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Long poem by Brian Johnston | Details |

Driving Alone Through the Sand Hills of Nebraska

My love is light (a fairy kiss?)          
               Like the pressure of sunbeams on your cheek, 
        Ineffable, and yet capable of changing lives…
		Darkening skin to a more attractive hue, 
		Pushing spaceships to distant stars (given time) , 
		Even causing cancer given sufficient lack of love for self.
        For love is not about just getting needs met by another, 
        No, love is more like a laser's coherent beam….
                For in reflecting back a portion of what is given, 
                The power of what is being created grows
                Until it can cut through the hardest steel
        And span the gulf between galaxies.

Poetry too grows through the cross-fertilization of newborn lines, 
        The lines of this poem insist that I record their birth.
 	        Each new line grabs me by the scruff of the neck, 
		       Forces me to hit the brake, grab my pen, 
		       And claim it in my family bible…
	        My only children, clamoring to be set in ink.
         As these Voyagers' pass into the present state of my art
                (Some that I barely recognize in their profligate parentage
	               Of older verse's new verse's newer verse still)          …
		               Somehow still carriers of my own genetic code.
                They press my design against the blank page
	                Flying in search of, homing on… your heart.
 
My love's intent is simply truth (do you want less?)          
	 Would you have me downplay 
	 	The warmth of our connection
                        Because it is complicated by here-to-fore
			        Unacknowledged passion, spiritual connection, 
			        And the remnants of former relationships
			        (Even those still gasping for breath) ? 
		        Or feign a lack of attachment to it's denouement
			         In a solitary attempt to feel safer? 
	 No matter can restrain the effects of gravity
		On the orbits of other bodies in its field of influence, 
		 	Gravity that binds us all in deep wells of space-time.

 Your kiss of greeting…
	After so many years of imagining such a possibility, 
	Imprinted deeper than even my memory of our first meeting, 
		Our moonlit shadows touching as we soaked naked
		In the steaming waters of a volcanic mountain spring.
	This new conjunction of souls occurred in God's clear view, 
		Without artifice or scheming on our part
			And rocked my inner core to it's depths, 
	Organizing molten currents of confused turbidity
	Into a magnetic flare of such intensity
		That iron flew to my spine
	Inspired me to finally declare my love
		To acknowledge your impact on my life…
	And after a period of gestation
		Gave birth to this poem of celebration.

 Back to Nebraskan reality and a new mystery…
	I pass an overturned car, 
		Its wheels tied by yellow police tape, 
	A metaphor for my life perhaps
		'Damaged but still salvageable.'
	The windows are broken out, 
		The occupants removed to a distant hospital somewhere
			(Hopefully arriving alive) , 
		Their odds and ends of life scattered like garbage
			On the inverted ceiling of their car.
	The explanation, perhaps, is the water still standing
		Several inches deep on the road side near the wreck? 
	A sudden orgasmic release of cloud in a desert….
		The car tops the hill to find the highway
			Buried by a lake of dimensions only God can know.
		Who would expect such a thing in Nebraska's sand hills? 

And what does it say about me finally
	That I am so drawn to distant objects, 
        That the two women given access to my heart are
		Both still tied to failed marriages
			By dark chapters I am not part of
			And innocent children who need their love? 
	And at our age where is the partner without a past? 

 Is this all that God has planned for you and me, 
	That we 'just miss' every thirty years or so? 
		I know there are times I am afraid to trust another's love, 
			Cannot even hear words of genuine affection.
		Perhaps this explains my attraction to women
			Whose availability might really be in question? 
		Maybe I'm afraid to let a real lover in? 
			Is the simple dream of love a better choice
				Than the chance of finding real love anew
				(Even love with an expiration date) ? 
		I think I'm more distrustful of my own heart's passion
			Than I am of women being unreceptive to my love.
		Do you struggle with similar feelings? 
	And is it my lot to only remember passion like this in a poem
		While you spiral away to unimagined rendezvous'? 

The coldness of space is not after-all
		The simple absence of heat…
	No, in human dimensionality it is more the absence of others…
		Others who both shine life force toward us
			And reflect our own light back to us, 
		Who collide with us physically and emotionally
			Altering our pathways forever, 
				And who crater the façade whose design
				We imagine belongs to us alone.
	The void of human space-time is a true 'black hole'
		Sporting only star death fragments of the 'Big Bang.'
 
This is all I really know…
	I treasure the memory of our 'fly-bys'
		Even if that's all they ever are.
	And if I'm lucky this joy, 
                This celebration of your existence, 
	Will continue to pour out of me in songs and verse…
		For your ears always (if I am so honored) , 
			For God's heart (as I was born to honor Him) , 
	And to the stars alone if I have only them for company.

Brian Johnston
August 2009
     
This poem, like 'A Walk Near Blunt, ' began during an actual drive from South 
Dakota to Oklahoma and then took on a life of it's own. These 'real life 
narrative' poems are part of an attempt on my part to give precedence to truth 
and content over form and rhyme. For readers with an interest in science, I 
hope you also enjoy my attempt in this and other poems to bring my love of 
Physics into the world of poetic imagery.


Long poem by Poetryof Providence | Details |

Conflicted or star crossed lovers

Not a day goes by I don't think of you
you have permeated my fortress and walk freely in all its rooms
(examining it's furnishings)
how did I allow you entry without the
usual search scan and seizure ?
I'ts like a foreign substance and all
my antibodies are seeking to eradicate
your presence (anti-christs)
My mind and heart find your entrance exhilarating 
like ecstasy ( a neurologically happy drug ,
which by the way I've never imbibed in but the
other one I'm only slightly familiar with)
My body wants to throw you off like some
intruder to the death it lies in bondaged slavery of.
I finally understand the WAR.
I want to isolate this substance and imbibe at will
or as often as I desire.
There's no corner on the market for this substance,
you can only get this by freely accepting it as your 
own life blood , the loss of which kills us , but it's
flow is what keeps us alive.
I desire to lay in it's bliss
like basking in a warm sun's rays
unfortunately I burn easily , so I usually limit 
my exposure to substances I feel may do me damage.
But OH , HOW GOOD this FEELS , as though I should
have been born to this naturally .
But NO , love is not the natural substance of the world
in it's battlements and fortresses erected by men and
so thoroughly indoctrinated into his very being .
I just want to bottle this and share it with everyone.
But everyone "knows" every really really great substance
wears off and kicking the habit is way way painful .
But I want to suck this up and live in it , to have the heat
of it never dim , until it is an all consuming fire that lights
everything in it's sphere . Yes LOVE JUNKIE , child of God
a shameless addict to truth about the paths people choose
to "lose" themselves on . 
I've been like a bloodhound sniffing out every trail looking
for this substance the one that transforms you into fully
brilliantly vibrantly alive , and to roll in it until every fiber
of my being is saturated with it's fragrance.
The factory that manufactures this is built within , 
and I want unlimited access  , but my own body has
set up perimeters and walls to fence off my full access 
to my own God given life source ..(the curse)
You can only have full admittance when you can use
it's power to give life and not destroy others , to be 
able to manage it usefully for the benefit of all.
But I'm a natural indulgent in what feels good , 
substances always on the intake , seeking to have a 
balm that shields me from being abused or seeing 
my own abuses of Life. My ability to utilize a substance
so powerful is limited by my training , my will and my
exposure to everything that seeks to sell it on the open
market like a thrill seeker , or cheap whore who can be
had for a bouquet and dinner , which is quickly consumed
in one night and disappears tomorrow . Nothing that the
world offers can even slightly imitate the magnitude and 
power residing where Love dwells . When you've been 
allowed to taste its manna , the desire for a plateful
is now not even enough but the drive to constant partaking
of its presence is now an all consuming fire and I am 
driven to sign up for the lifetime plan . For better is a life
that feeds on love daily , than to choke and suffocate on
the bowls of hatred served up daily in the worlds menu.
I have relished the view from opposite sides of the room ,
when you're ready  for the permanent plan you will 
have to crossover to the other side . I know you read me,
like the good book , and when you understand you can
hide it from the world , but not from me , or yourself .
We want full access to the wellspring of life and love , I'm
willing to share the source , but it's a limited partnership (MLP)
on a lifetime plan , but it's riches are infinite and can only
be provided by the source. If you're willing to crossover , 
I'll allow you re-entry and full access ... Love  


COPYRIGHT © 2013 C Michael Miller
via Duboff Law Group LLC


Long poem by Brian Johnston | Details |

Feather Power: Echo Poem 8-TH

Poet's Notes 1:
My poet's notes must precede the next Echo Poem as well because the poet 
has not given me permission to publish her poems on my site. I can, of course, 
reference her poems without restriction. So the TH in the title here is short for 
Treasure Hunt. To really enjoy my poem to the full (although it does stand 
alone as well), I suggest you read Lora Colon's Poem called 'A Feather in the 
Wind' on Poemhunter.com first. PH is a great site as well and I publish both 
places.

Ode to a Feather

Is the pen not mightier than the sword? 
Are your words not still thunder and lightning? 
Are they not springs that others have only to sip from
To see their own immortality in black and white
Or in tasting your cup, die in ecstatic communion
Knowing that they have served God in loving you
And in this sweetest of deaths, awake to God's Presence? 
Like the thief on the cross who in acknowledging Christ
Was told, ‘This day you shall be with me in paradise! '
How can you not know this about yourself? 

You certainly have a following….
To reverse the usual sexual metaphor, 
Just where is the ink well
You could not dip your quill into
And is not the quill (the base of a feather)      
In fact the doppleganger of the same instrument
That starts wars, beheads kings, 
Draws national boundaries, and dissolves fortunes? 
Do you intend to put us off our guard
By comparing yourself to a helpless feather
Enslaved to the vagaries of an unpredictable breeze? 

Wow, the tabloids are having a field day! 
Why would you have yourself brought up on charges? 
How is it possible love can be a capital offense? 
Really, dear poet, what were you thinking? 
Please plead temporary insanity
Or depression that overwhelmed you, 
Blame it on your parents, 
Say that someone put acid in your Dr. Pepper, 
Then throw yourself onto the mercy of the court.
You know there will not be a dry eye anywhere…

The only love in danger of disappearing is self-love, 
Self-love that is, in fact, blessed by God and not fake.
Your only real salvation is to realize that you are loved, 
Your only chance for happiness is to give up being a victim.
If you get that loving another (and being loved)      
Are choices that only you have power over, 
Please let this sink in, being a victim is also a choice, 
And, dear poet, it is a choice that no friend wants you to make.
It is not now and can not be, a spell others cast upon you
However sad that might sound in a poem.
You do not need to win our sympathy, WE ARE YOU! 
The only love anyone can lose, is love that they reject, 
And even then, though they are blind to it, 
It is there (and theirs) , eternally theirs, forever …..
Choose for that reason alone to live your days in joy
And in the face of the unknown, always choose life.

Brian Johnston
February 14, 2014

Poet's Notes 2:
The last three lines of this poem reminds me of Mahler's song in ‘Das Lied von 
de Erde' (The Songs of the Earth) called ‘Der Abschied' (The Farewell). The last 
line of Mahler's song is….

‘The beloved Earth blooms forth everywhere in Spring, and becomes green 
anew! Everywhere and endlessly blue skies light the horizon! Endless... '


Long poem by Jesse James Forster | Details |

The Aswang Fable

Day quickly fades into a fearful silent night
Frightful because within the darkness evil comes to life
Abomination that became legend as legend became myth
The Aswang
The wicked epitome of sin
Beautiful by day but a shapeshifting demon in disguise
It has a long disgusting tongue with unspeakable desires
Blood thirsty creatures eating unborn babies in the womb
Fangs that'll transform people into dead flesh eating ghouls
Severing her body from her legs so it can fly
On serpent angel wings preying on its next victim to die
Bayani took his pregnant wife Amor to the hospital for becoming sick
A three day journey from their mountain village will now begin
Theyll travel through the valleys seeking shelter as they go
Amor wearing garlic on her belly protecting her babies soul 
Traveling through jungle & deserted roads along the shore
Knowing when they hear a dreadful cry theyre not alone
With every step they take they abhor the falling moon
Something once so beautiful is now impending doom
By dusk they came upon a village but every door was closed
Desperation in their voice they scream for help with little hope
Dismay dripping from their skin so the demon could smell their fear
Before they heard the dreadful cry the Aswang did appear
In horror they banged on every door pleading for some help
But no one gave relief having their own to protect from hell
Bayani remembered legend perhaps there is a way we can survive 
Destroy her legs before she reattached her upper body in morning rise
A task that may be difficult because the lower half they have to find
Before they made a move she swooped down with her evil yellow eyes
She grabbed Amor by her throat as Bayani pled for her life
Please let my wife and baby go and in return you can have mine
She said a lovely gesture but be patient youre the next to die
With a evil grin she slit her throat and consumed their unborn baby still inside
Falling to his knees with a broken heart he asked her why
She said I have no compassion or reason and let me tell you why

"Im the first Aswang of this village
A maiden by the day
Im the reflection of their darkness and their evil ways
Desires that cannot be spoken
A blackened heart equally broken
Habits that are disgusting
I am made of nothing
I am the mirror they will never face
The fear that keeps them all awake 
But the truth is much more powerful
I am the face behind their faith
The contradiction of forgiveness 
For every time you kneel and pray
Im the fear that keeps the children crying and afraid
It started with a lie
Then desires to reach the sky
Which resulted into sadness 
but with a deeper understanding why
Sad because I can see the darkness they themselves alone hav caused
Many more will be like me and many already lost
Failed secrets buried forever
And I will be like them
I am also you 
If you wear the wickedness of all your sins"


Long poem by Mark Goodson | Details |

Treasure of My Heart

Yamaha impressed me the first time I laid eyes on her glistening blond maple wood, her stylish body details, her long fretted mother-of-pearl inlay; lobed with golden keys. Her voice called to me the first time I held her in my arms. I strummed her six strings slowly in the key of G, then moved softly to D and C. All the while, I searched earnestly for her purity in sound quality and style. She was not the most beautiful in the showroom. But oh yes! She did flatter me with her musical presence. She was beautiful to me! I knew from that moment on she would be mine for eternity. 

Within the hour, I took her home to meet the family. She was shy on the journey, not making a sound; perhaps due to this being her first automobile ride or simply wanting to see a world she was now a part of. Yamaha was cased in alligator leather, a brown dressing which was stylish for the day. We were both nervous as we arrived and got out of the car. My strong caressing grip on her handle assured her she wouldn’t fall and it would be alright. She knew it would be alright as I smiled at her. 

I opened the door, allowing her to enter first. When in the living room, I called to everyone to come meet the newest member of the family. Dad was taken by her simple yet elegant beauty and style. Mom touched her first and she was most pleased. At that moment I realized the importance of first impressions as Mom marveled at how pretty she was. I sat down in the best chair in the living room while Mom listed to Yamaha talk and I sang a popular country love song.  I was pleased with the family acquaintance to Yamaha. It was evident she had become a part of the family.

 The first few weeks, I couldn’t keep Yamaha out of my arms. I longed to be with her every minute of the day. In my eye, she made me smile by just gazing upon her. I fumbled with her in those beginning days. She ignored my elementary attempts at refinery and permitted me the time to catch up to her mastery rather than bow down to my level. Like any two lovers, both must reach to the need of the other. Only then is love truly in harmony. 

Today, Yamaha is not the young glistening blond I held in my arms some thirty years removed. Her wood has been scared by my love to play her. She has received countless face lifts which cover her tainted mother-of-pearl. Her brown leather case dress stands in need of a seamstress care. But as with all things having been learned through love, we now make beautiful music together. She is my treasure, a light into my soul's well. She amplifies my inner being. As I perform, she is glorified. We have grown old together,and gotten better in time. I still hold her in my arms day by day as this lover has risen to her grace and expectations. She is my treasure for a life time.


Long poem by kevin wint | Details |

Deleted


 

I say I find myself trapped in some sort of sadistic paradigm 
With my eyes closed she’s still deciding whether she should delete this baby, I guess she’s 
on borderline  
They’re getting closer; I can feel their sharp needles creeping down my spine
Whatever happened to freedom? Why do you think your life, is more important than mine?  
I say, this self-interest cannot even explain…
I say, this disgusting self-interest has turned into pain… 
What am I saying..? This is more than pain 
Why do you want to delete women, was I not well behaved? 
I swear to God, if I could swear to God, if you delete this damn fetus you will not be 
forgave! 
But at the moment I’m just, trying to get you off of my, developing mind 
But at this moment somehow, I can’t get you off of my, developing face 
Facing these problems is like pleading a case, I guess you just pleaded guilty cuz you 
wanted me deleted and erased 
Erasing this baby is fine but remember you’ll never, never, erase that mistake 
Is that all I am to you women? Just some little mistake 
Mistakenly I’m cursing this disillusionment, mistakenly your cursing my existence
I say most days it’s easier just to cry and say I’m okay
Instead actually telling these strangers, what I really want to say. 
Saying this makes you often reminisce about how life would be and sometimes I got to 
keep my mind off that like 
Baby do you still love me?
Efffff
My heart somehow died, when she asked me that, my heart feels like, I a’int even got a 
metaphor that, it just hurts. 
You know what everybody? 
Never mind, this poem is giving me some sort of headache 
Freaking 23 chromosomes she had to contribute, I guess that was a headache
Audience don’t ya see that cabalistic virus trying to find its way through her iris 
And corrupt her perception of what the truth is. 
Truthfully speaking she could’ve found ah new man
But where the hell was I gonna find ah new fam
Why is this love so complicating?
Why is this love so fascinating?
Why is this love so devilishly addictive?
But at the same time my love for you is naked women; I don’t want anybody to see it but 
you 
So everybody, shh while I, move out these dark clouds and bring in this beautiful sunshine 
Cuz that’s what you are women, you are my sunshine 
Did you not hear me, through this sadistic paradigm?
This prison told me not to forgive you, but somehow you’re not on borderline 
Those sharp needles, somehow never touched my spine, you broke through that self-
interest, and came just in time
So I swear God, Cuz I actually could swear to God, through this pain, through this rain, and 
through this vain, 
I will reach to the light 
And I’ll shout your name 
 mom, I still love you 

 






Long poem by Jorn Kolding | Details |

Cadogan Place

On this side of the inferno,
A cool breeze gently tugs the sleeves,
Of the man whose plan is to seize,
Just enough children hands to die,
Before the rot of paradox,
Sets in to make him lonely again.

His idea is to take a metaphor,
(Which is not quite a living thing
But still something you’d be best off
Keeping an eye on, so to speak),
Distill its essence in vapor,
Inhale, and, if all goes well, fly.

Looking down at Cadogan Place,
A lost poodle looks left and right,
Searching for his lady of fate,
A woman of some pedigree,
Whose appointment with the doctor,
Should have come before the bridge.

It was not a long war, exactly,
The casualties were kept low,
So as to keep things kind of fair,
The armies fought against the words,
By which means it was a real war,
In her head that is, before she jumped.

A man, with a broken wheelbarrow,
Full of gall and grinning onions,
Stood on toe searching the night light,
For the coming nocturnal gift,
Showers filled with resentment,
Enough by George to make him rich.

The flying man grinned and waved,
A dream much more than good or bad,
Beyond the English din of facts,
Horizons paved by German rats,
Lay a frontier, the final font,
Where little magic verbs chanted.

Like the zipless art of friction,
A new slang fell upon the land,
The man on the ground pointed down,
His boots heavy with laughter’s sound,
Making his rounds by selling nouns,
Penny magazines for the poor.

If living was only to be,
Sick for most of eternity,
The parlor lady almost drowned,
Might just have counted her blessings,
For when truth gets told by owls old,
Dying deals just another blow.

When she got back from near defeat,
The water of fire, air, and earth fell,
Like a hundred thousand thoughts,
From her shoulders in one big swell,
Soothing not just the ache in her heart,
But healing poetry’s lost art.

Be not deceived when fiction flies,
For it takes two ones to make a third;
The tears of lies flow down a stream,
To where a receptacle awaits,
A tiny grail called the ocean,
Which opens its mouth and cries. 

Artists, saints and philosophers,
The proverbial trinity,
All in it from go to finish,
To make laws out of points of view,
From flaws so fake and sick to see,
As to shame the sun into tears.

Thrice removed from the heart of life,
Sat a man in a pyramid, 
Holding a timepiece to his chest,
Geometry’s essence for rest,
The wet kiss of life fleeting fast,
He forgot why lips were therefore.

The noise of all the busy streets,
Starvation teasing Burden’s ass,
Words by numbers laughing loud,
The Stone, the Rock and all the crowd,
All crushed by the turn of a crank,
While exploding stars meant nothing.


Long poem by Michael Smith | Details |

Does the War Ever Really End

A moment stauls...
Somewhere in between
What shall always be... 
Known as my lost and forever hour

Where I wake to sounds of thrashing rains
A clock sits staring, ticking and tocking
My own darkness illuminating lightning
Distant thunder following her in shame

Although, throes of raven blackness
Slumber holds on to the pitch
But, I pass through limbo hallways of surreal
Stumbling forth in directions by my blinded feel itch

Walls of lucid memories like dripping paint 
Begin to lapse deep into the younger years 
And creaking footfalls shatter their echo
Of certian remembered fears 

"Ah" deja vu sounds the alarm even further
Cracks from father’s room, is the ceiling leaking?
Into my little ears I'm more awake
As I hear the faint famaliar tears of weeping

My curiosity ever stronger than before
And innocent eyes through doorways peer
It’s the war again; Mom said he tried...
To leave it all behind, but still it's always there

And the storm's outside, but in a booming violence
Rushes back surreal into the unforgotten killing
The death, its experiences still locked up
Within his mind never free or escaping

A heroes love is his strength
Protecting me from a world with terrible pains
But, somehow I’ve learned to understand
That he needs his son, to calm his troubled angst

And silently I step
Inching slowly towards him
And nestle up within his trembling hands
Tugging upon one sleeve whispering "Dad, oh dad?"

“God has sent me here”
I say directly in his ear
Quieter now “To love you”
My tone gentle to his needs

Wiping away his tears
He whispers back...
“I know”
And picks me up, relieved

And in turn we face the scene
Of a passing storm into silence
As the rain seems alive to notice
Stopping to watch our mends in evanescence

We are somewhat aware we are within God's presence 
Looking to each other with a shrug
And then my dad holds me up
Giving this boy the biggest hug

Beneath the returning quiet 
And the ambience of moonray light
He carries me back to my room
And places me into bed amid the last flash of white

Pulls the blankets up
Knowing this will comfort me
And I’ll never forget the words
He said so effortlessly 

“One day...
You will have a son
Always let him know you love him
And your bond will never end”

Again I wake, this time
To the sounds of an apologetic rain
The lightening has ceased its battle
And the thunder it no longer blames

I unwind the blanket
And uncover and sit
Rubbing the sleep out of my eyes
Awake, on the edge of bed

Was this a dream?
Or a twist of fate reality?
I ponder, running fingers through my hair
And, merely reflect upon it

Then I realize…
I was not alone
Dad is watching, not far away
And I know one day, I'll see him soon, after heaven's gates


Long poem by James Kelley | Details |

Elements of Essence, Collab by James Kelley and Katherine Wyatt

I am walking in your footprints again. My bare feet are so small when contained within the imprint of your own We have walked this soft grassy road, side by side. Now I walk only with your essence. I feel the brush of your skin and callouses of your hands on my body. Such soft reveries. Its inevitable conclusion is bleeding into the clay and tall grasses beneath our ghostly steps.
 
I am Earth and you are Sky, and the wind carries the daily exchange of our nature on soft songs. I no longer chase the zephyrs that swirl upon the low grounds. They carry leaves and debris that settles back onto the clay beneath us. We both see one another clearly, but somehow do not have clear vision when it comes to our own storms.
 
I am rain falling sideways, pushed by your reaching gusts. Locusts swarm in the eyes of my pondering caress; we are a plague of fathoms at the foot of a swallowed sea. You are the calmness of Earth’s depths, my rage punishing your shores. You are the beauty of my destruction, the ebb and flow of my tormented purity. I only wish that I could feel your weight upon me again, holding me at rest.
 
But the scales of time’s sandy tick have tilted, leaving me crazed and undiluted. I watch your limbs sway, your leaves break free and wander, searching for the source of my prayers, and I blink. The night swells in my breast and I feel your fault lines shake in the bones of what is left.
 
This feral land is the bedchamber of our lovemaking. The faces in the trees are watching us. We give them life as they dream us into being. The soft waters of the bayous are a song hanging in thick bayou air. We are like water. I close my eyes and you are within me.
 
Our bodies are trapped in the temporal. Our minds caught in patterns we do battle with perceived realities. Yet your spirit is etched beneath my eyelids. You are never far. We are writing poetry across oceans of time. Lovers in every form. Weaving stories of creation and destruction upon each individuation. Flesh as a vessel, is only bound by time. My heart is heavy with shadows. Yet together, we are Fire and Light.   
 
We are the eternal design of nature’s fury: the break and the fall, the flow and the pull, the thrust and the splash of kindling spirit. We are all, and we are one, and I feel your feet within mine as we walk down, further upon the grassy road of our story. Your hand is soft, mine broken and bleeding. But you will heal me, you always do. For you are the wind that molds me, the crash breaks me, the flame that purifies our bond, and the water sending ripples on the shore of every world in which we choose to play our songs.
 
 
(c) James Kelley and Katherine Wyatt 2014


Long poem by Deanna Schaub | Details |

Winter Winds

Winter winds blow all around. 
I’m astonished by the sounds of Jingle Bells and reindeer stomps. 
All of this should never stop. 
Snow lies on the ground, if only that weren't too profound. 
Time only leads to decay, but not on Christmas, not today. 
You should see the angels pray. 
Toy trains, and rag dolls are the things kids used to want. 
But time has changed, yes so have children… 
Santa seems as if a villain. 
So much fighting, so much crying, it sounds as if the kids are dying. 
“I want money, I want fame, and these toys are just so lame.” 
But that’s the product we provided. 
Second chances are no more, Santa’s plot we wait for. 
He’s sick of this, he doesn't care, it’s as if he’s not wanted here. 
He gets ready to take it all back…. 
WAIT! 
There’s still one toy left in his sack, it’s for a little girl, half a world away. 
Now how could he have missed this, on the perfect Christmas day? 
He turns around, not time for war. 
This toy, the girl is waiting for… It’s not a toy like you’d expect. 
She didn't ask for electronics, or stupid games such as Sonic. 
She just wanted one small thing… 
She’s waiting for something EXTRA special this gloomy day. 
In a bed she sits and stares, at the window near a chair. 
She’s so weak, and all alone. 
She doesn't even have a real home, not where there are bright lights anyways. 
They've decorated a weeping willow, the only tree around the “home”. 
So she has lights to see. 
It’s Christmas after all, but there’s no way to calm the raging sea. 
She’s dying, it won’t take much longer, and she doesn't care about the tree. 
She needs a new heart extra bad. 
So, Santa’s bringing her the one thing, that will stop her parents from being sad. 
He rushes to the hospital in his golden sleigh, and climbs right down the vent, 
He’s saving Christmas today. 
Santa rushes in just in time, finds a doctor, the girl is dying. 
It’s not what he usually does, but he stays and watches as they save her life. 
He waits for her to wake up. 
“Santa, you saved my life, oh thank you so much! I needed my heart to be touched.” 
He just smiles, and kisses her hand. He’s so glad he didn't destroy the land. 
Christmas is still a special day. 
There’s no more sorrow, no, not today. Santa smiles though some are still ungrateful. 
There’s that one child, standing in the snow, her life can now be started in the evening glow. That’s life for the grateful, loving, caring, and the thankful. Most of the time Santa just gives toys. For all the good girls and boys. But not today, and not tomorrow, once a year he gets rid of sorrow. So sleep tight and say your prayers, Christmas time is but once a year.


Long Poems