At the window, palms under my chin,
such beauty I see, out the frosted pane,
I was mesmerized, it showed in my grin,
so picture perfect, the snow covered lane.
My daydream was dashed, Mom called from the door,
"time to brave the cold and clear the sidewalk,"
grabbed my winter coat and boots from the floor,
I hate this chore, but knew not to back-talk.
"Don't slip on the ice, watch out for the plow,"
I hear, as orange shovel meets concrete,
shouldn't the county have this done by now?,
this takes all day, with snow piled up in feet.
Why freeze for allowance, I'll never know,
yet, I still find myself shoveling snow.
November 18th, 2014
Sara Kendrick's contest - "Jobs"
Copyright © Kelly Deschler
Friday night the weekend begins for most
Mothers, Fathers, with family members host
To be together with those they LOVE most
While a lonely man speaks with his Wife's ghost
On my computer the POETRY site
Saturday mornings some comments I write
My former students all work through the night
An old man see's his Wife's Heavenly Light
After Church, there is my A A meeting
Forlorn lonesomeness,now takes a beating
I get home; Featured POETS; I'm greeting
Images of my lovely Wife : Fleeting
Monday, a new week, new POEMS I shall start
I pick up my quill and write from my Heart
Author's note: Dear Andrea, all lines have 10 syllables(Thanks for the Spelling)
I still have to work on the format - aabb- This looks like aaaa but it's not ; a - just happens to rhyme with - b -
Copyright © HGarvey Daniel Esquire
The Shaman sits upon the sand,
the sand of ocher clay;
between the walls of ruins tall,
where ancient one did lay.
The sky above, the earth between;
took in her sincere pleas
tinksha’s toned, soft flutes droned,
her mantra’s dire decree.
To be the light on darkened paths,
within the night belayed;
and be the brave dark in the glow,
of God’s pristine light portrayed.
Her life long work no sacrifice
a love of mankind to display.
*One may be of any race or of almost any religion
and walk the Red Road. The Good Red Road is a path,
a way of living. It's full meaning is the way one acts,
the methods one uses, and what directs one's doing.
There is more to the Red Road than spoken word
or written words on paper. It is behavior, attitude,
a way of living, a way of "doing" with reverence -
of walking strong yet softly, so as not to harm
or disturb other life. The Red Road is a pathway to truth,
peace and harmony.
Copyright © Debbie Guzzi
Having had mere minutes to skim your sighs,
anesthetize the tip of teeming thought ...
with platitudes for quandaries which fly bye,
we care for you, our frail flowers wrought.
The breeze, the muse, the bringer, the envoy
lends at days end, the tender bits of heart
as on the keys or sewing seams of joy
our fingers never rest from the day's start.
Hands in the garden smudged with chlorophyll
or wrapped about a naughty childlike pet
oft rest behind a trusty Parker’s quill
all healing touches given without regret.
Small and strong and full of life, they pour.
A woman’s hands give much to be adored.
*Women inspire me especially my mother.
Copyright © Debbie Guzzi
'...and then the lighting of the lamps.'
Swallows flit and dart, the glow of evening
settles o'er the fields, the day is fading;
sunset gilds the sky with glorious luster,
vibrant reds and golds, and softer shading.
Lamps are lit, the countryside is flickering
in candlelight, the cows are coming home;
peacefulness descends in waves of twilight,
the animals are safe, no need to roam.
Horses tethered to their posts are waiting
for the exertions of the day ahead;
farmers partake, extinguish their candles
to darkness, and then take themselves to bed
to pray for courage to endure their toil,
for days they spend in harness to the soil.
Copyright © Keith Bickerstaffe
What we are trying to do this morning,
pulling some poetry out of nowhere.
Drag it kicking and hopefully screaming
out from under the bed,or from somewhere,
maybe crouched behind some lonely synapse
deep within the jelly I call a brain.
Just try to fill a page, you fool, no lapse
is allowed. Beat the bushes, stop a train,
play a new piece of music, a new beat
that you can tie some words to, stalk the muse
into a corner, fight dirty, some heat,
anything you can, I don't know, some ruse,
cross-eyed, tongue out, drooling on the keyboard,
anything to add a poem to your hoard!
Copyright © ahellas Alixopulos
Super Bowl Sunday is finally here
same excitement as Staubach and Griese
drinkers have an excuse to drink more beer
today’s Super Bowl not sure if I’ll see
the Super Bowl is much more than a game
those commercials bring excitement also
Fritos and Pepsi will also get fame
for many the game is the only show
I’ve have been to two Super Bowl parties
last one was the Chargers and the Niners
I worked those Mondays without a tardy
I’m not granddad I’m not with those miners
so eat drink and enjoy the game today
once the work week starts there is no more play
Copyright © Robert Heemstra
Oh, slaves of the nation who works and sweat!
Tired and restless--but still flee overseas
to support a hungry future that frets.
With barks and claws gained from descent degrees,
if we must succeed-- oh, let us nobly work
so our blood and sweat may not fall to scrap,
veins swollen yet act by act we don't fall to smirk.
Freeing a flood of effort through thorns of gaps
though greedy compatriots act like monsters,
their eyes open wide but gone blindfolded by lies
some struggles and shout, aiming to conquer
bracing away from forms of guns and bribes.
Slaves are we but we're brave enough to replace
those crashing obstacles with lace of grace!
***Sponsor Shadow Hamilton
Contest Name Your Favourite Old Poem #3
***Sponsor Cyndi MacMillan
Contest Name I CAN'T BREATHE: A peaceful Protest, An Anthology of Powerful Poems
4:29 pm; December 12, 2014
Copyright © Olive Eloisa Guillermo
You are the salt of the earth;
Farmer, we say that to you;
You are hardworking and true;
We recognize your worth.
To the crop you give birth,
The soil, you subdue,
Cornstalks break through,
to avert famine and dearth.
But where is your son?
He’s not learning how.
He won’t be outdone—
living the life of high brow,
He forfeits work in the sun,
renounces his seed and the plow.
Copyright © Kim Bond
"Too young!", were the words, that everyone said
While working our way to get a degree.
First time on our own, and now, newlyweds
Plus, looking for jobs, yet happy were we!
In a brand new town, now, a brand new wife!
Pinching our pennies, and dollars much more
Hitting the sidewalk, .a busy new life.
Finally, a job found, at Rolf's Clothing Store!
Old geezers, would ask me "Would you help me, dear?"
Keeping composure, ..(must not crack a grin!)
"A suit, ...some undies: What size should I wear??"
My tape-measure panics,..(where to begin?!!)
Measuring inseams from crotch to the hem!
Is not a task, I'll be wanting again !!!!
11/12//14 For Sara's Contest: JOBS
Copyright © Carrie Richards
Dating a beautiful redhead girl will be the greatest moment of my life. She’s like an Irish princess, even better. Her hair is so red, it’s as if she’s on fire. Her beautiful eyes are like a pair of emerald gems when I look at them. And her pale skin is as beautiful as pure, white snow. It seems to me that all attractive redheads are amazing, and most of all, they’re down to Earth. This redhead is also like a beautiful, Irish Princess, even from the Emerald Isle (Ireland). I never dated an attractive redheaded girl before, but it’s about time that I did. Plus, there are other beautiful redheads who are famous, like Kay and Danielle Panabaker, Emma Stone, Hayley Williams, Lindsay Lohan, Lily Cole, and others. Not to mention Julienne Moore, even though she’s happily married. I wouldn’t mind dating a beautiful redhead, but she has to be from the U.S. or Ireland. She’s like that redheaded warrior from Brave. She’ll be my Irish Princess one day (Irish girlfriend), and I’ll be her American prince (American beau). I say, if I were to get into a serious relationship with this attractive redhead, I won’t break her heart; I’d also be honest and truthful to her. I know that female redheads are sensitive and I also know that she doesn’t want to be brokenhearted. All I know is that if I fall in love with a redhead girl and I become infatuated with her, there’s just no telling.
Copyright © Brashard Bursey
My worst job that of washing DeLaval,
Machine for separating milk from cream.
Yes, I remember that so very well.
That nasty job was truly a bad dream.
We had no running water on the farm
And had to heat it on the old wood range.
Water cooled off fast, couldn't keep it warm
And needed kettle boiling for exchange.
Wash water soon turned into milky slime,
The water from our well was very hard.
With no sewer to accept it at the time,
I had to pour wash water on the yard.
My daddy was so proud of his machine,
But I was she who had to keep it clean.
For Sara's contest: "Job"
Copyright © Joyce Johnson
Being the little sister in a family with mostly boys
Was very hard and difficult liking all their toys
I loved to play in the dirt , could throw any ball
Played "running bases", "tag", and loved "off the wall"
My sister was way older and she was never home
So I was forced to battle with my brothers on my own
I fought my battles valiantly, but each time I would lose
Being youngest in a family,I often became the muse
I cried many tears those many years ago
For competing with those boys,I had a lot to show
I grew older,strong, and smarter and chose a tough career
Cooking for a living in a man's world, I showed no fear
Those brothers had taught me to always fight for what's right
A women could cook as well as a man, and besides I had a knife!
Copyright © Jennifer Marie Oliver
Saturday mornings my list was quite clear,
Pull out the comet and toilet bowl brush.
Windex, perfect to polish the mirror,
Finish the toilet with one final flush.
Scrubbing the sink till faucets do glisten,
Empty the countertop, free from clutter.
Scour the bathtub, with so much ambition,
While under my breath, complaints I utter.
Our shower the biggest job of them all,
With its showerhead and sliding glass doors.
Standing inside to scrub ceramic walls,
Finally finished by washing the floors.
Child labor I’d cry when I was not paid,
When I grow up, I am getting a maid.
10 syllables per line
Copyright © Brenda Meier-Hans
Being short, I was asked to play an elf
For a mall Santa who had his own beard
The elf suit I’d not have picked for myself
Spock ears, curled shoes and red tights – I looked weird
The regular elf had caught a bad flu
While jolly Saint Nick downed too much eggnog
Rascal Rudolph, sans the eight-reindeer crew,
Grazed on manger hay like a “boarish” hog
Children wanted to sit on Santa’s lap
But his halitosis cast most away
One large boy created quite a mishap
He slid and cracked Santa’s over-packed sleigh
Today I’ll not venture into a mall
They remind me of my worst job of all
*Written November 10, 2014 for Sara’s “Jobs” contest
Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire
Such whimsical stories, with a moral,
they were sure to teach me right from wrong.
All done to a cadence like a song,
there's no better way to learn than humoral.
I learned how to cope and not quarrel,
to stand by my beliefs and be strong,
don't be swayed by one or a throng.
After I read one, I went on to read several.
Dr. Seuss was my fisrst poet read,
The very first rhyme I ever heard,
were there in his stories, while in my bed.
While Grandma helped with the hard words,
he introduced me to poetical threads.
I was forever inspired, rest assured.
For the contest: Tribute By Sonnet
Sponsored by Francine Roberts
My poet of inspiration....Dr. Seuss
Copyright © Paula Swanson
The Grace of Allah be with you always
That fateful day, we met in the Philippines
A short interview and you said okay
An agreement that was a way to begin
Appreciate your kindness like brother
No barrier between us and for all
True humility brings you closer to others
Promotes well-being is your ultimate goal
Many times I stepped to ask for your aid
You stepped up to be prudent and sensible
Always speak in gentle tone and well said
Your leadership is such exceptional
To me, to others you are a true friend
Your kind-heartedness will always remind
23 October 2014
Copyright © Noel Villarosa
O' laundry day, I cannot bare the thought
Of piling up these clothes any higher.
The devil on my shoulder says I ought
To take a match and set'm all on fire.
My knuckles, bitter with blue detergent,
Scrape against the corner of the machine
And although the pain is not urgent,
It makes me want to throw my head back and scream.
The sweat on my wrist takes the sweat off my brow
Every time I enter the basement.
The dryer's not done - oh wait - Joy! It is now,
So on with the folding and placement.
The day is spent - my clothes are finely done.
I'm ready to go out and have some fun!
Copyright © Mike Frampton
They assigned me me to write a sonnet about the life of a drunken writer
whose dream wouldn't shatter, but his foolishness wasn't in the past tense;
he spent endless hours reading blogs of people who didn't make sense...
in chat rooms he found geeks, charlatans and a casual liar.
These are the ones who can text all day as kids do for fun...
what's the excuse for being late and perform with a brainless head?
Here's proof of his laziness: he didn't write anything to earn him bread.
" Wake up, your work is piling up...you snore as pigs in a barn! "
the co-worker in the next booth sneered as the boss approached Fred
who stuttered and tried to explain why he couldn't get the work done...
while his breath stunk and couldn't stand him looking awfully mad.
" I need that article by tomorrow, or you'll get a pink slip and are gone! "
" Sir, the last article was a hit...you liked that sex-pot with those boobs! "
" Why can't I write about today's generation who have the speed of raccoons? "
Copyright © Andrew Crisci
Bike to Work day: escorting the funeral of Marine Albrak Omar
Loch David Crane
Patriot Guard Riders
No more classes now that I've been fired!
Patriotism is my job: I’m retired.
The Patriot Guard rides almost every day
to bring a flapping flag line on display.
We ride to work with combustion and chrome
to bring the bodies of our brave troops home.
In a strange twist for love of our country
This Arab Albrak was a volunteer
who gave America his youthful years
to make Iraqui people finally free.
He gave his life: I give my afternoon
remembering our heroes at high noon.
Packed in ice, he came home to his Mom;
his body was prepared by an Imam.
Copyright © Loch David Crane
Started in the season of buds and sweets
Ended after a course as the sun sets
Full of doubts from assorted tricks and treats
A departure is as good as it gets.
Flashing on the thoughts of once a timid
A few Zs are enough to bring pleasure
Could not blink at how stress becomes rigid
Situation calls for a strong measure.
Being used to this torture brings comfort
Ironic as the reasoning may seem
Ignorance is the delay of some sort
Though bitterness stands as it goes extreme.
Taking a walk is a sequel to gain
Another phase is eager for no pain.
Looking back, the timid grew social wings
Mimicked those of butterfly’s and dragon’s
Alights on the spot where others’ smog clings
This becomes one of daily traditions.
Indebted for the wisdom of mentors
Who prevailed upon with supreme concern
Never had given up hope as the source
Truly mastered the mix of mild and stern.
And yet leaving has been contemplated
Personal growth needs to be magnified
Epiphany has been compensated
Being torn by progress and warmth that died.
Halfhearted with the decision that’s made
Still, such recurrence if the timid stayed.
Copyright © Maria Rheza Mae Rubio
Get-go scrupulous attention,
live to cornucopia,
Coherence in familial bonds
must ever stay,
Romantic evening is
reminiscent of happier times,
Are the ones standing by you
on your final day!
Guileless life, a battlefield of
For evolution of the race, you
ought to play,
Contentious hard work makes
Hypothecate moulding for
betterment as if in clay!
Sun gifted you its brightest
Fragrance added through each
Brew your friends well for a
Appreciate nature add up to a
Life is fugacious yet addicting,
its secrets camouflage,
Adopt blithesome attitude,
risible for a hearty laugh !!
Written by - Dr Upma Sharma
Contest name- Take two
Sponsor- Nette onclaud
Previously entered into
Shakespearian Sonnet competition
sponsored by Karen Puff,
Written actually on 26/1/14
Copyright © Dr. Upma A. Sharma
There is a brush of wind sweeping roughshod over the shore
Festering foamy white caps on the crest of the waves
Disembodied voices I think I've heard before
Are rising from the mist of the liquid haze
White-feathered angel wings spreading wide and low
Swoop down below the angry crimson wide
Welcoming home the trollers, row by weary row
As the beacon skims the waters, and the coming of the tide
The sun is clinging helplessly, on the edges of the earth
As one last vessel, trudges in, looking worn and spent
Lagging far behind, and longing home and hearth
Yet with sense of work well done, after long day's sweat,
It burrows in, at end of day, from all those travels, far
The one last vessel, weary worn, cuts a furrow in the stars
For Francine's Contest :"On The Ocean Waves"
Copyright © Carrie Richards
The smile of a child,trying to climb on his foot,
trusts the mother to hold on ,and that builds his youth.
the child as a youth moves on every possibility
trusting on his teacher and his reliability
Then the life takes the youth to the next level,
challenging his credibility and making him face hell.
Along with experience he learns the legacy,
that trust is more when there is intimacy.
Slowly by pace the trust grows cent by cent
with gradual involvement and engagement.
Then there's a task and a timeline to keep,
and he finds trust works very well in a partnership
And finally the task is achieved and a smile on his lips,
The glory is great ,and such simple is the skill of leadership.
Copyright © Biplab Mahadani
Fr. Christ said “I am the living bread that came down from heaven...
If anyone eats this bread
He will live forever
Who eats my flesh and drinks my blood has eternal life, abides in Me and I in him"
Essential signs of Eucharistic Sacrament are wheat bread and grape wine
Communion with the Body and Blood of Fr. Christ increases the communicant’s union
with the Lord God.
Receiving this sacrament strengthens the bonds of charity between the communicant and Fr. Christ
It also reinforces the unity of the Church as the mystical Body of Fr. Christ
The Church recommends the faithful to receive the Holy Communion at least once a year.
Fr. Christ Himself is present in the sacrament of the altar
He is to be honored with the worship adoration
To visit the Blessed Sacrament is a proof of gratitude
Expression of love
Duty of adoration toward Fr. Christ, Jesus our Lord
Copyright © Jacqueline R. Mendoza
We sit upon the weekly crest
It's the point of no return.
Too late to cry or be depressed
So onward we sojourn.
You could take a moment to reflect
On lessons newly learned.
Or maybe consider this row of days wrecked
A span renounced and burned.
Whatever the case, it's now downhill
There's no way to go back.
Foot off the brakes, roll forward until
We go flying down the track!
I have vague memories of Monday, you were such a grump.
All's forgiven because as of noon, we've made it o'er the hump!
Copyright © Jason Talbott
This quaint haven away from Seeing Eye
No sound of the loom now at nature’s call
Here on this coarse park bench in deepest fall
Gloomy clouds above threatening blue sky.
Song of the Blackbird rings out yet so shy
Speckled Thrush nags his mate in tuneful squall
Lush green lawn an ocean of food to trawl
Twisting squirming succulents soon to die.
I now will have to end this little verse
Clown on a motor mower not at peace
Feathered friends scatter to a higher place
I look to heaven now in silent curse
Back to the weaving shed and all that grease
Lunch break in tatters silence without trace.
Copyright © harry horsman
Every morning I walk pass through this ‘little’ lady
I make a mental picture of a heart shaped flower
Held in my hands; close to my heart; am willing to offer her
I make every eye contact count like every dance a street of my heart
I seem to have that dim; dreadful silly obscure look
Each time I see her from afar coming
Every time we work pass by; and I fail to be a man; to speak
I hear the music banging in my brain; then I conjecture good moments to come
When I will stop playing someone else’ part; a part alien to me
I think of holding her hands like we are standing on the mountain soil and saying
You’re my work set; I want to come first with you
In my soul and brains I feel a cabin fever for not being a man
She is like a lover my heart seeks; someone to make a promise to
In the wonderland where two lovers make vows knowing they are too closely knitted.
Copyright © Chuma Okonkwo
On the sands of time
How will his feet print on the sands of time?
The query he is so bothered to ask
Emirates, ere hit and run dashes his rhyme
And creates deep holes of vast pending task.
Will those little lights yet glow when he’s gone?
Or will they die off when he’s in that hole?
This, he meditates in his deepest lone,
Scribbles verse, should unexpected grips whole.
Placer orb was where he conceived this tongue;
Whence his momentary opt to torch the ground
Ere it will be too late to dong a gong-
Then the planet will guest still air of sound.
For the world abrupt visitors, he scribes
This anon writ, ere God sends His un-bribes.
Copyright © Abdulhafeez Oyewole
He strove to be an abomination,
the bold Scorn of Affection and Passion.
Yearning to be free of humanity’s
struggle to empathize, and to appease
those who hold onto ties with a tight grip,
attempt to cherish their relationship
with God, or another. He froze his heart
so icy cold, no flame could hope to start.
Never to taste the tender inner soul
of love that doggedly passed self-control
desperately clutched by a lonely man
puzzling only on logic’s bloom which can
bamboozle the most quick witted of mind,
yet leave aching hunger of the worst kind.
Copyright © Brittany Reynolds