Poem | |
The poet is the language,the mystery in monalisa's smile
The brush of Caravaggio,and palette of Vangogh
He is the sonnet of Mozart and symphony of Bach
The tragedy of Shakespeare,and Pablo's saddest verse
He is the Danube in waltz and swan lake in ballet
The renaissance of fervent passion,and remnants of last breaths
He is the dilemma between immoral,spiritual and sane
He is the shadow of deed,the ombra of sin
The fantasy,desire,illusion,and the inward sigh birthed from night's aurora
He is an outward cry setting in the horizon,in an ocean of tidal waves
The poet is the dreamer of a non-existent affair
He is the hope,the doubt,the fable,the fairytale,of a mortal reality
He is the clown,the living metaphor,the voice
escaping ,returning to a hypocratic,demanding world.
He is the deceiver of time,a newly wed spouse so loyal to his pen
He is the thought which bleeds its petals through fragnant words
The poet is an omnipotent servant,with a will to ask and crave to learn
He is a philosopher whose always an amateur in the pursuit of wisdom.
He is an eternal slave to his muse,addicted to the beverage of inspiration
He knows no lapses in all that is scandolous,royal,or sacred
He is the artist,musician,actor,and clairvoyant of undestined paths
He is the clay's cheap mold carved in the refined sculpture of next century
The poet is an unfinished book,each chapter scribbled in yesterday
An empty page,still to be filled today,and the worn out bookmark of tomorrow
More great poems below...
Poem | |
in the uncoloured tint of another everyday
amongst the spit polished waxed apples
tightly packed in burlap bags
they walked like minded
in their own burly wrap
oblivious to the irony
to their similarity
of the markets round red fruit
unaware of the tragedy
the horror of events yet to come
it will rain metal shrapnel
as human minds grasp
with the purpose of their existence
as in their ignorance
they understand their worth as human bombs
with a belief the heavens will open the gates
with a fanfare and a promised blessing
for their divine act of unquestioned belief
the clay shaped bricks
the black iron metal stairs
the drum sound of engines
then the lull
the pulse of the storm
the rain of death
yet this moment captured
with man and child in hand
the world travels
nothing in the universe
even a hint
even a glimpse
not a clue
that would lead
life in its contradiction
like the proverbial apple
Poem | |
I sit here alone...wondering...how much longer this...and in hearing
the question a silent icy fear blankets my body...the answer would
come wearing both masks...tragedy...comedy...this is my life. with
freedom comes death...it hangs over me like a Mexican piñata filled
with chocolate covered blades...so each day firmly slipped into
neutral I exist...barely a choice to live...so I ask myself...how
did I get here...the answer comes thundering from up above...
a dead poet speaks...son that is the path you chose at your fork
in the road... you don't argue the truth...you just throw cold water on
your face...no...you step into a frigid shower...cleanse your thoughts
...stand in defeat happy to feel something even if it is just the pain of
your nerve endings screaming...soaking wet and naked is the only life
you presently afford yourself...there is no one to hear your tears...
what little sound they make rolling down your cheeks...they are not
self pitying but rather wanting...of a loss so deep...what in your own
self appreciation defined you...you want back your art...it...that so
often led you back to the promised land...still you are not that hot
headed fool you once were...you will not stand on the mountain only
to shatter the tablets with their ten commandments...a cooler head
prevails...so you think...like a soap opera...these are the days of my
life...I am strong and vibrant...yes I am and I will walk as slowly as I
must towards my light and yes I will come out the other side a better
man for this.
Poem | |
I count my walks through herbs and shells
never knowing how old bones can be fleshed
from a heart bound on scrolls of endings,
and here I am among rows of an orchard…
feet like dust sanded by twelve months
of famine and feast ; somehow the maple boughs
wither from the laundry of evenings’ regret.
Often times, like the gypsy rose,
I climb into the lattice of my family tree
smelling its tar and citrus that knit arms
glossed by twilight’s love,
then raked by froths of autumn’s debris.
Closing a fence as another year shuts off,
I am between silence and scream…
eyes groaning with the music
of an anonymous breeze sheltering
a collected beauty of tragedy and the comedy
of drama: trials pinned by veiled nights
when kinship endures the flood of weather's hands.
It is so, I mean, the certainty of taming
the last ride before new seeds from a new year
twirl upon unborn fruits…
I disrobe the old bones to greet the unknown.
"“In times of test, family is best.” – Burmese Proverb
Carol Eastman's Enter The Best of 2014 Contest
by nette onclaud
Poem | |
You can't make someone love you all you can do
is be someone who can be loved.The rest is up to them.
No matter how much I care, some people just don't care back.
It takes years to build up trust, and only seconds to destroy it.
You can do something in an instant
will give you heartache for life.
It's not what you have in your life but
who you have in your life that counts.
You can get by on charm for about fifteen minutes.
After that, you'd better know something.
It's not what happens to people that's important
it's what they do about it.
Always leave loved ones with loving words.
Either you control your attitude or it controls you.
Heroes are the people who do what has to be done when
it needs to be done, regardless of the consequences.
Money is a lousy way of keeping score.
Just because someone doesn't love you the way you want them to
doesn't mean they don't love you with all they have.
Regardless of how hot and steamy a relationship is at first, the passion
fades and there had better be something else to take its place.
Never tell a child their dreams are unlikely or outlandish.
Few things are more humiliating,
and what a tragedy it would be if they believed you.
You must be able to forgive.
No matter how good a friend is, they are going to hurt you
every once in a while - you must forgive them for that.
No matter how bad your heart is broken
the world doesn't stop for your grief.
Our background and circumstances may have influenced
who we are but we are responsible for who we become.
Just because two people argue, it doesn't mean
they don't love each other and just because
they don't argue, it doesn't mean they do.
Two people can look at the exact same thing
and see something totally different.
No matter how thin you slice it,
there are always two sides.
You can keep going long after you think you can't.
Even when you think you have no more to give,
when a friend cries out to you,
you will find the strength to help.
It is hard to determine where to draw the line
between being nice and not hurting
people's feelings and standing up
for what you believe.
Credentials on the wall do not
make you a decent human being.
Writing, as well as talking, can ease emotional pains.
The paradigm we live in is not all that is offered to us.
(This is my own personal rewrite or version if you will of a common
post on the internet with many contributors and credited to Anonymous)
More great poems below...
Poem | |
like visitors from outer space
they came with tears, and lined the sidewalk
long in face, and arms embracing
some (I have no inkling) who
they were or why they felt compelled to come here
dozens came with casseroles
a few with flowers, wads of tissues
tender words of helpless mutterings
many acts of generous offerings
don't get me wrong, I watched the suffering
expressed in words or acts of kindness
I watched it all, and felt the love
did not dismiss the warm compassion
returned it all, with pure compliance
a thankful heart, a swollen throat
I hugged these strangers at the door
to comfort them, who shed their tears
upon my shoulder, offered them
a place to share their sympathies
a place to spend their mercy, pure
but, this was my child who suffered loss
impossible........I can't express it
protected from the very start, by
loving hands, her dad's and mine,
we watched her grow, and let her go
she grew from the vine ....into a rose
but life composed a tragedy with goals
beyond our reach...beyond our wildest dreams
and left her with a loss beyond control
like visitors from outer space we watch
as others come, and others go
they blow into their tissue wads
and empty the boxes one by one
and cry with us, and then they all go home
do we cry........? Oh no, not yet...
instead we smile a grateful smile
and thank them kindly for the while
and for the ways they share their love
but we can't cry into our own clenched wad
of tissue from the tissue box
she needs us to be strong, somehow
and so that is the way it is, we vow...to hold back all the tears for now
for, this was my child who suffered loss
impossible........I can't express it
Poem | |
When my time is done and I am finally laid to rest
I don’t want to be recalled as one who lived life depressed
So as I wrote my will, I chose to leave an instruction
That laughing gas be inhaled by all those at the function
No mournful eulogies will a pastor have to invent
For my funeral will be held under a circus tent
When dozens of clowns emerge from the tiny Volkswagen
Reams of my silly limericks Bozo will be dragin’
And as they’re read aloud, family and friends who knew me best
Will say, “She had a sense of humor, this we can attest.”
Mimes will mimic me trying to write the world’s best novel
As my corpse hangs from the trapeze, surely they will marvel
Laughter will ensue as they shoot me from the cannon
Flying high in my demise across the great Grand Canyon
All the children will smile and there’ll be no tears allowed
So no one will ever remember me as a “dark cloud”
There are people who seem to take life way too seriously
When I meet my Maker, don’t view this as a tragedy
Dad called me his “happy girl,” so let me go out that way
I want to leave them laughing as I reach my judgment day
Poem | |
Inner conflict dissolves under your lunar eclipse
playing across my fingertips and lips
tracing the hoodoo of your hips,
causing me to burn down into cinder-sticks
reborn as a Baton Rouge Phoenix
by the gravitational pull of Jupiter
orbiting in your eyes.
Rising above the ashes,
siphoning-off the swamp,
I collide in a slippery mudslide
of euphoria, until steam blows off
and only spring water remains
raining upon soil sprung apart
by the Trident of Hermes,
exposing for us naked iron
to place into a flame
dancing along liquid-skin language.
The extraction of you being the exception,
leaves behind a hole
to bury our fortresses of tragedy
grappling in our roots;
now broken-apart by our roots,
until the last crumbling stone
sprouts into untainted sheaths -
rigid - yet willing to bend
with the mending currents
of change. Becoming cleaner within,
hanging onto a truth to be found
in the wholesome speck of dirt
longing for my fingertips and lips
to feel the hoodoo in your hips;
a complementary dish of duality
alongside your whispers bleeding
into the blood-waves of my heart
merging with your lunar pulse.
Poem | |
The Bedouins, bequeathed with the sacred beauty of paradise harsh,
trusted guardians of jealous gorges and gifted groves
lead me from the Wadi Musa to the humble ingress of Petra,
saying with thrill, the Jin of your Jihad awaits you White Lion,
we embrace as Brothers of Light and ancient dust,
their camels wise in soft steps
impart wide eyed, gentle blessing to me,
a shrill whisper of teasing wonderment
whisks the sand of centuries strewn small
with a cobra's awakening whisp and hungry hiss,
evening enters the terrible terrain
glowing a cool blue dark and daring
along with it a blowing a zephyr unzips the zodiac of my ancestors,
stars of a billion years sympathize with this soul sojourn,
alone I journey inward like a brave wish wafting
into a heart wanting to disgorge a secret need,
the smell of salt, sandstone and myrrh infiltrate
my mind with a mineral magic animating millenia of sovereign economics,
lamp light revealing the blush and rue of the the Siq's colossal rock hue,
shadows of caravan traffic bespeak exotic trade from distant industry,
narcotics from Kush, Persian rugs, spices and incense of Arabia,
jewels and hides from India, the medicine and silk of China,
beasts and papyrus of Africa, wine, weapons and art of Rome,
slaves beautiful and strong carried from every known ethnic throng,
a river of precious merchandise replacing the might of carving waters,
at the egress of this artery's eternal enterprise
I behold with burgeoning awe the Nabataean Treasury,
it's gladsome geometry a harmony of will, wealth and worship,
warm red cream stone become bone of a peoples' politic,
architecture for their angels and sanctuary for culture,
depository for dreams indebted to desert Deities,
I blow a kiss to the niche of Tyche, Goddess of fantastic fortune,
as I tighten my checkered turbin I hear a soft song
of Hellenic, Semitic and Arabic recipe, stringed hums with chime
and it moves me into the open, bleak basin towards the Monastary facade,
in the black of it's errie entrance a spirit of evanescent education
escalates my enchantment as corners wake to pathways,
murals like waving reflections stream across the walls
I see Moses crack the water stone for salvation
as the Holy Arch spirals an avalanche of absolution from Earth to Heaven,
Solomon and Sheba secure a trade treaty with royal love,
I witness Jesus in the Jordan with John the Baptist
kindly laying him in the steady float of faith,
then the tragedy of John's demise
by the sour ambition of Herodias, the whore of defacto power,
I observe the affection of Joshua Ben Joseph
with his woman of street sense as they endure trial after trial,
scenes of the Pax Romana and Judaen revolts parade
by my eyes as terror, torture and triumph
wear masks of glory and glee,
the Essenes embarking for the Dead Sea defense,
Muslims and Crusaders found not the bounty of this land,
here remains the treasure of Pharaonic voyage,
exiting with renewed moral for love
I look to the top of Zibb Atuf
where I see the thunderbolt of Zeus Hadad and cornucopia of Atargatis
burn sweetly in the night, periwinkle smolder signals righteous passion,
I feel you, my Love, paramount in the depth of every sense I have,
turning entranced to the Roman Theater I proceed to the north east rendezvou,
you are lovely and glamorous on the stage of amplified ardor,
starbeams spotlight your coordinated curves and fertile instinct,
you begin to seduce with a dance, breathtaking, impulsive balance,
moving with the smooth heat and poise of a breath blown candle flame,
a crescent of torches beautifies your frame, crimson silk wings from you,
I stand for a moment on the outer upper rim
gazing, with great heat upsurging through every muscle,
knowing you are jubilant for me by the way you move
I descend the stairs undistracted from the language of your invitation,
your cinnamon skin skims my own as you go round and round
and the crave for your ravishing rub forces my pursuit,
I catch your tender waist as you spin into my hunting arms,
your fingertips feel so right in my hands,
we sway like romance on fire in the storm of desire,
your restive back nestled inbetween my shoulders
my obsessed lips move up your neck in search for innocent sensitivity
overtaking your naked earlobe with a hot mouth and firm pull,
your body, begging to be breeched brutely calms slowly
as I release spontaneous poetry into your ear saying...
When the moon was young
unbattered by stone and age
glowing bold upon Earth newly spun
the first man and sacred Woman
made love of flesh warmly woven
from they're erupting hearts came wild knowledge...
Poem | |
Grief is not something we “get through”…
you “get through” a bad day
Grief is not something we “get over”,
“you ”get over” a cold”
Grief is not something we “move on from”
you “move on from” a bad relationship”
But Grief is… a companion we “move forward with”,
learning from and growing, with each agonizing step.
Grief is… a heart-wrenching process, not bound by time,
But sets us on a “lifelong journey” of finding truth and meaning…
Grief is not a crutch we hold onto for pity
It is not a lack in character
It is not a weakness that needs to be strengthened
Or a problem that needs fixing
It is not an enemy to be slain
Or like a wild animal, to be caged
Grief is… “A METAMORPHOSIS OF HUMAN LIFE”
YES! that needs “time”… “A LIFETIME”
Grief is… an acknowledgement of true love shared
and true love lost
Grief is… a love we hold so deep within our souls
That our tears fall to caress the pain…
“God given tears”, full of purpose and meaning
For each one carries with it a piece of our heart
grief hugs us and holds us close
to a great love we can no longer touch…
grief is… our friend for without it
our lives would have been a lie.
Grief is…purely and simply a journey of love
It is a friend, to those of us who mourn
A friend who sees what we need and allows us to be us
Grief is a release of unimaginable pain…
a release of a great indescribable loss…
Grief is… the bridge that crosses repentant oceans,
spans desolate canyons, and fear filled mountain tops.
that we may cross over this tragedy to a renewed heart
by means of the love we shared and continue to share
through the love of our Almighty God
A pain we can use, to broaden our hearts
and the hearts of all those around us
it is… a road we must travel to gain wisdom.
A level of wisdom you will never achieve by playing strong.
For only when we sink to the bottomless pit of grief
Will we be awakened by the light of truth.
Do not judge it… for it contains Gods secrets
Secrets you can only hear by listening
through the blare of the pain.
It is a sacred contract to be in awe of and inspired by
To learn from and grow from
To gain compassion and understanding from
It is a journey that holds a sacred contract
That will be signed by each and every one of us
Who has the strength… and the courage…
to love with all your heart and all your soul.
It is not a journey I would wish on anyone
But now that I am here I will walk it with honor
And purpose, with my head held high and my feet in stride
For at the end of this road there you’ll be,
waiting to take me home.
Poem | |
I do have purpose
that stays near
a constant reminder
of my inner child
As my conscienceness
shines through to create
a new perspective
I break out of my cocoon
Only to discover that
I find places where
the sanctity of my being
does not flow as it should
My intuition is what
guides me though
there is no longer the
desire for the constant
upheaval of tragedy to strike
On my journey I have
discovered that there
are many hidden truths
So as my spirit ascends
I am inspired by my bravery...
If I am frightened
by the visibility that
standing proud does to me
then I shall stand even taller
No longer will I fear
the degradation that
once was my shadow
there is no home here
for the shame any longer
And I will no longer be
swayed by the fragments of defeat
When I become sorely tempted by
And I think I can't
make it on my own
I will remember that
I am walking this
road of life for me...
Poem | |
If I cry
It must be the memory
Of a skirt unlifted by a gust
To still a boy's misery
And wipe my eyes dry
For the way time sears
Us like flowers
And reaped my mother
Before I was ready to let her go.
If I cry
I cry for days she sheltered me
From a child's web of fallacy
And put her spittle on my knee
Where bruised flesh
Was a boy's view of tragedy.
I would press my face
Against her dress
And feared no goliath
If I cry
I cry for evenings on the porch
When she gathered us
Our feet white with blowing dust
And hunger like a miner
We had so little to eat some days
But she with prayers picked fruits
Of heaven's mercy
And we thankful ate together
And heard her ancient anecdotes
Of ancestors' exploits that floats
Still upon a manhood sky.
If I cry
I cry that mothers' days are meaningless
When the sight of flowers
Are frail veils upon a grave
And the customized Christmas cards
Will not sparkle her eyes
Just before the kiss upon my cheek
Honoring me for faithfulness
And knowing her love measures more
More than a day
More than the years that sums earth's decay.
If I cry
I cry for the love of my mother
For the woman and life giver
For God to bring
Order to this unruly thing
That spoons our purpose to a cup
Before the dusk with each sup
Of time, diminishing us
I cry for faith to hold my trust
Against the agony of loss
Death is a demonic disgust
That makes me long
To substitute all tears for angels song.
If I cry
Preserved my hope with brine of eye
To live again
Without death or pain
And run with my mother
Through the clapping ovation of summer rain.
Poem | |
That Day, Life Crushed
I was resting on a lake dock that was in deep decay
it ran fifty yards out into the seamless water
that day my baby brother had went to swim with his friends
a normal summer day that shone with splendor
and peaceful was the soft blowing wind
only fate was awake and moving ever foward
there I was in peaceful solitude , resting
gazing at the lapping waves as they spoke
ignorant of what had taken place only moments before
the passing of a young and promising life, my brother
sun still beamed, wind still blew and life changed
a truck came racing across the bridge
I saw my best friend waving at me franticly
then I heard, I knew tragedy had befallen somebody
somebody I loved dearly
Moments later, the force of truth crushed me into a ball
it was as I feared, a death, an unimaginable horror
my baby brother was dead, my fourteen year old baby brother
gone, gone , gone!
Electric current had destroyed his life
destroyed my life, sent me into a seven year rage
I said my goodbyes in a quiet rage and vowed that God,
God would pay for this!
And so it began a terrible journey into a dark abyss
one that consumed and slowly ate my soul
my soul it ate with relish and glee
I became a punisher of God!
Yes, such misery did I heap out by the bucket
by the ton and ate it's glory until-
Seven years later, light came into me as I slept
I woke one morning to find that the one punished was ME!
God had told me but I refused to hear
Now I heard and that truth crushed me again!
The road back took time but seven long years was over!
life returned, joy returned!
Majestic love returned to reclaim it's treasure-- my soul!
My soul rejoices to this day,
this day I see God stayed with me as I ran away!
I, he that runs no MORE!
Robert J. Lindley 06-30-2014
My first ever write about my brother, Billy Joe Lindley
fourteen year old and the girls adored him,
that summer electrocuted by a faulty electric pump at a
friend's house by the river.
1976, I think about him every day since, he was an angel compared
to me and why, why did I live!
Poem | |
Life has not ended, only changed
and so our lives are rearranged
for one so special now has gone
their spirit, to the Lord, was drawn.
And we are lost and so afraid
their memories will never fade
these cherished blessings paid the cost
and we are left behind so lost.
Someday soon you'll see them smile
with faces that always beguile
tiny Angels in deep blue sky
the precious treasues live on to fly.
Tender moments haunt the day
when quickly they were stolen away
from safety with no reason why
so many blessed souls had to die.
Now they abide in God's great love
in heavenly mansions high above
their presence felt forever new
smiling upon a family blue.
This tragedy is not in vain
their essence shall ever remain
recall the pleasant times all shared
as a Nation wept and cared.
So Life has not ended, only changed
and tears flow feeling constant pain
and understanding is so illusive
while we mourn withno conclusion.
Trust iin God's immortal Plan
He loves every child, woman and man
throw kisses to reach the Throne
as loving hearts abide in their new home.
*Written by: Linda-Marie B.R.
*For the victims of Sandy Hook - sent -22-13
Poem | |
My favorite cousin named Marge
is almost as big as a barge.
So one would assume,
not knowing the groom,
the guy would most likely be large.
But he was a small man named Tim
“As thin as a broom” describes him.
While Marge would guffaw,
Tim would watch her with awe
and just smile for he was so prim!
When the preacher addressed him and said,
“You may now kiss the bride,” Tim turned red,
for their lips could not meet.
With high heels on her feet,
Marge stood towering over his head.
She leaned down while Tim stood on his toes,
but for being in such a strange pose,
Marge then came toppling down
crushing Tim neath her gown
while the whole church erupted in “Ohhhhh’s.”
All was well, and thereafter, we ate;
then we planned next to dance until late.
But none could foresee
the small tragedy
that had us all leaving by eight!
Marge had tossed off her heels for a glide
on the dance floor, but when they both tried
to dance, Tim got snagged
by that dang gown and dragged
as his bride was beginning to slide. . .
Now shoeless, poor Marge could not stop.
Toward a table with candles on top,
they slid, and the groom
then set fire to the room
by landing with a belly flop.
Poor Tim by the candles got lit,
and we were all having a fit,
for the fire got spread fast
till the Best Man at last
got us all wet extinguishing it!
Inspired by the title of the movie: My Big Fat Greek Wedding
& : Joann Grisetti's "My Cousin's Wedding" Poetry contest
Poem | |
A cold lion roams, doctrinaire and sterile,
The expanse of Africa offers him no sanctuary, the Saringehti no salvation,
He can only smell the scent of his pride now, his cubs shun him,
Repelled by needless roars, the revolting rants,
Tail tattered, biten by jackels at will,
His nose bit and beaten from battles better avoided,
Soul tethered to a label, only a title, "King of the Jungle" ,
Fleas and insects of all sorts find haven in his muddy mane
once so puffed and wide like a thunderhead trampling over Tanzania,
I hear him in the twilight, lonely, unsated and undesired,
Paranoid about a life that does not seem to love him,
His heart became a desserted Athens, a broken, rigid column slumped on the earth,
He wanders near the Nile, nearsighted and nervous
As an Egyptian boy of ancient lineage stalks him sensitively
Putting the speartip to his temple saying,
I see your ribs, your broken paws, your futility,
I will now deliver your soul unto the cool night,
The spear is launched with a certain bloodlust
piercing behind the shoulder blade, his heart hollers
with the cry of scarred suprise, the lion stumbles and pants
vanity no allowing blame for lack of vigilance,
the boy trots to the spot, kneels in token reverence
telling him, sip the black puddle of your error, as eyes fold ever shallow,
let me feed you these apples of arrogance
so to quiet your grievence, to sooth your ego before final sight,
there is no shame in being slain by a Pharoah King, old lion,
I shall wear your teeth as a timeless trophy of tragedy,
Emblematical of Pride gone on too long,
may the spirit of Herodetous teach this lesson to a new breed -
Poem | |
Death of my Friend
Found was the key to heaven's door
this pain I can bear no more
The shadows that eat my long nights
the guilt of that deadly fight
Ages ago tragedy came sailing in
took the life of you my friend
A drunken party that went so wrong
our lives becoming a sad song
I begged you to not dare drive
if you done so you'd be alive
My guilt in not forcing you back
you car hit on that train track
Death came instantly to my friend
for me pain that will never end
I backed down when you hit me then
your funeral I'd not had to attend
You that always got your own way
should have never died that sad day
Now I see your fate was meant to be
you died young, a soul early set free!
note: Death of my friend. I tried to stop him
but not hard enough.Too drunk to safely drive but
when so young we thought we were ten feet tall and
Maybe we were but just not speeding train proof..
Rather than knock him out I let him go.
Car was hit by a train and death was immediate..
Twenty-one is too young to go..
Poem | |
'Tis now known why the Willow weeps,
a tragedy of love, its memory keeps.
For once a young man and young maid,
on tender grass, beneath branches lay.
Though pledged by birth to another,
from clans they hid, to be together.
Thus, the gentle Willow was their choice,
meeting beneath, till love they could voice.
The Willow held these secret lovers dear,
so would lower its boughs, when they drew near.
Thus tucked away in the Willow's womb,
could lay as one, yet this love was doomed.
For jealousy lurked within the pines,
spying young lovers thus entwined,
behind Willow's curtain of slender limbs,
He swore the maiden, would yet be his.
Thus, it came to pass one day,
as young maid softly made her way,
to their Willow, deep within the glen,
espied the branches did already bend.
Timidly, as she did draw near,
soft sound of sorrow fell upon her ears.
Parting Willow's branches to look within,
a dampness did touch upon her skin.
The Willow was shedding sap laden tears,
for the young man, in death, was near.
'Twas an arrow that had been used,
a potent poison, the tip infused.
The maiden, now blind with grieving mist,
pulled out the arrow, held it, in clenched fist.
Whilst cradled in love's arms, did he draw last breath.
Then, young maid, plunged the arrow, into her breast.
And so it is, that this story is told,
as the Willow's grief would not be consoled.
For unable to stop what had befell,
the young lovers, it had hid so well.
With will broken, as lovers lay dead,
the Willow, its branches, never again spread.
And because it is the memory it keeps,
it is to this day, that the Willow weeps.
Poem | |
My computer has a ‘smell chequer’
Alas it doesn't seem to work
For when I make an error
I just look a complete jerk
I know that I can smell
I can do that pretty well
But when I make an error
It often is a terror
I’m wary typing duck, I know that F is next to D
Because if I do a swear it could be a tragedy
If I’m typing the word shots I need to take great care
Because I is next to O and of this I am aware
So make sure you use your ‘smell chequer’
I am sure you will agree
Your poems will be ‘prefect’
You will get it ‘write’ like me
25th October 2014
Poem | |
Demons of faith,
A dweller lost in the perfect Odyssey.
Bricks of memories, barricade my way out.
Growing gray within the ageless centuries.
Steady rivers, at the pitch of one response.
Times out, by the heat, and beauty.
Tragedy is never a fear to announce.
The drug that takes to cure, the world,
~ lost in a torn humanity.
Harmless, results and tears
~ struck in every way, in the same day.
Sneaky thoughts up my sleeve.
I will leave, the envious of me, this you best believe,
There is no way in...
I found the perfect way out...
That get in my way..
Waking up in a dusty road.
Unleashing every load.
Today's a different day, still I wake up the same way.
But, today life is reversed.
I find myself with an endless thirst.
Tossing me into a 700 degree level,
I shine away from the path of the dust devil.
Swirling all around, forbidden to enter my bound.
Your pitch at me,
a fever I want no more.
Now I can see, the emptiness of the things inside of me.
Now I can feel, my soul reaching out to heal.
Breaking every cold sweat,
Shivers, pneumonia a life of regrets.
Withdrawals left behind.
Symptoms, showing the fever is gone.
Into my life*
Poem | |
From behind the crimson curtain,
The skylark sings within her
Gilded cage of musical notes,
To please her dark lord and master.
Beauty's prisoner of the forsaken,
She raises her voice in clarity's
Beneath crystal chandeliers opulence.
As if a bird taking flight within
This youthful diva sheds
Her physical shackles, released
By a spiritual reclamation, of liberty's
Beyond her earthly form.
This mistress of song captures
Liberation’s heights, beyond freedoms
Escape, to soar high above the heavens.
She is set free, released within the music itself.
In the mind of the phantom, he plays
Along with the orchestra of the dammed.
A pianist of great renowned, with loves
Sweet melody, is inspired by jealousy’s
Conquest, she is his, always and forever.
The dead’s musicians, play on, with their
Instruments precisely in tune,
A delicate balancing, is each textures
Movement, it is harmony's perfection,
A Graceful sounding, carried across the
Stage of this twisted tragedy.
On destiny's piano the grand master sits,
With his candelabra lit, from loves eternal
Flame of desire.
It's light softly flickering, by gentle winds
Breeze, calling her name, Christine.
Oh angels of mercy, here the meadow lark
Singing, beneath the cobbled streets,
And sawyers chambered walls.
Love's prince does slay the beast,
As fire shatters the opera house, leaving
Nothing but ashes residue behind.
Yet in echoes voice, he screams by nights
Breath, her name once more, he calls unto her,
The phantom of the opera, Christen.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Poem | |
Shadowed silence vibrates melancholy
As the darkening clouds spiral overhead
Open spaces, breathing air of mystery
bloody ink of terror break in...doused in dread
Shattering the portrait to pieces instantly
A turn to the left & to the right hesitantly
A step forward or backwards...
Which way should I go? I sponge in woe
Wouldn't it be easier to go with the flow?
I'm so far away from the sun-drenched day,
Falling victim to nightfall's spellbinding dismay...
Tell me, which Way I should go?
Don't mislead me with callous words
Creeping fear and shameful wonder crawl down my spine
My heart is beating with despair, feeling like a disgrace
Misfortune was crawling within my skin...becoming serpentine
Inside of my veins...and I'm Wishing to stay in one place…
But I could not...
I could not. You left me to rot...
There was a voice within shouting at me to move forward
I am scared, but i won't sweat it...that was really awkward
My feet were unstoppable. I couldn't help, but run
Pushing. Compelling me to traverse
Running. Running. Running. Running in the sun . . .
My heart's melody yearns for tragedy in reverse
Running for safety, I'm grieving to the core
Who will dare share an ounce of care?
Is this my misfortune? There's more hope in store
Whispering clear a prayer, hand me the rope of hope if you dare
Wrapping my hands together...don't let me go
Ease the earthquake fear, quaking in my heart
I'm yearning for someone...let the blessed breeze blow
I want something or someone to blanket me or I'll depart
From His light... is it out of sight now?
Longing for His healing rain to shower down relief upon me somehow
I'm awakened by sudden realization that everything will work out in the end
As drizzle sprays, cooling down my stance...my insecure state of mind
I need a helping hand to reach out to me - I break instead of bend
Speechless and afraid, I have naught to say, for I am blind
I gape at her angelic appearance
As she traced me a lament-carved frown
I'm far, far from the roaring crowd in an instance
I'm gravity-bound, I've been weighed down
Who can put me back together?
Am I going to remain frozen forever?
I wander in the wilderness of my mind
Naked and ashamed - I feel like I've been left behind
Singing a sad, gracious tune
Running. Running. Running. Running in the sun . . .I have allowed
Myself to breathe in the air of mystery...far away from the cheerful crowd
Poem | |
There is no way that anyone can know
how each new year will be:
how our jobs or our relationships might go.
What great new things might we live to see?
Might we have to endure some tragedy?
I can only hope the good will far outweigh the bad
and that our every tear
might be cried for joy instead of something sad.
May peace abide with those whom we hold dear
as all of us press onward through this year!
For the "This Year in English Quintain" - Poetry Contest of Francine Roberts
Poem | |
JE SUIS CHARLIE — Afterthought
The shock of this most frightening tragedy is practically beyond
the pale of any reasonable or adequate attempt or effort to explain
it or to rationalize the horrible circumstances surrounding it.
Let me just say that all of us who are writers and poets ply our
poetry, “our intellectual wares,” if you will, in a common written
medium that expects the same unrestricted level of freedom of
speech and expression exercised by those extraordinarily brave
artists at “Charlie Hebdo” who were recently murdered in cold
blood by self-styled Islamic extremists in Paris.
It is also equally saddening and deplorable that some courageous
police officers died in the line of duty defending these freedoms
as well as some other security people and hostages caught up in
the midst of these most terrifying circumstances.
The heinous actions perpetrated by these armed extremists
destroyed innocent lives and affected the lives of a number of
loved ones whose burden of sadness and tragedy is unimaginable.
Their actions also were an attempt to strike at the very heart of
those sacred freedoms that all of us who live in open societies and
democracies cherish as part of our everyday lives. The armed
extremists, by their actions, also personified and demonstrated an
obvious affectation for barbarity, stupidity, ignorance, and cowardice
that were all on ample display as a result of what they did.
Freedom of speech and expression are among those certain
historic inalienable rights given to all of us by the divine hand of
God himself, and certainly not by the generosity of any government
or religious group (regardless of faith). The brave souls who died
at Charlie Hebdo, died exercising this most sacred franchise.
The point I’m driving at is this: Those extremists who committed
these most reprehensible actions of recent against their fellow man
did not win in spite of their collective efforts to destroy lives and to
sully these precious freedoms that all of us as writers and artists
hold so very dear.
The outpouring of emotion and sadness in support of these slain
heroes in the face of this most despicable crime is quite compelling,
and underlies the continuing determination of all of us who love
and cherish the freedoms of speech and expression to continue to
speak out and to exercise these sacred rights without reservation.
With all of this in mind, I humbly and proudly conclude my narrative
to all of you here by saying and echoing as loudly as possible:
“Je Suis Charlie” . . . “I am Charlie.”
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved (January 10, 2015)
Poem | |
King Vlad Redux – Second Cold War
Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin’s grimy fingerprints on current history
are for him nothing to gloat about—au contraire I say emphatically:
His actions bespeak one who’s not an architect for peace—not at all,
rather a quite deceitful dictator and a harbinger of a Second Cold War.
King Vlad’s old Soviet-style actions are clear for all who care to see,
and make no mistake about it—he’s without remorse and a soul to boot.
A Master of Malarkey and an International Bamboozler Supreme, he
certainly is, with a menacing image and not one iota of conscience.
King Vlad risks a Second Cold War with his violation of international
law concerning the blatant, illegal annexation of the Crimean peninsula.
With his brand of new style Soviet adventurism on the march, the Old
Soviet Bear has been resurrected anew—and it’s hot on the prowl again!
King Vlad’s new spirit of nationalism for Russia is not at all progressive
as evidenced by his current war on certain ethnic minorities: Jews, Tartars,
Armenians, Gypsies—to include anyone who chooses to resist and protest
against his new age fanaticism rebranded anew in the twenty-first century.
King Vlad’s lineage to and proclivity for the old Soviet Union and its star
cast of past gangster luminaries: Lenin, Stalin, Beria, Molotov, Brezhnev,
and Andropov—to name a few, are quite telling since they reflect the real
nature of his psyche and the tragedy he brings now to the world stage.
And lest we forget, the innocent souls of the murdered passengers from flight
MH17 in eastern Ukraine who cry out, as do their families, for justice from
the criminal thuggery and hooliganism perpetrated by King Vlad in support
of proxy groups that do his evil biddings soaked in lies, treachery, and deceit.
King Vlad takes pleasure in fulfilling a fanciful role today of the old Soviet
Bolshoi Nachalnik (Big Boss), whose historical antecedents from Soviet Big
Bosses of past fame, doesn’t augur well for future democracy in New Russia,
and doesn’t align with the precepts of good governance and human rights.
King Vlad’s treachery and deception are certainly open for everyone to see
as he executes his plan of disrupting the balance of the current world order.
We all should be forewarned of the clouds of tyranny and aggression that
could be unleashed one day on the European continent and the world today.
King Vlad, despite very strong objections and economic sanctions imposed
by Western leaders and diplomats, understands only one word rendered so
poignantly in the German language: die Macht (or Power), which lurks ever
behind his public mask and psychological makeup as a former KGB officer.
King Vlad’s actions reflect his virtues of lying, denying, accusing, rejecting,
and criticizing—all poison arrows in his quiver as a Master of Prevarication.
His real mask is that of a Monster who had the very best Soviet teachers and
wishes to tilt the axis of his New Russia on a collision course with the West.
And so Generalissimo Stalin . . . how do you like your nasty little boy now???
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved (November 30, 2014)