Her beauty is love
So pristine yet mystical
Hello love hello
Copyright © Lynn Marie | Year Posted 2006
My palette is my imagination.
I paint pictures with my words.
Swirling colours of composition.
Mixing metaphors - agitating them
with the paintbrush in my mind.
My vocabulary is my keyboard.
Trilling notes of expression.
Crescendo of composition...
tumbling, falling....allegro, or
andante, and harmonised in my creativity.
My glossary is my tapestry.
Fixed firmly to the frame of verbal
inventiveness. Stitched in synchronacity.
Cross stitched sometimes - or
tacked in draft for later publication.
I cannot sing to you in thrilling arias.
I cannot paint for you on colourful canvas.
I cannot play for you in perfected pitch.
I cannot hang my works of art,
but I can write what's in my heart -
and, maybe, I'll touch yours?
Copyright © Helen J Radford | Year Posted 2008
An old chipped bowl.
A bent and jagged edged spoon.
Is all that she holds.
A flour sack dress,
Sandals made from an old tire,
are her daily clothes
Scrabbling at the dump,
Digging through trash to find life.
Bits of rot for food
Water from a drain,
Brackish, foul. Her only drink.
Only bath, the rain.
Who is this person?
We know her. For she portrays
the face of many.
Copyright © Paula Swanson | Year Posted 2010
Captured photo print
A true record of being...
preserved finitely
© Mar 10 2010 Charles Henderson
Copyright © Charles Henderson | Year Posted 2010
the sound of the wind
joins the smell of the ocean
to relax and sooth
Copyright © Francine Roberts | Year Posted 2010
Eyelids heavy with tears,
begin to form
from puffy grayish/black clouds.
It moves cunning and swift
like a lion’s roar
then softly on tired- padded- paws
it is gone,
gracing the terrain
with its magnificence.
Its door opens to a momentous
reception,
a welcoming grand appearance
of a new year
a new beginning
when the door opens…
Copyright © 2011 By Caryl S. Muzzey
Sixth Place Winner ~ "Personification of January” Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Nette Onclaud
January 29, 2012
Copyright © Caryl Muzzey | Year Posted 2012
Lilies in the field nearby
Whisper to those who cry.
They give praise to empty graves
And solace to souls now saved.
The Seed of faith has sprouted,
The Word of God has spread
To all who hear and hold quite near
Our Lord’s baptismal shower.
The path we tread
Is strewn with bread
To guide our way
Through cloudy days of anxious dread.
The narrow way
From whence we stray
Is never far from sight;
Our Shepherd’s voice and outstretched hand
Plucks us from the quickening sand.
Reconciled to God,
Trusting in His grace we face,
Another day another way
To fall into contrition.
Step forward in faith
Across time and space
With every breath proclaim His grace.
Lilies in the field nearby
Whisper to those who cry.
Copyright © Jonathan Bellmann | Year Posted 2012
It developed as a fiery glow
Burning with intense passion
My whole being agog
With floods of emotions
What a nightmare
As a butterfly voice
The day we met
The flame was lit
An Everlasting Love
So it has become
The flame posits
The extra mile transcended
Thinking about you
Hoping, longing and wishing
Waiting for the kiss
One kiss, one moment
Not the Sacred Fruit
Why I love you
You kindle my heart’s flame
Even with the years past
The story the same
You are beautiful
You are the one
The flame of my heart.
Copyright © Ohiozoba Ehiede | Year Posted 2013
It is a cold road to my mother’s house.
I have driven it hundreds of times and each time it seems to get colder.
I have cranked up the heat, yet the cold is like a knife slicing through layers of stone
Until it finds a weak place and then it attacks with the furor of a wolverine
I have never been warm on that road even in the green apple days of spring
I guess that I always knew she was waiting and that waiting brought goose flesh to my soul.
She won’t be rude or cutting or even disrespectful; however, she will be aloof and inapproachable on any and every subject that might interest me. Her interest is of a short list that only an evil woman would cultivate.
A list about the woman that I have known or perhaps will know and when she means known she means it in a Biblical sense for Christ sake.
My indiscretions, affairs, and failures all bundled neatly into a package to be air mailed in a whim.
And yes mostly the failures make her bubble like the cheap champagne she buys for such occasions.
To know that I have not succeeded make her giddy with schoolgirl excitement, for I was always the enemy. I was the one child that could see through her guise of proclivity for the prudent and call a ***** a *****. I never said it out loud, but she knew that I knew. They say the first son is the closest but the second son learns things about both of them that they don’t think they are sharing. And If, just if he is smart enough he will find their weakness and teach them how to love him. Sometimes that love takes threats and hidden innuendos but hey nobody every said it was going to be easy, right?
I am that second child the one left behind. It wasn’t like the Marines; you know that whole no man left behind thing. It was more like good luck your on your own and to that principle I live my life today. No matter how many people I am surrounded by I always feel cold and alone. There are people that love me, but somehow they don’t seem to be the right people. I love them back as much as I can in my dysfunctional pathetic way but they always feel uncomfortable. I have a better chance of intimacy with a slug than a human being. No child left behind. Where the **** was George W. Bush when I needed him. Probably pulling that silver spoon out of his ass.
As I approach the house the temperature drops to a low that I have never felt before. I knock and then enter without waiting. I call out “Mother are you here?” I get no response. I know she has been ill so I walk down the hall to her bedroom. It seems like an ice cave. The closer I get to her door the colder it gets. I swear there is smoke coming from my mouth. When I finally reach the door I knock…. nothing. I turn the frozen knob slowly and push the door open. And there in the bed is my mother, dead, and dressed in her wedding gown. I am taken aback by the spectacle but then I realize that she must be bigger in death than life. She does not want anyone to forget what she was worth to the family.
I suddenly feel lonely and lost. I never knew this person. The one person that brought me into this world. I look at faded pictures from time gone by and wonder who was that person that raised me. That breast fed me and changed my diapers and made me the person I am today? How did we end up here? Devine intervention. The path less travelled? Suddenly I am for once without words. The granddaddy of all hurt as laid his axe between my shoulder blades. I go down and come back up gasping for air. My mother is dead.
And all I can think is “Praise the Lord and pass the Mescaline.” I am at last free.
Copyright © Stephen Kilmer | Year Posted 2013
Your kiss from heaven caressed my cheek.
It made me feel safe, yet a little weak!
Confusing thoughts ran through my head.
Is this for real, or just misread?
With the Risen Son, they claim I’m new!
But in my mind, I cannot construe!
I’m not standing on a small hill.
I’m still climbing, I just can’t be still.
That little hill became a mountain.
In my heart I cry out, shout’in!
“If the Risen Son has made me new:
Then why am I so sad and blue?
In the dawn of day, I just can’t see.
The dark of night won’t let me be!
This parched ground makes me athirst.
From whence will water be dispersed"?
With the Risen Son, newness falls!
And with it profound wisdom calls!
Your kiss from heaven is slowly fading.
In my mind, Satan is indeed raiding!
Oh my goodness what can I do?
I think I heard, spend time with you?
I just don’t have much more to lose.
I guess my bible I will use!
Many years, have since passed by.
But that kiss, still makes me sigh!
O’ that kiss, that touched my cheek:
Made me strong and not weak!
Because of it, inspiration grew!
With the Risen Son, can I be new?
I know from heaven your kiss came.
And with it, you took all my shame!
I gave nothing in return
Yet, for my heart, you did yearn!
In the Risen Son, I believe I’m new!
Could this really be my point of view?
Yes Yeshua, you have made me new!
Your kiss from heaven pulled me through!
You gave me strength within my soul.
In my life, I give you control!
I am now your devoted wife!
Jehovah, your kiss changed my life!
Stacey Brown
9-11-2013
Copyright © Stacey Brown | Year Posted 2013
New Beginning's
The night sky closes,
And the dawn's light begins.
Dew forms from the night set,
And falling in the morning sky,
Covering what lies beneath.
The wind blows softly,
As clouds roll through the sky.
The sun, peeking back and forth,
From the horizon of nature
In the skies journey.
The fields, now glistening with dew,
That sets the new beginnings.
The flowers drink the dew,
That lies on their pedals.
New growth begins,
From the dew lying to form the nature.
And now, the new beginning has begun.
Copyright © William Darnell Sr | Year Posted 2013
Moments spent
In mindfulness are,
Never a waste of time.
Daily mindful meditation
Fulfills the spirit.
Unique to themselves,
Long periods spent in mindfulness
Never leave you stressed.
Everyone needs to
Sit daily in
Soul-nourishing, mindfulness meditations.
Copyright © M. L. Kiser | Year Posted 2014
How do you measure love?
With every breath and sigh
Cold winds blow by
Remembering winters past
Promises of friendship to last
I remember you
In everything I do
How do you measure love
Through what we have done
Memories of past
Stored forever last
Continuously remember you
In all that I do
Even in the snow
Windswept cold winds winnow
Steadfast weather of the past
Our promise of friendship to last
Incessantly remember you
In everything I do
How do you measure love
When time marches on with no ending
There was no future from the beginning
Just Connection I cannot lose
Eternally remembering
All because of you
Watching the birds take their feeding
Then hiding in their shelter of needing
Your covering was our affection
Then we lost all our direction
I lost my breath
And then I sigh
Promises foregone
There is no song
How do you measure love?
When there is none
Margaret Franceschini
2/17/14
Copyright © Margaret Franceschini | Year Posted 2014
I think I get it:
You want me to swallow your acidic avalanche.
Those billion frantic snow globes
of brilliant-clownish confusion.
You want me to rebuild your burned-out shrines.
Atop broken blue glacial climbs.
Straddle boulders of swaybacked hope and jagged stones of regret.
You wish me to inhale the barbs of shadows
and the velocity of your death.
You want me to embrace the fire of your ID.
With paper arms and gasoline fingertips,
lasso your run-away mind.
Make a bouquet of roses from a wall of
rock and ice.
I know you'll get this:
I can't embrace your avalanche,
while I'm digging out from beneath my own.
Copyright © Anthony Biaanco | Year Posted 2014
Selectively forgetful,
That's what my mother says -
When I'm called to do some work,
I escape in funny ways.
I'm running short of time now
But I'll tell you all I can
Of all my weird excuses,
Perhaps the worst made by man.
''Can't hear you!'' I'll just say,
''Cause the fan is way too loud''.
And then I'll hear the footfall
Like a crashing thundercloud.
Another thing I say is
''Just wait, I'm coming along,''
Then my dad comes up and says
''What you are doing's wrong''.
Those two are the most common -
See, I'm capable of much much more,
But my storybook's now being snatched out
And thrown through the bedroom door!
Copyright © Sneha Rv | Year Posted 2014
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
Solomon Cook
1820 – 1900
It was a miracle.
I entered this wicked world with
Mother’s umbilical wrapped around my neck like a noose,
Inside a cold cabin made of stone.
My mother,
A beauty of burden,
Chopped the wood
And served chicken neck soup on special occasions.
My father taught me stories from the Bible
And swatted my behind with a strap
If I slept in past 6.
My eight siblings and me
Worked the fields from the rise of Phoebus at dawn
To the fall of the day’s eye at twilight,
And we barely had enough to eat,
Except after the harvest.
I taught myself to read at ten years old
And as a young man
I travelled by steamer as a swabby
To Europe, Asia and Africa
And I took in the local colors like one of Twain’s tramps.
I met many women of questionable reputation
In many exotic ports-of-call.
But my one true love was my wife of 42 years;
My lovely and patient Pearl.
By train and stagecoach
We came to this quiet Quaker town in 1892,
And lived in the white Queen Anne on Olive Street.
Pearl and me walked on many a Sunday morning
To services at First Christian,
Shaped like a cross,
And together we smelled the gardenia blossoms
In Pastor Crain’s eccentric garden.
Why, my Lord, did I have to live so long?
Why did I have to watch my wife and friends die before me?
And why, my Lord, was it a simple cold
That finally stopped my old lived-in heart?
And now I am resting in peace at Clark Cemetery
Under the sprawling sultan-like fronds;
Under the magnificent golden nucleus
Of a single desert palm.
Copyright © Stark Hunter | Year Posted 2014
SELAH
As the sharp rays of sunlight slowly sliced
through the tinted tarring clouds
sculpting away the web of darkness of night
I broke off a piece of time and used it
to scrape away the corrosion of agony
from the heart of my mind
and resuscitated my eroded faith.
Today I will open dusty luggage of creativity
and pull out wrinkled war worn words of creation:
etch ebony emotions of long lived life
onto refined pulp of trees; weave soul stirring songs;
mold scented petals flowering peace and love;
and feel the breath of God warming my serene sweet soul
as He feathers the nest of my pregnant poetic mind. Selah.
Copyright © Millard Lowe | Year Posted 2015