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Details | Dialogue Poem | |

Poet -This Poem is About You

-Dear, Mr & Mrs Poet- 

Do you ever question where it comes from?
This poem's about you, sit down and get a load off 
Tranquilize your pen, take heed to the ecstatic applause 

The things in life we take for granting, in time get worse 
From WHICH' our lives transverse, ascends a deep poetic curse 
You write almost everything, rehearsing every living verse 
Embezzling words, like Martha Stewart, ---NOT YOURS!
Withdrawing from your substance, 
--yielding it to others, who aren't devoted lovers 
Spacing your lines, ready for reader's digest, 
Educating the mind, like Albert Einstein

You paint a different horizon for the color blind,
Drop a note, forecasting the news, that brings, Spring to mind
Your adrenaline, leaves people with a feel good faint.
At this level, Poet you're better than high speed Internet,
Anything that makes you feel this is the real deal, 
Today, you write like there's no tomorrow, borrowing yesterday's clay
Inspiring ink, left to right, feeding the need to breed a poetic degree 
Your dramatic dialogue, deserve 'The Peoples Choice award."

I love the sweet audio, when you lowercase every word
It's done so well, hell, let's never capitalize another word
Reaching a point across, when capitalizing every letter, 
This is your world, take it, manipulate it, with the perfect stanza
Produce it like a poetic film, imagery, action, CUT it like Jerry Bruckheimer 
One day Hollywood will incite a roll, looking for the best poetry soup rhymer

Your tears and affection, you pour on partial paper,
Showing every word you want to enunciate
A SHOULDER-- gone cold, drowning, forgetting the normal way
Writing about the pure religion that meets your light, 
A beautiful flower under the moonlight
Hear the bells, Poe wrote about, adding sprinkles to the twinkle in your eyes, 
A redolent scent not meant to be forgotten, from Eden's garden
Taking nature, by course, granting her a crown, before slamming us down
I will call her out --The evil and the fury of a goddess, a beast
This is my feast, I welcome you to my jungle, and the outer bounds of time.

If you ever question where it comes from?
Sit down and get a load off, listen---Where's the ecstatic applause?
I'm not afraid to say, -----I'm Proud to be A Poet Without A Cause

by;PD
I do it for fun

Details | Dialogue Poem | |

War and Peace


                                             war
                                     violent, deadly
                          confusing, damaging, suffering
                    armament, strategy, dialogue, harmony
                       forgiving, respecting, understanding 
                                    mental, spiritual
                                           peace


                     -------------------------------------------

                                  11th November 2014
                               Contest: Diamante Poem
                                Sponsor: Regina Riddle
                                         Placed: 3rd

Details | Dialogue Poem | |

White Shoulder Dreams

Oh the images we freeze in time

the sweet, sweet scents that bring recall

the sharp and painful longing that belongings bring

for those lost or lingering on sheets of lavender

on shelves of shaving mugs - Old Spice

soap roped in shower stalls.



Oh the images warmed and torn, sun burnt to brown

upon what's left of glossy crenulated sheets

showing frozen plumped out peeks of

blistering love, gape toothed girls

and sour apple dreams.



We freeze in time on scrapes and shards

on compasses far from the woodlands scene

the tobacco scent of Papa, his yellowed fingers

as they touched my dimpled chin,

blue eyes behind wire rims.



The sweet, sweet scents that bring recall

White Shoulder's between her wholesome breasts

Mother's satin, Chantilly drenched negligee 

and father's black onyx ring

ah, I still have him.



The sharp and painful longing that belongings bring

guilty pleasures hidden from the public's tut-tuting eyes

hoarded in ornate boxes, or pressed between stout boards

relentless, heartless is the passing

passing into the frayed, worn fringes

of our dollop of mirrored time.



For those lost or lingering on sheets of lavender

with drawers of balsam pillows to recall the olden days

bring forth the buds which bloom on taffy and apple pie

do not forget the taste of the love

the cotton candy kisses 

their first chocolate cone.



On shelves of shaving mugs - Old Spice

soap roped in shower stalls, no sense comes

without its call to memory. Oh you do not sit alone,

play all the old tunes from radio days

and invite your loved ones

to come home.



This is my form it is called Etcetera. 

Definition: Write a line or a stanza, take from that line or stanza words in the 
order they were written [ from 1 word to whole lines or phrases] begin your 
next stanza with it continue until you have written using all the words in the 
order written in the line or stanza being explored in depth in a stream of 
internal dialogue. ALL poetic devises/tropes may be used INCLUDING internal 
rhyme. The verse may be as long or short as you wish, no meter required, no 
syllable count.





I would say Etcetera and Blitz are sub forms of Free Verse - Stream of 

Consciousness - Etcetera- Blitz
































































































































































































Details | Dialogue Poem | |

Dialogue of Place

Dialogue of  {Place}

Should I whisper words
that hang on memory’s peaks,
cumulous across my forehead?

A world of words - connected
like tides to the moon.

Words that mingle and rise,
as mist from a valley 
or, dwell in half forgotten dreams;
endless as ocean waves,
or vistas of flowering fields.

Beautiful words
that tell me of my place.

Suzanne Delaney

Details | Dialogue Poem | |

Color Surety

Canvas, calm, grinning. . .blank
Had words screamed, scarecrows trapped on the poles of their creators,
Had words formed psalms that barricaded the strongholds of the heart,
Divine despair would desperately take hold again,
Embellishing the muse
To smile, the impassive smile. . .confuse

Enraptured by your tail,
Coiling, boiling in the hot and hungry sun
The eyes, clouded, caught in a moment of inexorable suffering 

Death glistening in the confirmation of tears and groans,
Shading the dialogue that never surfaces
Justice in pale focus. . .constant, still held in out-of-the-blue faith

Please, 
Do not allow your perspectives to dull
Waiting so long, I deafened the cries
The very cries I so blindly expressed. . .
Words etching existences imagined

I want you to take the hand of uncertainty
For as I have, I forever feel the tremors that have given me shape
Those very hands create what you dream,
And not what you fear

Take that hand,
Squeeze it tightly
I promise you, once you touch. . .I will never let you go

For I love you, 
Oh, unexplained hold. . .
Help me escape the newborn deaths of today
Teach me how to step over the carcasses of calamity
Where the innocent die to inspire the remaining
Learn how to lead me into the lights of your eyes

Please,
Give me your beautiful hand,
I will take you to places you will never understand
And it will be okay

Because where I go,
The scarecrows roam with the roaring ravens
Making music with the pulse of their wings
With the sharp click of their beaks

Where I go,
Psalms of serenity's back way make love with impending day,
Spinning despair into the golden hairs of suspended May 

Where I go,
innocent flowers freely giggle arrays of life
And his tail whips mightily,
His black velvet purrs arousing breaths of caramel verisimilitude

Where we stay,
In the forever grip of the trust you and I made,
Justice is pure water,
Cool and refreshing. . .ever smiling

Please,
My love, please
Hold onto this world with me
Give me your needs that I need. . .
And I promise perspective will prosper
The canvas, one blank, filled with detailed destiny of Color Surety

October 19th, 2014

Details | Dialogue Poem | |

Probabilities


   relying on chance 
trying to find a needle 
   inside a haystack

a well-balanced choice
  a winner or a loser
   you can bet on it

     when tossing a coin
the most probable outcome
  would be heads or tails

     lack of dialogue
increases the probable
   failure of marriage

        waking up early
does not always guarantee
    you’ll see the sun rise

  weighing pros and cons
when faced with a decision
  between right or wrong


------------------------------------------
Author: Paul Callus ~ 24th July, 2014
Contest: Haiku on Probabilities
Sponsor: Marvin Celestial
Placing: 2nd




Details | Dialogue Poem | |

EARTH ASTRONAUTS AND PARISIAN CAFES

I have traveled the world     rode 
the scorching desert on horseback     
Dined in Parisian cafes on the 
Left Bank repulsing the poetry                               
of amorous French men     and
toasted my toes by a roaring fire 
in a chalet high in the Swiss Alps

If you repeat a story until it is absorbed 
into the collective consciousness of 
enough people it becomes the truth     

Doesn't it?     

The world watched TV to see man land 
on the moon     No one noticed that the space 
capsule was an aluminum salt shaker
launched by a slingshot     The elaborate 
pyrotechnics disguised the truth in the hands
No one knows where the shaker ended up 
for the matching pepper shaker was waiting 
in the Australian outback resting on dusty ground
Astronauts romped around leaving footprints 
that the wind later erased     and spouted dialogue
scripted by Tonight Show writers     I could divulge 
the coordinates for the flag they left     
but that would rend the illusion     

I could relate the directions 
to my hometown of 3,000 souls     sister city 
to some Swiss town with an unpronounceable name
with the French-like bakery on the corner by the park
where the town council built a sandbox for the toddlers
But people find pride in their ability to know the truth           

Who am I to tell everyone that man never left Earth     
I never left home     
We all settled for less than we deserved 



Details | Dialogue Poem | |

The Ignoramus: Who Is Not Far From Being A Fool

When everyone goes east, he heads west to him, every dialogue is a contest comes into an interaction as the biggest then leaves agonisingly as the lowest. When he speaks, you know he is half-honest even though he truly knows, but not near the best. He always end up lost in the forest this simple fact, he cannot digest. The moment he shamefully fails the test he begins to manifest then becomes far from being modest and everyone around him, he treats like unwanted guests. Causing a general unrest as he unnecessarily protest. All over his countenance, ignorance crests not accepting defeat, he holds high his egocentric chest. Quick to make jest but correction; he equates to incest and disagreements, he always detest. We all have the quest to know and share the latest so as to add value to ourselves and self-invest which can be a cultivation to future harvest. But knowing it all is impossible and knowing half, believing to know all is ridiculous. Admiting not to know it all is the fairest but this is yet not comprehensible to him, to whom; to know is like a conquest. The wise keep quiet lest, they cause him to become the tempest and with every word, he neutralizes any palatable zest. Oh poor child! change or you'll suffer from everlasting molest where no one wants to visit your nest not because you are unblest but cos of the truth of your infest which now, is obviously clearest. It is good to learn my child and sharing is an attribute of Love. But run away from half baked lines or be humble enough to listen while they become fully whole. You were given two ears and one mouth hence talk less and listen more because an Ignoramus is always not far from becoming a fool!

Details | Dialogue Poem | |

Gone are the Winds But Long Live the Words

~	
Heavy in the wind,
was sound of a phrase-
Rhett Butler's curse word   ~
blew open the door
to eminent change
                                            ~
The dialogue 
withstood critics
who could not keep
that door bolted                                  ~

A strong wind               ~          ~
swept away      ~
old values

Filth caved
in the

door
            ~                 ~


____________________________________________________
For Judy Kono's Contest: "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn"
8/29/13

Details | Dialogue Poem | |

SHADOWLANDS

                                “Once very near the end I said, 'If you can -- if it is allowed – 
                                 come to me when I too am on my death bed.”

                                 “Allowed!' she said. “Heaven would have a job to hold me;
                                  and as for Hell, I'd break it into bits.” 



                                  Oh God, God, why did you take such trouble to force 
                                  this creature out of its shell if it is now doomed to crawl back
                                  -- to be sucked back -- into it?

                                                                    ~ C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed ~


                                  __________________________________



The division should be acute, the before her, the with her, the after her,
Yet there is this constant rattling of doors, though they remain locked,

in theory. I think of her as gone until I turn a page and read a passage 
of pompous dialogue and she returns, My Joie de Vivre, entertaining me 

with that puckish wit, unabashed. She smiles in the dusk with crusading 
colours that bend dark horizons, changing clouds unexpectedly. What was I 

before Joy*? Content, pleasant and productive. But was I alive, aware of
Life, its blissful rhythms? Irony defined: the heart which awakened stone 

no longer beats. Finally, I understand. Lessons are sharp things which
infect both fresh and aging amputations. What do I do with this knowledge? 

It is like learning a language that is no longer spoken, a long monologue 
unbearably forlorn, painful. Faith dismisses hauntings, yet she does so 

in daily degrees, oh, the sweet ghosts that peer from those notes, my name 
underscored in margins. Why is there only one glove in the sewing box?  

Agony hunts me in the garden. Perfume almost, but not quite a match.
Some rooms have snares. I dare not open a kitchen drawer. Pain waits there.

The specter of my former self, a staunch gent, so sure of Heaven's role, 
that cold bloke follows me in the shadows, land of man’s rage and despair.

There is no pretty death, no words can comfort the ravaged left behind,
There is no poetry in our departing; I only pray there is Godspeed in mine. 



*Written Nov 4, 2012






Joy Gresham Davidman, American poet, and C.S. Lewis, English writer and Oxford scholar, were good friends and married solely for the purpose to keep Joy in England (contested). But love came, as it has a habit of doing, when least expected, after Joy was diagnosed with terminal cancer. There love was true and deep, and her death shattered Lewis. His book, A Grief Observed explores his anguish and a Christian’s questions which arise during times of suffering. The film, Shawdowlands, is based on the biography, Through the Shadowlands: The Love Story of C. S. Lewis and Joy Davidman. Lewis died 3 years after Joy. The above poem is a conjecture on my part, as no one can truly know what lies in another's heart, alive or otherwise.  

Details | Dialogue Poem | |

Give Peace A Chance

The rich are getting richer
The poor are losing hope
Mother Earth is dying
Over populated
Polluted
War Torn
Anybody notice?

Is the Garden of Eden gone for good?

It starts with You
And it starts with Me
Recycle
Get Involved
Share
Listen
Accept Differences
Dialogue, not Bullets

We still have a chance

But do we have the time?

June 7th, 2013

Details | Dialogue Poem | |

In Good Conscience

Heavily tread, are those small fractious steps On the stairs to my own peace of mind The sound of transgressions that I'd rather forget is the pounding of a most clamorous kind The dialogue I'm having, within my own self drums on the door of the closed minded truth I try to rewrite scripts, shoving back on the shelf But the turbulence shakes them loose No matter, how buried, how deep I will hide them My conscience can shovel them out That child inside me, denies what was done then But can't deafen the voices that shout I profess to regret many sins I've committed The most difficult task is one of admitting
_______________________________

Details | Dialogue Poem | |

Dialogue of the soul

In his stern deep expression
and his tender caring gestures
When he is in silence, also in solitude.

He conceals the mystery of love,
beauty, and the experiences 
that he encounters in life.

He reasons as he walks,
and contemplates every epiphany
that had happened in his past and present life.

He laughs and keep walking 
as he shakes his head
then retreats as his heart races
panic and fear as his past comes alive.

He ask himself; is it all this true? 
What’s going on?
Why are these ridiculous feelings?
He wants to disregard his emotions, but he can not.

Finally …. In his enlighten self debate
He, surrender down at his feet
Astonish at his finding.


Details | Dialogue Poem | |

High Hopes

Before we implode or reach cluster one
What do you want from me, as you humans dry run
We are Poles apart in what you and I do
Marooned you will be, if you don't turn to be true

I am only but a sphere, but your wearing the inside out
Our futures lost for words as we enter life's drought
There is time for dialogue to take it back
Will it be a great day for freedom, or will we enter our black

Around the table of powers we have to keep talking
We had high hopes when we stooped, we may cease to stop walking
It beggars belief that we are heading into strife
Maybe one day we'll acknowledge, that were coming back to life









http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/music-3.php

Details | Dialogue Poem | |

Prologue to Lessons of Change

  for King Wen, circa 1151-1143 B.C.E. – with seven mind-bending kowtows

There where you had no occasion for play
There in your confined Ming I space
Where change wrought no change
In your fate
But for those plagued by your linear grouping games

Where before the fall from your embroidered gardens
The lavender embossed bowl to dip your fingers in
The enamelled daïs that spurned the kowtows
the cloistered summer watering palace
the decorative duck pond
the turtle and dove court
where dainty demure mincing concubines
under dispassionate eunuch eyes
stroked and tickled the mandolin strings of their Lord’s heart
Where time sailed through Flying Dutchman seas
At the serene centre of Qian’s mundane realm

Even what drops from the sky may hit the ocean bed
And so stamped under in your tyrant’s dungeons
With your retinue and court
Where each faked their fate in psychotic delusions
Simulating as it were
The neurotico-schizophrenic passage in another dimension
There where you bought a little time
Time enough to fashion a play
A game of change
A game that never really changes
Even if your son the Duke of Chou
And the Master expositor Kung
Paved your broken and unbroken lines in words
from which no man may return
unchanged

Where the longest dialogue you began
Becomes seems a polyalogue among some
  or all
Who have gone beyond the hexagram wall
And those who await the inexorable call
Where speech is ambiguous
To say the least
In eight by eight cyclic situations
Though someone YOU maybe ME seems to be saying
Take heed ! all this’s a mess
The Truth
Might not it be hidden in the lines
and in the lines alone
and not in the words

Take them down one by one
And build them up again
Note the beginning and the end
And the correspondances of change
Put the judgments of my son
And the wordy attributions to Kung
Especially those from the young Wang Bi
On either side of the hexagram
What is claimed for the Superior Man
Is within the reach of every clan
Measure the lines in or out of tune
The trigrams from whence
The inner ones note hence
Think on them but once
Or only now and then
for the nonce
This’s all I have to say
Though others may make much of the Way
Think not on what I have said
More than it takes to put paid

O ! Great Royal Sage !
Are there not behind these lines
Three or four bearded lords, nay sages
Who drive terror into those who gaze
Day and night into their wizened faces !

© T. Wignesan, May 20, 1987 (rev. 2011, from the collection: Lessons of Change, 1987)

Details | Dialogue Poem | |

Night Writer

The silence is deafening in this house tonight 
I sit on the couch pondering something to write
light is dim, kid’s gone to sleep,
nothing creeps as I stare at blank sheets
I keep waiting for a witty dialogue in my head
but instead I’m brain-dead, should I go to bed instead?
Dogs bark in the distance, the instant that happened
My dogs started barking then I started laughing
An uncontrollable urge swept over me swiftly
I looked at the clock and it read 01:50,
I have time to write; the night is still young,
Took a sip of red wine; bitter on my tongue,
Stacked up the papers until they formed a pile
Came up this song though it took a while

Sometimes I see you sitting across from me; 
in my mind I smile a big smile;
I should go over there and run my hands through your hair, 
my love for you stretches as long as the Nile;
To lose you would be too much to take; 
to win your love, just enough
Though my ability to trust has been flawed since birth;
You’re so worth it that this won’t be tough;
Being without you would be like living in a black hole
A spot of infinite darkness in space;
There would be nothing to hide; not emotions nor pride;
I’d ride the rollercoaster of love in a daze. 
While you lay asleep, I’d lay awake
Watching you dream your sweetest dreams
I’d like to think we’re walking along the beach;
Hand in hand as a passionate team.
I wish I had known your soul before
I wish I had chose you back then

And with those words I closed my notebook;
I’ll finish this later.  The End.

Details | Dialogue Poem | |

Theory of devolution

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.

Details | Dialogue Poem | |

MAXIMUS

    

    There is a spirit that watches over you
    In the daylight hours, and nightime too.

    You may not think that they are there
     But there is a way to make you aware.

     I learned the name of my angel a long time ago
     Because I was interested and I wanted to know.

     His name is "Maximus" and is with me here
     To learn of his presence once made me fear.

     Because what you do is watched all the day
     The angel keeps tabs, God finds out that way.

     I guess you think I'm being naive
     Trust your faith, if you believe.

     If you want to know your angel's name
     There is a way to find out which is no game.

     Say a prayer for three days in a row
     And after each time ask him to reveal his name to you.

     If you believe in him he will tell you true
     If not, he may be silent to you.

     I know of others who have tried this I can say
     Some, have learned the names of their angels this way.

     When you pray for their name do not think it absurd
     Some, I know, will hear that singular word.

     It won't come as a shout from heaven on high
     But rather as a whisper, when your angel is nigh.

     These spiritual beings are here for us all
     Sometimes they wait just to here us call.

     And when you do wouldn't if be grand
     If you knew the spirit's name...who behind you stands!

     Try it and see if you think I'm fooling around
     Be honest with yourself with both feet on the ground.

     As someday that spiritual angel you will greet
     Wouldn't it be nice to be on a "first name" basis when you meet?

     And if you try but do not hear their name
     Keep on trying because your conviction was lame.

     I know many will think I'm crazy with this
     But knowing my angel's name has brought comfort and bliss.

     So try it yourself and see if in kind
     If your angel will speak to you...they really don't mind.

     Because then a dialogue with them you can share,
     Even if they never speak again,  you'll know...they're there.

Details | Dialogue Poem | |

The Coyote

For years, you have been trying to catch that elusive bird.
In your cartoons, we have never heard a single word.
Warner Brothers decided to give the late Mel Blanc a break.
With no dialogue, there were many foolish steps you would take.

That Acme Company must have made a fortune off you.
You failed at every single attempt you would do.
Each fly ball you hit never left the ballpark.
With rockets, catapults, and bombs, you kept missing your mark.

The lousiest luck hit you in each episode.
That roadrunner kept zooming down the desert road.
With each failure, you kept coming back the next day.
Give it up, coyote.  Roadrunners do not taste good anyway.



Details | Dialogue Poem | |

Love thy brother.

Brothers killing brothers......a field of blood
sisters slaying sisters.......instead of bearing sons.
mothers ,daughters..fathers, sons
all dead and gone, kindred spirits slaughtered one by one
by the hand of those each should love. 
I wonder if at the last moment they had second thoughts
Is this the way to go ..isn't there a better way?
Perhaps dialogue or patience would have been better
Less lives could have been  lost ..less regrets to bear.....more hearts could have 
been won.
Yet the war continues unabated..send in more troops is what we say.
 Isn't there another way?
 Too many orphans left.. ..uncared for and grieving
too many tears have been shed.... hearts harden.
Prisoners of war......wounded and shell shocked veterans....... physically 
handicapped....mentally deranged....a terrible plight
both sides share the same fate....pain and sadness is all that's  left
no one wins yet the war never ends.
Love's  now a thing of the past
only anger and hatred remain 
 When, oh when will Peace prevail.

Details | Dialogue Poem | |

Words are Messy


Classy thirsty healing posts
Words are just messy

In secret
Words prepare dialogue transporting emotions like pilots
With no mercy words turn around and get messy
Placing Vaseline on dry throats speaking levy
Lips on skateboards sniffing the ground for reality’s ride
Electrifying plots against blurry words with
no physical basic thoughts thinking dialogue cravings
Untidy tiding plots buried in baritones hurried to hire imaginary thoughts
With no mercy things get messy

Stainless inks get messy

Poetry comes in speed bumps
Never the less poetry comes in speeds
Bumping speed bumps

Bump all slumps
Bluffing word bumps
Bump all stunts
Puff them hard till words provoke gumboot sounds         
Bump all ink pumps and thirsty thumbs                                                         
Speed bump conclusions jumping resolutions around
words spoken in gibberish gigabytes per seconds smelling leverage 
Amplifying televised revolution on repetition far from average 
                                                       
Paralyze those walking eyes
Bumping rhythms
Dusty broken chests serving overcrowded greeting lines
On solo mode
Flirtalicious solo chaotic modes                                                            
Bumb connections around chairs warmed up by bums
Speaking the same womb and rhythms

Brothers and sisters chained up in pairs and bums
enslaved by messy word poetry speed-bumbs
Words get messy with no mercy on lip bumps

Those messy words camp behind bushy brains
Rail track through lips with no vibrating mercy veins                                              
Affiliate with true bones 
Crossbones carrying history's forgotten side bums 
Instrumental bones
Stinking hip hop bums speed flossing word stunts        
Words dig up chaos with no mercy                  

Armed with no rounds
Pounds stolen before two rounds
Sheriffs secretly scared of their own uniform sounds
Shortlisted words saving society's bums 
Words are just messy and profound 

(c) Raymond Ngomane

Details | Dialogue Poem | |

The Writer I Am In My Dreams (A response to The Woman I Am In My Dreams by Maxine Tynes)

The writer I am in my dreams
is more sophisticated than I am
and sees the world as an untold story
I mainly see the footsteps behind me
        Where I stepped softly so as not to call attention to myself
this writer conjures volumes about the man on the bus
who has a scar on his face five inches long
she elaborates on his life with gifted prose
he is a pilot shot down in Vietnam
guerillas gave him a scar and set him free
he used to be a lion tamer
that one is self-explanatory
I simply cannot stop staring at his scar and wonder
does it bother him to have such a mark?

The writer I am in my dreams
has perfect time management
goes to work, attends class
has a beau
        moves from day to day
        finds time for friends and play
        hobbies and exercise
        dance class and likewise
the writer I am in my dreams
her words are clear and precise
they don't feel like empty thoughts on a page
they don't sound immature
her words and statements work
they don't get in her way and make her mind spin
and conjure up thoughts of self-worth
they whirl around the room and
whisper about the unimagined
they dialogue with rhyme and wit
and they always converse graciously

the writer I am in my dreams
I wake up and pray to be
and sometimes my prayers are answered

Details | Dialogue Poem | |

Question

What if I had the power to keep all
Mcees bleeding dreams with no strings attached

Bring all hate into a seed growing dreams
Maybe farm workers would be rhymes

What if rhythms spoke in rounds covered in pounds

What if poets spoke politics faster than gibberish
In jackets group hugging eternal vomits 
Activated by stinking guaranteed garbage 

What if poets spoke poems in dialogue forums
Better than battles

Born rich in words seeking starvation in the street of poetry
Sensitivity turning hotter than cold days
Stains driven by theories
Uncles to metaphors

What if?

In relay race
We chased paper
Made to flame dry wooden spoken knowledge
Throwing words in stones reaching invisible brains 
Spirits teaching spirits
Chanting emotions 
Bleeding third legs erected to proof manhood stunts

Pubic-less words aside
What if all mentioned if’s saved all mentors in the eve of our dreams

(c)  Ray

Details | Dialogue Poem | |

Lost Sheep dialogue

" Lord I woke this moring with the words lost sheep on my mind "

" OH! what do you think it meant? "

" well I pictured  myself as a sheep in the meadow where the grass is dry, patchy and bare "

" Oh! what happened then? "

 " well Lord i turned round and all the other sheep were no longer there "

" where did you think they could have  gone? "

" I thought they might of been thirsty and maybe went to find a brook

so I thought I would go and take a look "

" thats good what did you find? "

" I found a stream but the other  sheep were on the other side

but I could not get across as the stream was far too wide "

" OH! what did you do then ? "

" I began to wonder what to do

then I heard a voice come out of the blue. "

" What did the voice say ? "

" the voice  said do not fear don't dispare

I will help you  cross  over there

then a kind man appeared out of nowhere "

" what did the kind man do ? "

" He gently carried me across to where the pastures are Green

and the other sheep asked me where I had been "

" Thats great! what was your reply? "

" I told them that I was in the meadow

LOST and all alone

then the kind mans voice said

" my lost sheep welcome home "

" Great you have got it "

" Sorry Lord I am lost now"

" Yes dear you were once lost but now you are found "

" You no longer have to wander in the meadow all alone

for I am the good shepherd that always brings my lost sheep back home. "

No matter how bad our life has been the Lord always brings us lost sheep back to where the 
pastures are green, never will he leave you never will he forsake you. to anyone who is lost 
Just ask the Lord to show the way home he will come and fetch you. Amen. to anyone who 

Diane christian
feels Lost God will find you and bring you home.

Details | Dialogue Poem | |

A DIALOGUE OF MARRIAGE

Argument:Contrary to popular myth The Bible does NOT teach that the wife(woman) is subservient to the husband(man).


HE: 
       lean,
              lean
                     upon me
SHE:
       love,
              love
                       without desire
REFRAIN:

*Lean,
           lean 
                 each,
                       upon the other
SHE:
       My spouse
                      my source 
                      **head, 
                              of we two
HE:
      My helpmeet
                      counter-part me

REFRAIN:
                 One flesh
                                  together
                                  he, and she
                                  with 
                                         THEE

* submit a physical act- to lean upon - we upon Jesus, in Jesus we lean each upon the other,in marriage the wife upon her husband
** head = source (as a spring is of a river) as Jesus is the head(source) of the body of Christ(the church) and the husband is the head(source) of the wife joined together as one upon marriage.