the trees
Where once apish self’s had claimed provenance.
We haven’t evolved from our ancient source
Thus war is likely a matter of course.
Throughout the days that followed, panic and carnage spread
The TV stations did their best to calm this human dread
All the hovering ships returned to whence they came
But thousands still appear above, New York now not the same
Communication now wanes, no power or mobile phones
You get a sense of feeling of being in a world that feels alone
Continual drones hum whilst the yellowed skies remain
Our planet we know as it was, will never be the same
Then came the day of reckoning as we all looked to the sky
A shuttle from the biggest ship lowered in hover fly
Suddenly the screens returned as we heard the visitors speak
We are ancestors of the Mayans, we treat as they were wreaked
From our original pasts demise, to earth we gave so long
To be part of here now gone, from an earth you once belonged
The Sacrament of Confirmation
Confirmation perfects baptismal grace
The Sacrament gives the Holy Spirit to root us more deeply in divine filiation
Incorporate us more firmly to Fr. Christ
Strengthen our bond with the Church
Associate us more closely with her mission
Help us bear witness to Christian faith in words accompanied by deeds
Like Baptism imprints a spiritual mark or indeliable character of the Christian soul
For this reason one can receive this sacrament only once in one’s life
A candidate for Confirmation has attained the age of reason must profess faith
Be in the state of grace
Have the intention of receiving the Sacrament
Be prepared to assume the role of disciple
Witness to Fr. Christ, both within the Ecclesial bond
Annointing of the forehead of the baptized with sacred chrism
And even after all that time had passed;
my moon had set above another sun,
it seems my heart was still at odds with past;
my tongue at war with words I left unsung.
This bed of ardor caught between my teeth,
will thus remain, and even grow post haste,
where all the while, there's nothing I'll bequeath
excepting flowers scent, above my waste.
And so it goes with every vacant beast,
as twenty-twenty sees - I should have done!
I should have said; I should have been, at least
a man awake to seed his endless sun.
And as the night descends upon my thought,
remember son these words that, I lived not.
© Kristin Reynolds 3 11 09
In the near future, I am going to add it all up into one big sum.
In the meantime, I am going to gather and collect my own space.
I will sift through seeds or weeds and present an enormous case.
But for sure I will hold onto every single yellow chrysanthemum.
In the near future, I am going to roll it all up sealing it by my thumb.
In the meantime, I am going to sit here with every turned about face.
I will drift through time rewinding the hands back to a God of Grace.
But for sure I will give the world a place my heart is triumphing from.
Quickly, I will come to you,
And instantly I will be gone.
But injustice shall never do.
Nor shall a lie be my spawn.
Or at the least not on my expedient silver polished dime,
And certainly not while sitting on destiny’s perch in time!
® Registered: Ann Rich 2009
Does it really matter who actually eventually wins
As we voters give our lives, do they give us their skins
Do they really care about who votes them into power
As we voters give our lives, in power, us, they devour
How many do remember, where they actually came from
And do they walk our walk, when voted in sing song
How can we trust their hand, their smile when they need us
And their continual door to us closed, all because we make a fuss
Our fuss we make is not born, it's created in our lives
How many of us remember, it's in their voted strive
When does our strive resist, to be taken as we exist
For many days to weeks, we're in continual wanting persist
Whether Democrat or Republican, when elected look into voters eyes
Or be forgotten from hence you came, and in us we'll soon despise
The Sussex lad, to title and land born,
An alumni, now he stands proudly tall.
In Oxford students pass at future’s dawn,
For some the inspiration was his call.
Provocative, a mighty pen his sword,
Expelled for godless view from hallowed hall.
The Baronet poet, friend to a Lord,
The Gothic king’s voice did incite them all.
His Mary worshipped at her husband‘s feet,
She held his heart tight from death’s final flame.
Did they engage in black acts, pagan mete?
A dark and often troubled soul laid claim.
Into the storm set sail to the end foretold,
He died before his talent could unfold.
I wonder what your thinking, in your country far away
And what on earth possesses you to threaten mine today
You allow your people to starve, munitions they are first
While daily people starve to death and many die of thirst
Your father and grandfather should have taught you how to care
Instead they shared their legacy of treating people unfair
Many live in work camps with three generations or more
Simply because they disagreed, so now all must chore
You live in style above the rest, have people who adore
But deep down, I believe that each person longs for more
You teach hatred and despise my country each and every day
For freedom and free choice would take yours away
Your people follow in fear, like robots in a line
I wonder how long they will conform or will it be your time
More and more try to escape, or die instead of live
In a country such as yours that takes much more than it gives
Each building,statue, memorial you have to tell a tale
Of twisted truths and travesties instead they often fail
For freedom is what's needed in the country you call home
Grow food instead of opium,and leave the people alone
You have the power in your hands to change what was past
Hurry please before it's too late you must do it fast
Do not start a war in which more people will die
Because your father and grandfather started it with a lie.
God knows each heart that walks the streets again,
each sense of guilt caught in a false pretense.
How not to spend a tear at their expense
or can I not reflect what might have been
if different circumstance had altered then?
Had fate or chance to change the future, hence?
Their shoulders hunched, against cruel wind, intense,
poor scavengers, who some call useless men
will migrate streets, in hopes for scraps of food,
a crumb, a nickel, dime, a place to find
a shelter dry, when frost of night is nigh.
And now I travel home, perhaps to brood
on cruelty of life that bodes unkind
to some. I cannot eat,...tonight I cry.
Miltonic Sonnet: For Contest Sponsored By Craig Cornish
I looked below and saw the dawn from here,
Disturbing may, below the light- a man.
“Oh, stranger most, shall I ask you with fear?”
“Dear one, you fear no one”, replied the man,
“Nor Him, you fear Him not for you are but
The holder of the strings of those you sight.”
A second by, I asked him in abrupt,
“The guardians of the roof, had they loved me?”
He voiced: “Their love are drawn in stitching crossed,
Exquisite yet details are course, you see?
The veil from where it rests you should have tossed,
Each thread in havoc, one chaotic sea!”
I spared a tear, his face did went outworn,
Afar the lake I headed. God, I’m torn!
ON A SUMMERS AFTERNOON
Come sit a spell--we'll take a little time--
from out of life, forgetting what we know;
and talk upon some things I guess that I'm
much closer to--than things life's had to show.
Do you know love? It's funny how it goes
to almost anyone, who needs it not,
but be there need--and love--it never shows
like finer things of life, to those who've got!
Now does that seem to be a fitting thing
to talk about, as passing time away?
Or would you choose what weather has to bring
as here we sit--with nothing more to say?
I guess your life's been blessed--and filled with love
or you'd know what my heart is speaking of.
© ron wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet
Joyce Johnson has something common with me
She and I share similiar grief confess
When on that airplane I finally see
Compassionate face I will love no less
Then I will see a person who understood
All heartaches, just to talk over coffee
This will make me feel so very good
As we sit down at Starbucks; I'll pay fee
I will ask her how she withstood trials
How did she reconcile child's early demise
I'll ask her to share her heartache with me
While we eat a snack with that coffee
Joyce and I share one thing in common see
Meeting her will be such a relief if only brief
Removed from contest because I used the wrong form or style....
Contest:"First Words Over Coffee"
Sponsor: Michael J. Falotico
Written by: Sara Kendrick
All have their battles dealing with life
All have their own personal strife
We have opinions of others, sometimes we won't budge
Each has his own faults, we've no right to judge
We preach about Jesus and all that He says
But don't follow His example, set in our ways
When we sit in judgment nobody wins
He suffered in silence and died for our sins
Mary Magdalene was sentence by man to be stoned
They said that by law her sins must be atoned
Jesus spoke to the crowd and when His speaking was done
Who was left to throw stones? My God there were none
Sometime's life's a blessing, sometimes it's a curse
By judging others we make our lives worse
< enticing to eyes watching mama's pink roses bloom
fourty years later someone else now cares for them
fresh cut daily and seen in her arms their long stems
tears streaming down face I sit under swollen moon
waiting watching for sun to come up again soon
to catch one more glimsp of mama's planted old gems
unfurling petals before been chopped or condemned
think I'll ask if can take one for my dining room
aroma bursting amidst thy supper's table
bowed heads we come and thank our Heavenly father
somebody still cared though sick and times unable
and answers it's door for which one has come bothered
to let bask in roses empowering fable
and not to be called as it's one's roses robber
French Sonnet is a poem with rhyme scheme
Of ABBAABBA and CDCDCD
Or ABBAABBA and CDECDE
Syllable count is 12 syllable per line.
How do we ever know whom we've come to know
All we see is their periphery, externally on show
But what resides from within, can be River Deep, Mountain High
With levels we can't seem to count, internally they cry
Internally they cry, into a world we can't comprehend
It's no wonder they appear like this, if me, I'd be round the bend
One minute their world seems so right, suddenly a darkness descends
All it took was explainable, but a different signal they send
A different signal they send, yet it's receiver appears to know
What was there originally no longer appears to show
Just like a pendulum swinging, to the left and to the right
No middle happy medium, for when it stops out goes their light
When it stops out goes their light, and a darkness descends
Maybe it's what they had become, driven round the bend
Fate fetched them crushed in a crash, faint in hopes
broken limbs, sober spirit, side by side
One by the window, the other beside .
They lay in room pale blue, chlorine chores.
Months together, movements knelled, they lay forth,
new found friends , out ‘a window small, one pried,
Mouthed beauties there, to keep his pal’s smile bright
Other but heard, prayed, at this fortune swore,
His pal be slain, he be blessed with sights
outside. Lo! Next dark day snatched the good soul
The lone peer blessed. Soon, he sent his eyes
Outdoors, on an old bleak wall, nothing more
Drained in spirit he cursed his greed wry
“Beautifully lied ...he kept me alive”
Italian Sonnet, pentameter,rhyme scheme abbaabba cdcd bb
Some guys along the freeway exits stand
with cardboard signs that read: Will work for food.
The sympathetic folks reach out and hand
these guys some money if they’re in the mood.
And other poor souls don’t just stand. They live
inside of cardboard shanties that they rig.
Some beg for anything that we might give
and some, too proud to beg, through dumpsters dig.
But there’s one cardboard man dressed like a clown
(who, if he shows his real face, I sure pity),
He waves a sign while jumping up and down
along a busy block of my fair city.
He gets no cash, just strange looks or some yuks.
The sign says: Get our pizza. Just five bucks!
(I know this was supposed to be more serious, but when I
asked hubbie what cardboard man made him think of, he said
that pizza guy on the corner, and I just had to do it this way!!)
For Paula Swanson's Do You Know The Cardboard Man? Poetry Contest
Now, Railroad Bob has lost his job, he’s got no place for working,
His wife, she cries with desperate eyes, their baby’s head’s a’ jerking.
The union man don’t give a damn, Big Brother lies a’ lurking,
The boss’ in cabs are picking scabs, they count their money, smirking.
Bob walks the streets and begs for eats or little jobs for trying
“The answer’s no, you ought to know, no use for you applying,
And don’t be sad, it aint that bad, it’s soon your time for dying.”
The air is thick, his baby’s sick, the cries are multiplying.
Bob’s wife’s in town, she’s broken down, she’s ranting with a fury,
Their life of sin has done them in, they skirmish, scrimp and scurry,
Their baby coughs, the doctor scoffs, the snow is all a’ flurry,
Bob’s midnight dreams are filled with screams; he knows he needs to hurry.
It’s getting late, Bob’s tempting fate, his choices cruel and blurry.
He chooses gas, they breathe their last, there’s no more cause to worry...
High upon a platform, she dwells among two spheres
Her people mumble strange like chants, that rumble in salt air
The wizened Seidr woman, beyond her fertile years
will hold a staff, against her knees, in regard above her peers
She sits upon the platform, while the people sway and dance
Her eyes are glassy, semi-closed, her mind is in a trance
She is filler of the future's sound, while seeking out the vast
She brings to Fjords, the fish they seek, by believing in the past
Her voice is as a whisper, she heals and guides them home
Her song becomes distant wind, that fades until it's gone
Among the barren wasteland, it cackles in the cold
Her power is a mountain, found, of spirit frail, yet bold
As she sways her words like little birds, that are carried in the breeze
there are talking sounds, as if from crowns, released from winter trees
For the contest sponsored by Shadow Hamilton "All Things Norse"
December 18, 2012
Beautiful lies known as little white lies
yet one is no more deceptive than each
The truth is what makes it afraid of light
It's important we practice what we preach
Imagination built on lies destroy
Imagination built on truth create
Conquering evil we try to avoid
Tooth fairy, Halloween, Santa abate
Perceptions and images make it real
Origins of Pagan rituals true
We've wandered down this path for a bum deal
Now more lies are created all brand new
The mask behind a beautiful white lie
is the truth with a constant shield, but why?