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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required HEROES Near somber guards, units of children heap dead leaves, naive to any else fallen. Friend, you chuckle, but your posture speaks of duty on this day of contradictions. Firefighters bow heads in silent paean, while polished trucks stand at attention. Families have again answered the call to attend this festival, so uncommon. Here, laughter rings around the memorial for exuberance must never be doused, Gloriously wrought, a sculpture of angels commiserates with each mourning house. You say, I see valor in lives that inspire. I see heroes and their lines of fire. *For Craig NEW DALI Surreal, the way a contortionist knots himself as the escape artist breaks free. Uptown, buskers beckon with what-naughts, drawing thousands. Candyland, sighs New-Dali at its epicenter, his true element, and he takes it in: the sword swallower, blindfolds, jugglers, clowns miming laments, fire-fed gals, stilted-men and tots taller on shoulders. This carnival can endear, turn heads, but only one with a seer-heart studies the music box dancer, then swears that she spins perfect webs with street-smarts. Mirroring that swivel, awed by his entourage, He becomes centrum to his own collage. *For Chan, fully alive in Heaven. SNIPPETS Your brows are up. The Princess Cinema is not your choice. C'mon, I don't fit here, you snort. You, with all your charisma and kindness, stand in a short line, fearing boredom or worse ... pretense. Promise me, that we aren't about to wallow through subtitles, you sigh. Give me clarity, a story, something that I can relate to. But the charm catches you by surprise, a star-struck atmosphere, the seats are new and the popcorn is still warm. Friendly eyes laugh, then amusement streams from you for these Global TV spots simply delight like each snippet that you joyfully write. *For Andrea TARTANS There be Scots as farrrrrr as the eye can see. Brawn calves and bright kilts delight lasses while pipers swagger out of the pub, tipsy. Your smile broadens as a caber is tossed end over end. Then, across the glen, highland dancers in ghillies beckon with hearty flings. Auch, it’s hot yet heather dare no’ wilt. Clans gather, roguishly rib each other, as wool spins in wheels. Aye, the romance can fair overwhelm e’en the sensible. Worse for we, the fanciful. Come, here’s the tea tent. Let soft fiddles calm as we nibble oatcakes. Tartans and tunes pull heartstrings. We sit raptly, lost in Brigadoon, put pen to napkin to let wee thistles bloom. * For Francine TESTIMONIALS Rustling maples break vows of silence, naturally. As pleased, spears of hyacinth worship breezes with such soft reverence that we give pause in this living labyrinth. Nothing here is still; wood thrush reverb good news and cicadas buzz testimonials. Nearby, a creek mumbles, Word-Word while squirrels glorify their bounty. All is abuzz with joy, save for the shade under a weathered cross; it’s emptiness resurrects veneration. A butterfly wades the sudden hush, lands on your hand, nests. My friend, you lift it to wood, sympathizing on bent knee, speechlessly evangelizing. *For Brian ON THE FRINGE Your eyes drink the hues of the Shisha Lounge: art on walls, art brewing over charcoal. This coffee ceremony is on the fringe, far from the pallid and staid. I’ve marveled at these dear blends, how culture can transcend barriers and ignorance. We order too much. Tibsy, zignie, timtimo.. injera bends to each spiced delicacy as our plates touch. Gone is this haven where pleasure was shared. Still, I’ll bring you there. Scribe, man of integrity, sit with me. Exhale poetry. Imbibe tribal air. Mine, this moment and mine, this memory but that mystifying brew, that receptive floor, the smoke refined by deep respect… each are yours. *For my cuz, Scribe SUMMERLAND A warbling vireo hops from oak to elm. Your gaze wanders, too. This amphitheater hosts the lyrical, almost overwhelms, for beyond the mill ruins, the Grand River is deep in thought, reflecting. It’s as though myth lives; Summerland has come to the hillside where weathered fieldstones beguile the impish to dance. They do or else tin flutes will chide. Though cozy the spot, the world's at our feet. Tanned toes can not help but tap. Strong is the lure of pipes and those songs that dulcimers keep. When night softly falls, one group brings rapture. They sing until stars tire and all are hoarse like poets rousing words to supplicate verse. *For Carrie WORD ON THE STREET, 2009 Pure pageantry, how publishers' banners wave over tents. Flocks of readers graze on glossy trades, leaflets, hardcovers, chapbooks. My friend, a true gent, stays his ground. Maybe, it is the press of page; Its forthright weave petitions for slants, favors unique fonts, yet gilds no edge, sees no need for illustration, just verdant language. I did not intend to read over his shoulder. He grins good-naturedly, tweed makes an allowance. Each line, poetry, he praises and I still my chatter. We feed on gems, unrushed, but their brilliance spurs a verbose woman and a man of his word. *For David
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