once upon a time
one knew how to begin
the state of the day dream,
by removing the mind,
shedding the every day
paraphernalia, then escaping
into a realm just
above the physical
wishes were formed
refined into possibilities.
great words were put together
fashioning unforgettable thoughts
ideas. solve the world,
feed the hungry, succour the afflicted
find lasting love
with someone who understands.
that was once upon time
when youth invaded every corner
of life with depth of
time. now it has shrunk
crept away unnoticed into
the place of things forgotten.
reverie of age has become,
into this wandering mind-time
now the escape does
not require active initiation.
it flows without boundaries
between here, now, and then.
the shape has changed from
slightly tenuous but graspable
to muzzy melted cotton candy
clouds sweet but impossible
to construct. depth is lost
with the passage of time
the betrayer of all day dreams.
presently lay down,
surrounded by personnel myths
slowly, gently transmogrify
into whom you have always been.
Copyright © PATRICIA CRESSWELL | Year Posted 2017
Dancing all around
Frolicking through fields
Just like you!
Copyright © Smail Poems | Year Posted 2013
A temptation unlike myself unfurls
(Everyone’s here asking if I was in the hospital)
The shadow of movement has passed on,
And a cold electric scatters away from a scorched tree.
Our mutual acquaintance says hello to me again,
He was at the rehearsal and said you wanted us all to be closer
Why hasn’t your mother shown up yet?
I’m leaving this place hating you,
And I hear that you think we’re best friends
The sun strays out from beyond a great building jutted into an afternoon breeze.
Copyright © Dylan Stone | Year Posted 2015
Eyes of Seminary – Zamreen Zarook
Every day in our lives has different fragrance,
God give us various things in abundance,
Day by day knowledge is gained in accordance,
Things depend according to the attendance.
Two years of studies,
Helped us to come out with various abilities,
Extremely joyful moments with buddies,
But life said every aspect has its boundaries.
Teachers become very friendly,
They approach us very kindly,
They speak on us exaggeratedly,
Because they know, if not we might behave badly.
Big shots in the school boundary,
These are years of foundry,
It helped us to find and go for laundry,
Marvelous days, fully packed with sundry.
Various angles the kith and kins are civilized,
It’s because our knowledge is enhanced,
Guys and girls turned well experienced,
That’s why we call it levels of advanced.
Copyright © Zamreen Zarook | Year Posted 2013
I do not know?
The year has passed,
so long ago,
And now its time for us to go
We've said or prayers,
So spread your wings,
its time to fly
We wont forget our childhood here
But now its time for
A Brand New Year.
Copyright © Mariam Traore | Year Posted 2014
We met for poetry, found a lively group
occupying our space; Herculaneum
High School Reunion Committee.
They introduced themselves,
offered to move. "No," we said.
"We can use the other end of the room."
Distracted by their excited chatter,
we asked, "What year did you graduate?
1961 . . . your 50th reunion . . . wow."
"You're too young for this," she said.
"No, I graduated in 1953," I said.
"1953! Hey, she graduated in 1953,"
she said. They were astonished.
"You graduated when you were five?"
I thanked them and moved on
to the poetry meeting, floating on air.
cfa © 12/9/2010
Copyright © Cona Adams | Year Posted 2015
You send bolts through my skin
something I was never to
accomplish with you, when I
saw you it's like my heart sank
to my stomach and I was in
shock my body still my body
heavy felt like when I moved I
was about to fall to my knees
you make me want to get
inside my brain pick you up and
take you out pick you one by
one like a flower because I do
love you and love you not.
Copyright © brittney lopez | Year Posted 2013
I do not know?
City lights late at night…
mixed with that album that makes me cry –
the one from way back when.
Some friends along for the ride
won’t chase the feelings that I hide.
This night – the last of many.
These friends – the survivors each year.
The ones that make me feel a little less alone.
The ones that make me want to stay here.
I hope they know
all that I just can’t show.
I hope they know
that they’re my reason –
my reason to wake up each morning
and my reason to drag myself to school each day.
Each stupid a** comment,
each poorly contained laugh,
each terribly timed joke,
and each uncomfortable experience we share,
are the only reasons that I care –
care to try and care to live.
So, I try not to think about when “the last of many” will be over.
For now, it’s the nights like these that I’ll remember.
The moments I take to peak my head up from the backseat
and see her laughing so hard she’s nearly choking –
laughing so hard she can’t help but stomp her foot on the floor of that cheap, foggy car.
to see her looking like an absolute fool.
to see her happy.
I look up
to see him singing along to that one song from the 2000s,
smiling like the moron he is.
It’s these vivid moments I’ll chose to recall –
these helpless points in time that don’t fail to enthrall,
dragging me in head first,
present and aware of my own happiness.
Copyright © Maren Beauchamp | Year Posted 2017
Angels of pure innocents
gave us sheer elegance
bright, pretty, smart, kind, committed to excellence
from the vestiges of youthful delights
onto the challenges of the bright
passing from the secure culture of youth
to a culture of wisdom of truth
oh we pray for wisdom of humility
may angels and doves protect
with love of our Father smiling above.
Copyright © Edward Snyder | Year Posted 2016
Grandma's dresser was a testament to time. Elegant in it's curves. Sturdy in it's
A thick piece of plate glass lay atop, to protect the wood surface. Under that glass,
sealed away, yet there to be seen, were pictures and announcements. Mile stones
important to Grandma.
There was a picture of each one of us grand kids when we lost our two front teeth.
Big, gap toothed grins on our young faces. Taken years a part. Yet placed side by
side, under the glass.
Positioned below them was a poem. Written by my Grandfather while they were first
dating. Lovingly kept to be read each day.
Over on the other side of the dresser top, was placed a short newspaper article. The
obituary of her mothers death. next to it lay the program from her funeral. Grandma's
tears, still evident on the parchment.
Towards the middle, was my brothers Certificate Of Graduation from The School For
The Deaf, at the age of five. There had been a newspaper article done on him by the
local daily paper. That picture of him with mother was next to the certificate. He was
proudly wearing his first hearing aids.
A bit of lace from Grandma's wedding dress.
A napkin from a fancy restaurant Grandpa took her to, once.
A flower drawn on brown paper. Given to her on Mother's Day by my mom at the age
Other little photos and bits of life kept to be enjoyed and shared...under that plate
Copyright © Paula Swanson | Year Posted 2010
Show me who you are and i shall paint out broken columns on the valleys of her back as if such figure is un-common
i have found no beauty bending as the vines that are her hair and the frailty of man upon her back is what she bares
bleed her body for the harvest let them feast upon her soul for the nurishment of mother is leaps beyond so bold
she is like the flower growing in the deepest of dark forests,amongst the ivy and hemlock but her skin is much too porous
to concern herself with games that tantalize the men, as they marry on crusade it is her children that she tends
sheath your swords with her ambition and tip your arrows with her will, craft your armour from her strength and in the battle you will kill
come now children from the pasture and lay each upon her side, suckle gently at your mother although theirs pain she does not hide
though the water leaks from rooftops her leaves are thick and block the rain, as the water level rises cling to her branches with no shame
she is the stone upon the beach, once a mountain pound and breached
yet still her disposition clear to love her children that are near
inspired by Roots Frida Kahlo, 1907-1954
Copyright © chriss todd | Year Posted 2013
When He breaks you
It is to re-make you.
If given the choice
To give destiny your voice
You would undoubtedly have picked this state
Such is the irony of fate
He breaks you now
So you later see the how -
How the pieces of your journey come to be
A slow but eventual solving of this mystery
He makes you work work work – then fail
So that you realize your means are of no avail
Without His will -
But feel His mercy fill -
Even through the aches still
He punctures your bubble of hope
To teach you the meaning of struggling to cope
To avoid you saying ‘this was all from me’
Which you might say if it always did come so easy
He lets you fall
So that when you stand
It’s straight and tall
Your past sorrows
Not letting you drown
Without your ego
Weighing you down
Even while the road appears smooth
He lets you trip and trip again
So that you might stumble upon hidden treasures
From the dirt, which you may otherwise not gain
He knows Best
The perfect Teacher
Who puts the perfect test
He breaks you
To re-make you…
Copyright © Aya Salah | Year Posted 2013