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Best Sestina Poems

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New Sestina Poems

Don't stop! The most popular and best Sestina poems are below this new poems list.

The Talking drum by Ochwo-Oburu, Solomon
Be Zealous By Patriotic Zeal by Reza, Muzahidul
Freedom by Dicks, Zack
As The Danger So The Savior by Reza, Muzahidul
Hatching Futility by Drug, Graphite
Life's Crescendo by Lindsey, Catie
The Two of Us by Lorson sr, Karl
Lost Love Begins by Schumacker, Earl
Humane Struggle by Drug, Graphite
Dreams of Days Past by Jay, Alessia

View all new Sestina Poems

The Best Sestina Poems

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When Madness Rides on Moonlight

Days pass into the weak, loveless nights. The moon blinks.
The stars swirl beneath Van Gogh’s brush, as he links.
Comet light passes twisting cypresses, a schizophrenic’s concussion.
On and on, the wind twirls the trees, and does not complain,
nor, does the cosmos cringe awaiting reciprocation.
Lightning bugs mimic the stars. Atoms sneer.

Those who spout love and friendship abandon him, sneering.
Their images dance beneath his lids, when he blinks.
Though denied a compass, his soul does not reciprocate.
Through pain, physical and mental, he still connects, links
with the life which absorbs and excludes him, not complaining.
Nights pass without his mistress, Sien. His mind is concussive.

His face trembles torn in the brass sounds of the storm’s concussions.
The butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker, all of them, sneer. 
How unmerciful, this cycle, this God to whom he does not complain.
If lack of mercy is just, may he not know why? Time blinks.
Thinking causes pain. Only painting connects him, he links.
He accepts art and the pain, as gifts, choosing not to reciprocate.

Voices, the paint, the moon, the voices say, reciprocate.
He chases mice. The cheese plate falls with a loud concussion.
He rubs his gnarled hands across his lids. He maintains the link. 
How? Why? But, the mice eating his cheese only sneer.
The sunflowers shimmer and wiggle in their vase, as he blinks.
Stumbling, he falls attempting to sit, the chair does not complain.

He had thought God clear as sunlight; yet, the paint complained. 
He was not God; he could not capture the light. He must reciprocate.
After all, who was he, but a mere man, ashes to dust; life blinks.
Ah death, le grand mal, no minor concussion,
He must escape, join the celestial spin, and avoid their sneers.
Sick, yes, sick to death of not being understood, not linking.

The brushes call. He prostitutes himself. Oil spills, connecting, linking.
Theo, brother, never would he forgive. Many others would complain.
Ah, Gauguin, His dear friend, he would understand and not sneer.
If God was truly a loving God, surely, he thought; God will not reciprocate.
The mockers who did not live in Dante’s nine levels of hellish concussion,
they will call his actions cowardly. Merciless, they did not live between the blinks.




Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2011

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When Madness Rides on Moonlight

Days pass into the weakest of loveless nights. The moon blinks.
The stars swirl beneath the colored brush of Van Gogh. He links.
Comets trail snowfields of light pass agonized cypresses, schizophrenic concussion.
On and on, the wind twirls the trees and does not complain,
nor, does the cosmos cringe awaiting reciprocation.
Lightening bugs mimic the starlight, atoms sneer.

Those who spout love and friendship abandon him sneering.
Their images dance beneath his half closed lids, when he blinks.
Though denied visual compass, his soul does not reciprocate.
Through pain, physical and mental, palpable pain, he still links,
with the life which has both absorbed and excluded him not complaining.
Night passes without his mistress, Sien. His mind writhes, eternal concussion.

His torn visage trembles with the brass sounds the storm's ranting concussions.
The butcher, the baker the candlestick maker, derides and sneers. 
How unmerciful is this cycle, this God to whom he does not complain?
And, if indeed, lack of mercy is just, may he not know “Why?” Time blinks.
Just the act of thinking causes pain. Only painting connects him to the link.
He must accept both the pain and the art as gifts, choosing not to reciprocate.

Voices always the voices, the paint, the moon, the voices, reciprocate.
He chases the mice. The cheese, pewter plate and all, falls with concussion.
He rubs the backs of gnarled hands across his lids, maintaining the link. 
“How? Why?" But, the mice eating his cheese grimace and sneer.
Inside the cottage sunflowers shimmer and wiggle in vases, as he blinks.
Stumbling, he falls in an attempt to sit, the insubstantial chair does not complain.

He had thought God clear, clear as sunlight, yet the damn paint Lord! complained. 
He was Not God, and try as he would, the light escaped. He MUST reciprocate.
After all who was he, but a mere man, ashes to dust, life blinks.
“Ah death…le grand mal…no minor concussion,”
He must escape this mortal coil, join the celestial spin without their sneers.
Sick, he was sick, yes, sick to death of not being understood, no link.



Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2010

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There is no fear in love

When I first realized that I loved you
I became afraid, for I felt exposed,
surrounded by the broken-down fences
I had painstakingly built as protection 
for my fragile emotions and great fears
against a cold and indifferent world.

Suddenly, without warning, my safe world
was changed as I gave free entry to you
into my heart, and in spite of my fears,
I willingly my complete being exposed - 
seeking the nestling warmth and protection
and the safety of love's strong fences.

I found that love was not caged, and fences
were not needed to live in its blissful world, 
where affection was its own protection
and the sharing of life's journey with you 
could allow unknown joys to be exposed
and assurances could replace past fears.

As our love grew and flowered, and past fears
were eroded with abandoned fences 
I became strong, despite being exposed
to the changes of an evolving world.
I felt secure and contented with you -
In your loving care I found protection.

And through the years, love's certain protection
has shielded us against life's storms and fears
And as I have walked at the side of you
I found a paradise, without fences,
where we have built our own beautiful world,
filled with love, and our joy could be exposed.

Now we have grown old and by age exposed
our bodies frail, each limb needs protection.
As we  move slowly in a twilight world
and confront diverse and alarming fears
I seek strength in my memory's fences
recalling joyous times and days with you.

A soul exposed to true love knows no fears.
The protection of your love's strong fences
secure my world - I will always love you.


Copyright © David De la Croes | Year Posted 2013

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When Madness Rides on Moonlight

Days pass into the weak, loveless nights. The moon blinks.
The stars swirl beneath Van Gogh’s brush, as he links.
Comet light passes twisting cypresses, a schizophrenic’s concussion.
On and on, the wind twirls the trees, and does not complain,
nor, does the cosmos cringe awaiting reciprocation.
Lightning bugs mimic the stars. Atoms sneer.

Those who spout love and friendship abandon him, sneering.
Their images dance beneath his lids, when he blinks.
Though denied a compass, his soul does not reciprocate.
Through pain, physical and mental, he still connects, links
with the life which absorbs and excludes him, not complaining.
Nights pass without his mistress, Sien. His mind is concussive.

His face trembles torn in the brass sounds of the storm’s concussions.
The butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker, all of them, sneer. 
How unmerciful, this cycle, this God to whom he does not complain.
If lack of mercy is just, may he not know why? Time blinks.
Thinking causes pain. Only painting connects him, he links.
He accepts art and the pain, as gifts, choosing not to reciprocate.

Voices, the paint, the moon, the voices say, reciprocate.
He chases mice. The cheese plate falls with a loud concussion.
He rubs his gnarled hands across his lids. He maintains the link. 
How? Why? But, the mice eating his cheese only sneer.
The sunflowers shimmer and wiggle in their vase, as he blinks.
Stumbling, he falls attempting to sit, the chair does not complain.

He had thought God clear as sunlight; yet, the paint complained. 
He was not God; he could not capture the light. He must reciprocate.
After all, who was he, but a mere man, ashes to dust; life blinks.
Ah death, le grand mal, no minor concussion,
He must escape, join the celestial spin, and avoid their sneers.
Sick, yes, sick to death of not being understood, not linking.

The brushes call. He prostitutes himself. Oil spills, connecting, linking.
Theo, brother, never would he forgive. Many others would complain.
Ah, Gauguin, His dear friend, he would understand and not sneer.
If God was truly a loving God, surely, he thought; God will not reciprocate.
The mockers who did not live in Dante’s nine levels of hellish concussion,
they will call his actions cowardly. Merciless, they did not live between the blinks.



Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2015

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A cyclical life

Here in the heavy depths of insolent woes,
We gesture and talk and waste our time,
Staking claim to each minute of our earthly life,
Running the hours through a clock by the day,
Never sated, not content to find even love,
Buried deep inside the petals of a perfect rose.

So was a metaphor created from the rose, 
Then plagiarized and used for all of time,
Simply here to represent the beauty of love,
A perfection to which we cannot aspire to in life,
Or even death, in the darkest of all those woes,
Great though they may seem by the passing day.

It's a fragile, soulful kind of love,
In the pressing presence of the breaking day,
Where your back breaks beneath ample woes,
And there just simply isn’t ever enough time,
To do what you plan to do with your life.
Then you start to resemble that rose.

Soft and delicate, with easy loss of life,
Mournful of the passage of time,
Counting down, day by dreary day,
Ever seeking out to find dear love,
The theoretical banishment of woes.
Such is the way of the deep red rose.

Has it ever occurred to us not to mark time?
Just to ignore it, along with any such woes,
Just to leap forth and enjoy life,
To live to the absolute fullest everyday,
And just as chosen by the poet's rose,
To find and hold on to, that one true love.

For I find, that it's mostly true these days,
That people don't make enough time,
For laughter and fullness in life,
So preoccupied with petty woes,
That they forget about the beauty of love,
And in doing that, they forget about the rose,

I know what the rose represents in my life,
And I work hard to expel my woes every day,
So that soon I will have time for true love.

*****Written in Sestina for Constance's Poetry 101 contest.*****
******* 5th Place winner*******
******Sarah Blake August 2010******

A sestina is a highly structured form of poetry consisting of six six-line stanzas and a three-
line envoy (thirty-nine lines). The end words of the first stanza are repeated in varied order
as end words in the other stanzas and also recur in the envoy.


Copyright © Lorrie Scheider | Year Posted 2010

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Revel Joyfully

It was on a cold night in Bethlehem that hope was born
A babe lay in a manger as angels sang joyfully
Above the nativity a star shone casting bright light
Guiding the paths of three wise men to welcome our Savior
As shepherds flocked toward the illuminated holy site
The warmth from within still touches the hearts of all mankind

In remembrance we pray for harmony among mankind
As we celebrate the first Christmas, optimism born
In the Mideast soldiers bow down, recalling this wondrous site
For just one night thoughts of war fade, hearts are filled joyfully
They lay down weapons, focusing on the birth of our Savior
As they huddle together, sharing good will by camp light

In many parts of the world, homes illuminated by light
Peace touches the hearts of those who seek blessings for mankind
Church bells ring, signaling the arrival of our Savior
Souls are touched as the restoration of joy is now born
Worshippers proceed to mass, sharing greetings joyfully
If only each day could be filled with such a loving site

How welcome to see the sun rise each day on such a site
Hearts abounding with humanity from our inner light
With angels in each of us sharing good will joyfully
If I live to see such days, I’ll have new hope for mankind
Trust and faith would emanate, celebrating a Child born
A Child, a Leader Who would give His life as a Savior

Cast aside the trappings, focus only on our Savior
Keep in mind this first Christmas, a blessed and holy site
How wonderful it would be to see new harmony born
Differences seem petty as we revel in God’s light
Join me in expectations for the future of mankind
Like the seraphs let us sing out in hymns so joyfully

Make our future one that finds families praying joyfully
No greater inspiration than the birth of our Savior
From a Blessed Mother’s womb sprang a babe to save mankind
Let us be wise men, finding cause to worship at this site
War and hatred cannot exist within God’s holy light
Acceptance of each man’s worth can in joyful hearts be born

Raise your hearts, revel joyfully in our Savior’s glory
In cheer mankind recalls the site of a manger at night
Where neath a star’s light was born a King, the Son of our Lord  
 



* Sestina written for the "Joy to the World" contest.  


Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire | Year Posted 2010

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Celebarating The Adventure Of Advent: A collaboration with Kai Michael Neumann

Universal elegy grieves and yet embraces shifts of paradigm
New beginnings consciousness initiates comprehends and thus proceeds from
Illusion’s delusion collusions misconceptions in the irritating
Vortex whirlpool immanent void of false containment

Enlightenment modern postmodern retro visionary futuristic aspirations
Resound in dialectical rebirth rejuvenation germinate constructive 
Sense meaning reflect serenity’s tentative confidence that the
Agony of climate change greed warfare ignorance destructive apathy
Liberates fusion confusion necessitates Aquarian communication of

Antagonism’s polar opposites contradictions complements

Cycles spheres of influence of grave repression gravitate
Revolve resolve with pushing pulling moons in metaphorical
Orbital mental psychological initiation shape incidences
Synchronicities collateral communal reason feeling responsibility

Transformation of the global madness inhumanity conjoins
Idealism and the darker side’s fallacies of fabrication

Conspiracy of muted spirit silence violation fade away transform to novel script

Communication courses discourses concur in co-operation
Obvious obscurity in the blip of human race’s evolution delimits 
Limitations iron cages hopes for new time place of reason beyond
Laissez-faire and hippie psychedelic stream of consciousness afar from
Anarchy self-righteous slavery rebellion mindlessness

Big oppressive bangs big brother’s obliterating over-information with
Onslaught of technology fail and falter when simplicity and esoteric
Rationale comprise enhance encompass the necessary world view shifts

Ascent and ever changing climax revitalizes humanness thus gifts
Truth deriving comprehension from ‘objective’ communal subjectivity with
Intuition insight inclination outside from the rigid boxed conformity

Order may be found again in the chaos of our time of misrepresented bedlam
New Age Aquarius delivers acts upon fresh constellation contemplates the Universe 

Celebrating the adventure of Advent this one is written very uniquely. 
During this transition Oh, the ubiquity of perception, reception most gratefully
Each new day begins with one’s first thought, amazingly
Though, this thought did not require any forethought, excitingly,
I thought, what if I thought in forethought, demandingly
Boldly I choose, a path of understanding.  Then Daringly,

Choosing to forgive myself, then choosing to forgive everyone else.  I gratefully
wished upon distant star and my cry did travel far.  Vega, amazingly
did answer my call, in a dream from My whispering old cemetery scene . Excitingly
 I dashed out of my bed, outside looked to sky, then cried Eternal welcome to Aquarius demandingly.
The Joy of this revelation, thought and manifestation determining one’s destination. So, daringly
I choose to be enlightened by the universal code, which is downloaded to each individual uniquely.

Travel I have far and wide, and gone I have, from high to low. Amazingly
though, I realize know, that I had always been seeking to know.  Excitingly
turning each new page, certain and determined to be my own sage. Daringly
I vied, nothing would make me swallow my pride.  Demandingly
I had thought,  When we get there that all would play fair.  Thought I did, uniquely
as most should do.  Now, A little Alliteration to say we too are gratefully

The stranger within me does no longer be because know I see. Life does have excitingly
creative individual versatility. Change it does for you, whom call upon it consistent and demandingly.
Remaining keenly observant in search for knowledge and do so daringly.
Questioning what dares seem query logic and reason itself. While never failing to truly uniquely 
understand another for having their own uniqueness  and being grateful
for be blessed with this, understanding of knowing each individual creation amazingly.

.
Target destination is fixed after course has been made demandingly.
Each individual soul being has chosen this mission daringly. 
Having arrived in this Third dimensional reality to uniquely 
instruct in the revolution of Love is a four letter word and do so very thankfully and gratefully
to each and every soul of light that exists. Uplifted into the light I call out amazingly.
 Higher Power, The all High and Universal Father of All, whom is the one that is truly exciting.

Inviting all He does whom choosing a star path daringly.
His message has been sent to each and every one of you uniquely 
in its own way. We should all give blessing and thanks, while being gratefully
for each and every new amazingly
fantastic and an Emphasis on an excitingly
creative Acrostic man day. After being both commanding humbly and so, demandingly.
,
Who is excitingly and amazingly, demandingly and 
daringly to be uniquely and gratefully Different? 



Copyright © Steven Henderson | Year Posted 2016

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Thinking of You


Thinking of your smile makes my day,
So inspired to write a poem of what I feel,
Can’t take you out of my mind my dear.
 
In my heart you are my love so dear,
You always make a brighter day,
I hope you really know how I feel.

When I wake up every single day,
I look at your cool picture my dear,
My contented soul shows for what I feel.

You complete my day, I feel so happy dear.




February 24, 2013
For Andrea's Contest
9th Place Winner






Copyright © MariaDiding SajSam | Year Posted 2013

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Life Lesson

                                   
I love being young, getting to ride the roller coasters.
The sound, tick, tick, tick, tick-like a heartbeat racing to the top.
Then, surprised even when you know it’s coming, dropped into the abyss.
Something always pulls it down, like gravity.
It’s frustrating, riding something so close to being dead.
So far away but still so close, seating rows.

I hate being so close to, yet so far from the row.
She was in with me on this roller coaster.
Adrenaline rushed my body so fast almost leaving me dead.
The blood flowed so fast emphasizing the highs of the top.
But something keeps pulling me down, gravity.
Here I am again, back in the abyss.

In the ride, weeks of no communication, the beginning of the end, the abyss.
The scariest. My worst fear of my youth. Looking back at the rows,
I see her, with my own image, my heart sinks more. I hate you gravity.
But it’s the only thing that fuels the roller coaster.
Nothing makes me happier than bringing it back to the top.
Let’s hope this isn’t so abrupt, so fast, like the last one, leaving me dead.

How I hope so much, so much hope still not dead.
The heart, the love, the eternal abyss.
Strikes me back with enough momentum to reach the top.
Lines, love, flashing like an old film, with rows.
Showing me a movie, reminding me of, a roller coaster.
The movie explained that the only thing that keeps it going is gravity.

Thank you gravity.
My worries are gone and dead.
Just accept it, and love the roller coaster.
Appreciate the loneliness of the abyss.
The reason you’re here is for the ride, not the rows.
I just want to enjoy the youth and its happy tops.

This coaster, like love has its tops.
But something brings it down like gravity.
Distanced with rows,
Never seeing her again, thinking she’s dead.
But deeper and deeper coming out of the abyss.
The complicated life of the young, the love of roller coasters.

Get on the roller coaster, rise to the top.
Don't worry about the drop to the abyss, It’s because of gravity
That you’re not dead, and I don't care about the rows.


Copyright © Marcus Jjaks Reyes | Year Posted 2013

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Natures Forest

Around the base of the tree the banks of bluebells flower
Tall and straight but weak of stem, beautifying the forest
Cultivated by nature, leaves for compost, untouched by hand

The flowers are admired by all, gathered by children’s hand
To crush out the perfume from within the flower
Pressed into a book a reminder of the fairy tale forest

Forever in your memory the waving ocean of blue forest
A canvas brought to life by James D Preston hand*
Though missing the perfume of this beautiful small blue flower

Flowers of the Forest natures canvas in your Hand

* http://duffieldartgallery.co.uk/gallery/home/james-preston/?oo=41627715
                                                                                            a link to the painting.


17/02/2013
Form Tritinia


Copyright © Seren Roberts | Year Posted 2013

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A Mouse And A Man




In the anters and shadows of this baleful life
perhaps the little brown mouse searching in silence
bewray a lonesome story behold

For eyes to wander a brief candle behold
in hushed light, enwheeled...this pitiful life
if only, my friend, to peer in silence

where love had flown in years of silence
to gape for dawn, a friendship behold
in ghostly thought of scurried life

From the cold reality of life where painful silence smothers, Behold!! compassion is born..

___________________________________



Definitions-

Anters - Caves
Baleful-Mortal
Bewray-Reveal
Brief Candle- Life is compared to a candle flame
Enwheeled- Encompassed
Ghostly-Holy
Gape-Long/Yearn





Copyright © Rick Parise | Year Posted 2013

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The Stars and Beyond


As we speculate the clear evening sky
Iridescent with jewels which we call stars,
Alive in our hearts stirs the endless dream
To unwind and solve the mysteries of Earth
And unfathomed vastness of cosmic space.
Since time began, this has been our great wish.

Because of this strong and enduring wish
Our minds are forever drawn toward the sky, 
Where in the blankness of great timeless space
Drift along planets, our Sun, Moon, and stars.
And amidst it all, our minuscule Earth
Seems lost in this cloudy, galactic dream.

But humans will always anxiously dream
Of someday achieving this inborn wish;
Discovering answers about the Earth;
Exploring the unknown realms of the sky
To find our way among planets and stars,
Erasing the boundaries of time and space.

What truths does it hold, this infinite space?
Will answers always be vague as a dream?
Do other planets with suns as our stars
Have beings like earthlings who hope and wish?
Do they gaze at their own eternal sky;
Know of our galaxy, Sun, Moon, and Earth?

Though we're secure on this great mammoth Earth,
When we contemplate the vastness of space,
We know we are only dust in the sky;
Our own importance dissolves like a dream,
For matter not how we wonder and wish
We are naught amid the planets and stars.

Gems on black velvet, our heaven of stars;
So close they all seem to mortals of Earth;
So often we stare at them—make a wish—
Yet billions of light years measure the space
In between. When will we wake from our dream?
Solve all the puzzles which darken our sky?

Twinkle on great sky with your rhinestone stars—
Continue, sweet dream, for beings of Earth!
Eternal as space is our hope and wish!


December 13, 2015

Premiere Contest: Your Absolute Best
Sponsor: The Seeker
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sestina: A highly structured form of poetry consisting of six six-line stanzas and ending with  three-line half-stanza (thirty-nine lines). The end words of the first stanza are repeated in strict order as end words in the other stanzas.

The concluding half-stanza uses the same six words; 1,3 and 5 in the centers of each line, and 2, 4 and 6, at the ends.


Copyright © Sandra Haight | Year Posted 2015

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The Nearsighted Dragon

To celebrate his new glasses,
home a nearsighted dragon, did fly.
the doctor had truly, helped his sight.
A party he’d throw, full of savories; 
on many delicacies, his friends would feed.
All night they’d party, till morning’s light.

His patio torches, he’d blow on to light;
water spots, he’d removed, from every glass. 
He decided a menu, for his friends, to feed.
Off to the grocery, with his bags, he did fly;
oh, how he did savor,
his brand new, eyesight.

Dragon, inswws, was a curious sight;
with bags full of food, he did alight.
Dragon truly savored,
his shiny new eyeglasses. 
but as turbulence hit, off they did fly; 
causing him to drop his many bags of feed.

With no food, for his friends, upon which, to feed; 
he dove, in an attempt, to restore his sight;
that nearsighted dragon in half-blind flight.
He looked drunk as the dickens, in broad daylight.
Though he recovered his glasses; 
his sight, again, to savor.

Now he could see, to recover, his savory
menu and headed home, for his friends, to feed.
First he tied on his glasses, 
as to not, lose his sight.
The coals on his grill, he simply blew, to light, 
as his guests all arrived, in true dragon flight.

Hungry dragons in flight,
arrived, dined and savored, 
the meal, he’d prepared by torch light.
On mushrooms and steak and potatoes they did feed;
oh, it was such a bright, festive sight
and they toasted him, with a great clinking of glasses.

Twenty dragons, still too full, to fly;
bedded down, in his cavern, by the morning light.

In dreams, they’d re-savor, 
the spread; what a sight!

Dragon’s friends, just as planned, he truly did feed;
all thanks to his shiny new eyeglasses.


Copyright © M. L. Kiser | Year Posted 2015

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AN UNHIDDEN REALITY

I hate my deeds & 
everbody hates me
It's a fact and I know it
I am a burden so heavy 
I am a curse so dark
I am a person , i'hv bones
Not just a reason to 
throw stones


Copyright © Fatima Hasan Zaidi | Year Posted 2013

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Things We Think

                              Things We Think

He said, “Every man is busy earning money.” 
She said, “Is there anything more important than love?”
He said, “Is there anything more important than sex?”
She said, “I think we all just fear death.”
He said, “It’s like the Cats in the Cradle we just need more time.”
She said, “I think we really need more space.”

He moved out to a place with more space.
She soon did not have enough money.
She had to leave behind the house and love.
Once they vowed nothing would do them part not even death.
She never learned the aborted child’s sex.
Biologically he still had more time.

He was ambitious, indoctrinated into the ascent of money.
She worked her fingers to the bone, until her death.
He afforded local expensive sex.
She began to view local nature as expansive space.
He did not connect space and time.
She knew what connected it all was love.

In time he found a new love.
In love, she found time.
He equated good passion with good sex.
She found the emerald walls of nature the best space.
He loved the crisp or dirty, rumpled, green of money.
Homeless— she was reprimanded in the rain “You’ll catch your death!”

it's been said,

The root of all evil is money.
Money can’t buy you love.
Nothing is certain but taxes and death.
I don’t know the question, but the answer is sex.
I need my space.
All we have is time.

I’ve learned to give love and learned that is love.
I’ve learned one’s time is worth more than one’s money.
I’ve learned a small space in nature explains all infinite space.
I’ve learned that gender should not be judged by one’s sex.
I’ve learned that empathy slows time.
I’ve learned from the leaves of grass there is no death.

He is more than his money and she is more than her sex.
In death we find love.
In space there exist time.


Copyright © Toni Orban | Year Posted 2016

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On my face is a smile- sestina contest

The feeling of happiness, I see in your smile
Wonder what the secret is, what is her name
How long have you felt this, is it for real
Don't get hurt boy, look loosely at this
Did it start with a look, maybe a kiss
Watch what your doing,your face is bliss

Went for a walk talked, in the light rain what bliss
Saw your reflection, echoed in a puddle, love that smile
Looked down as I looked up, stole a kiss
Known you a short time, not your full name
Just call you cariad,I know you like this
Is this far too soon, for you is it real.

I know what I'm thinking, for me it's real
Loving you as I do, is pure bliss
Am I rushing you boy,  do you feel like this
When I look into you face, and see your smile
Who is it my cariad, is it my name
Please tell me, so I can seal with a kiss

We carried on walking, rain like a butterfly kiss
Fell on our heads, making you feel real
Did you whisper something, did I hear my name.
We stopped for a while, looked up to kiss
Your handsome face, it lit up with a smile
Couldn't believe, someone could affect me like this.

Stopped off to eat  at a nearby cafe, not sure if he would like this
Was lovely hot food , puddings light as a hummingbirds kiss
The coffee was delicious, he gave a big smile
Said loved being with you, time will tell if its real
Had to settle for that, life I knew could be such bliss
Good night cariad, or maybe I should call you by name.

Slept well that night, dreamt I hear you calling my name
Broke into a smile when I heard this
Woke up with a start,  in heavenly bliss
Was I dreaming or maybe 'twas the pillow I did kiss
Please put me out of my misery, make our love real
Say those magic words, on my face put a smile


Called you up, you voice echoed my room, I liked this
Listened for awhile your voice is sur-real, ending our call with a kiss 
Heard you say you have my heart, on my face a beaming smile


Penned with stress this form is hard 04/06/2014



Copyright © Seren Roberts | Year Posted 2014

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Whispers of my fair maiden

Alone, there I stood by the bench in the park.
On a leash by my side, my protective young hound.
In the distance I heard the echo of whispers;
As a dark hooded figure approached in a cloak.
She stopped and looked at me this beautiful maiden.
Rose like lips smiled gently, against skin bright and fair.

She took down her hood, released hair long and fair;
I offered my hand and on bench did we park.
We looked at the stars appearing so maiden;
As we talked of our youths and her company I did hound.
Then the moon cast its shadows and darkness did cloak;
Whilst trees bustled, rustling, the night timely whispers.

As we cuddled up close, to get warm friendly whispers;
It grew colder, I gave my jacket and said it wasn't fair.
So we got up to leave and she bunched up her cloak;
We walked to the car to the place I did park.
In the back did we place my faithful friend hound,
And we drove into the night on our journey so maiden.

We drove and we drove till the dawn arrived maiden.
To the rustling chorus of natures whispers;
And a fox searching for breakfast did stalk and did hound;
Saw chickens, roosters and hens such a fair!
In burrowed field did monstrous combine park,
Whilst autumn leaves rained tumbling natures cloak.

We went to my home and and we hung up the cloak.
Then I partook a chance to kiss the hand of my maiden.
While we spoke of the night at the park.
We enfolded ourselves to bodily whispers;
And I nestled amongst all of hair fair;
But when in heat of moment the barks of my hound.

A knock on wall from angry neighbors, please shut up the hound.
So I fed him, watered and let him outside; around me her cloak.
Then returned to my angel so beautifully fair,
Her skin looked so radiant my heavenly maiden;
That I caressed it so longingly, with gentle whispers,
Then stopped and remembered the leash in the park.

Then cursing the hound; I tell the dear maiden.
Dressed quickly, coats, cloak; and I love you whispers.
She tells me not fair, and we go to the park!!!


Copyright © Anna-Marie Docherty | Year Posted 2010

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Columbine

That tragic day the school bells tolled
in April nineteen ninety-nine:
the massacre at Columbine,
the rage of Harris and Klebold.

Some say that Harris was a cold
and grandiose young psychopath,
who wished to show the world his wrath:
the rage of Harris and Klebold.

Some say that guns should not be sold.
Some blame it on deep discontent.
Can we predict? Can we prevent
the rage of Harris and Klebold?

That tragic day the school bells told 
the rage of Harris and Klebold.


Copyright © evan bowen | Year Posted 2014

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The Joy of Mother's Love

It begins with the joy of giving birth
Continues even after the moment of death
Life, like the scope of all man's music
Opening and closing passages of love
Messages sung and carried on the wind
Written in the deepest part of the heart

That palpable place we call the heart
Emotion long before the first cry at birth
Scent of beginnings carried on the wind
Unable to imagine  the notion of death
For her baby, mother's unconditional  love
The crooning sound of  her sweet music

The years pass, so changes the music
But not the forever melody in her heart
Children grow and so does her love
A bit different than the day of birth
But constant and hopeful until  death
As  perennial as blows the winter wind

A young man's story is written on the wind
With pen in hand he writes his own music
With hardly a thought of the canvas of death
But tucked away in the corners of his heart
The certainty known from the moment of birth
That in her life he would always find love

Still his mother's eyes are filled with love
Vision dim with age , acknowledging time in the wind
The spring will bring again the miracle of birth
The lambs in the fields will make their music
The joy of rebirth will fill the simplest heart
Beauty will reign even in winter's death

Facing now the certainty of her coming death
He looks at his child with a new depth of love
Knowing with certainty that breaks his heart
Letting his tears be dried by the gentle wind
Believing he will still know the joy of her music
Hoping that in death will come a new birth

Garner strength in your heart to face death
Remembering from birth a life full of the joy of love
And as the wind of time blows, hear the music



Copyright © Barbara Gorelick | Year Posted 2010

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Dance, was my release

Pain had I ignited bright
Through my silence, had my hurt worsened
Denied conversations with all for superficial reasons, I had
Forgetting that love was my life
And people were my love
As I danced, did I repent

Slower were my motions
An expression of joy, had my face not worn
Though the subtlety, left all indifferent
Seen me as myself, they had
The scarring in my body, was concealed
Each hand grasped, healing another wound

My ignorance, claimed no mask
If my words you could not hear, they were not yours
A norm had I created, to destroy myself
Though forgiveness, had been a gift received 
Grudges, were there none to find
Every gesture, a reconciliation for me

Hatred, was there none to emit 
A wealth of moments, had been created 
Unity had proved solid, through the rhythm
A spectacle, had the front created
Humanity at its best, is when material is undesired
My hate almost undone, through the arms of strangers

Caged my heart had I, for many months
Its beats' restrictions, pleading to stop
My acknowledgement, had been in vain
Torture did I sought more to inflict
Until your beauty was mine to behold
In your movements, was my heart freed

Your existence, I refuted as an absence
Success was inevitable through my acts
Than upon your face, my eyes fell
And my love, had been remembered again
All that was true, had I sighted in your acceptance
Swaying with you, transited my apologies

Healed my hate, had dance
Enabled reconciliation, had each hand 
In swaying with you, had my love been freed


Copyright © Keshan Govender | Year Posted 2016

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Dying Heart

Stabbed in the heart, I’m starting to bleed
I’m becoming cold as the touch of death
Yet I don’t want to say goodbye

Painful word, insane cry, sweet goodbye
Pain pounds on me as I bleed
Thumping me until I reach death

Life is being drained by the angel of death
Forcing me to say goodbye
Suffering the more I bleed

Yet even as I bleed to death I refuse to tell you goodbye


Copyright © Julie Alcin | Year Posted 2013

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Death Undignified, Fort Laramie 1860

High noon in Fort Laramie, the summer sun is oppressive.
A whalebone corset digs into my body’s tender parts.
Peering from the shop, my hand touching the pane
of dearly brought glass, I feel the vibration of incoming riders.
The pale blue sky disappears in a cloud of dust. 
Children playing hoop, let it drop with an unheard clatter.

Inside Mrs. Dreary’s provisioner, cutlery falls with a clatters.
Outside the store, horses race pell-mell with the oppressive
sound of thunder. “Indians,” children scream, running through the dust.
Folks in buggies, wagons, and on horseback flee for other parts.
“Sioux,” I nod. Gunshots ring through the air savaging the riders.
Mrs. runs up the backstairs carrying the baby. There’s a scream of pain.
Arrow flights buzz by shattering shop window panes.
The Indians leap from horse back to the tile roof raising a clatter.
Mr. Dreary descends, Sharp shooter in hand, and aims at the riders.
A cat’s eye marble falls from the toy display; the scent of fear oppresses.
He slams the door shut as shards of glass scatter, bullet parted.
“Mame, git, Gener’l Connor’ll kill me if y’ur dusted.”

My eyes wide-open owlish are full of tears and dust.
“Damn heathens” Mr. Dreary cusses. Bullets clip the broken pane.
Pulling me behind, opening the useless. “Thop” an arrow parts
his scalp. He falls backward, landing beside me, his spurs clattering.
The baby screams from upstairs. I turn to see Mrs. Dreary’s oppressive
grip on her dead husband. She grabs the Sharp, kills a passing rider.

The arriving soldiers round up the band of native riders.
Mrs. Dreary gets the babe, kicks the fallen marble in the dust
and walks through the door, into another type of oppression.
The soldiers are executing the Sioux braves. Children watch in pain.
Across the street a lone warrior perches. A roof tile clatters
to the dirt. His arrow flies and hits me life begins to part.

Blind with pain I fall forward facedown, numb, parting
the water in the horse trough left for the town’s riders.
My brass buttons and flint arrowhead scrape the tub clattering,
no one in the street notices my departure through the days dust.
My open mouth fills with the rancid, taste of pain.
“How improper,” is my last lucid thought, oppressive.

The clatter of hoofs rocks the trough punctuating my parting.
The oppression of man against man leaves with the riders.
Only dust and the pain of the living remain.


Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2015

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MIRACLE AT DAWN

No mother would fill up her eyes with tears of woman...
if it weren't for God performing a miracle at dawn,
as she cried out in joy and held her baby in trembling arms
but shed many sweet tears hearing his laughter so loud;
oh, he couldn't see her mommy's face through his tiny eyes,
and it will be long before he'll will utter the first word, " Mom." 

Now that baby sleeps under the attentive look of his mom,
who's too young to become a mature woman;
many visions of this birth crossed her gleeful eyes
she dreamed of the very same words whispered at each dawn,
repeating them in her silly head as if they sounded too loud...
while cradling a pretty doll in her folded arms.

Will she be welcomed home by her parents opening their arms?
Will they reprimand her and not consider her a legal mom?
Perhaps they will not be angry and speak not so loud:
girls are supposed to be girls, not suddenly turn into woman...
So this innocent girl, deceived by a bad boy, must wake up at dawn
when her baby cries and feed him with scary, childish eyes?

Nights seem longer for her, trying to stay awake rubbing her eyes,
what she beheld in those exciting eyes, now it's a burden in her weary arms;
she remembers that pain was too unbearable, but joy more sublime at dawn...
how will she learn how to care for the infant by watching her mom?
She must have seen a nursery or read a book how to think like a real woman,
and can anyone imagine how she keeps that secret instead of revealing it loud?

She must gather enough courage inside to feed her baby who can't cry loud,
but for now she must carry that baby without sighs of distress into her bright eyes;
and her parents can see the changes making her a loving person already woman;
they may ask questions to why she has gained weight and holds dolls in her arms...
no, they aren't anticipating great news and in doubt, they await a splendid dawn.

Mother and daughter closely together amazed by the coming dawn,
any concealed secret can be easily spoken...somewhat joyful and loud;
they imagine the infant's futures will be part of grandma and mom!
Their reunited hearts come together to show love in their delighted eyes,
and they'll take turns feeding the new-born, tenderly lulling him in their arms;
what if forgiveness hadn't been there to deny her all of the joys of woman?

Would a mother deny her daughter compassion as a good woman?
Even God hurried dawn to offer that gift into her gracious, tender arms...
and those arms accepted it with the gentleness and kindness of mom.





Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2010

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Death Undignified, Fort Laramie 1860

The summer sun was high. The heat was oppressive.
The whalebone corset dug into the body's tender parts.
Peering from the shop, my hand touching the pane
of dearly brought glass, I feel the vibration of the incoming riders.
The weak blue sky pales, and clouds over with the dust. 
Children playing at hoop, let it drop with an unheard clatter.

Inside Fort Laramie’s provisioner, Mrs. Dreary’s dropped plate clatters.
Outside the general store, a thunder of hoofs race pell-mell through heat oppressive.
“Indians,” the children scream, running through the miasma of dust.
Folks in wagons and on horseback flee for other parts.
“Sioux,” I nod. Gunshots ring through the air savaging the riders.
The shopkeeper’s wife runs up the back stairs. Her baby screams in pain.

Arrow flights buzz by shattering shop window panes.
The indians leap from horse back to tile roof raising a clatter.
Mr. Dreary reaches for his Sharp shooter and aims at the riders.
A cat’s eye marble falls from the toy display, a mundane oppression.
Dreary slams shut the door. The shards of glass scatter, bullet parted.
“Mame, git away from that window now! Gener’l Connor’ll kill me if y’ur dusted.”

My eyes, now black and hollow as a barn owls, tear, full of dust.
“Damn heathens” Mr. Dreary cusses. Bullets clip through the broken pane.
Pulling me behind, opening the useless glass door. “Thop” an arrow parts
his scalp. He falls backward, landing beside me, spurs clattering.
The wee baby screams again and I turn to see Mrs. Dreary's oppressive
grip on the child. “He’s dead.” She says grabbing the Sharp. She kills a rider.

The arriving soldiers chase the mongrel band of heathen riders.
Mrs. Dreary, babe in one arm, Sharp in the other, kicks the fallen marble in the dust.
She walks through the door, out of one carnage into another type of oppression,
the soldiers are executing the Sioux braves. Children watch in pain.
Across the street a lone warrior perches. A roof tile clatters
to the dirt. His arrow flies and a soul is parted.

Falling with blind numbness, forward, down, parting
the water in the horse trough left for the incoming riders.
My brass buttons and flint arrowhead scrape the tub clattering,
no one in the street notices my departing in the days dust.
My open mouth fills with the rancid, taste of pain.
“How improper,” was my last lucid thought, oppressive.

The clatter of hoofs rocks my parting
The oppression of man against man leaves with the riders.
Only dust and the pain of the living remains.

Poet: Debbie Guzzi





Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2010

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Rather die than feel

Sometimes I wish that I would die
Or destroy my emotions so I don’t feel
Especially when I’m being choked by pain

Nobody loves me; they’re laughing at my pain
I swear they want me to just die 
No one cares about how I feel

If only I can ignore everything that I feel
If only I can demolish my pain
Will I only heal after I die?

Sometimes I rather die than feel this dreadful pain


Copyright © Julie Alcin | Year Posted 2013