Lapis lazuli mines with wide blue eyes
bringing to mind precious stones and
caramel scones; innocent and wise -
Wondering, yet without surprise.
Staring down the universe, a challenge
in your look though you are young;
The earth made only nine revolutions
since you came out to see the sun.
Unguarded and arched, your brows
betray high wire tension; enough
to light up a hundred moons and warm
plump cheeks to cherry bubble gum.
Be not impatient to grow; you smell
of open grasshopper meadows
and firefly lighted lakeshore walks.
You’re a mother’s envy and pride.
Red lips! Your passion for life exists.
Scarlet, lipstick would be a surfeit -
Today as then till many summer’s been,
your spirit will always be free as the mist.
After: Portrait of Carol Nye Rhoades (Robinson) (1915)
For Debbie Guzzi's Challenge: Ten Pictures, Ten Poems, Ten Days - Painting No. 2
Kim Patrice Nunez
08 January 2016
Poem of the Week: January 10-16, 2016
Copyright © KP Nunez | Year Posted 2016
The moon so bold seems cold
with a halo of midnight glow
I sit mesmerized as the night grows old.
I bleed still, even after all these years
and I wait again through the night
aching in the depths of my soul
that no other seems to know
the Loneliness that has become my companion.
In the darkness we wait and confide in the other
our deepest fears as memories fade
in and out each season of change
the nostalgia tempers the wars of pain
this tempestuous foe of ours
wails at the gates of midnight
howling the warble of humanities last grace.
How the comfort of minds and hearts
turn from light to deep dark in the face
of eternities long time clock...
I ache with wanting, with need and passion
it is a lie that time heals and wounds scar
each night is fresh like the first
when I faced realities shock.
Who can wait with me?
Who can hold this hound at bay?
Who can cherish what little love left in me
and make the broken whole?
I ache to be loved again as the love that burns
and waits inside of me.
Who can comfort this emptiness and fill the void
that so many leavings have left?
Cherish and love to honor and protect
but who can slay these demons that hold my heart in wrath?
Who will walk the sulfur clouds of hell to save my mind
and deliver my world to the gates of heaven
with life, not death bridging the distance of pain?
I sit and wait at the floor of the moon each night
waiting for that bridge to carry me yonder,
this moon who hangs heavy and ripe with the yearning of my soul
with clouds aglow as if I could sweep them across a canvas
with the brush held in your hand
I rage at her as I wait, but still I wait and weep
as Loneliness and I keep each others company
wishing the clouds of that great moon could truly create
a way to find the lost, a pathway to home, lit by the legacy our love.
Copyright © tara jennings | Year Posted 2013
A Rose with No Thorn
In the Garden, the bouquet of life
There bloomed a rose whose beauty caught my eye
Incomparable is this rose’s design
Unlike the others, she is not the prickling kind
I know they say that every rose has its thorn
But here blooms the exception, of the spirit she is born
One of a kind, the rarest in form
For she is a rose with no thorn
Oh what a fragrance, so lovely and fair
A scent of sincerity sweeps through the air
A pristine beauty from the realms up above
For she is the flower primeval of love
And as I bask in her blossoms of compassion
I find I am fashioned by love that’s everlasting
And in my heart she’ll always be adorned
For she is a rose with no thorn
Though weeds, thorns and thistles have tried to choke her
The rain has wet her; the sun has even scorched her
But she’ll not wither, neither will she wilt
For she is rooted in the love that God has tilled
Amidst great turmoil, never to be foiled
Arrayed in glory that could never ever toil
One of a kind, yes the rarest in form
For she is a rose with no thorn
Copyright2008 by Kenneth J Thompson
Copyright © Kenneth J Thompson | Year Posted 2014
Many times, I saw my spirit.
Many times, I felt my soul.
In life, I lived courageous.
Now it is time for me to journey home.
If you cry, that is fine.
If you laugh, that is better than a cry.
Rejoice in my life and shout praise.
For I am
Therefore, I shall be
In peace, I leave this world.
To my love ones, I am with the Lord.
Sure happy to have lived
Not sad that my time has come
The benevolence of the spiritual realm is a breeze from a waterfall.
The Lord is my keeper.
He called me home.
No more sadness let us all rejoice.
Ms. Carrie Mae Sexton is now reunited with Jehovah God Lord. A woman of statue...
A woman of worth... All that knew her will truly miss her.
Never a life lost but one done with the world and because she walked a virtuous path, her life is shown. The Lord knows best and we must know the same. Our mother sojourns and in peace, she lays.
[“Be assured that just as an hour is only part of a day so life on Earth is only part of eternity.” C.L. Allen]
User Name: Verlena
Psuedonym: Oblivion Dark Sunshine
Motif: Grief and Bereavement
-Contest Enter: Space & Time - Metaphorically written... Eternity is space and time... February 2014
Copyright © Verlena S. Walker | Year Posted 2014
Let the Deicide commence.
You're a voyeur at best!
Your vampiric heart is beating out of your chest!
And you have slayed the ones whom would love you for anything less
Ready to consume the final fragments of innocence,
And for you there is no forgiveness,
On your knees pleading, screaming to a tyrant in the skies;
The father of lies.
I will never be enslaved in your superiority
The people agree: jaded of your false dichotomies.
Know: I will be whomever nature intends to be
Apollo and I will share our dreams,
and you will be forced to see
I know who you are...
Readily the first to present your scars
Chained by some despot or mental czar
An emotional homunculus in your mind, behind bars
Reluctant to escape - even when proven fake
Your demented mind - depths no one will penetrate!
...And you see me suffering
Not caring of any casualties
Just as long you recieve your safeguard of sympathy
So very wary of the masses and their Anarchy; Liberious ways
Solipsist - Is there no one you can see?
Even if she was presented burning?
Solipsist - Is there no one you can believe?
Even if Sophia was screaming?
Solipsist - Know you have killed and abused me
Imprisoned in your own personal reality
Copyright © Wyatt Loethen | Year Posted 2013
I once vacationed in the company of silence,
It was an unconscious scene bestowed upon
Although I had a calling that answered my
A myth of joy existed outside this career,
I was left drowning in limbo, without an
But there was a witness, who studied my trail
And without apprehension, she helped to resurrect the
the location of destiny;
Allow me to reminisce on such.
For it was in a previous portrait, that I encountered
a dozen roses;
Of these that I held, there were none that exceeded
a brief touch,
A momentary scent that never returns;
Now understand with this expression, it is not a
boast I intend to create,
For I was seeking that gentle grip, in hopes of it never
I continued a cold failure, never realizing the warmth of
victory that smiled ahead.
I settled on the peak of solitude, as my faith passed
away in obscurity,
And yet, beyond these frozen eyes, there existed a
narration of fate, waiting for my company;
For you see kids, I’ve walked past the casual frame
of your mother,
And misplaced my sight, I’ve missed her spirit by
And when there was a vision of opportunity, my space
was occupied with trivial games.
Then one day, I discovered a possession that linked
heaven and earth forever,
An umbrella your mother left abandoned;
And yet, it was through her innocent misfortune,
That I discovered her abstract songs, played upon
by the perfect key,
Her heart that sits in prosperity, from the charity of
A collection of beauty, your mother gracefully
By the time we crossed into cupid’s lair, I knew
already, the verses of duality were written true,
And with that, the perfect stranger discarded her
Leading Renee into popularity;
Hello became the endless quote, we spoiled into
As the task of life left this page briefly open,
I responded with a mutual exit, confirming these
lips of joy,
And with revelations of challenge forever slayed,
I peacefully fell, forever breathless.
Copyright © Jiril Clemons | Year Posted 2014
Come when you are ready to love me
And come when you realized more of love
The time when flesh mean nothing than dust
Come when you are ready to see me
Not just pain that paint my solace soul
And when darkness no longer breeds sorrow
Come when you really want pure bliss
And call to whom that bestow blessings
Wait for me as I stagger like a foolish pagan
Come when all sores are wide open
Wide enough for a blind eye to see
Call me before dawn fades my dreams
Light the wisdom of the goddess to this valley
A valley I wander through day and night
Find your vanity before winter wrinkle all sweat
I shall wait to the corner of your heart all night
Visit me more often than you thirst for water
Water my dust with your pure tears
Look for signs to those flourishing flowers
And sing my last rhymes of sweet poetry
Copyright © Zakhe Michael Mcunu | Year Posted 2014
smoother than most, all moving no boast, shooting a moon to toast, to our beautiful host
revolving no doors, just opportunities score marking the entrance ways pores
fracking a lack of communication crashing breaking backs and racking our foundation
till were screaming take it back
unpacked and all out, dig deep for the fall out, kettle blackened from potty mouths,
busted missing a tea spout
pour me a gallon of chandon the whole sip for your front lawn, till the bottles dry
like jokes from monty python
silly satans salivating sighing and spraying your favorite simon's saying cause piles of money and ego feed are waiting for the generating
nothing new under the sun but above clouds I found me some, cause ignant bliss still exists even if you wear a cummerbund
tell all your facts and try to catch my glazed eye, cause compromise can be the do or die, to where ever future lovers lie
this blueberry from space ferry might fit in a test tube in perspective
or we just miss the point why evolution was so selective
Copyright © Davin Payne | Year Posted 2013
A thorough yield
On a farm field of far east
It took me time to realize
How far I am to my far east of coast
Call of my weather
Call of my winds
I sailed further and farther
To my naked coasts
Naive songs, Nimble rains
Nile of rivers, Nascent clouds
Reaching this far
I kissed my earth
Ground of my grief
Glory of my ghosts
Glad is those leaves
However scanty they are
Cast is my shadows
No longer they hide
My colors and my figures
They cast numbers on stars
Measure their light
Scope my winters
Scale my summers
Scanty my rains
Scuttle I wish my springs
Now let me see my greens
Their leveling heights
Their leafy gaze
Their spiderly gesture
Their primordial texture
Now let me be slow
In company of my greens
#Poem by +Gokul Alex
Copyright © Gokul Alex | Year Posted 2013
A caterpillar ran along
my bedroom floor and rested there
my kitty cat mewed it a song
and up it sent a yearning stare
I picked it up, the crawling thing
all green and wobbly and naive
"my thorns beware because they sting"
I said and paused fearing he'd leave.
The kitty looked up from below
and shook my stem to make him fall
but he held fast and she lay low
then shivered as she heard me call:
"Darling," I said, "don't be so grim,
my rosy perfume is for you
as much as for your brother, dream,
for cats and worms I'll be a rose
prickly and motherly and true."
Copyright © Archontoula Alexandropoulou | Year Posted 2013
You are the fresh spring air,
You are the warm sun upon my hair.
You are the cool morning dew,
You are the summer skies so blue.
You are the strong ocean breeze,
You are the gentle falling leaves.
You are the light that brightens the night,
You are the mountains filled with might.
You are the ever so changing snowflakes,
You are all that is good, which God makes.
You are my soul, and every heartbeat,
You are the one who makes me complete.
You are, my child.
Copyright © Kelli Settle | Year Posted 2016
The central nervous heating system
pumping the womb
in seminal fluid
sucking on the umblical chord
Curled in the bed
in the Reichian curlicue
between clean silk sheets
in the cosy cage
away from the cold and the sleet’s scorching bone beat
tumbling only when the flushing revolving door pulsates
the thunder knocking to come crashing in
the blood in the mother stream choking in the throttled rush
Who wants to be out
in the rain in the shine
worrying about work about degrees
no work lack of opportunity
of hurts through making love
warding off pain shame and the retributing conscience
of justifying every action every little game
of the mind
from our own standpoint
by running everybody down
even those who stand up for us
brother sister mother father
backbiting in the sweating bed
in the haven imagining triumphs glories rosy utopias
Who hates not some one
hates some body if not his maker
at the thought of his plight
out the safe mother oven
harrowing hate turning the dynamo of pretence
hypocrisy basking in blind bigotted bile
hate stoking the intense rocket-thrust furnace
consuming the guts
everybody hates everybody
the most intense force hidden in the pleats of the neuronal strata
hates the entire world all humanity
the strongest human force generated by man
Who would want to be out
before we’re called upon to mind others we have put out
of the womb
of the world
of the safety of the dream bubble bed
unless if you call we can say
go away i’m in bed
or hold on just a sec
come to bed
bed with me till the morrows never end
or something like that
and keep the terror of the slinging mind from plunging through the cul
for yet a while longer
April 26, 1997 – Paris
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 1997 ; revised from the cvollection : longhand notes (1999)
Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2016
Mothers are like woven shawls
knitted from the finest wool.
Stitch by stitch, their shapes are formed
for warmth, comfort and protection...
forever, as enduring wraps of love.
Sandra M. Haight
Copyright © Sandra Haight | Year Posted 2016
Nature is god
Nature gave birth to life
Nature, nurtures us every day
Provides food in every way
Nature, oh mother nature!
Your beauty is everything
From the flowers to the animals you produce,
nature, you are my everything
You are my mother
You are my provider
But yet you never ask anything
Instead you love and care
I gaze upon you,
I take my hands and I feel you
I hug a tree and I say thank you
I listen to your heart
I listen as you whisper
"I get close, I get close"
I feel your pain,
You been rejected by your own children
The pain of seeing you get hurt by them
The pain that they chose their own ambitions over you
Ambitions of greed that they feed off you
They take too much,
Nature, oh mother nature!
I feel you breaking down
I see you, I see you
The pain as your reflect your anger
And I can't blame you
I can never!
But please forgive us
Forgive us for all that pain we caused you
From trespassing to stealing and destroying
Nature, oh mother nature!
Please hear me out as I call upon you
We are young and ignorant
Reckless spoiled brats!
But we love you,
love you in all kinds of ways
No matter how civilized we can be
We can't live without you
You are our creator
You are our mother
You are our provider
We love you mother nature
Copyright © LIAM ADAMS | Year Posted 2017
I do not know?
For Aung San Suu Kyi
you remained unyielding
bruised by their bayonets of power
you remained unyielding
gagged by their coarse brutality
you remained unyielding
today you return
and we salute
Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses | Year Posted 2013
Mindfulness is being in the moment, with the past
A dim memorial and the future ripe anticipation;
Without investment of self in uncertainty and “when I…”,
Just living life in the now.
I read the book of recipes and am drawn
Into its world of pungency, lost in imagined tastes;
And I linger at this altar of sensual delight,
And am mindful.
A glass of Riesling sits close by, cold, crisp,
With subtle oiliness hinting at future promise;
Its acidity bites at my tongue as I imagine
Lemons in Greece might do.
Fragrant prose makes my nose twitch, as though some
Herb, roughly chopped to embrace the warmth of spice,
Is thrown into the bubbling pot to lure the hungry,
And I think of you.
The spell of the moment is broken by your
Presence, uninvited and unwanted but irresistible,
An imagining, without form, that brings emptiness, longing,
The elements of grief.
Why do you do this, Madame, why do you
Not leave me to be at peace with my present?
Why do you intrude, when you have been silent
This long while?
I want to be with you, or rid of you;
There is no compromise, I cannot be an acquaintance;
There is no possibility of a hint of love, like
A hint of chilli.
I imagine inside your mind, where I have no
Place, no presence; I am forgotten, like a withered
Posy, whose scent is as dust and adds nothing
To our pleasure.
And I live in this moment, dissolved in
My emotions, swept up in thinking, and wonder
When it will end and you no longer disturb
The ascetic monk reminds me of the impermanence
Of all things, and the unhealthy possession you have
Of my thoughts and feelings, putting my happiness
at your command.
Miserere mei: soaring notes wash my mind clean, no
Thoughts or emotions can find space in this reverberant
Cathedral of penitence; transient music that lives forever,
Unlike that pure treble.
I am again mindful and you slip behind the
Curtain of music, an actor quitting the stage,
Your speech done, the plot carried forward
To its end.
Copyright © Edward Clapham | Year Posted 2015
I seek immortality
in two days’ life,
Preserve me mother-nature,in
I seek no mutability
My destination is not grave,
Save me mother-nature, in your
I seek peace
in your surreal beauty,
Permit me mother-nature,to
play with your colours.
I seek longevity
like that old mountains,
Entwine me mother-nature,in
I seek no disappearance
like that morning dew,
Let me flow mother-
nature,with that river.
I seek joys
In your broader chest,
Hug me mother-nature,with
your strong boughs.
[to my mother and also to
beautiful nature ]
Copyright © Kiran Bantawa | Year Posted 2013
It burns and it stings.
More than drowning beneath
More than remaining in a
She hits and I no longer cry.
Why mother, why?
It burned and it stung.
The markings remained,
returned, and were relived
Looking, loving, and little
known loathing were the known
ways of living.
Never was their pity for the
child that cried
Never was their relief for the
child that tried
You were that lovely bird that
understood the complications of
Nothing looked the same in
those dewy browns of yours.
My everbeating would cry tears
The others-they were yet to
Caring Mother, o' so fair
You were that beautiful bird
filled with care.
The others came and were not
alone. Their two suitors sat on
Rampage and rage why did you
I began to wither and wither
slumping along. So very soon I-
the child of fines- became a
The droops of the Lily of the
Valley became the slumping of
My lovely bird the enemy had
taken you and the person you
were is far from near.
For that divine nature left its
intricate self and you became
irretrievable my big bird.
All of your fairness died.
With that went my pride.
Mother, Mother what moved
Your intense spirt vanished only
to supplement a monster.
Mother, Monster and your tar
How did I kill that liver that was
so, so strong?
The lesson of pain was one you
came to learn.
My darling bird why did you
My lovely bird and your big
I'll tell you once, but never
Pain is only a flower for it
blooms and dies
And a mistake can be killed as
quickly as lice.
You dear bird hurt me well.
Though, haven't you heard?
Weakness is a souls greatest
You brought me up, then you
brought me down.
You haved helped, hurt, and
hindered my blazing spirit.
A hero in my heart-I left you
down in your deep black
Escaping those terrible nights
To go for the town of delights.
Copyright © Layla Elkoulily | Year Posted 2013
A Lioness Roaring under her Roar
Stalking her prey upon natures paws
Deeply secure with a keen eye
She also has a Lions Pride
No fret to defeat
Confronting her enemy
In a disarray, climbing up the food chain
Beauty within her Lions main
She guides her cubs so they could find
All the things they need to survive
Giving up isn't the look in her eyes
Until that day she dies
^^^^^^^A Lioness Pride^^^^^^^
Copyright © Tiffany Diaz | Year Posted 2015
The phone call went badly, again -
the old arguments about ego & neglect
and how you didn’t love me, not really.
And the weeping.
At 50, she was still stuck,
repeating the same accusations.
“The damage, the damage you caused.”
She didn’t want her mother to think
she’d come through it unscathed.
Not ever. She’d worked too hard to
become something she wasn’t,
someone must be to blame.
She was so clever, so clean, so intelligent -
how could she be so unhappy?
The unformed artist weighed down
by someone else’s baggage.
When her artist/mother said:
You have to work with it, use it, create with it,
she howled: “Stop talking over me.”
It was like saying get rid of yourself.
Knowing herself that well,
she hardly knew what she was.
Copyright © Billy Marshall Stoneking | Year Posted 2014
Eileithyiai – she comes to her aid
The rural land is furtive
Death is the epitome of childbirth
This is her tenth baby. Her heart is weak.
She yells. She yells.
Her husband- The Lord needs a son
To carry his name to generations to come.
Eileithyiai comes to her rescue.
Or does she?
Before the science, there were wayward goddesses. And wayward gods.
Eileithyiai was the most capricious of goddesses.
She arrived late. Often too late if the mother to be angered her.
She lets out another yelp. Her heart is racing. Her face is mauve.
Her Lord husband goes for a run.
Her babes are frightened for their mums.
She curses the day she set foot in her husband’s home.
Life is sweet and dear. She knows it now.
Yet the door of her hooghan is still shut tight
In her broken heart, she has no more fight.
She speaks aloofly to the mother to be
Her lips are ruby and perfectly made.
“Another push!” She orders the mother.
No more pushes left in me!
The mother pleads. Please do something
“I am a goddess not a miracle worker!” Eileithyiai shrugs her shoulder
“You push the baby and I catch her!”
“Her?” the mother lets out another yelp.
“Yes, it is another girl!” Eileithyiai says.
The mother’s heart is too weak.
She won’t bear another child for husband
She vows and one last push.
A miracle happens. The mother is alive so is the perfect little girl.
Then the science happens.
The capricious goddess is no more.
Copyright © YASEMIN BALANDI | Year Posted 2016
Take us into the folds of your tattered skirt –
O mother, whose gap-toothed children
buried in smog reeking of mirth
carry stones in their chest like men.
O mother, whose gap-toothed children
hiding hearts scalded by your warm concrete
Carry stones in their chest like men -
cloak our bodies even with the bitterest tears.
Hiding hearts scalded by your warm concrete
Mother, will your children still remember
how you cloak our bodies even with the bitterest tears
as dark fumes taint your pure laughter
O mother, we are testaments to your decay
so take us into the folds of your tattered skirt,
and rot with us in our shared tomb of ashen gray
buried in smog, reeking of mirth.
Copyright © Therese Genota | Year Posted 2015
She nurtured all life,
Asked for nothing,
Yet we cut her with an industrial knife,
Bringing about a swift ending.
She cannot be replaced,
Yet we abuse her,
Her body defaced,
We are our own saboteur.
For oil and coal,
Raped her organs,
Only say we love her soul,
Yet this is where the end begins.
Why did we kill our mother?
She raised all of us,
Now we may never recover,
Our mother once so beauteous.
Copyright © Lucas Holbrook | Year Posted 2015
On a lonely islet, on top of a precipitous cliff, in the farthest sea,
a bird built a nest and kept clinging onto her empty nest though
all birds were, feeding their chicks with abundant food from the sea
and rose to adolescence, left for a southern island for warmer climate.
As time elapsed the vexed bird sank exhausted under a fierce storm coming by the raging waters smashing the shore, picks a pebble,
and returns to her nest. She sits on the stone as if it is an egg
she was incapable of laying one, and transmits the warmth of life
that comes from her weakening heart.
Surroundings become darker as weather worsens, and in this darkness that no way to distinguish waters edge from skyline the rolls of thunder pierce the ears and a thunderbolt strikes the rock to smash it
Nonetheless, this pathetic mother bird sits still, rather, she pulls stone deeper into her bosom because her only desire was to transmit source of life to this lifeless stone.
After transmitting all her body temperature to this lifeless stone,
therefore, her strength gave out at last, this mother bird barely
rising her slender neck to look up at the sky to appeal her
cherishing desire, a thunderbolt strikes her back as thunder rolls,
a billow surges to swallow the isle.
At this tragic moment,
though mother bird perished, a beautiful chick with downs
brighter than dazzling sun hatched from this thought-lifeless stone.
Copyright © Su Ben | Year Posted 2016
Decrepted soul how blind are thee
To see the world so cold and cruel
From the blood shed of lost lives
Like crushed cacoons of butterflies
Not given the chance to take flight.
You judge so quickly
Of what you can't understand
Than given the chance
To see through the mask.
Why must you be cold
To judge things before hand
Than learning their secrets
Seeing no rainbow in the sky
After a rainy storm by day.
Why can't you accept
Things as they are
Let the cacoons grow
So butterflies can flee
From the silky prisons
That held them back.
You the raven
Talons that slice
Butterflies of life
Hope and dreams flee.
The more cruel and heartless
Lesser are the butterflies
Whose only dream is to flee
To go off to live their lives.
As the remaining butterflies
Fly off to distant lands
You sit on your branch
Not willing to take the chance.
Foolish raven are you not,
You are missing quite alot,
Not willing to take risks
There you perch upon the sticks.
Copyright © Megan Ryan | Year Posted 2014
She was a warm coffee cup
brimming over with the sweet
expectation of lips that could
give her the comfort she sought.
He was a sunrise
cradling the morning in
arms of mercy;
He held her sight still,
giving the horizon colors
he knew would feel, just right.
Together they waited for
the jostle of day;
the pitter pat of tiny feet,
the quiet groan of a still tired father,
a mother’s call to the kitchen.
Together they will blossom under
the colors chosen, for mornings of
peace. Together they will wilt the
morning, and break the day,
until night’s slumber.
-James Kelley 2013, All rights reserved.
Copyright © James Kelley | Year Posted 2013
In between the blackness and the bright,
Graded shades of grey and lilac lie.
These variegated colours give delight.
And from my soul, I hear a gentle sigh.
As we live, we dwell in mysteries;
Must take decisions based on various views.
And unknown memories from our history
Bring out the old , so misperceive the new.
For true perception, we must humble be.
Not for moral reasons but for sight.
The emptiness lets flood creative seas.
And allows bright rays of guiding golden light.
We need to know we do not know at all.
And, trembling, hold the doors of vision wide.
So gentle should be judgements when we fail.
Then errors we’ll appreciate, not hide.
We will deal with life unknown, unclear;
Perception is a better guide than fear
Copyright © Katherine Bee | Year Posted 2016
silent in the wind.
colder than the
For Kelly Deschler
Night Owl contest
Copyright © John lawless | Year Posted 2014
The chick grows to puberty hearing the sound of surfs as a lullaby,
returning waves as rocking cradle, fed by passing clouds and drank
of fogs. He learned: how to fly friend with wind, flow of time following the sun and moon, and direction through stars of constellations. And about the time when flock of birds returns
to this isle after long absence from the isle to avoid harsh and cold winter, the bird, flapping his huge wings, soared higher and higher to the endless deep sky.
After such, time had passed and autumn, again, returns to this isle,
all birds abandon it and flies away as before. And when all the birds left, raging bellows, deep fogs, torrential rain, high wind, thunders and lightening punish this little isle once again, the gigantic bird flies over and lands on this top cliff, then, he sits on the nest where his mother’s burnt bones still remain. He cries sorrowfully vomiting blood, while gathering and holding mother’s remains in his wide breast.
During the circle of days and nights, when the bird sees rays come from peeking sun between crevices of thickened cloud, he soars high to reach the sun, pecks a piece and brings it back to the nest and
covers mother’s remains with it.
He repeats this act as long as the sun is in the sky. After so much folds of sun-ray, he goes back and forth restlessly watching radiance floating atop of pathetic mother. When the weather turns worse as before, the bird covers mother with his broad breast.
After so much of those stormy weathers and occasional sunshine
pile up, spring approaches to this isle, and when such time comes, waters return to tranquility that of calm of primitive day. And in this absolute stillness, moon rises to die everything from sky to sea, to the color of dark-blue. And in this dark-blue stillness, the son-bird carries mother bird, which is resurrected as dark shadow on his back and flies away to the moon, to the sky, to the farthest dark-blue sea.
After the son-bird has flown away carrying mother bird on his back, though heap of suns became highest mountain, heap of moons became deepest sea, it was so told, these birds having once flown away never return to this little islet.
Copyright © Su Ben | Year Posted 2016
These are the tightest handcuffs I've ever worn,
not to both wrists, another, no.
The my home I have been sworn.
It keeps me attached to the low.
I'm grabbing in the dark,
for a new key.
while she circles me,
she is a shark.
And through the windows,
I see their faces dangle keys,
and I rip my sinews,
reaching to be free.
They wear handcuffs as well,
for they too lie in the dark.
I see more faces who have fell,
painted on each back, a target, a mark.
We organize, we plan
through the windows ajar.
We believe we can,
get so, so far.
Now we've broken parts of ourselves,
just to hold hands.
Put new pictures on the shelves,
We did it, we ran.
Copyright © Maria Cherub | Year Posted 2016