Long poem by
Leonora Galinta | Details |
YYYPP @ PPYYY
YYYYP @ PYYYY
@Linda@ \ \ \ R
A / @P(OCT)D@
Y / @Linda@
pretty birthday roses
sent with bright smiles, hugs and kisses
to a very special poet sis and best friend
whose birthday is globally celebrated again
roses placed atop of the sweetest birthday cake
I lovingly baked for you with my best wishes, will you take
I wish you good health and hope your happy times multiply
depression divides,frustration subtracts, then joy and success add up many times
May you have a Very Happy Birthday!
Oct. 8, 2014 9.35 am bkk time
ON YOUR SPECIAL DAY
Bubbling rainbows mottles on air,
In ebullience, the sky dresses you in flair
Your special day and most glorious time is here
I’ll perform a ballet for you in a very joyful cheer
Let’s swirl our hips and dance in a snappy tap
Like the time when you were born, one’s joy was on top
I sing a song with gratefulness for all these years
You are our great joy, a precious gift---so dear
Sending you my most melodious birthday serenade
You’re a loving celebrity in graceful promenade
Like a frisky petal wafting its scents on air
Forever blooming in an inevitable passing of years
Fragrant flowers sways in the most delightful fun
Larks and wrens choir like no more setting of the sun
Their sweetest songs are my crews for my best wishes
Heading all to your way with my warm hugs and kisses
May all your days be filled with vibrant smiles
May you gather all your stars far lesser than miles
May you be filled with God’s love and care throughout the years
As joys and blessings climb down for you from Heaven’s Stairs
10/7/14 8.27pm BKK time
I lovingly dedicate this poem to our very dear poet friend, my loving poet sis and bff,Linda (PD). Today is her birthday, OCT. 7 . HAPPY, HAPPY BIRTHDAY! Biggest birthday hugs for you! And also, to all other beloved fellow Librans! Best wishes! God bless!
Long poem by
Raymond Ngomane | Details |
The roots on my legs grow branches of a legend
A tree of hope like the dope Alexandra Pope
In forests men are hanged on a washing line between trees to dry their tears
Me followed a choir that struggled singing Gospel hyms sober
I am looking for Me
The son of My Body in your fertile ground
He gost lost in the middle of loud friendly zones and their grounds
Centre of imaginations was a tea bag on his homeless ground
He's never been grounded
I have no clue where Me has been but he donated words, ears and planted views
I have clues and a cue for his wounded wounds
He's been in hustle with smart fools
Me is sick but has never bothered to bother doctors who less studied him and his clues
He is not an ash tray but remains the biggest fire in his own tree
The skin of Africa
Shut up and listen kinda like missions
Breaking visions of blind folded snakes as he wins all price tagged storms
Its a norm to bond and live in this morden traffic before roll down red carpets
Its a form filled in pencils for the world prefares editing your poems
Mischivous but real
Truth is, poetry stays real
In different genarations poetry spreads in the name of love slamming doors
The warehouse of corrections in poetry slamming doors
Heart beats beat the need to grow perfection by force while painting love in triggers of speech
Using the same language to bridge brain triggers
Poetry must find Me
Poetry questioned his dreams
He protected fantasies amplified by baby urines covored in beer bottles
Detox on cornflakes and milk with no honey repairing the night before disco lights chasing hunnies
Me flooded in different nations like a little bunny
Me must be somewhere in between real issues and being funny
The mistaken kitchen designer facing truth in the back of its head
In two faces facing facts in the back of its head
Me was once located naked in the midist of lame headaches
Chasing perfect levels better than Rambo's muscles
Me must have been the perfect speaker speaking things on other levels
A rebel with no tattoo drawing hearts in fine art images exposing racoons in artistic headaches
Too lazy to kill a fly type rebel but quiker than the speed of life's comments
He planted smiles in suprise moments more like a depressed comedian
Anacondas hide their heads in Me's body languge Language is a body that plants bushes to hide anacondas in Me's headaches
Mischivous but real
Truth is poetry stays real
In different genarations, poetry ran marathons in different names painting seeds of headaches
In different brains these words swam and died out from brain to brains
Producing light hearted legends in darkness love making moments
The karate kid who never whorship kiddings
Superman did fly for real
Me was told its not real so he can be real
Me might be hidding behind roots of rainy days
Days when Me opened his mouth to sip pure water from rain drops
Days when beef turned hip hop into chewable vegitables
What is plural if you cant malti task rural cool sounds in the eyes of strangers,
Rain makes more skills grow faster in trees,
With no intentions to preach
Me must have lost track and tracked wrong tracks in the map of artistic muscles
Chasing musculine profiles
He was told chase your dream even when your legs are broken
He was told smell your smiles even when your dream nose is blocked
He was cold and turned warm in his born day with no expected understandings
He's the art of a tree
(c) Raymond Ngomane
Long poem by
Kelly Crenshaw | Details |
I'm 51 today.
51 tomorrow, yay
Was 51 yesterday.
52 is months away,
And yes I'm thankful.
Although it's not my real birthday,
It kinda is in a certain way.
I'm still alive another day.
I had the notion to celebrate.
And be thankful.
Though it's not a holiday.
Thanksgiving has come and gone away,
I'm just alive today.
For that I'm thankful.
Honestly, I am not just trying to make these lines rhyme,
Or reflect upon the deep sublime.
I'm just grateful today to be alive.
I mean really thankful.
I'm not trying to wow you with philosophy,
Or impress you with theology.
It matters not at all to me.
I just feel thankful.
So tonight I take a walk outside,
I look up into the endless sky and then I breathe.
I breathe in deep,
And I say thank you.
And maybe not just to Who you think,
Man let's throw in the kitchen sink,
And include all who've touched my life, to whom I'm thankful.
Some of you I'm glad you're gone,
Frankly you stayed a bit too long
And some you the grave stole far too soon,
And yet I'm still thankful.
Today the living and the dead
You've both been right up inside my head,
And synergized this verbal thread.
For that I'm thankful.
I close my eyes and think of Tim, named David right there toward the end.
I always smile when I think of him,
And now I listen
I heard a siren going by,
I wonder who and wonder why,
Was it a wreck, did someone die?
Yet still I listen.
Neighbors dogs are going wild.
Was that the laughter of a child.
Seems like I can hear for miles.
Still I listen.
I hear the hi-way roar of cars.
Tho I have never heard the stars
Is there really life on Mars?
Shhh brain please shut up and listen!
The soft night whispers in my ears.
Pressing through my random fears,
I stand amazed at what I hear.
And now I wonder.
I open up my eyes and see as I feel this winter breeze
The silhouette of leafless trees.
I stand in wonder
Then I wonder about the first man to ever be,
Or the first time he looked up to see
The Milky Way the galaxies.
Did he wonder?
I wonder what he did
How he loved how he lived.
If he ever lost a friend?
Man oh man I wonder.
Was he the first to dig a grave?
How it sounded if he prayed?
How he fought?
How he played?
If that man could see us all today,
What would he say I wonder?
In ways was he a lot like me?
Did he sometimes fear what he could not see?
Did he create unseen walls
I stand and wonder.
Did he ever hurt the ones he loved?
Did life convince him not to trust?
My great grandfather lived
My DNA is shared with him.
I wonder how we are the same,
And I don't even know his name.
Still I wonder.
Will my great grand kids know my name?
Will it even matter who's to say?
Will they look up in wonder?
Will they listen?
Will they be thankful?
Not much I can leave to them
That would matter too much in the end.
I suppose the primal hope in man
Is the hope I hope lives on in them
I hope they wonder. About the universe.
I hope they listen. To life's unspoken verse.
I hope they're thankful. Even in midst of deepest hurts.
I hope they're thankful.
I hope they listen.
I hope they wonder.
And no matter what life hands them,
I hope they hope.
Long poem by
John Posey | Details |
Glen Campbell – A Special Person
It was September 4th, 1968 and I threw an empty suitcase into the trunk of my car, telling Joan, my daughter, that I might not be home to celebrate her birthday. She would turn 13 the following day and Wanda, my wife, had planned something special. As I dropped her off at school she had no clue as to what was in store.
Joan had become an ardent fan of a young Glen Campbell and he was due to be in town that very night for a concert. We led Joan to believe we had given up all hopes of taking her to see him since my travel plans would probably keep me out of town that night. Joan reconciled herself to the distinct possibility she would not be in attendance at his concert. She was a very understanding young lady.
When I returned home that evening, Joan was advised we would celebrate her upcoming birthday with a simple dinner out and maybe a movie. As we drove, Joan was very animated and proceeded to tell us of all the activity of the day. She didn’t pay much attention to where we were headed. Her chatter told us she wasn’t on to our plan.
Well, when we approached the Music Hall in Houston, TX Joan realized where we were and became so excited I thought she was going to faint. She shrieked with joy and showed the textbook signs of one about to see their idol. I don’t believe we had ever seen her so excited.
Wanda had managed to reserve some wonderful seats, center stage 3 rows back. We took our seats and soon were enjoying watching our daughter watch this young performer transform the audience, mostly young people, into an almost hypnotic state. We had joined Joan as fans of this young man from Arkansas. He was really putting on a great show. But something special was about to happen.
He finished the first half of his show and we sat there and listened to Joan excitedly chatter about what was taking place.
About halfway through the 2nd half Glenn pulled up a stool, sat down and asked, “Is there a Miss Joan Posey in the audience?” Joan was literally dumbfounded. We acknowledged to Glen that indeed she was here. Glen looked at here and said, “Well, tomorrow you’ll become a teenybopper. This one is for you.” He proceeded to sing “Hey, Little One” and there were probably as many tears in Dad’s eyes as in Joan’s. Her insistent question was, “How did he know?” repeated time after time.
Wanda, in her fantastic way of pulling off the impossible, had written to Glen Campbell, in care of the Music Hall, and told him of Joan’s upcoming birthday. It would mean a lot to her if he could only wish her a happy birthday. It was a long shot and he only received the letter some 2 hours before show time. Someone on his staff picked up on it and took it from there. He finished and instantly became a very special person to two proud parents. Joan became an instant VIP since almost half her class had been in attendance. It was a most memorable time and Glen Campbell will always have a special spot in our hearts…. Jake
Long poem by
SillyBilly theKidster | Details |
My prey lays on the table somewhat consciously.
He is slowly reviving from my injection that put him to sleep.
He is secured to the table with duct tape tightly.
I'll remove the gag from his mouth when he awakens fully.
His muffled screams begin inevitably.
It's time to greet my very soon to be very deceased.
Brandishing my blade in front of the face of he
I say to him calmly but very assertively,
"I'm going to remove your gag, but I'll cut your tongue out if you scream.
Nod if you understand me and agree."
After nodding at me shaken understandably,
I removed the gag, he then began to speak.
"What's going on? Who Are you?" he said to me.
I replied, "It would appear that I am your final destiny."
He looked at me shaken and asked, "What do you mean?"
"I mean that I'm about to kill you," I said to him nonchalantly.
I held up a photo of a young lady.
"She's now dead because of you," I said to he.
I held up another photograph for him to see.
"You killed this man too apparently
on a drunk hit and run accident spree."
"I didn't kill them," he pleaded, "It wasn't me."
I held up another photo and simply stated, "Oh really?"
"You killed this little girl on the day of her birthday party.
Never another birthday will she or her grieving family ever again see."
I held up more photos for him to see.
Some were children, some were young, some were elderly.
"..but it wasn't me, I swear," he cried pleadingly.
"It wasn't me," he cried, "It was the booze. It completely takes over me."
"Now there's a situation," I said to he,
"that I'm not completely unsympathetic to actually.
You see, I can't help myself either," I said to him.
"I have no control over my desire to kill human beings."
"I promise I'll never drink again," he then said to me,
"I'm so sorry for all I've done. Please, please believe me."
"You've done this way too many times to be truly sorry.
You would just kill again if I set you free
and so very soon you will be wrapped in garbage bags neatly
and dropped to the bottom of my little corner of the world under the sea
where you will never be lonely. You will share very similar company
with others much like you who have had this moment with me.
Neither you or I are in full control of our destiny,
but it would appear that I hold the upper hand presently,"
and as I plunged my blade through his heart I was immediately released
from my dark passenger's embrace that allows me no peace.
I don't know why I am the way that I am.
All I want more than anything is to be a normal and good man,
so as long as my dark passenger continues to haunt me,
killing other human beings will be the way I always will be,
so I'll channel my darkness where it will be most in need.
I'll take out the garbage and dump it at the bottom of the sea.
I like to write dark occasionally,
so don't be turning me in to any law enforcement agency.
I've just been viewing my collection of DEXTER DVDs
which has motivated me to write dark lately.
Long poem by
William J. Jr. Atfield | Details |
My birthday gift, to me.
This night of November 27th , in our year of the lord, two thousand and one I decided to treat myself to a living birthday present, a living, dancing birthday card, fifteen days late in the coming .
They be some lovelies that make old men’s mouths water, if only they could, – had not dried up – give him wet dreams, if only he dreamt of such things, where nothing seems as it is or should be, or could be. But isn’t that the reality of life ?
The first gift of eye candy came in a natural state, this black haired beauty was going off as I came in, and then, after a little time had passed, a fair haired beauty dawned on her act and came before me in all her natural and unnatural beauty, dropped all of her inhibitions and exposed her enhanced, unnatural beauty, the works of some sculptors hands – a doctor of plastic molds, whom I have to admit, is a master among his peers, for his work flowed so naturally into and along with the beauty she was born with, I was impressed. It was difficult for me to discern at first, but being a, very personally flawed, protectionist, it finally showed. More down time had passed before this raven haired beauty with bright rays of sun light streaking down past her temples and sliding off her sculptured cheeks, cascading down from above, flowing softly over her soft bear shoulders. For those who believe that all women are ball busters, this I have to say to you, “ in all my flawed wisdom, this lovely, this young lady is not one ” but I do believe that she could be a tooth buster, for there was not a spots upon this beauties body, of joy, of pleasure that a man could and certainly would lay his lips to, softly sink his teeth into, that was not hung like a Christmas tree with all these perfect, golden trinkets, these diamonds dangling, before discerning eyes, just waiting, with delight, for someone to bite .
Time to go, I have seen enough of the show, no more do I need to reminisce about all that I miss, of that time, when spring was sprung upon us with her sparkling green attire, that set on fire, dead wood brining warmth, for a moment, that I could not retire from and so I stay to watch one more play of body upon the mind, upon ancient memories, upon the stage as she turns another page with a radiant smile as warm and bright as the sun streaked beauty, that came before her, who’s warmth seemed to radiate ( wishful thinking ) towards me, who’s smile and attention brightened up my otherwise gloomy day, who’s playfulness seemed as sincere as the natural beauty of her natural body as she pranced, paraded and danced before us, us who came to see, - for one brief moment ( for whatever reason ) – wish and reminisce and now it is time for me to go, I have seen enough of the show to remind me of all that I used to know.
William J. Jr. Atfield
Long poem by
Leonora Galinta | Details |
( Poet Destroyer-our dearest PD)
Loveliest and greatest poet, sis and friend of mine in poetry site,
Loved so much by everybody, I’m shouting this with all my might;
Let’s make October 7 a very special day again for her this year,
Let this poem of mine heralds the biggest party, I loudly cheer!
In this home and family of ours, now extended… big and so happy,
If she isn’t around, everybody is lonely without her and her stellar poetry,
I’m making this day the most memorable and happiest moment as can be,
In this world, she’s one of our most precious gifts from God, the Almighty.
North to east, east to west- -in both primary and secondary directions,
Never miss this moment… let’s all dance and sing in her grand celebration,
Now sending all my loving wishes as she blows out candles on her birthday cake,
Never fading love, joy, health, blessings and more best wishes, she’ll take.
Dearest sis, friend of mine and greatest poet of everybody,
Day ‘til night… every moment I whisper special prayers for you so dearly;
Drop all your loneliness and keep in mind that everybody cares so much and love,
Dream of yours will be fulfilled for I know you’re blessed from above.
An exceptional poet who never ceases to amaze us,
A unicorn lover dazzling us with her unique and stupendous writes;
A queen and muse of both poets and Librans, so brilliant and so smart,
A very beautiful celebrity deserving great adulation, here’s our huge sweetest hugs.
Sept. 22, 2013 7.15pm
HER BIRTHDAY: OCTOBER 7, 2013 (Now, Monday here & Tuesday in US)
HAVE A VERY HAPPY BIRTHDAY MY DEAREST POET SIS & FRIEND LINDA. I LOVINGLY WISH YOU ALL THE HAPPINESS, GRACES, BLESSINGS , GOOD HEALTH, GOOD LUCK & PROSPERITY AND ALL THE BEST THINGS IN THIS WORLD THAT LIFE EVERYHOLD TODAY AND THE YEARS TO COME! MAY ALL YOUR DREAMS COME TRUE! GOD BLESS YOU AND YOUR FAMILY/ LOVE ONES!
1. This birthday poem was posted ahead of time on my special blog for our very dear Linda because I was worried that I can't post a blog anymore due to the expiration of my pm before her b-dday. I supposed to post both this poem & the blog on the 7th.
2. The above special birthday poem is called ACQUAINT FORM/Leo form. ;)))))An acquaint form is my newly experimented form of poem combining 3 forms: an acrostic, quatrain form ( stanza with 4 lines) and a quintain english ( with rhyme having no set of measures or foot) ;))))))). Proven & tested to be one special form in my mini-poetry lab.;))) This is my give- away sharing to u for enjoying my birthday poem & special blog for her & also for your greetings to all Librans. I hope you will enjoy! Thank you so much!
Contest: Birthday Girl
Sponsor: My greatest poet, PD
Long poem by
Poet Destroyer A | Details |
Featuring: Leonora Galinta
Take My Hands
I Offer Them To You
Hold Them Tight
Never Let Go Of Them!
With all the time on my hands
I gave my hands one job.
My hands paint everything in my life
they paint my weakness, my strength
they paint the fire in my eyes
they hold me when I'm cold
my hands colored my childhood!
Like an architect,
my hands drew the plans and layouts of my life.
My hands *very articulate, are they?
They continue to sew and show the way
Sometimes, my hands paint the truth
Sometimes, my hands paint lies
Painting hurtful images on drywall
My palms, my fingers embedded calluses from every fall
Creating images, healing my heart
Sometimes my hands are the only friend I see.
With no words to say
I caress the skyline like a mime
My hands ride the wind,
My hands paint the world,
each of their own.
Young and pretty fingerprints
They feel, they hold, they grip
Don't let go!
Clever and cute
It's time for motherhood
My hands painted your first hold
Traced your first smile
A painting I treasure forever in my heart
Yes! A Rembrandt they became during birth
Now you're all grown up...:-(
Embarrassed to embrace the hold
One day when I'm old,
you will hold my hands and remember the gold.
My hands paint many designs when it comes to love
sometimes a masterpiece
sometimes a mistake
sometimes my hands felt images I can't describe
Made up moments of handicap when lost
My hands perfect when in love
They write songs when complete
So many interlock moment with you
Firm, the perfect match, my fingers spoke.
they've been told
held so many times
always meeting, greeting,
waving hello's and goodbyes...
((you see my hands, they smile too))
Pinching my way through reality.
Reaching holding on to dreams.
Snapping fingers, we are a team.
My hands age in every turning page
Shriveled and old
Still you embrace and love the hold
my hands touch and make a difference
my hands learned a lot
my hands prayed
and knew their duty.
My hands employed by me.
When they are bored,
they tap and tap and draw THAT annoying noise.
My hands know secrets, a fortune teller can never reveal
they hold the past, present, and future in every line.
I extend my hands,
without flipping the bird
Thank you, Hands!
I am enjoying the sign language show.
In my next life, or so
I will praise my hands
Yes so beautiful, tender, they love to feel...................
I can't believe with all the time I have on my hands.
I forgot to mention I'm left-handed.
Poet Destroyer A
Long poem by
Success Akpojotor | Details |
Today I'm 586080000 seconds old
And yet I'm ignorant of your name
Even after I stumbled upon this cold truth, yes cold
Which prompts me to hide my truth in shame
Lo! I'm confused but still understand
What is your name? Maybe you are who you are
Mummy calls you Jesus when she kneels, sits and stands
I used to call you sacred - but spirits are
Maybe you are not a personage
Maybe you are a hot crystal ball
Maybe you are the force in our blood 'til we age
Maybe you have no age at all
Today I'm grateful for my handsome face
But are you in heaven and beautiful?
Do you even have a face?
Maybe you make my immune very powerful
What if you are just an intelligent tall tree
Trying to grow your way into heaven?
Maybe only the pope knows about the primitive tree
Maybe only the Roman Archbishop will go to heaven
Today my brain cells are 586080000 seconds old
But my brain usage maybe is not exhausted
Maybe ten, or fifteen, or twenty - or in a fold
Just as your blood has been exhausted
Many a time I prayed and fasted and abstained
All to no good avail, nothing changed until I worked
And it made me grateful for my reason not stained
After I jettisoned the star, moon and cross which I corked
Maybe you are a slob like one of us
Maybe you get sloshed like my friend in a bus
Maybe you are intelligent like me
Maybe you are a terrorist like him
But wait, when did you create the world?
When is your birthday?
Or maybe you are matter - the world.
Or maybe you are time - night and day
But please burn me not in unquenching fires of hell
Perhaps you are as the dolphin without hands
Maybe you are an imago, an immaterial and with no cell
Maybe you are the force in my blood, eyes, legs and hands
Jim Brayshaw told me there is no satan
Maybe I believe there is no lucifer
Maybe you are simultaneously an angel and shaitan
Maybe you are the morning star - lucifer
I'm a 586080000 seconds old man
And I've chosen to be vegetarian
Because in heaven there is no abattoir
I may be singing to the choir
Today I'm 586080000 seconds old
And maybe you are the phoenix - never old
Maybe you speak, maybe you have no cords and no voice
Maybe you are spontaneous, or predetermined, or with a choice
Maybe you are not in heaven
Maybe you are the earth
Maybe you are under the sea
Maybe you live in our bloodstream
Maybe you are Jehovah
Maybe you are Allah
Maybe you are Shechinah
Maybe the virgin is your mother
Maybe I'm being stupid
Maybe it is calibration
Maybe I need showers from Cupid
Maybe you are itself calculation
I'm 586080000 seconds old
And I'm yet to be one with the world
Long poem by
Neil McLeod | Details |
Midnight at Blackfriars
The city spires are hidden,
It’s getting colder fast,
It feels as though we might have
Some snow this month at last.
The wind sweeps keenly through St. Giles(1)
The hour is getting late.
Fleeting forms across the scene,
Are making for the gate.
December is upon us,
The year is wearing thin,
Parishioners from town and gown
Now are gathering in.
Rosy cheeks are shining,
There’s a spirit of good will,
We’re coming in for Midnight Mass
The Christmas Eve Vigil.
Forgotten is the riot
Of Saint Scholastic’s Day,(2)
To celebrate the Savior’s birth,
We worship now and pray.
Conjoining with the acolytes
Dressed in cassock’s white,
We’re caroling together,
Upon the holy night.
A gallant in best evening wear,
Bow tie and cummerbund,
And a high-heeled damsel on his arm,
Is down from Summertown.
A staff nurse from the Radcliffe,(3)
Whose shift was at an end,
Was seated close beside them
Clutching at her friend.
There the widow all in black,
Who cleans the votive stands,
Holds her missal open
With stubby fingered hands.
She blends with the congregants,
Ignoring the celebs,
And is back up for the service
From somewhere in St. Ebbs.(4)
A student in thick sweaters
And ragged scarf of grey
Is seated on the furthest aisle
Hair all in disarray.
Across the nave the prayer chairs,
Range back in their rows,
Filling up with congregants
In coats and gloves and throws.
In from the rear the friars process
With candles all aglow,
Up the side aisle to the chancel,
Caroling as they go.
Above their heads upon the walls
Are stations of the cross,
Reminders set in stark relief
Of this night’s final cost.
We see the prior in chasuble
For the apse proceeding,
To celebrate communion
And give the sacred reading.
The greatest story ever told
Unfolds with familiar ring
Filling our hearts with the promise
Of Christ the new born king.
Then with the service over,
We make for the hall below,
Where cocoa and mince pies and sherry
Are served before we go.
Outside the snow is dusting
The chained bikes in the Fair,
Contented now we homeward fade
Through the Christmas air.
(1)Saint Giles Fair - Convergence of the Banbury and Woodstock Roads in Oxford extending south the Magdalen Street by Martyrs Memorial.
(2) The St Scholastica Day riot of 10 February 1355
(3) Radcliffe Infirmary - The first Oxford Hospital
(4) St Ebbes is a district of central Oxford, England,