Vietnam Veterans Memorial
(For Lt. Bernard Pierce, East Windsor, CT )
Psalm 313:1& 3 “How good and pleasant it is for brethren to live in unity…
”It is like precious oil poured on the head running down as if it were
he dew of Hermon falling upon Mount Zion..
“For there the Lord bestows his blessings, even life forever more.” *
V-shaped arms of polished granite,
thrust toward heaven, palms upturned
embrace the families of this legion,
58,000 to these walls returned
Polished walls of endless stories
Carved on cold and somber stone
Seek mending from this priestess,
Have their unsung cries intoned.
Inscriptive stone, * psalms of masons,
“when's”, whys” ring round these walls,
pilgrims harvesting memories
As their sparrow to this garden falls
Intercessor for the fallen- calls
Heretofore unheeded cries,
as Pilgrims, teary-eyed mid-sorrow;
Find solace in these walls
* How good that brethren in unity
Find eternal life in this community
Copyright © William D. Clark Jr. | Year Posted 2019
I guzzled it down feeling restored.
Behind closed doors there are ancient roars.
Knights of the past swinging swords.
Feeding heart, desire that is triple-floored.
Quenching vital spots flowing to my core.
The juice of life blowing to the shore.
Copyright © William F D Blackman | Year Posted 2019
I want to show you how my heart explodes creating a world for us to reside.
A place where we can expose ourselves and the holes that hide underneath to roots that aren't stationary and vines that spring forth when our feelings overwhelm.
I want you to feel my body sway when the wind travels across your lips; whispering that it's okay to be afraid of words that cause cuts and sounds that leave bruises.
It's not a perfect world, but it's only for us.
Copyright © William Ogburn | Year Posted 2019
(working) TITLE: SPEAK FROM THE HEART
Dear Poet,
As you launch a thoughtful investigation of personal poesy, note that poetic articulation, as a vehicle expressing one’s soul in all the contemporary wonderment our world offers, belongs to you. Poets have long spoken emotions into their compositions. Modern poetry is merely the natural evolution of non-prosaic word crafting while oftentimes reflecting vernacular, jargon and metaphors familiar to the 21st Century literary sojourner.
As I presume to provide personal insights bordering on advice to burgeoning writers of all ages, I would offer nascent admonition to listen profoundly to the world in which YOU dwell. No one can write YOUR poetry. And to write from a perspective of cogent engagement with what you know intimately will serve our craft well. Facing a blank page every day will begin to cause one to contemplate insights, recall experience, foster well considered opinions, and address life’s folly and formidable challenges. Description will become a valued tool and comrade. Relationships become dynamic crystals with myriad facets, exuberant and exhaustive. Introspection begets ideas that take on lives of their own. Above all, write as often and within as many settings as possible.
As soon as I realized poetry was a means by which I could capture and explore the most intimate emotions a young man encounters, I explored the many avenues poetry could present for my expressing every aspect of my embryonic venturing into the art. By working, admittedly sporadically over the early years, to learn and compose verse, great satisfaction began to encourage step two, step three, and so on. Today I write daily (though still sporadically throughout the day) in a fashion that continues to allow me to find new and exciting ways to express how I impact the world around me and how that world has a hold on my existence.
My Favorite Themes: theology, nature, passages, introspection, relationships.
My Personal Reference Resources: I’m going to hedge a bit here…One needs to read as many of the previous generations’ poets as possible. Study specific Poetic Forms (Sonnets, Odes, Lyrical, Blank Verse, etc.) and note carefully how they were applied, manipulated, nurtured by those writers. Indulge in a quality dictionary and thesaurus. Tools of the trade. Seek out titles across many sources of those authors who provide vast and varied educational presentations. Foundational benchmarks will allow the writer to be exposed and develop a unique stylistic signature.
Personal Poetry Examples: Let There Be a Lighthouse; Oasis Sighs; Windjammer Cast Adrift; No Words; A Gift to Read.
My Literary Background : First poem at age 5: “Bees”, my mother kept it for 29 years. Degree in English Literature flavored with Post-Graduate indulgences. Best poetry often spawned by broken heart. My 23-member family is my best audience. I have two volumes published, Eclectic Discernment - Contemplation from Quiet and Listen Small - Short Forms Speak. Rejection notices outnumber book sales. All funds accrued support charitable intervention. Several hundred pieces await placement in book form under my evolving Photo-Poesy Coffee Table Volume project.
Suggestion for Book Title: ‘Poetry Found: Next Steps in My Modern Poetry Sojourn'
June 7, 2018
Copyright © Wayne Kingston | Year Posted 2018
My poems are usually about light or dark or a mix.
ACCIDENT
I saw the woman
sprawled on the ground,
her legs askew beneath her.
She was alive but could not move,
obviously in a faint.
Right in front of her
a small pram
squeezed to a wall
pinned by a truck
that had hurtled
down the hill
hitting mother and child.
No sound came from the pram.
The driver knelt down.
He cried, oh how he cried.
Did he cry for the child he had killed?
For the mother who lost her treasure?
Or for the license he was going to lose?
Only he could tell.
A family ruined.
No one thought of the husband
who lost his child
who found his wife injured,
all because of a reckless driver
who was late for work,
drove fast, painted a wall
with an innocent child's blood.
Did he have a late night call?
A drinking binge?
A lass to love?
Whatever it was
a child's life was lost,
a family ruined.
Nothing could turn
the clock back.
The ambulance arrived.
So did the upholder of the law.
Nothing to do. We move forward.
It is our destiny.
01/14/2019
Copyright © Victor Buhagiar | Year Posted 2019
The sleeping man awoke filled with dread
Not a sound to be heard he lifted his head
A leg suspended from the end of the bed
Was swiftly grabbed by hands of the dead
He was flung to the floor with a mighty thud
Dragged out to the garden and into the mud
Cast out and discarded - there he lay in a flood
Which turned out to be a volume of blood!
Arms flailing wildly he swam through the gore
Ghosts floating beside him totalling four
As one jumped inside him he began to soar
Flying higher and higher away from the floor
The ghost using his body he began to glide
Like a roller coaster he was afraid of the ride
He wished he could close his eyes and hide
His life surely over he thought as he cried
Having seen what it wanted the ghost did leave
Guiding him back down to earth by his sleeve
What would his wife think would she believe
If the ghost had killed him would she grieve
Ashamed and filled with disgust and disgrace
As quickly as he could he packed his case
This manor - never again would he grace
One sleepless night was enough in this place
Copyright © Tracy Somerville | Year Posted 2019
With only one more night together
we ordered cappuccino
sat by the window
and stared out
at the crowded station.
I pictured you
in some God forsaken place
dodging bullets and grenades
cursing the enemy
and longing to be wrapped in me.
You pictured me waiting, worrying,
dreaming of the day you'd return,
and then you smiled
a smile of dread, as if you knew
this would be our last rendezvous...
Copyright © Susan Jeavons | Year Posted 2019
I'm running
Running for my life-
Faster and faster I run
Because the killer has a knife
I keep running
Faster than him,I hope-
There he is again
Now he has a rope
He is still in my sight
No matter how fast I run-
I can see it in his hand
The killer now has a gun
The madness drives me crazy
The madness drives me insane-
There must be something I can do
To rid me of this pain
The killer is here
My life runs before my eyes-
As I see the flashes of my past
I realize, It's me that I despise
The face of the killer
It's that, that frightened me-
I should have known this
Because the killer, the killer is me
Copyright © STEVE WOOD | Year Posted 2019
Declared an outcast,
shunned by society -
but she's the same
as you and me,
but You can't see her pain
hidden behind her coy smile.
You can't wipe away those tears,
invisible to your shallow eyes.
In fear she stares at the pavement,
but she can see you stare.
She can hear your giggles.
She can feel your judgement.
Her crime?
Only that she is different.
Freak is not her name,
but you shout it, roaring like a lion.
To you she looks peculiar and
you wonder why she behaves strange.
Her monotone words are a result of your
ignorant mind that has lead to her
indulging in esoteric tendencies.
She may seem socially awkward,
but she means no harm.
She just wants to belong -
for one soul to understand.
There is no eye contact,
because living can hurt.
Misplaced in an oblivious world,
the skies may look bright to you and me,
but all she recognises is the darkness.
The soul is deep like an ocean,
but most only see the surface.
Only a few dare to venture to the bottom -
where most drown.
Only the strong reemerge.
The Silent One
Simple Musings
24 October 2017
Copyright © Silent One | Year Posted 2017
Stay is such a strong word
Some people are Stayers
Some people are Abandoners
Some people are stuck in-between
What do we call them
Copyright © Sherry Soholat | Year Posted 2019
Day is my time
That is when I shine
Night is not my glory
When its dark that is not my story
But this night was different
On this night awe struck and reverend
The moon was full and nearly touching earth
Shining on the turf
Slowly crept the earth
Blocking the sun's worth
Slowly your full glory
Drew me into your story
I saw God in you
How his design was beyond words
No way to express
Those few moments seeing God
Copyright © Sara Kendrick | Year Posted 2009
Let me spread my wings and fly to win...
Let my mood to swing and cry when i spin...
Let me laugh out loud...
Let me scream when i fought...
Let me dance in the rain...
Let me feel music when i am in pain...
Let me write when i don't want to talk...
Let me be crazy sometimes when i go for a walk...
Let me go out at night, i want to enjoy that 3 a.m sight...
Let me talk to anybody whom i like, either girl or boy, don't stop me for those "char log" whom i still can't found...
Let me wear of my choice, "Long or too Short", why to comment and raise your voice?...
Let me go free to do mistakes and learn, don't teach me about wrong and right...
Let me take time to forgive and forget, I promise i will again hold you tight...
Let me promise when i feel...
Let me live in your heart and love me when i heal...
Don't try to pull me in a deal called
"Marriage", If i am not ready to hold that "Carriage"...
Let me choose who will walk beside me and hold my hand, through the good times and bad...
Don't you dare to take the whole custody of mine, just remember
you're only a part of it, not my Life...
Let me live my life which i see...
Let me be the best version which I can be.....?
Copyright © Rupali Garg | Year Posted 2019
Skywardly yearning,
wheeling and turning,
an exaltation of larks!
Lines interleaving,
wings interweaving
an orchestration of arcs!
Just shadow and light
imbuing their flight,
shape-shifting magic they fly.
With artistic flair,
their canvas the air,
this brush of wings paints the sky!
July 22,2014
Copyright © Roy Jerden | Year Posted 2014
Spending the Night in a Temple
The ice rains hard upon the temple walls
As the fires within keep the visitors warm
The 2 brothers deep in a fever lie head to head
And hold hands
A girl raised above them on a cot reads sacred scriptures
Only she can understand
And the ancient grandmother and grandfather hold vigil
Over the shivering boys
The temple keepers bring bowls of food to the weary
As apparitions appear and disappear
In front of the dragon shrine
Another tired band of travelers wander in
Bringing with them a gust of frigid air
And take refuge on mattresses lined against the wall
Everyone gathers closer for warmth
Even the mouse cat braves the human presences
The boys’ fevers rise higher and higher
Hands are held more tightly
The ice falls harder echoing throughout the mountain night
And the entire temple slowly drifts into 1000 years of sleep
Copyright © robert bloomer | Year Posted 2019
A sentiment of awe prevails in my mind,
Which with overdose of thinking worsens and takes me behind.
Being silent I hear happiness and laughter by my side
Asked by everyone "why your head always has a serious" sign?
Knowing human nature how can I trust them so blind!
And explain them verses of my frustrated mind
But again I realise it's life.....besides every grief everyone
Should take a step up and enjoy it assuming a glass of wine
Wiping off all the griefy showers,stand up right and fight with smile for your worthy lives.
Copyright © Ritika Kashyap | Year Posted 2019
we are all brainless zombies.
we live in a world that follows rules.
we are the same as each other, copies.
we work just as much as mules.
at the end of the day we want to be hip and in style.
we follow fashion trends and celebrities are our idols.
at the end of the day we all put on a fake smile.
we try to be different but we are just in denial.
what happened to being different?
we are just as boring as the next person.
people are quite ignorant,
we try to be unique, yet it seems to worsen.
we are all just brainless zombies.
Copyright © Riley Cleveland | Year Posted 2019
Jack wrote a poem about his beard and it got me to thinking. What is it about our facial hair that causes us to hold on to it? For me, when I grew my first mustache at sixteen, it was almost a right of passage to manhood. When I look back at old pictures, it doesn't look so manly. My Mom had always threatened to shave it off in my sleep. She never did, so here I am Thirtyfive years later still sporting a mustache with an added Goatie under my chin. The younger amongst us may consider me an old goat so I think it is appropriate. I prefer of course to think it is distinguished, especially considering the amount of grey that has appeared. Perhaps in a few years I will look back and think, it looks as silly as that picture of my Sixteen year old Self. For now it will remain, kind of like an old friend you don't wish to part with.
Copyright © Richard Lamoureux | Year Posted 2012