I was as high as the eyes could see
A giant dark cloud of pure misery
I seemed to roll as one with the wind
A giant black wall that had no end
I stripped the land and left it bare
Of the lives I destroyed, I didn’t care
Those who stayed I covered in dust
As their children died I broke their trust
From my hell many families did flee
Left to wander homeless in misery
I changed the word these words are true
Black Sunday brought darkness on you
I didn't see any direct link but just goggle
pictures of the dust bowl and you will see
what i have written for Brian's Contest.
The Dust Bowl - Alexandre Hogue - 1937
Copyright © Michael Jordan | Year Posted 2009
The day I died, a village cried
and tears washed to the river's side
I meant the world, to my survivors
A Valley Oak......yes, that was me...
A stately tree with history
They drew from me a sense of pride
Four hundred years, I had sheltered them
with limbs that reached up to the sky.
I stood my ground, through all the rain
They understood, my worth, my veins
ran deeper than the eye could see
FOUR HUNDRED YEARS!.....Yes, I was old !!
And blood turned cold the day I fell
You see, I was much more than Oak
I spoke for those who've long been gone.
I reigned beside this countryside
and watched the tribes beneath the sky
I saw the white men, take away
and claim the ground beneath me, found
And soon a way of life would end
And I would bend my boughs, to pray
Four hundred years, I've overlooked
a river bend, below my limbs
I watched the steamboats ferry men
and saw men die, and saw men rise
and saw men carry hope again
And those who came so long ago
would build a town that grew to know
how values and our valiant strides
are deep as roots, as mine that grew
I was not just a simple tree...
I had a place in history...
I sat beside a little house
One still a treasured artifact
Once built along the river's bend,
It now sits naked in my tracks
without the shade that I had lent
The man who lived here, led a state
The first to govern, in my shade
It is a fact that through the years
I've watched and shed a thousand tears
What will become of what is left?
A town is left, a state bereft
But facts can't change that I was here...
My roots hang tight to yesteryear
They've grieved, and shed their tears for me
when winds prevailed, and down I fell
I wish them well, and if I can
.....I'll try to surge from down within
perhaps one root will sprout, and tell
my leaves to find the breeze again
Inspired By Tree Personification Contest
Based on the actual tree that came down in my home town
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2015
The first thing that I recall knowing
As a sturdy and young olive tree
Extremely well rooted and growing
Was the sweltering sunlight on me
For two centuries I took deep root
To prepare for my ultimate fate
So when I could no longer bear fruit
There was then but a decade to wait
I was cut—left to dry for ten years
So that seasoned I’d perfectly be
For what the carpenter engineers
For admirers my beauty to see
Finally, the time came to carve me
Into the stout piece that would bear
The One who came down from His glory
I’d become a rough-hewn olive chair
Into the great city I traveled
The same city once fated for doom
Through alleys, then up a steep stairway
I was put in a small upper room
Beside the simple wooden table
I was placed in center position
Where the King who was born in a stable
Sat prepared to accomplish His mission
He prayed and broke bread with His brothers
As a symbol of what He would do
He blessed it then passed to the others
As His body; ’twas "broken for you"
Then to signify His precious blood
The red wine from the cup He did sip
So that it could cleanse as a flood
As from nail wounds it later would drip
To this day, I still can remember
How it felt when Christ Jesus did rest
I sensed that His love was so tender
Even when He was put to the test
He said, “Father, Father, forgive them”
As He faced His long prophesied death
The love for all things He had poured out
As He uttered His very last breath
Today, the risen Lord I remember
Whose story has long since been told
As I sit in the same dusty chamber
And recall that Last Supper of old
* Placed 1st in Deborah Guzzi's contest, "The Chairs Tale"
Copyright © Donna Golden | Year Posted 2009
I sit at the end of your final stroll
Setting you free is my only goal
At the end of your life so tired and beat
I quietly offer, “Please take a seat”
I suddenly notice as you’re strapped in
Your victim’s father cracks a wide grin
For this day he has waited so many years
Is that your mother shedding all of those tears?
I’m sorry; you thought I would be all polite
Boy I am the darkness you fear in the night
Thomas Edison got the fame for inventing me
Though it was Harold P. Brown; a loyal employee
The first to meet me met a fiery fate
In 1890 I released William Kemmler’s hate
In 1899 Martha Place came to dance with me
First woman fried in the entire world’s history
I truly enjoy when I get to serve company
Especially delicious was my friend Ted Bundy
To one simple fact there is truly no doubt
I’m the gateway to Hell, come on check it out
I was truly invented to serve just one goal
I’m simply here to separate the body and soul
They all think their evil until them and I meet
I’m Sizzling Sally please come taste my heat
Old Smokey, Old Sparky hell it’s all the same
Smoke them or fry-em boys this is my game
Written for Deborah's contest
Copyright © Michael Jordan | Year Posted 2009
I have grown old and twisted with all my living;
my limbs gnarled and arthritic,
my skin rough, sometimes peeling,
turning dark beneath the sun.
Bunions and corns decorate my feet.
What a life I have lived!
In my youth, young natives sat on tender grasses at my feet;
i sheltered them in coolness,
i listened to their vows of love.
Months later, they returned to me holding the joy of new life.
I rocked their papoose in my arms,
the wind sighing lullabies through my evergreen hair
making the silver moss, hanging on my tresses, sway.
I saw them leave before the growing strength of new settlers,
weeping as they walked away from this beloved land.
A wealthy man settled the grounds where I spread my roots;
I grew and wrapped my arms around the home he built.
I was young then, strong and full of vigor;
I was the watchman at the door.
I enjoyed many years with the family,
playing with the children,
giving shade and shelter.
Early one morning, the sounds of war disturbed my sleep;
all day the battle raged.
Cannon balls ripped through my flesh;
I heard the anguished screams.
When the sun set,
the ground beneath my feet was littered
with the broken bodies of men,
dead and dying,
soldiers uniformed in both blue and gray.
Our beautiful home was nearly destroyed,
our land ravaged.
If men could only learn, as I know,
to respect and care for one another.
As time passed, my limbs healed,
through scarred, just as my heart is scarred.
Generations have come and gone,
each one passing close to my heart in fleeting succession,
but I live on.
Age shows on my body, yet I cling more tightly,
stretching deep into the ground, sucking the earth's sweet nourishment.
My arms droop low, hanging heavy with sad and happy memories.
I do not want to leave this dear, fair earth,
the tears of heaven fall,
bathing me in dewy sadness.
A thousand years is not enough.
Copyright, August 22, 2015
Faye Lanham Gibson
Copyright © Faye Gibson | Year Posted 2015
Just Call Me Mr. Spy
I’m from an ancient world, and we have never met, and never will.
However, much like presently, in my day, people lived for the thrill.
I experienced that world’s greatest tragedy, and lived to tell the story.
I am not the bravest, smartest, or most beautiful; but I made history.
People of old loved and laughed, and also ate and drank to the fill.
They bought and sold, not worrying about who would pay the bill.
They fell in love and married; and separated, adulterated, and fornicated.
They detoured from their ancestors’ standards, and greatly deteriorated.
Yes, they were civilized sometimes, but also immoral and very violent.
It’s predicted that your world will be just like mine, before the Second Advent.
They were liberated, sophisticated, and also educated in their own way.
They were warned, but never bothered to change, until a deluge came one day.
There was an old man with a wife and three sons, who also had wives.
They worked hard and loved everybody, but also lived good and clean lives.
I know all these things because I was there, observing and raising my family.
That is, until the old man brought me and others into a big boat he built for his family.
You see, I was Noah’s raven, and was blessed to go on that world’s greatest trip.
And you can call me Mr. Spy, because I was the first one to leave the big ship.
03042016 PS Contest, A Tomb of Ancient Bloom, Justin Bordner
Copyright © curtis johnson | Year Posted 2016
I’ve been engulfed by the darkness
That plagues so many of my brothers.
My eyes may be open,
But the void is all that appears.
I see nothing, Know nothing, Learn nothing.
Forced to lay in wait
For prying fingers to liberate me
From my upturned prison.
Oh, how I yearn,
For the light of day
To dance before my presidential eyes,
Allowing me, to once again,
Experience a broad mixture of colors
Living in unity.
A scenario that is no longer the fantasy
Of an incompetent individual
Looking to influence a closed society,
But a way of life
For present day.
As I reflect on my days of flesh,
Still no-one comes to my assistance,
This makes me wonder
If the world I speak of
Still continues to exist,
Or if I’m doomed to spend eternity alone
Within the bleak darkness,
Dreaming once again
Of a world that no longer requires my influence…
Copyright © Daniel Lehto | Year Posted 2014
is not the sound:
of a banging gavel,
as the result of a man's decision.
It is found in the laughter of orphans,
or in the quiet tears of a widow's distress.
Justice, does not announce its presence noisily,
nor does it appeal to mere reason or fleeting thought.
It is in the silence of a still moment that it rushes in.
A flood of rescue, a team of unsung heroes, without banners.
In the simple embrace of a father to the orphaned, or mother to the widow.
There it is found in the least likely of places, the free offering of smiles.
An undeserved torrent of kindness that drowns out history's pain,
giving a new and beautiful fragrance to the debris left by injustice.
Tears lose their sting, they become source of life watering souls,
satisfaction is no longer measured by simple shelters, or full
bellies, and clothed bodies; this is not true contentment.
Joy ignited by the embers of love, fueling life.
Purpose, not dependent on fiscal wealth,
a life becomes a raging wildfire,
made visibly tangible,
Copyright © Bethlehem Derseh | Year Posted 2011
Eyes so bright with a light that shines,
You brought this to me.
Lost time the two that be!
Eyes of light with the look of love in sight!
Eyes that glare with a gleam that shows,
You revealed this to me.
Things to know the two that be!
Eyes that dream with the look of love or so it seemed,
Eyes with tears a promised pain,
You gave this to me.
A list that I retain the two that be!
You are the eyes that clear the look of loves hidden fears.
Eyes with mystery shine in you,
You lay this before me.
So much I do the two that be!
Eyes with dignity the look of love in all of its reality!
Eyes with deepness a reflection of you,
You presented this to me.
A lie in my truth the two that be!
Eyes with achievement the look of love in all of its completeness!
Eyes of you in a vision of me,
Forever you and me until I die the two that be,
For you’re the eyes that already knew the look of love with its promise renewed!
© COPYRIGHT: 1997 ANN RICH
Copyright © Ann Rich | Year Posted 2010
Can you not fold your wings
and leave the heavens ?
You have done enough.
Watching from your lofty home.
Moving across the stars,
with your serene
Effecting ebb and flow
in the waters of life.
Can you not still
your power and rest.
Oh to take your place beside
Endymion, your lover.
And lie forever in the written word.
But you are Luna, the moon
personified into divine existence
living in the true world.
Jul 05 2010 For Dr. Mehta’s Luna contest
Copyright © Charles Henderson | Year Posted 2010
I sat there all alone,
After many visitors
Have come and gone.
Then I met an artist,
Who graced me with his presence;
A peculiar man I must insist.
He asked to paint my portrait,
An offer I couldn’t protest,
So I sat there feeling irate.
Now I’m cemented in history,
Through one man’s passion for art,
Each painting a truelove story.
So, to the man with orange hair,
I’ll always value our friendship;
I am known as “Vincent’s Chair.”
Inspired by Deborah Guzzi’s
The Chairs Tale contest and
The Painting “Vincent’s Chair”
By Vincent Van Gogh-1888
Copyright © Abe Lopez | Year Posted 2009
Just look at me,
I am so old,
my paint if peeling,
from being so cold.
If I could talk,
you would know my pain,
and know I am royalty,
with a very special name.
Once I lived,
in a castle on a hill,
until those thieves,
came to steal.
You guessed it right,
they grabbed me up,
and out the door,
along with other stuff.
Then I was sold,
to a circus in town,
and rocked, and rocked,
all the famous clowns.
A nice lady saw me,
and offered some cash,
bought me new clothes,
with a bright red sash.
When she passed,
I was sold again,
then across the ocean,
to a brand new land.
Now here I sit,
in my brand new home,
again, the center of attention,
it has been so long.
Copyright © Christy Hardy | Year Posted 2009
The forest might not be mine,
But in my dreams i still cross that line.
my memories cant be forgotten
as i picture animals getting rotten.
I still want to hunt with pain,
but not to dream with any blood stain.
No to hunting,taking all animals as a pet
I hold them with care without a bullet,
though I have a meal without flesh
is like drinking water which is not fresh.
my career is no longer to kill,
But to watch the forest from a hill
My last words as I hunt no more
As I enjoy nature by the shore.
Copyright © Amin Tres | Year Posted 2009
On the morning of April 19, 1995,
Terror was heard through the Oklahoma sky.
At 9:02 A.M. the explosion did occur,
And the blue common day turned into a blur.
A memorial was built to mark the state’s loss,
Memorializing the one’s who paid terror’s cost.
A monument of seats stands brightening the night,
In nine rows of chairs illuminated by lights.
Brokenhearted and lonely we seem to be,
Silent and lonely but forever empty.
Built with emotion for who we symbolize,
In our bronze grain lies the pain of lost lives.
Born from molted bronze, given life through death,
We stand here for those who took their last breath.
But from where we stand, we stand with glee,
For in our sights lives the Survivor Tree.
Married together in this sacred place,
Imparting to those mercy and grace.
When families come here to see and reflect
Our memories live on as our loved ones connect.
Names of young and old we proudly bear;
In nine rows of 168 empty chairs.
Inspired by Deborah Guzzi’s
—The Chairs Tale Contest—
You can take a virtual tour at
Copyright © Raul Moreno | Year Posted 2009
It remembers time that has flown by.
Its' sister, though smaller, holds equal character.
Their neighbor has seen many more years and people.
They hold a common bond upon the land which they share together.
But they are in danger, the homes are old and in need of partial repair.
Their neighbor, a mound, must protect its' ancient contents.
They have hope though, many are working to preserve and protect the three friends.
They will soon be able to tell their stories to a younger generation.
(For Nila Chaddock and other Cockayne house workers)
Copyright © Leah Yoho | Year Posted 2008
At the day of tribulations'
Reckless deeds' and end
And is relative to me
The Lord is He
The maker of mammon
Hath made his bound
The trove and treasure
Of the unholy
Which the un-holy of thee
Shall never resist
Copyright © Gary Fields | Year Posted 2011
Stained glass windows
Paint her world-
In shades of
Lavender and rose-
As she sits alone
Atop of old point road-
In a place where
Bygone phantoms blow-
No one comes to visit
With her anymore-
From the pines-
She reminisces with
Of better times-
Before the cross
Copyright © Elaine George | Year Posted 2006
I have dreams to flashes n from time
to time I decide to put them down n
people to read I'm plain n simple no
big word nor complex easy to read
,wht I try to say n explain sometimes
is hard so I give up n go months
without writing, I do this to relax,
from the 4 books n many mini storys i
keep coming up with,like I say, I live
in a dream where people pay for me
to tell n they get amazed when I tell
them, thts not a dream thts how my
life has been n how I lived it n have
not gone insane, well not yet !."oh
Copyright © felipe santiago | Year Posted 2011
the flag that flies above our head
was put there by the people who are dead
you know, the veterans of the usa
the ones YOU seem to forget about everyday
they went to war for years at a time
and they barely even got a dime
come on people, you are here because of them
this is not pretend
your lives are free
even since you were three
these men were brave
and it was freedom that they crave
as the men and women enter the battlefield
with the guns they weild
all they could think about was their life
their hearts beat as they grip their knife
all they heard were bullets fly
would this be their last goodbye?
will i never see them again?
the love, family and friends
could this be the end?
as the brave soldiers marched along
they sang this song....
"left,left, left right left....left...left left right left....we fight for freedom, lets defend this
flag that flies above our heads....red, white, and blue...these colors are
TRUE!!!!..... lord grip our
hearts and give us strength to win this fight for freedom and save this wonderful
the sounds of 100,000 men and women
with different thoughts within
medics stand by
waiting for the next to die
and we sit at home
some as still as a gnome
people listen to the news
and some people sit and play depressing blues
another man dies
another bullet flies
bombs left and right
oh please STOP this might!!!
loved ones falling on the feild
with a picture of their loved ones in their hand they weild
another one digs a grave
for the ones who were brave
Copyright © Donald Hull III | Year Posted 2007
I found Love
As you put your arms around me and tell me not to let.
I can't break free cause I want this,
Tired of feeling lonely
tired of waiting until i fall under the
ground.No matter what
anyone says as long as I say it fine
everything and everyone
has no word.I found love, this isn't like before
this is where my
wounds that I've licked and cover only to
have them opened again.
I will always fear,i will hide this emotion until i
know I'm going to fall
but for now i have this love this love that no one gave me
can you see me dancing in the rain of the moonlight and
your arms around me
saying that you love me I do.I'll leave in fear of being hurt
but i will pass this life and the next with the wills of my
past life and the future of the next.
Copyright © Marcedies Rhodes | Year Posted 2012
I am an English man.
I used to think.
That I ruled the world.
And could take my drink.
When all would bow and salute.
The English man a Sir or Duke.
Now I found my place.
In the human race.
We are all the same and grace.
Used to think that everything.
From England came.
Football, oranges and sugar cane.
Used to think that I was best of all.
Now I know, that is not so, at all.
I am as good or bad as the other Lad.
Some fools still make war.
I say no more.
Briton no longer Rules the Waves.
Nor does the sword stay in our hands.
It has been cast away.
Copyright © Norman Purvis | Year Posted 2006
On a cold, wintry Christmas night
bright light on a manger shone
to fall softly upon a mother mild
cradling her little baby child.
Three wise men followed the stars
to thy beckoning door, Bethlehem,
bringing frankincense and myrrhs
to pay homage to the king.
Thy name is music to mankind's ears
proclaiming forth freedom and hope,
sweet like a chorus by heaven's choir
vanishing darkness and fear.
Yet, two thousand years thereafter,
what became of thee, Bethlehem?
now enclosed within high fences,
inside your captive people keeping.
On those cruel barriers are graffiti
imploring "Make love, not walls";
as I weep for thee, O Bethlehem,
where has thy promise gone?
Bethlehem is a Palestinian-populated city in the West Bank, administered by
the Palestinian Authority. It is now mostly inhabited by Arab Muslims and many
Arab Christians have left the city and immigrated abroad due to the harsh living
conditions. The city is surrounded by high concrete walls and no one gets in or
out without clearance from the Israeli Army guarding its checkpoint.
Copyright © Wilfredo Derequito | Year Posted 2007
They grazed their sheep upon my grass
So many centuries in the past
In feudal times,a monastery of hope
'Til King Henry divorced the Pope
In later times upon my hill
They set a smock windmill
As Victoria came on her throne
A brewery made this site its own
Later in more social times, a public bath
In which poor folk cleansed at my hearth
The 'sixties brought a different call
Under an impersonal shopping mall
Change continues on,so persistent
But my soil stays,omniscient
Copyright © Brian Strand | Year Posted 2008
Upon my face of earthenware
So many feet have laid bare
Maiolica wearing thin-
My colours now growing dim
Revealing my kaolin
Copyright © Brian Strand | Year Posted 2008