The Box
This box is so small it engulfs me
No windows or doors to be seen
I sit in my corner, thinking:
“Oh Lord, what a wonderful dream.”
I dream that I find a new doorway
The one that’s been there all along
One last look in the mirror,
I know I have to be strong.
I press myself up to the outside
And listen to what lies within
The sound of the silence is deafening
Deep breath and my head starts to spin.
“Don’t go” my mind starts to tell me
The fear going straight to my heart
Blood pumping fast in my veins now
I’ve always been scared of the dark.
Feeling my way through the darkness
I’m surprised there isn’t a lock
My body shaking with anguish
“Can’t do it” my mind seems to mock.
I hear the sound of the laughter
The voices familiar to ear
My hand closing down on the handle
It’s time now to meet this fear.
The motion so light to my touch
My mind all battered and torn
I enter into the limelight
Expecting to meet with such scorn.
The voices abate in a second
No time can be recorded at will
I stare at the faces before me
And notice they all seem so still.
“Good God, my dear woman, what’s kept you?
We thought you would never come home
This party’s been going for some time now
At last you’ve come out on your own.”
I look into the face of my old friend
And turn to meet their embrace
My laughter so light and melodic
The grin spreading over my face
“Sorry I’m late as usual
So much work that had to be done.
But better late than never
The results are second to none.”
Copyright © Christine Adams | Year Posted 2020
Many years ago, I spent my life in vain
Yearning for peace nobody by himself could gain…
Groping wearily in that dark vacuum with pain
Oh! I was lost – in trespasses, I was slain.
Desperate was I in such unsure condition…
Keeping rituals and blinded by false religion
Needing God to free me from sins’ dominion
Only by His grace can I have assured redemption.
Wholly freed by God from the devil’s enslavement
Saved am I now through my Savior’s sacrifice-fulfillment…
My life He quickened, clothed with righteousness’ raiment
Yes, with His love, He took away my punishment.
Now, I gladly live for Christ* Who knows my soul’s need
Eternal promises He gives, no one can exceed
Enriched with His blessings, I praise and thank Him indeed
Deserving of my service, He – my God, I heed.
*Galatians 2:20 I am crucified with Christ: nevertheless I live; yet not I, but Christ liveth in me: and the life which I now live in the flesh I live by the faith of the Son of God, who loved me, and gave himself for me.
April 11, 2018
Edited on June 11, 2020
Acrostic in rhyme form
8th place, "Your Best Poem" Premier Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Chantelle Anne Cooke; judged on 6/12/2020.
Copyright © Beata Agustin | Year Posted 2018
Lean your head close to this shoulder of mine
And let all the fantasies you have to go wild
Do not be afraid to express the affection you conceal in this heart
Without uttering a single word, kiss me and kiss me hard
The virtue of your soul has softened this vulnerable heart of mine
Igniting the passion hidden with in and setting it on fire
The elegance of your face is the place where poets like me disarm
Disrupting the rhythm of my pen and making it impossible for me to describe your charm
Dancing tenderly with your body gently pressed against mine
Let us rule the night of our dreams, making our love divine
Just as if the Prophecy of us together have been foretold by people of all times
Shh,there is no need to blush, thou art my bread and thou art my holy wine
And eventually I shall surrender to the seducing whispers of your heart
While delicately running my fingers all over your bodily parts
Rendering you with its sweetness and intimidating you to yearn for more
Ahh, no need to suppress your emotions, lives through the night as if there is nothing more to live for
And just as the dawn is about to break
Sit with me on the corner of that glacial lake
And let us cherish this celestial moment while being submerged in each other arms
There is no need for any blankets, allow my body to provide yours with enough warmth
Soon the cruel world will display its colours and we shall have to separate
Agonizing is going to be the moment when for eternity we shall have to part our ways
Devoted love is hopeless in the world which is permeated with hatred and rage
But don’t worry my lover, I shall wait for you on heaven’s gate
Cry woman cry, dissolve all of the sadness into the darkness and silence of night
For heaven knows that we shall not have a bodily reunion again in this life
Let the metaphorical piano perform each tune with a unique tear
Blood flowing from the eyes as we acknowledged that pure love has lost its war with Earthly fear
By giving music to this unsung of mine, set our love as an example for all times to come
Become a poem of mine and make this night of us together an immortal one
Copyright © Faraz Ajmal | Year Posted 2020
Summer's Fog
Morning is not here yet
I cannot see
The sleeping town in front of me.
A refreshing air comes from the west
Palm trees stand in the fog
While contemplating
On what is left of the night
I hear sounds of birds.
Bare feet
And the house's roof is cold
A little bird
Comes flying and lands
On the long palm's frond.
It gazes toward me
I feel it is asking
What happened?
Why didn't you sleep last night?
Copyright © Khalid Albudoor | Year Posted 2020
????????
I often wonder what we have been,
to others, what have they seen ?
Have we been cruel ?, have we been mean ?
Is our soul calm, cool and serene ?
Questions ?, it does seem,
are all that is left for me
as we reach out to the sea
of subconscious knowledge,
walk the razors edge,
into the unknown,
will all be shown ?
B. J. "A" 2
May 13th 2012
Copyright © William J. Jr. Atfield | Year Posted 2012
Listen to poem:
I am both
boundless and bounded,
limitless and limited,
given and taken away
What am I?
Copyright © Andrew Baffi | Year Posted 2020
Her small angelic face ...
Once a place where broad smiles bloomed like butterflies on marigolds,
is streaked with the furrows that countless tears have etched into the
layers of dust and dirt and explosive residue that now paints her skin,
like the branches and courses the mighty Nile has carved into the ages.
Her sweet little-girl voice, that in better times was the conduit of joyous
laughter born straight from her belly, is now hoarse and scratchy from
the screams and cries that follow every explosion and rattle of gunfire,
and every vision of horror that reality serves up each day instead of food.
But no matter - she has little need to speak anymore. Those amazingly
blue eyes - as azure as any summer sky, and once sparkling like sun-pixies
dancing on the wave-tops of the Mediterranean - now stare ahead with
vacant darkness, a shadow that only hopelessness and apathy can cast.
Like her beloved baby doll, Amia, (stolen from her days earlier), there is
no spark of hope or life dancing in her gaze, just the watery shimmer of
sadness, always on the edge of tears. She is wearing her favorite dress,
a pink and white seersucker pinafore, with little blue piping on the straps.
The hem and bib have the same trimming, but much of it is missing, or
hanging, torn. She wears a sharp-creased white blouse Underneath,
though it has been a long time since it LOOKED white. One of the straps
is almost worn through, and the dress has little tears here-and-there.
Her shoes were also once her favorites, but the toes are now balding,
and the saddle-shoe tones of white and tan are gone, covered with dried
mud and scrapes. The beautiful pink polka-dot ribbon she had in her hair
is wrapped around her left leg, on a wound that would not stop bleeding.
She has smaller wounds and scrapes on her legs and arms, and one on
her head that is very bothersome, as it is filled with maggots - she hates
the feeling of them squirming in her flesh, but she was told that it was
best to NOT remove them until she reaches Damascus and medical help.
You see, maggots only eat dead tissue, and will keep the wound clean
until she can receive proper treatment. That wound is almost as big as
the one on her leg, both were from an IED that killed the rest of her loved-
ones as they were trying to escape the fighting on the road from Raqqa.
That seems so long ago to her now - years ago in her mind - and she
has been walking ever since. Sometimes people are kind to her and give
her food, or watch out for her for a while, but it never lasts for long,
and it's hard to know who to trust, as everyone else is desperate, too.
Sadly, some of the adults she has met have tried to do bad things to her,
but she has always been able to run away ... so far. She prays daily for
an angel - maybe someone from her town that will offer help, but each
new day just brings more strangers and hunger ... more dust and dirt.
She holds close to her mother's burqa ... it may seem a silly thing to others,
but it was made by her grandmother, and she uses it at night for a pillow, (folding it over-and-over) ... it is also stained with her mother's blood,
and that is all she'll ever have of her family now, so it is precious to her.
Other than a package of bubble gum in her pocket, and some dog biscuits
that she nibbles on at night, (hidden in her underwear - others will steal
them if they know about them), the burqa is all she has in the world. Well,
she has memories, but those memories are now stained and broken, too.
Even her best memories are beginning to drift away with the dust and
hunger and horror ... she strains now to remember the faces and voices
of her family, especially her mother's voice singing lullabies, (she sang them
to Amia before she was taken), but even those things are abandoning her.
Those priceless memories are slowly-but-surely being devoured by the
maw of hopelessness, and like her small Hello Kitty suitcase, her hoodie,
her wallet of family photos, and the package of food she left with, it has all
been taken by those who saw her as opportunity, not one needing help.
But war does strange things to people, she's told, war changes people.
So, for now, she keeps walking and praying, and she will TRY to hope that
she reaches Damascus and medical care, (though she has learned that
hope holds little comfort), but safety isn't guaranteed her there, either ...
And she will remember what the ugly man who took her food and suitcase
and hoodie and photos said to her ... the brutal, angry phrase that some-
how helps to push her on, when her feet are blistered, and her bones are
aching, and her eyes and nostrils burn, and her spirit is empty and broken ...
The cold thing he said to her, laughing, when he took her doll Amia, (for
his own little girl), and everything she had left in the world ...
"Gotta travel light, little girl ... travel light!"
~ 5th Place ~ in the "JP Contest 6: War and Heroism Poetry Contest", Jamie Pan, Judge & Sponsor.
~ 2nd Place ~ in the "Travel Light Poetry Contest", Kai Michael Neumann, Judge & Sponsor.
* This was written about the conflict in the Middle East, and the courage of a little orphan girl, who is trying to survive on the road from ISIS-held Raqqa to safety in Damascus. I am honored to say that Cambridge/Oxford alum, Professor Ann-Marie Thornton, used this poem to teach a series of classes in her War Poetry Class at Bilkent University, in Ankara, Turkey, April and May, 2017. Many thanks to her and her wonderful students! *
Copyright © Gregory R Barden | Year Posted 2017
Gossamer pollens fly,
Making oft the florist sneeze,
Beneath a bough too high.
Copyright © Sarban Bhattacharya | Year Posted 2016
Please tell me where the music hides
Said the boy to the old man
I swear that I will seek it out
I'll find it if I can
Then the old man smiled at him
Slowly he replied
I'll tell you where to find it
Though it doesn’t really hide
There's music in the mountains
There's music in the sea
Music lives in you my boy
Music lives in me
There's music in the gentle wind
Blowing softly in the trees
There's music in the songs of birds
In the buzzing of the bees
There's music in the sweet soft words
Of a mothers lullaby
There's music in a rippling stream
And in a lover's sigh
Music does not hide my boy
It is everywhere
So just stand still and listen
You'll hear it in the air
So the child stood still and listened
Then his face lit up with joy
Now I know where music lives
I'm happy said the boy
Denis Briggs
Copyright © Denis Briggs | Year Posted 2018
gold pink orange dawn
rise up refreshed in sunshine
like a fragrant bloom
in torrid noon hour
emerald green and jaded
birds sing to summer
reds mauves turn dusky
shadows lengthen into night
glimmering moonbeams
midnight of dreaming
diamond stars are twinkling fire
music in the night
Copyright © Evelyn Judy Buehler | Year Posted 2020
Afternoon Delight!
Lookin’ forward to a little afternoon delight
Turn! Turn! Turn!
There is a season turn, turn, turn
A time to every purpose under heaven
A time for neck rub, a time for kiss, a time to unfold 70’s clock radio music
Peter, Paul and Mary
88.7
Bob Dylan, Donovan, Neil Young
A time to borrow propane tank next door
A time to swim in ocean of stars
A time to Yale at Jose – the gardener
A time to country
two left feet who never promise a rose garden
A time for Chopin piano concerto along with a time for COVID models
A time for Mahjong and Gin rummy
Without winning or losing
Whopping Leap of faith: A time of homemade haircut
A time for Prosecco and strawberries; a time for Instacart
A time to Mystic Hills; a time to Top of the World
Oh, my beloved lemon thief
A time to dream –
grateful dreams – tasty dreams – To Have and Have Not dreams
Today and always
The greatest radio station in the world!!
Copyright © Sierra Chen | Year Posted 2020
Who Am I ?
By George W. Clever-----12 June 2020
Who am I? I’m just a nut.
Patch on my eye. Big ears to help me fly.
A Weird kid in school. So they all say.
Mother had me tested. Never received the results, I guess.
Life has been busy. A smorgasbord of interests.
How could I choose but one? So I filled my plate with all it could hold.
Copyright © George Clever | Year Posted 2020
EMPTY CUP
Oh! Empty cup
On a saucer, you do sit,
All alone
In a cruel, cruel world,
That has made you
Have this feeling of rejection
And made to feel all dirty
And stained and gutted too!
Oh! Empty cup
Not that long ago
Was when sweet lips
Savoured the pleasure
Of the offering you gave,
Because you satisfied,
You warmed,
You imparted
Pure pleasure to the receiver.
Oh! Empty cup,
You gave all of yourself,
You were drained,
You’re all empty now,
You’re all alone
You feel so unwanted
And totally rejected too,
Oh! Empty cup
In a rack with your friends
Until the next time
When you supply the need
Of someone passing by
Who will use you
Who will abuse you,
Then cast you aside
Again and again and again…
Copyright © Francis Cooper-McKenzie | Year Posted 2020
massacres appear vainglorious for the victor...what about those who
suffer the loss...who have their brains removed as a whole...who cried out
with no one listening as the distortions were so grindingly an affront
pilgrims and others coming to this new land of glorious possibilities...
decimating all in their path of righteousness...ofttimes defending
with stalwart support of a misbegotten cause; one might say survival...
one might say genocide...one might say insanity...’cause it survived
like a crown of thorns digging into the awareness of all
never stopping to say stop...removal of the sanctified pattern
is more painful than all of that...where is sacredness, where is
reverence more than just lip service. We keep buying this same old
stuff strewn with apathy and black fri-days of pain and wanting...having
to get up early to consume more and more...why has this sickness come
from the mouths of those who are not yet of the light...who are darkening the
hearts of all regardless of the saying - I am of the light...can we truly come
together to remember enough of the lines of this play to change this outcome?
don’t know and don’t know if I care; yet I care so much more than I know
the conundrum of wanting to stand in love is not speaking out...here again,
who would be the one speaking? I cannot see the truth yet I am beckoned
by energies who want to deny the possibilities have run away with the
cow jumping over the moon.
Copyright © Cynthia Cross | Year Posted 2019
The Still Voice
Depth's of My heart,
loves all people for who they are.
The still voice talks,
but, who is listening?
He weeps with sorrow,
because his children's gone astray.
The still voice talks,
but who is listening?
He, speaks once again,
to be astray to His land.
The still voice talks,
but, who is listening?
One said, I heard you talk to thee,
And the love pours about.
The still voice talks,
hence, someone was listening.
Copyright © William Darnell Sr. | Year Posted 2013
There are multiple me’s, all make me proud
Which one is dominant, I can’t say very loud
My life is a stage, I’m so grateful
If done well, ever so tasteful
A stage to try, fail and try again
To laugh and cry, oh what then
I’m not sick
I’m alive and learning me
Who I can be, how to be free
Why hyde from Jekyll?
I want to know Hyde, I wish he would come out
Moods, events, places and people each change me
I’m not one but many, my god I could shout
I see my future – why hyde from Jekyll
Copyright © Anson Decker | Year Posted 2017
A Dylan Thomas State of Mind
It’s precisely 2:45am...the time when
~ if I’ve fallen asleep ~
I always awake to find
Myself drenched in sweat.
I lie here beside my beloved
~ as I have so steadfastly since
16 November 2016 ~
Thinking about...wondering...pondering
The end of my existence.
I am not talking about
Taking my own life.
NO!
I’ve seen, heard, touched, tasted, smelt
too much...
I’ve survived too much, felt too much...
I value Howard’s sweet...sweet...
Nurturing soul’s devotion
To keeping me alive these past 40 years
To raise my hand against myself...now.
I AM talking about these things:
Where do we go when we die?
Do I have a soul?
Will I be conscious — at the moment it happens —
That I am drawing my very last breath?
Sometimes, when I awake in the early morn,
Howard is motionless beside me
And I stare at his beautiful face.
Dare I reach out and touch it with one finger?
What if it’s stone cold?
His flesh heavy...dead?
Death.
The End of Living.
The End...The End...The End...
Last January I begged for surcease...
For an end to the pain...
An end to the physical torture...
An end to the psychic suffering...
The constant thoughts of:
“Is there a Hell?”
“Will I go there if I take my own life?”
“What does ‘eternity’ mean?”
Now this morning of 19 October 2017
I am thinking...feeling...praying:
Please...Please...Please...
God/Goddess/All That Is/The Universe/The Spirit
Make my neglected hated scorned body
Healthy and whole.
So I may live
today...
tomorrow...
next month...
next year...
Do not let me go gentle into that good night.
I am alive now...
And I rage...
I RAGE NOW!
....against the dying of the light.
Barbara Dickenson
19 October 2017
Copyright © Barbara Dickenson | Year Posted 2017
Oh my Avenie it is the first of May
I was watching you by the river today
Locks of champagne hair by your side
Your indigo eyes look bright and wide
You always stand tall as you are true
One of the many reasons I love you
You with the scent of sweet perfume
Like a Lily of the Valley when in bloom
Your lines are as delicate as a flower
I have never seen you with a glower
Your pleasing presence is your allure
And you go from sensual to demure
The sound of your voice is such a caress
Like a softly played Gemshorn no less
I still shiver at each and every touch
This is because I still love you so much
In our garden a cherub with your smile
Making our walk down the aisle worthwhile
When our child grows up and leaves the nest
We will need to trust in God to do the rest
Edward J Ebbs - April 15, 2015
Copyright © Edward Ebbs | Year Posted 2015