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This Week's Featured Poems

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Time stands still

There is nowhere I want to go
My time is starting to show
Tomorrow today
Nothing much to say
All seems the same
No one really to blame
Feel no burning flame
Leaning against an old tree
So much to see
Time standing still, so it would seem
A living dream
I am the only one here
Yet there is no fear
Not day nor is it night
The light
Somewhere in middle
So I play my fiddle
I am lost but do not want to be found
Just want to sit here on the ground
listening to the soothing sound
The feeling of my heart, as it beats
One lifes little treats
Time never yet started
Love never departed 
Music is in the air
That is all I care
Days turn to night
Who needs a light
Time is on my side
Across the strings the bow does slide
An emotional rollercoaster I ride
Lost to the sound
I am bound
My heartbeat keeping time
I am one with this rhyme
Peace fills the void
Nobody to be annoyed
The moons now in the sky
Time moves on  passing me by

Copyright © William P. Harris | Year Posted 2024

Fallen Heroes 1

Swollen eyes trickle of tears

                                        Swells of pride hence denied

                                     Cry me mo tears shed me mo light

                                               Shots raining out

                                      Nowhere to run nowhere to hide

                                              Ballistically speaking 

                                           Blown away by projectiles

                                              Plunged deep within

                                         Multiplying seeds of corruption

                                                 seeds of death

                                              Whom do we trust 

                                            whom do we look up to
   
                                                   LAPD ,NYPD

                                          Or perhaps Mayberry RFD

                                      No way Jose so she'd me mo light

                                          True true no doubt no doubt

                                           Guns and roses is the tune

                                           Let the procession begin

                                             All Mourners expected

                                               the bugle sounds

                                                   Time is here 

                                                    So stand up

                                              Led the tabernacle in

                                     Sing sing a song sing sing Mo blues 

                                          Cry me a river cry me a river

                                                 Cry me a river ...

                                                      over you

Copyright © Tonytocaa Camacho | Year Posted 2015

School, 1950s

A curious cocktail of odours greets us 
as we move in from playground
to corridor, to cloakroom, to classroom.

Beeswax fragrance: freshly buffed parquet.
Brasso smell: base metal turned to gold.
Jeyes Fluid: vapour killing vile germs.
Such alchemy starts our day with clean slate. 

Playground cacophony left behind.
Now each sound has discipline, has purpose. 
First bell: registration shall begin.
Next bell: proceed to assembly hall. 

Lasses stand on round marks; lads on square marks. 
Regular rows, parallel precision.
Stand to attention. Uniform inspection. 

At ease. Handshakes and smiles. Peace be with you.
Silence pervades as we ponder our sins. 

With ramrod fingers Miss thumps on the keys.
Staccato. Left. Right. 
'Ride on Ride on in Majesty'.

A short sermon on compassion is served.

Then, school notices: soccer successes
and the listing of scallywags destined
for public thrashing at high noon next day.

Third bell: learning shall begin.
RI lesson.  St Paul's Journey yet again. 
In silence we colour in his route map. 
With crayons on auto-pilot we day dream.

Our apostle arrives in Rome by morning break.

Copyright © Tony Hargreaves | Year Posted 2019



Your Love

Your touch
makes me feel alive
Your smile 
warms me like the sun
Your laughter 
flows like a drug through my heart 
Your love 
completes me

Copyright © Tom Rutherford | Year Posted 2018

Where Are We Headed

Where are we headed? I know not where
Where are we headed? I know not why
Where are we headed? I know not how
Where are we headed? I know not to whom

Is it better to know or not to know?
Is it better on my own or with you?
Is it better if you come to me or I go to you?

Wonder is an aphrodisiac that may lead me to you
Surprise is not enticing but it may lead me to you
Uncertainty is terrifying yet exciting and it may lead me to you

Where are we headed, me and you?
Where are we headed? hopefully not to doom
Where are we headed in this world and how will we bloom?

Copyright © Theodora Miranda | Year Posted 2021

The Changing Colors of My Mind

The changing colors of my mind
at times are disconcerting
wild crimson rage is often there;
along with raw chartreuse; 
with its green, bitter tones of jealousy.
Some days, in hidden corners 
of isolated lonely
dark brown caves
chanting monks in saffron robes
will meditate deep blue dreams.
Then rapidly dissipate
when watermelon heads explode
to songs of Tangerine Dream.
Vivid acid lemon; 
always lurking;
acerbic, sneaky, spiteful
ready to explode, 
destroying ever cooling, calm coral.
All soon replaced with moody;
dark,
desperate,
black.
But all these fighting tangled colors
messing in my head, 
I prefer
to a boring, 
dead, 
dull gray.

Copyright © Terry Miller | Year Posted 2021

Conceal this

Conceal this

trespassing against me well that’s on you.
getting caught up makes me a fool.
leave it alone because what’s the use.
when another will come to.
getting mad cause we don’t stick like glue.
the issue i’m trying to pursue.
it’s nothing personal
just a phase and i need to be discernible.
i’m certain that i get what i give returnable.
So it should be no hard feelings.
i just need to conceal this.
i’m able and willing.




unequivocallysyretta



Copyright © Syretta Giusto | Year Posted 2024

With Open Arms

Come to me my child
Rest your head in my lap
My hand strokes your wild curls
Feeling the dampness on your neck
Lamplight caresses your flushed cheeks
Shadows waltzing on the walls

You gaze at me with pools of wisdom
Infinite eyes that have lived lifetimes
Speaking silent words 
You gift me with your knowledge
The fire in you burning bright
Bringing me back to my heartbeat
Which rises and falls in gratitude
With your presence

Come to me Mom
Rest your tired feet upon my lap
Let my eyes and heart envelop you
I will massage away weary time
Let me give you my touch
Gifting you energy as I receive yours

I look into your eyes surrounded with
Father Times’s crevices
Each line an active nuance
A roadmap of your journey here in space and time
A thumbprint of your joy and pain

Remembering sitting on the countertop 
Cracking eggs in the bowl
Making cake together 
Handing me the batter covered spoon so I could lick it
And me giving it back so you could lick it too

Come to me my love
I long to feel your touch
Cradle me in your arms so I can smell you
Touch my eyelids with your gentle breath
My fingertips awaken
I feel your forehead, your neck, your chest
My heart vibrates as I find your back
Covering it with sweet kisses

Come to me my friend
We have journeyed through darkness
We have waded through tar
We have risen from the depths of the darkest oceans
Sharing strength, inspiration, and resolution

Come to me shy one
Come to me stranger
Come to me wounded soul
Come to me frightened one
Come close dear animals

Fill me up with your breath and secrets
Let me dance with your essence
We are one intertwined soul united
I open my heart to you

Plants - germinate, flower and bloom
Release your seeds
To fly on the wind and the wings of falcons 
Bringing new life to distant shores

Let us rise above the chatter
Rise up with me above the dense greyness
To sanctuaries in the sky
Arriving at cloud castles
Adorned with abundant neon moonbeam pillows
To jump on and roll in

Stardust silently falling 
Like snowflakes kissing our noses
Velvet musical notes hover nearby 

Our forms expand as we join as one 
One light floating upward
A fuzzy pink radiant vibration
Our inhales and exhales merge

Wrapped in sacred unity we rise further
Heavenly fish swim by winking at us
Winged dolphins join in leaping over lavender cloudbanks
Starbursts and light bursts pulsate around us
As we dance together in laughter

Copyright © Susan Lawrence | Year Posted 2022

Sweet Zephyrus - a Love Letter

Oh Zephyrus, sweet Zephyrus,
westerlies' bouquet nectarous
lilac layered flirtations sail
wings whimsical whiff my skin pale
butterfly kisses generous..

music you breathe melodious
chorus of wind-chimes feverous
sounds, symphonic in gentle flail,
oh Zephyrus..

hands breezy - touch me delicious
flowers long-stemmed dance capricious
exhales enchanting do prevail
sighs satisfying without fail
licks sweeping softly amorous,
oh Zephyrus.

Copyright © Susan Ashley | Year Posted 2017

At Pain's Edge


Dark cloud clumps drape the rising sun
Deep within the hollow heart they burn
The scene of silver lined art-form
The new day gets from the storm
Joy flashing as the lightning wedge
Strife-surged life finds at pain’s edge

Copyright © Subimal Sinha-Roy | Year Posted 2024

The Old Beggar Woman

Her struggling gait and wrinkled face 
Reflected grief for her dead mate.
She’d lost her family at great cost 
Before she entered society’s lost.
I passed her every day on streets 
And thought she was a deadbeat. 
She did not have delusions grand 
And only craved a kindly hand.
She limped her way down city streets
With no one’s help and nil to eat.
She had no home and widely roamed 
Before she spent her nights alone.
Her shrunken frame and knotted mane 
Hid the fact that she was lame.
She struggled for her every breath
And every day she cheated death. 
Ghosts like her die alone
And no one hears their final moan. 
They fade away like apparitions, 
Victims of Man’s blindered vision.

Copyright © Steven Getz | Year Posted 2024

Normal from A Poetic View With Love

I am normal.I drink beer.I drink whiskey;some call me a queer. I am normal ,and I am gay! I am normal ,and I am straight! I am normal ,and I am lesbian!I am normal ,and I am bi-sexual! I am normal ,and I am trans-sexual!I am normal no matter what my sexual preference is,and he is my lover,and I am his! I really am normal,and that is what I really will always be,and it really does not matter what anyone thinks about my sexuality! It is really normal to be what God made you and me: We evolve sexually! We all have our specific developed sexuality! There is "NO"abnormality in me";We need to be the best that we can be,and that helps "FREEDOM" to stay "FREE",and never,never,never to be put into "CAPTIVITY"!What is "Normal for you"might not be "Normal for me",and that is why "We call The U.S.A " "THE LAND OF THE BRAVE" AND THE HOME OF THE FREE': I am "Normal" and "You are "Normal",but not like me! I am celibate,lesbian,bi-sexual,trans-sexual,straight,hermaprodite to be "Normal",and anyone of them can be the "Normal : ME!I can say more ,and I will: I cannot "Hear out of "The Left or Right Ear",but "I can read "Your Lips" as you speak,and"I understand,and that causes me to be "The Normal Me!" The reality of "The Sixth Sense really kicks in to help me be free: I can understand without "Hearing a word you say",because "I can "See"!! That is "My Normal".That is "Normal,and ,"The "Normal Me"!I am normal and you are,but not like me! In the ""Holy Bible" I found some  backup to what is reality! In Isaiah Chapter 45 verse 9 it says "WOE" to him that striveth with his maker! Will you continue to read all the way to Isaiah Chapter 45 verse 25 in "The Holy Bible! Can a car tell a "Mechanic not to fix it? Men created a car,and a man is the "Car's "Creator"and "Maker"!"Woe to the one who striveth with his "Maker"! You are "Normal",and we are "Born Normal"! The "Normal You" is not the same as "The Normal Me"! "NOW we really know what "NORMAL" really is for certain!!We  can know it "Logically and Biblically! My favored "Holy Book" is "The Holy Bible"!Read what I said to read and you will see the truth of what "Normal really is and what it will always be in this poem that describes the only thing that "NORMAL CAN EVER BE"!!!!! We are "Acheiving something good as we become "A Part Of Something Beautiful"! You are "The Normal You" ,and I am "The Normal Me": There is "Beauty in facing what "God Created Us "ToBe"! I am "Normal" and "You are Normal" ,but not like me!

Copyright © Stephen Crenshaw | Year Posted 2019

Eternity

While adrift upon a reservoir
I gazed upon a pericope
I realize that the unbelievable
Was as mystical as a ligure
And gave my soul at the quadrivial
For a moment in eternity

7/22/2013

Copyright © Stephen Kilmer | Year Posted 2013

Tillie Lydston 1843-1905

Tillie Lydston

1843 – 1905

I was forty six
When I first saw the hills.
Those most magical eastern hills of my home.
I loved Whittier as my mother
And it saddens me I can’t be there again.
I left behind family and friends in faraway Illinois
For those wondrously beautiful eastern hills,
Where my new friends set up homes and feasted
With many songs of worship to our Lord.
On Sundays we all sang loudly and earnestly
In the sun’s benevolent rays of the Friends Church.
Gathering all our voices together into one enormous crescendo,
We celebrated the presence of God.
My gift was music
And to God I offered up my singing voice in praise,
And this I did for 41 years.
During apple blossom time in ‘69
I married Samuel
And he stood by me
As I grew old, got fat and decided to leave Illinois.
When we reached here by train,
Me and Samuel set up the business on Greenleaf,
And made our home
Amidst the whispering cedars and pines on Pilgrim Way.
I bore two children in the upstairs bedroom, 
Amidst the doilies and the teacups,
And I heard the voices of heaven
Reveal the truth of a thousand questions.
I died with my Bible
And my head propped on a pillow.
Here in Clark Cemetery
I feel no death,
Just continuing life.
Amidst  the singing voices of the dead.

Copyright © Stark Hunter | Year Posted 2014

For Eternity Hs

look after this earth.
it’s our duty from our birth.
to learn what it’s worth.

protect all the trees.
fauna, birds, fish in the seas.
do not destroy please.

don’t level each hill. 
plant and renew at your will.
animals, don’t kill.

leave them grass to eat. 
don’t fill the land with concrete.
or oceans deplete.

leave them a view to the sea.
given for eternity.

4th Place

Copyright © Speaks Volumes | Year Posted 2023

My Dream

My dream is to become a scientist,
researching things that were not,
looking at things in the microscope
until a really good result I got


My dream is to become a writer,
about mysteries, adventures and more
to introduce a new way of writing 
and open a very new door 


My dream is to become an artist,
(all this I'm only just dreaming)
but while I'm thinking of all these,
I'm still stuck up window-cleaning!

Copyright © Sneha Rv | Year Posted 2014

Vincent's Arles

20th February 1888, he left as snow fell in Paris,
seeking warmth, bright light and colour.
Provence beckoned, Arles awaited.
Cold welcome soon turned warm, Vincent keen to explore,
keen to advance painting style,
bold colours, dynamic brush strokes.
May day and the yellow house his base, hopes of a collective studio.
Daring colour adventure begins,
townscapes, countryside, ordinary people, self portraits.
23rd October, his good friend Paul arrives,
dedicates a self portrait to him.
Painting solace the quest.
But two months later, no more, their characters and artistic temperaments clash.
Friendship ends.
Collective studio shattered.
23rd December mental breakdown, absinthe takes hold,
left earlobe severed,
but still he paints.
His postman friend Roulin worried, mental strife continues.
Townsfolk complain of disruption.
Red-headed madman must go.
March 1889 police shut yellow house, what now for Vincent?
8th May, Arles ends after 300 paintings and drawings,
25 kilometres to Saint Rémy voluntary internment.
Personal demons, tortured soul, but still he paints, indeed his best,
143 paintings – Starry Night,
at the pinnacle of his genius.
On to Auvers-sur-Oise and journey’s end, July wheat fields painted,
and then its over,
suicide in that painted location.

Copyright © Simon Rogerson | Year Posted 2024

One More Time

What could I say that you don't already know 
One last word to share with you before you have to go

After 9 years of being loved and loving everyday 
Was there really anything at all that we have left to say

I loved you every second, every moment since we met 
You had the strongest sweetest soul I've come to know here yet

I think my greatest comfort since we met until you passed 
Is I know I spent my time with you as if it were my last

It really didn't shock me that you didn't stay so long 
The angel wings you flew in on have always fluttered strong 

It's funny when I think of all the things I did, and see 
If I was here to care for you or you to care for me?

And so it's time to say farewell I'll do the best I can 
Until we're reunited my soft, sweet, bossy little man!

Copyright © Scott Harris | Year Posted 2014

The Wind of October

The Wind of October

A whisper of frost on the breath of bright autumn
 On wings October flies in a whirlwind of sighs.
The wind shivers with cold - time’s messenger bold;
 Waking up from their naps mufflers, mittens – woolen caps.

On wings October flies in a whirlwind of sighs
 Chilling sweet spice perfumes beneath harvest moons
Waking up from their naps mufflers, mittens – woolen caps.
 As bare branches now tremble like bare arms they resemble.

Chilling sweet spice perfumes beneath harvest moons
 The wind shivers with cold – time’s messenger bold;
As bare branches now tremble like bare arms they resemble
 A whisper of frost on the breath of bright autumn.
    
 October 17, 2019
Sponsor: William Kekaula
Poets October Pantoum

Copyright © Sam Kauffman | Year Posted 2019

Breath

Breath
Life begins not when we exit our mother’s womb, 
not when we are severed from our mother’s body.  
Life begins with a gentle tap from a stranger.  
We gasp, we begin to breath.  And so, life begins with 
our first precious breath.
Breath is Expression
It is the wind on which the voice sails.
The zephyr from where song floats.
A sudden gust that carries our laughter.
The roiling tempest that thunders our fury.
A warm breeze that whispers our passion.
It is the hush that conveys our grief.
Breath is Life
Breath recycles life and refreshes the soul.
Each breath is a new start, a precious gift.
An offer to make each new moment better than the one before.  
Breath is Dying
One day, we will take our last breath.
For some, that last precious breath will be 
a gentle sigh of relief, a slow billow of regret, 
a soft whisper of endearment.
 And then life will end as it began, with a precious breath.
Roger White

Copyright © Roger White | Year Posted 2024



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