Long poem by
Louis Borgo | Details |
To know your history is to know your literature a lesson to learn, which will
Stand the test of time and what one founds of their in heritage no matter how enduring and grim it may seem it something you should embrace-
I came from a small city with big roots and routinely I was ask “where are you from”, especially from girls, if it wasn’t that it he thinks he cutie? And I’m asking why I would say something like that. Or He thinks him smart, God!!! I’m just answer the teacher question? But when I got older, older woman told me they probably think that ascent was sexy and I’m thinking where in high school what do they know about sexy? Man is her computer seat warm? America woman I just don’t understand them? I wonder what they do if they heard me speak a few difference language at same time? Thank god I’m quite because it not like they can read my mind. But it got me thinking from and questioning
What I found was the name Borgo had many difference Ethnicity & meaning with it as well as nationalities and that Borgo is Small Island between France and Italy. And if history may not mention it was a Borgia who captured Napoleon? How do I know where did it take place?
No wonder I like Caribbean woman and it is this one that get my heart beat beating up to 400 beats per seconds if that is possible I can’t say it is a forbidden love but what I will say is breaking the ice and melt when think out loud? And yes she knows my name but why ask not why but why are some lyrics so deep my dear? Remember some old friends asking don’t you make beats? As I have some bread and tea.
And that Bourbon is a drink, a Pecan Pie and a Street I’m thinking man if I have girlfriend
What date it would be-
Then I dig deeper and found the prime sources that seem to let to these events the Borgia or borja married into royalty which happen to be Louisa Borgia who married Philp De Bourbon or Philip V of Spain. He was rejected as King Louis legitimate son because born out of wedlock but later accepted but Philp never forgave and where he could have been both king of France and Spain he was just the king of Spain. Question I ask do any one know today the real reason why France has no nationality? Hurtfully to write or hear but i heritage mean full name as should other take to one, I have heard rumors that true bloodlines of nations of Kings that don’t rightfully take the throne it is a reason for that but not my place to say the way history is written is just to say to remember men wrote history but literature holds another tell? Who can tell the differences, but one question for god I always ask
Why so much war my lord, I truly feel like a man without a country and
Just walking away-
I myself never came from money I start literally from nothing but as I got older I was given legitimate connection legitimate ideas and principals and the understanding of wealth but so trying of spending night and days with no day off of a seven day week wonder if I can make those principals work for me as sick as I am there are reason undefined why I do this things and money is not the endorsement my life is more complication then eye may receive to capture but if you listen you learn more than just hand written if you get the drift-
I was never told of my in heritage put as one will it something like a scare or tattoo I had to found to adjust to my nick name is “Jason” but my full name is Louis Antonio Borgo III as I’m about to fall to sleep and lost all aim of conscience I see a email with my full name spell out in Ancestry.com question how did they know I was search for them and if I ever be accepted from this other half as I am a man literally without a country and in love with French woman more than American the phone rings and a woman from Canada called speaking French I drop the phone and finally I fall to sleep and As I sleep dreaming could anyone imagine wanting to go home but where? Remembering the ringing noise of girls ask
” where are you from”...
Long poem by
dennis jones | Details |
...and then just as suddenly, constellations appeared in a daytime sky, framed by white pines crawling with multicolored caterpillars. So from this day forward, they would search the sky for more star pictures. They then would draw pictures of what they saw with a mixture of ash and spit on their fingers on pink leaves that fell to the ground. They would all participate in the gathering of pink leaves, which they stitched together forming blankets to cover their humble homes, and their village had a pink glow. Their homes were as nests, or more similar to large hammocks, consisting of branches and bark lashed together with vines suspended from the heavy limbs of the tree canopy. Their homes swayed in a light breeze, creaking as they moved, and were festooned with blue, red, yellow and purple feather plumes, floral chains, sea shells and gemstones; along with the pink leaf blankets they resembled some extraordinary species of giant hanging flora, which attracted a variety of butterflies, and many small rodent-like creatures ran about. There was much activity in the trees above as they would hop from limb to limb, and home to home, visiting with neighbors and conversing through animated head, facial, hand and body gestures, with much whooping, or whistling sounds, their whole person seemed engaged in conversation. It was a wonderful and amazing sight to behold, I found the scene so engrossing that I immediately wanted to leave all that I've known behind and immerse myself in their uniquely intimate culture. I felt as though I'd discovered a new home.
Throughout my journeys I had completed several small drawings and paintings of the various sites that I'd seen, and reasoned that this might be a fine way to communicate and introduce myself, as I was sure they would recognize what I had put down on paper. I set down my pack and retrieved my paper and pencils from within. I settled against a tree and began to sketch the scene before me. Soon the noise and activity from the trees above grew quiet, and as I looked up the entire village had come out to the tree limbs and watched in silence as I worked on the drawing. Then, as if on command, they all descended from the trees and surrounded me in an instant. The speed at which they moved in unison startled me, but I soon discovered there was no threat.
As they huddled around me, softly whistling to each other, they held open one hand to reveal a wriggling brightly hued caterpillar. Then they each blew a light breath over the creatures, and it melted into a moving, shifting pool of color in the palm of their hands. They each dragged a finger through the color, and raising their arms, with a colored finger extended; they held it to the sky. In the next moment they each bent over me, and wiped the color on the drawing that I had begun. To my astonishment the color moved across the page completely on its own. New worlds opened up, revealed to me, as their spectral markings merged together into watery pools, then formed drips, streams, rivers with rapids, waterfalls, and gorges emptying into estuaries, seeking their own path of least resistance as gravity pulled this way and that, and then churning, and bubbling up in clumps, oozing off the surface in a tremendous mountain slide. I saw the opened shape of a mouth, or a great hole in the earth, which I looked deep into and could feel and see myself looking back, then puckered, shut tight, blending and separating like ever changing oil on water, flares would rise up from below and burn for a time until they subsided; then cracked into an infinite array of minuscule fissures becoming a frozen ocean, solid and immoveable in a kind of death. As I watched, it seemed as though hours had drifted by, which I soon realized were mere seconds.
Long poem by
Gerald Dillenbeck | Details |
Everything that is created
disguises a hidden purpose....
A calligrapher writes out his lines
not just for the exquisiteness of the script
but to also convey a meaning.
Rumi (M. Mafi, trans.)
What is the purpose of poetry,
and therefore of the poet?
Beautifully flowing style and structure?
or truth of content?
Is poetic purpose the meaning of its language
or the art of linguistic choices?
Of course it must be both,
symbiotically fertilizing and farming each incubating embryo,
functioning and forming creative language,
an expression of intuited deduction,
refinement toward exegetically known and felt soul-truth
through eisegetical analogy
economy of linguistic order,
principles of languaged left-brained human nature
dancing prancing functional flow and forms
through right-brained regeneratively intuited
proportional and aesthetic octave polycultured memory,
What evolves and seeds
plants and pulls
harvests and winnows language,
understanding and learning,
comprehension and mentoring orthopraxis,
ecotherapy and healing
rationality and polypathic sanity?
This optimally sustaining
revolutionary bipolar meaning
for graceful living
and healing poetry,
enculturates as metaphysically expressed
through universal laws of language
and cooperative economics,
trans-actively mutual mentoring love,
as words teach us what we think
and thoughts inspire our Way (Tao)
toward optimally inclusive expression.
Meanwhile poetry evolves physically incarnating
through global dancing and singing
in full octave ringing circles
of energy and organic-spiral dynamic mass,
Poets conduct dancing lyrics of life through death,
Poets prehend self-governance structures
in ways of light more enlightened
than competing partisan pedantry;
which may not be saying much for poets.
Transliterating Laotse on "Rulers":
Of the best public administrators
The people only have faith,
prehend, that they exist,
or did way back in the day;
The next best they love and praise:
the comprehensively wise polypaths
with CQI regenerative well-being outcomes.
The abusive and tyrannical next they fear;
And the neglectful next they revile and ridicule;
weak and humorless fools.
When poets do not command the people's faith,
Some will lose faith in them,
And then they resort to oaths!
But, of the best,
those wisely compassionate cooperative poetic-rulers,
when their outcomes are optimally accomplished,
their full-octaved permacultural design word work done,
The folks all remark,
"We have written and told and danced,
lived and breathed,
colored and cultured it ourselves."
It is no more or less feasible
to have a mutually subsidiary
and cooperative design and development
than it is to find a wise and holy
competitive hoarder of wealth and power.
Everything that is created
disguises a hidden purpose.
teleology as ecologic.
Long poem by
Frederic Parker | Details |
The black moving night,a covering shawl
Circles the world before the golden dawn
While we underneath are always in awe,
of the changes in light we look upon
Beautiful colors appear from this change
And enter the eye of the artist's mind
As pages are filled, decriptions exchange
Poets write colored pictures to remind
The reds and blues depict from flowing quills
Give color to words across the pages
And though artist words will never fulfill
The colorful skies seen through the ages
Bow to the artist who paints the red sky
And for the poet's words , used to reply
Long poem by
anne p. murray | Details |
Your image appears through a purple-hued haze of silence…
weaving its whispered dreamy spell, while you re-connect the strings of my sleeping heart
You go about undressing my soul as I watch your image drift in my celibate reality
I hear the melody play it lonely tune ~ but, it is absent of the warmth of touch
For its only your image I see, my heart's held hostage by the cry of the songbird
My unknown lover, kidnapped by the makers of dreams and fantasies
experiencing the uncertainty of the child that lies sleeping deep within
Alone, with the clever artists of dreams and visions encountering the forever of my loneliness
brushing off the blurred images with softly painted hues of repeated memories
designed by the masters of dreams and schemes, sleeping to be hugged ~ dreaming to be loved
Oh yes... I've dealt with kings, queens and dragonflies
in the dancing reverie of the fragments of my reality,
gliding in and out of the dust of Heaven's stars
sprinkling me with their sweet purple dreams gliding over shimmering evening skies
In lavender scented breezes, I make my way through the night's crimson threshold
in starlit dreams that melt across ancient seasons
shimmering purple shades of shadows painted in serene, pastoral Botticelli scenes
I sleep in soft billowy clouds, spreading my wings in God's peaceful heavens
my journey - painted in purple pastel colors of love...
peering through misty clouds and diamond stars by His Divine presence from up above
They make their nightly visits into my fantasies, my thoughts
painted by the makers and weavers of dreams, coming out of their secret, hidden places...
they silently reveal their amethyst, painted masterpieces
lightly kissed in dewy, lavender scented bliss
My Botticelli dreams...softly swaddled in dream woven swathes of purple calico...
The sweetness of long remembered thoughts tickles my memories in delicate ambrosial perfume...
redolent of lilac scented blossoms- each flower's fragrant sphere, lingering sweetly in the air
Ancestral shades drift in and out of what was... what might still be
singing their lavender effulgent melodies in lovely violet shades
through soft, flowing wisps of dreams, lingering in meadows of glowing moonlight...
Your sweet scent, so succulent in lilac memories urging your return
they delicately float across my dreaming heart waiting so patiently for your sweet scented whispers
to wrap seductive chiffon fingers around my sleeping soul on Morpheus' silky crimson screens
across the evening's deep indigo blue horizon
Between the cracks of earth and sky I succumb with on soaring wings toward your biding arms
catching falling stars in the mist of twilight whispers, where scarlet lilacs are sprinkled...
dreaming together of the end of our days
until your sweet love finds me neath’ the evening's indigo, starry art
painted in Botticelli dreams of purple calico...the delicate lavender wings of dragonflies ...
anne p. murray
Long poem by
Ruben A. Hernandez Diaz | Details |
Roses in the garden,
Roses in the world,
But now roses curled...
Peach roses show modesty,
Peach roses show gratitude,
However, they are often insincere...
Yellow roses seem to care,
Yellow roses show friendship,
However, they are often joyless and jealous...
Pink roses communicate sweetness,
Pink roses radiate elegance,
However, they are often unthankful...
Orange roses have desire,
Orange roses show their pride,
However, they are often impassive...
Purple roses are majestic,
Purple roses express love at first sight,
However, they are often repulsed and unenchanted...
Green roses are harmonious,
Green roses carry hope,
However, they are often unpeaceful...
Blue roses like dreaming,
Blue roses are imaginative,
Blue roses desire to know the unknown,
Blue roses are mysterious,
However, they are often elusive and unattainable...
Red roses are emotional,
Red roses are devotional,
Red roses are respectful,
However, they are often remorseful, sorrowful and mistaken...
Gold roses are occassional,
Gold roses like memories,
Gold roses are preserved,
However, they are often misinterpreted and confused...
White roses are pure,
White roses have innocence,
White roses are spiritual,
White roses carry secrecy,
However, they are often arrogant...
Silver roses are rare,
Silver roses like to grow,
Silver roses convert fantasy into reality,
However, they are often lost and uneasy,
But they seem unpredictable and mystical...
Black roses are mysterious,
Black roses are rebirth,
However, they often remain elusive,
They often symbolize death and loss,
But they are unpredictable and silent,
Though, they are often harmed...
Roses in the garden,
Roses in the world,
But now roses swirled and twirled...
Although, now peach roses are lying,
Yellow roses turning jealous and browned,
Pink roses being unsweet and unthankful,
Orange roses being impulsive and compulsive,
Purple roses being repulsed and revulsed,
Green roses losing hope and harmony,
Blue roses being undiscovered and lost,
Red roses being regretful and voided,
Gold roses bewildered and confused,
White roses losing purity and innocence,
Silver roses turning black and unused,
And black roses silenced and unborn...
All there is to see are roses vanishing,
All there is to feel are roses withering,
In a bed of bleeding roses...
Ruben A. Hernandez Diaz
Long poem by
Chris Boskovski | Details |
Though the midnight summer rains
as we sit together under the geraniums,
hanging low and at full bloom,
we hold hands and talk of old times;
times that were kind to us and our youth.
As summer storms light up the night skies
We kiss the storm away, as it rolls through the grey skies
and the lighting cracks the clouds in half,
riping a hole in the universe, as we kiss the night away.
We sit throughtout nightlong summer dreams
and talk, and we hear the storms roll into the golden hills
of summer meadows filled with roses and a field full of daisies.
Love rests in time to see us grow old together,
and love strengthens its walls and pulls us closer together.
We shall go now, as day turns to night,
into our chamber of love and sleep the night away, together.
Hold us close to each other, as I rest my head on you sweet bossom,
and you nurture me to life of talks of love and beauty.
Nature whispers and sings us songs,
as we kiss and go for walks through the countryside
looking at the golden hills soaked in the rolling storms
that summer offers every year, upon a silver platter.
Sooth me, my love as I tell you of the sorrow I have witnessed.
Embrace me with your curiousity and tell me of the beauty in
the secrets of life and its hidden messangers
that hold secret letters from Devils that send temptations
to destroy something that we share, that is so beautiful and true.
Tell me that life will be okay, and my love is still true and with you.
Tell me my sweet and beautiful love, tell me if everything will be alright.
Love has seen us come and go, through the narrowed and sprinkled streets,
as we move through life fused at hands and eyes blind, not noticing the possiblities of death at any moment stalking us with knives jabbing at our backsides.
We are blind, for we see each other and only each other.
As we live life eyes a blazed looking at the sun, we do not notice the obvious between us.
Caring from me, at my time of need I never noticed the betrayal of our love.
My heart sees, but I deny the obvious and see what I hear.
As I see the knife drive deep in my heart,
you with a suitcase in hand,
I stand on my front steps and I watch the summer storms
come back over the golden hills to say, "hello"
Love is the same everytime, like a summer storm;
beautiful to watch, but when it leaves, it is depressing to say, "goodbye"
Now I sit, as the geraniums dry up and die
and the wrinkles at my eyes make me blind,
I see love walk past my house and mock me with lone kisses.
Long poem by
Benjamin Alexander | Details |
4 corners, 4 knights
4 different ways to fight
As they geared up for battle 1 of the metal men shouted,
3 on 1
thats no fun
It hardly seems fair, so they argued and they debated until a plan of action came about
Ok instead of 3 or 3 we go 2 on 2
You all got that, everyone plans to fallow through
The knights all shook their heads,
As they brought out their swords
All 4 stood facing the knight that they thought should go toward
Now it's 1 to 1 to 1 to 1
Each one of us will be done, done, done, done
And we won't be able to have, a true knight, to have won!
"Fine" said the smartest of the 4
Black to white, and green vs blue,
Now we each have 2 groups of 2
They all agreed each took their battle poses, and then attacked
Each fighting valiantly for their color
White nearly missed blacks throat, green knocked blues helmet off, blue injured greens leg,
Kept knocking white back
After a while of fighting it had seemed that they all were equally matched
Each one out of breath but full on determination to be the winner
However blue, the smartest of the 3
Was board as could be
He wanted the match to be done
He was tired that it was a 2 on 2 fight
Nor did he wish to battle the winner of black vs white
He wanted to win now
So he devised a plan
Was it cheating, yes.
Was it cunning, even more so.
Was it wrong, no.
Because dead men don't talk
As his 1 on 1 match with green steadily progressed
He carefully watched black and white's fight at their best
He knew opportunity would come when least expected
He kept defending against green until opportunity would strike
Then out of the blue white let his guard down
As the blue knight kicked dirt into the helmet of the white
Blacks blade fell down as it was still in full flight
Black killed white, while green stood still in shock
Blue seized opportunity where it was abundant, and killed the motionless knights of black and green
He stood on all three and said,
3 vs 1, you should have picked, and I might have been dead.
A certain joy came ringing about
From being the cleaver knight with out a doubt
But Minutes passed and so did the hype
Silence fell upon him, no one to talk to not one to gripe.
If the match had lasted a little longer
Maybe his pride for winning might have been a little stronger
4 corners, 4 knights,
4 different ways to fight,
3 graves, 3 fools,
3 vengeful ghouls,
2 horses, 2 knights
2 unfair fights
1 winner, 1 cheater,
1 cleaver creature
Long poem by
sabeeha Banu | Details |
That day Dawn chorus
Felt is soothing to my ears
I jumped for my nerdy glasses to trace
That singing face
Couldn't figure out her
The reason refrained me was my fear
The fear of losing the things I desire for
Happiness repeatedly showed its back after knocking the door
I found beauty in her voice
No need to check her deportment and poise.
From then,I was habituated to wake up to her hymen
That echoed in my room
Till then I was an orphan
Who was unaware with the emotions like happiness and fun
who puts head into the books
Not to meet the world looks
Some sought of energy embed into me
That drove my life easy
I started looking at people
Wandering through the aisle
And one day I haven't heard any song
Got up to check if anything went wrong
For the first time, looked at her dwelling
Stuck up at the lock hung on the doors handle
A tear of drop fell from my eyes
At the same time a smile on my lips
Her voice left an impact on me
lifted me from the state of self esteem
I didn't check whether she left or not
As her effect on me was immortal
I wished her to be safe wherever she lives
she was like the autumn's fall of leaves
That was a new birth for me
Where i was ready to face any difficulty
I became correspondent of a school
overcame each and every hurdle
spend life between children
whose smiles were as pure as her tone
Now,at the age of 80,i am still a bachelor
I didn't marry anyone,lived with memories of her
I used to write the envelopes
And post them to my own address
Praising her voice in them
How it strengthen my life's system
I always used to travel with a bicycle
Wearing my white suit
My students say that, my white suit doesn't look white
Hire a laundress to make it bright
My suit was white for me,
No one else can see
That bright part of suit was she
And the stains were me
She was pure
My stains i never attempted to remove
If i would have moved forward and told her the truth
That, in my life she played the role of angel in disguise
Today,i'm left with only that regret
In my life, those were beautiful scars
Today with lost teeth and wrinkled skin
I want to confess that, "I was and am" in love with her tone
Those were beautiful scars of my life...
Long poem by
Chris Boskovski | Details |
Love will Triumph
when all is lost,
and nothing is gained.
Love will Triumph;
when hearts are broken,
and friends cry upon other friend's shoulders,
as love has fleed the countrysides,
but Love will come again
to triumph over the souls that eat away at evening dreams.
Love will triumph
when all is lost,
and the enemy takes victory
from the bloodsoaked battlefields,
as the hearts break with a somber kiss goodbye,
Love will triumph once more.
Friends turn enemies with a blind eye
and a sorrow kiss goodbye.
Blue eyed Death comes with a knock upon my door,
Charles Haigh Wood,
You painted a picture
that describes that sorrow in my heart,
that one wish, that one dream,
that if I believe hard enough
that Love will triumph again.
Believe, when a friend steals my love away,
they kiss and kill my heart,
hand and hand, they sing to each other,
as I clench my fists and hold back my sharp tongue
and evil and dreeded thoughts.
As she holds me back from him, My tourmented soul cannot handle
such pain and suffering.
and I wanting to get revenage, but having no courage, I am no coward.
I scream in my thoughts and my heart sheads tears.
Why me? I ask, why does love trample over my soul?
Leave me now, you have what you wanted,
you stole my love away,
show her what I couldn't show her,
I shall turn the other cheek
listen to the nightingales sing in the morning sunrises,
and listen to the phrase that plays one thousand and one times
in my mind,
Love with Triumph, Love will Triumph, Love will Triumph!!!
Oh with love comes such betrayal and hate,
it seems everytime love Triumphs away,
someone else is happy in love's fanasty
and my heart is trampled all over!
My heart crushed by dirty shoes,
and dirty and sinfull hands that take my love away from me.
Love will Triumph as they say,
but no more shall I go though that pain again.
Over and over and over again,
Love Triumphs all over,
but no victory in my name, no victory for my heart.
As I sit at the foot of my bed,
the fog rolls on through
and takes me by surprise.
Love is like a fog, that burns away with the first rays of sunrise.
Love will Triumph in the days of Betrayal.
For the Contest: Charles Haigh Wood