A DINNER INVESTMENT (for Eve)
My husband Chris Adams loves to wine and dine my needs
In the most expensive places, one can eat.
Arriving in LIMO style
A humble waiter greets
After I viewed the menu I replied,
"Hun I am ready to order."
A T-bone steak -- fully cook the meat.
At our table, walked a gorgeous snake-eyed women
She leaned over my husband's seat
Approaching Chris with a big wet kiss
I stomped on my husband's foot
I gave him the look, of all looks
She slithered with her tongue in Adams ear
"Go to that hotel and relax, I need some cash"
With one stare I yelled, "Chris how dare you cheat!"
"I had enough, I want a divorce MR. ADAMS!"
I reach over to slap him,
He replies, "She is my mistress Bath-Sheba my dear EVE!"
"I do not love her."
"I understand if you want a divorce!" Mr. Adams replied.
"But, remember, no more furs, luxury suite,
Winters in Barbados,
Summers in Tuscany."
"Infinity or Lexus, and first class plane seats."
"Forget about the Yacht Club."
"Party by the swimming pool, that land a hundred feet."
"It is up to you my Kitty Skat Eve to give it all up."
"You decide if these diamonds you want to keep."
Without thinking of taking a leap.
I saw Mr. Adams business partner Cain with a Jezebel in his arms.
I ask my husband Chris in a small peep.
"Do not tell me that Cain commits Adultery too?"
"Cain's blonde looks really cheap as if she works the street."
"Well, our mistress is prettier and looks real sweet."
"Honey, our mistress Bath-Sheba is worth the keep."
"Mr. Adams tonight you can call me Steve and not Eve,
Whatever it takes to satisfy your needs plus my gold lust!"
(The moral of the story is what some Eve's
will do to keep their investment, I mean Adam's.)
A joke and dedication to Chris D. Aechtner
For THE Eve in Eden* (Contest) *
Copyright © SKAT A | Year Posted 2010
In a new road,
Rain will fall,
Wind may blow,
Swifting our woe.
The road forever on and on,
Many paths to choose,
Many paths to take,
Through the shadows,
Through the night,
Clouds going by,
There we will lie,
Seeing shivered land,
Seeing the dead seas...
Through the edge,
Miles to go,
Rain may fall,
Through the nightfall,
Through the twilight,
Through the dusk,
Through the dawn,
Paths on and on,
'Till the road comes along...
Copyright © Ruben Alejandro Hernandez Diaz | Year Posted 2013
Early one morning a group of rookie's and veteran's ballplayers emerge onto the prac-
tice field destine to began an grueling season of hardwork and a dedication to an common-
goal of Superiority. They come out of the locker room after the coach has given assign-
ment's and now everyone minds are on one accord, one agenda and together they all say to
themselve's. "The road to a Championship began when the priority to be the best", "is know
from one and all roads to success is gear towards teamwork and passionate loyalty to suc-
ceed at any means there is". Loyalty to push on through the inclimate weather, hardwork off
the field as well on the field is approachable only when a championship atmosphere surrounds
itself with ballplayer's and not attitude's disrespectful to the cause of the challenge's to be-
come the best at what you do, and do the best at what not to do. Teamwork is a do-able part
of the puzzle, but there's more to it then that. There is hunger, and then all the pieces falls
together when that hunger is fed an astronomical desire that fill-up the body and your minds
with offensive and defensive individual's that love's victory and enjoy's a desire to not finish
the race in last place. So out emerge's a champion in his relationship to his fellow ballplayers
and to his family as that of maturity and that of unlimited resources of the uncoachable en-
tangable fortitude that seperate the advantage's over the disadvantages that make his or her
teammate's reach the level of sportsmenship unseen and redeem as the fans come to see a
player that value's himself and value the diffucult task of Sunday to Sunday ability to be not
only a scholar athelete but also The road of a Champion is what make's him love to compete:
Copyright © John Streeter | Year Posted 2010
Poems from old and yellowed
Chinese scrolls make me sad,
make me sad: stored in shiny,
lacquered boxes of perfumed teak,
they crumble when unrolled.
And the hands that must have written
Chinese thoughts upon the rolls:
little, leathern, patient hands,
painting poems -- stroke and stroke
and careful, delicate stroke --
stopping, meanwhile, to twirl
a waxed mustache --
for someone else, a foreigner,
who cannot understand, to read,
mull over, and be sad.
And this when Chinese thoughts
are gone, and tiny, trembling
Chinese hands are dust.
Copyright © Leo Larry Amadore | Year Posted 2011
Summer scent is the smell of freedom
where we can escape the flavor of boredom
so we plan to have our vacation on the beach
where we can relax and fresh air is within our reach
The warm wind tenderly embraced my spirit
I felt excited on this first visit
on an island where refugees can find paradise
an island where spending time is wise
The dulcet breeze gently kisses lush green trees
and the mirthful sun smiles over the vast seas
Where surfers play with gigantic waves
and are not certain on what road it paves
The fluffy clouds are smoothly sailing
the birds are singing and harmoniously dancing
There are butterflies that are colorful in hue
like enchanted fairies changing colors from pink to blue
I need my sun block, it's time for swimming
the tables are full because later we're all eating
Ladies are smiling to many cool surfer dudes
Children are hungry seeing delicious exotic foods
I picked a shell that whispered peacefully in my ears
and we built castles that we fancied over the years
out of the small grains of white sands
and all you need is helping hands
God was really great in creating splendid wonders
that were loved by all especially the nature lovers
There are numerous oceans that are aquamarine
and abundant trees and grasses that are green
The brother sun was slowly hiding
because the sister moon was coming
I guess it was our time to pack
but there will come a time for us to go back
Go back to a place of leisure and freedom
where you'll not taste the flavor of boredom
It would be hard for us to say goodbye
because truly we will come back and say Hi!
Copyright © Nadine Fababier | Year Posted 2008
Trapped in the room
Her heart was travelling
To the utmost edge of the world
Following the stars
While she was painting
And writing poems
Genuine, shy, sweet poems
Truth and beauty
And she was a poem too
Copyright © Vesna Kovrlija | Year Posted 2012
The church we sought to find a home in no longer exist.
Our courage is strong, our future belongs to temptation consisting sin.
Woods cut and gathered with selfless labor shall provide us a ship.
This is where I realized that Noah was wrong let the story begin....
The bible has been written by other humans and not by god himself,
If that were the case this place we call earth would surely be squashed by his thumb:
If Noah was chosen by the lord himself why wasn't there taken a vote.
Only those true to the cause, who never broken a law are the only ones who can travel afloat.
If you ask me workers with skills, hunters, doctors, and authors had to be put on the boat.
Waves. collided with storm, some fell overboard, and disease killing the most.
This was not a story written down in the bible, it was clearly a religious joke.
Finally a sigh, purely blue sky. God questioned himself an said this must be why.
After the glory of Independence wore off,
cold came with hunger, sickness with coughs.
Prolonged by sinister thoughts.
Tundra frozen softened, by mayflower drops.
Searching for freedom of religion has fueled actions of the devil himself.
Natives survived years beyond measure and offered to help.
Simple measures of using world greatest treasures,
are kind to share if all is replenished.
Rivers provide water to fish, drink, and refresh.
All mother earth asks is to be shared and respected.
In the name of any religion, sins are forgiven
mothers love fathers, and together form children.
God is good, life can be better.
jesus sacrificed his life for happiness of others.
Where did it all go wrong?
Copyright © Gerald Moise | Year Posted 2016
The art of my pains
is in the blood stain ink of me
while I write day and night
to give insight of me that bleeds
while the world reads ,
this is my own battle cry's
that are left in my mind
I see all the dead souls around me
while I dream my darken pains
of the days of rain that hasn't gone away,
I was born in a painful storm
the memories stayed with me
oh how the pains had cut me deep
the words that hurt made bigger storms
I hold my breath like I was dead
thinking it would all end ,
I now realize as I got older
you cannot fix anyone
that don't want the help
so why in the hell did this life paint me
and put me down into a devastated storm
the past has away to paint my life gray
this is the art of me that bleeds .
Poetic Judy Emery (c)
Copyright © Judy Emery | Year Posted 2016
Often a parent cannot know
What seeds of anguish they do sow
When a name on offspring they bestow
Teased by army pals whilst abroad
Oscar ,became Claude !
This soldier, painter ,who changed his name,
Later found world-wide fame;
So if you find an Oscar Monet, today
Keep it safe,don't throw it away !
Copyright © Brian Strand | Year Posted 2009
Wonders of nature,
captured in time,
a blend so perfect,
as the rarest of wines.
A creation so beautiful,
a breathtaking view,
the inspiration of many artist,
as only they knew.
Each masterpiece different,
no two eyes see the same,
as the canvas comes to life,
and long live their names.
Copyright © Christy Hardy | Year Posted 2009
A world of torment was his stage
His paintings previewed a later age;
Neurosis,depression & death-
Escaping into a dream
Leaving the world with 'a scream'
Edvard Monck (1863-1944) The Scream
Copyright © Brian Strand | Year Posted 2009
Please don't judge me based on my religious preference, my hair, what I wear, or how I speak. I can promise you, I'm different than what you'd expect. I don't expect much, though that's still too much. I'm not sure if I like myself as of now, but I'm working on it. If I don't care, you shouldn't either. So you can keep knocking, but won’t knock me down, no love lost, no love found. When you so good, that you can’t say it cuz it isn’t even cool for you to sound cocky anymore,
I am myself nothing more, nothing less.
I wouldn't exactly classify myself as "normal". I can careless what you think of me. I don't like associating with drama queens, troublemakers and just stupid people.
I'm not perfect. To be factual, I'm very far from it. My point of view on things are different than most. I have values. I have a brain; some of you kids should certainly invest in one. I will treat everyone with respect, if they treat me the same in return.
Here is the reply
sometimes people only gain self gratification by making other people seem bad when all they are doing is verbalizing their own shortcomings and pointing them in someone else's direction, they think by redirecting there self image will make others not see who they really are. But if you have brains you can see it and they will not to play into it, then eventually it will all crash down on them :) leaving you shining.
Copyright © craig schaber | Year Posted 2011
Oh well I got an angry email to begin my day
Because of my last post on the Jabidah thing yesterday
Galit sa akin but greeted me with Assalamu alaykum.
And kung personal Moro friends ko naman ito
They know I don't criticize Moro leaders
I always leave that to them to criticize their leaders
According to my friends baka nasa gubyerno or something
Next time I'll write na lang about the sea and the palm trees and the beaches
Pray and pray nalang para walang provocation
ako nga ang daming nag-message sa akin nagalit sa issue ng Sabah standoff
Ikaw pa kaya na wala namanng masama na sinabi dun
Alam mo ‘buti na lang you verbalized that kasi iniisip ko rin ‘yun
I know you have reasons and you know better kaya; I just read your posts
I don’t have to go against parties kasi both have rights
And the issue must be solved
Wala, kasi sa akin kundi independence lamang ang kailangan
May ganyan din kasing realities?
Minsan you are being asked or expected to take sides
Yes, my side is peace – with peace is independence
Yes, I heard that sa dating Jabidah Massacre celebration
Somebody said that, “Walang kapayapaan kasi walang kalayaan”
And that is very universal, kapatid.
Moro or non-Moro and writing should always geared towards humanity
That’s why for me it “anti-humanity” if you will not listen
Or suppress when somebody will talk about freedom.
That’s the problem with Filipinos, they don't listen.
Kasi the leaders may sarili ring interests.
How do you see being Filipino?
Ako, it's a cage, Filipino nationalism
Agenda ng mga oligarchs and landowners
Filipino nationalism is violence against Muslims and lumads
Kasi ‘pag ako ang tatanunginmo I will never say I am Filipino
Because Tausug it’s not a name but an identity...
I understand but kaunti na lang kayo
Ako sasabihin ko na I am a Filipino but I have reservations
When I was a teenager hindi ako tumatayo ‘pag Lupang Hinirang
ngayon tumatayo na kasi napapaaway ang mga kasama ko sa sinehan
Yes and identity should be critically assessed and examined.
Kaya if they say Filipino ang mga Tausug masakit sa aking loob
But not all, kapatid. try mo pumunta sa Manila
Yung mga Moro na malalapit sa mga institusyon ng Pilipinas
Bakit iba ang Moro at ibang ang Tausug
kaya sila naging Moro at masaya na tawaging Moro
May identity na naiiba sa Filipino
Pinag-aaralan ko rin yan and ino-observe ‘yung pag-yield sa 'Filipino'
‘Will give Filipinos a disservice
Because it is tantamount to be an accomplice to a corrupt system
And this system is the one that oppresses Muslims
At alam natin ang Tausug di lamang taga-Sulu
Pati Bisayan, Tausug din
As much as possible I am trying to make my writings 'away'
Away from Filipino nationalism
That's the right way for me and my writing
I will ask first, “How it is to be human?”
At super last na ang, “How to be a Filipino”
And the Bangsamoro struggle is the greatest critique to the violence
And failures of Filipino nationalism
Ang problema kasi kaya di successful ang Bangsamoro struggle
Dahil nagdadala sila ng pangalan na di naman originally sa kanila
How come ang pangalan ko ay Abdul sa rights
Gagamitn ko ang Juan para sa aking bayan?
Kaya war of ideas ito and alam mo naman sa akin, ‘pag ideas
And perspectives walang kompromiso and peace talks
I do not compromise my language, my craft and myself, my writing
Filipino is an imagined nation, as well as Bangsamoro
Bakit di natin magamit ang orignal nation natin
Na based sa Sulu archipelago and Mindanao
Yes, actually diyan ako papunta - papunta
Bakit hindi i-Bangsamoro-ized ang buong Filipinas?
It doesn’t mean na i-convert ang Pilipinas
But the spirit, the struggle it should mean something to Filipinos
It should kasi ang dami na nagbuwis ng buhay
Kaya ko pa na tanggapin kung Maharlika
‘Yan ang gusto kong ma-achieve: Filipinos should listen to Moros
Siyempre marami pang madidiscover along the way
Indeed. Ikaw ba ‘pag sasabahin ko na ‘Tausug’ ano ang maiisip mo?
Tausug is Moro and Moro for me is something that predates 'Filipino'
But now, I would like to know the concept of “Lupah Sug”
I want to know it, I think there are more and beyond Moro on it
Before ‘Moro’ was named to Mindanao and Sulu people
It was first name to Aceh people, Melaka, Brunei and then Manila
Sulu and Mindanao were the last places to have been called the name ‘Moro’
Sulu archipelago was united under the name Sulu archipelago
The name of people is Tausug.
Tausug is composed of different ethnics:
Arab, Banjar, Dampuan, Buranun etcetera.
The concept of Sulu as part of dar al islam
Is already a nation and state
Where the government is the people and itself headed by sultan or raja
Yes, and I would like to feel this from the ordinary Tausugs when I get there
I would like to experience this from ordinary Tausug and on from place itself.
In the hinterland of Jolo, their laws still on the ground not of Philippine law
I believe in narratives
I want to hear and feel this from the place and from the people.
And then capture it; I have these thoughts
That Lupah Sug has something that the Moro concept does not have
And it’s a bit metaphysical but sige lang.
I know my craft can capture it.
I think there is a language that can capture it
And specific craft that can carry its soul
Not fictionalize but put it in a form like a novel or a narrative
Which have their own logic and truths as crafts.
This poem is made after the conversation and sharing with Filipino writer Rogelio Braga who also serves as the editor of the poem. He is currently in Mindanao, travelling and writing; he will then proceed to Sulu Archipelago soon. 2:28PM, 19 March 2013, Facebook Chat across Sulu Sea!
Copyright © Neldy Jolo | Year Posted 2013
Once described as an intense artist
He now sits comfortably
Patiently being interviewed
By a reporter
Half his age
When I was a younger
I would come home from school
To an empty apartment
To keep myself occupied
Until my mother came home
I would spend hours
Drawing random sketches
And imaginary shapes in a notebook
That I kept hidden behind a couch
My mind was full of images
I was young
I was vulnerable
It wasn’t until
I got much older
That I decided to study art.
Speaking softly, he continues
People respect art and imagination
But recognition for an artist has a life of its own
An artist must push himself to do
What he hasn’t done before
But art is complicated
What often comes with it
Is all extraneous stuff
Which you try to control
Before it consumes you.
And the questions ended hours ago
The artist gazes out his bedroom window
The Greek Orthodox
Dome of St. George
Maintains a stoic vigil
Over the East Village
Toward the dusky sky
Light from an open window
Highlights his forehead
Drifting down to his lips
Near his open collar
Only to resurface
In the middle of his shirt
Hands, calloused and strong,
Are down by his side
The left touching his thigh
The right hand dangling in freedom
Deep lines furrow his face
Shadows under his eyes
Mark a life spent
Perfecting his craft.
In the silence
He takes a deep breathe
That the Roman in his heart
Prideful and defiant
A day of his life.
Copyright © Edmund Siejka | Year Posted 2013
Things seems to be very clear,
When actually felt it is unclear,
What really seems to be clear,
May never ever be clear for ever.
Your help for others,
May be to be appreciated,
Or taken as what is called,
to be uncounted.
My question is clear,
Why the help for others,
Is sometime never appreciated,
However it is always delivered.
In response to ethics,
lingers in my mind the answer,
To help others is not to be recognised,
But it is to be called someone,
Who can be respected.
To all, continue to help,
Not to to be appreciated by others,
But to be respected by yourself.
Copyright © B S Sky | Year Posted 2013
Your hands dart and weave
In, out, up.. then hover
Swoop right… then left
As simply as sight
Of a birds dreamy flight
Floating to perch proud on rocky cleft
Subtle magic’s paint
Concept, thought to Action
Life wrought from death
As eloquently as the Master
Reaches out from the hereafter
And grants the unborn gift of breath
Chaos now cornered
Seeks out surge, hands direct
And collar by will
And just as Angels acting
So precise, measured, and exacting
Leave scarce a ripple on waters still
Trumpet Grande Crescendo
Labors love ushered in
A diamond from primal smolder
A new winged gift to grace us
Snatched still in pristine stasis
To soar in the eye of the beholder
I wrote this poem after peeping through the doorway of my wife Nancy’s workspace as she
crafted her beautiful bird sculptures. I was utterly amazed at the delicate movements she so
gracefully employed to wring creations that seemed to capture a split second of nature so
completely as to cause the beholder the illusion that she had somehow stopped time.
Literally, a hummingbird caught between the beats of its wing for one to marvel at. Of all
Nancy’s creative endeavors I still rank her “Buildin’ Birds” as her paramount artistic
Copyright © James Burns | Year Posted 2010
Serendipity came into play, when I stumbled upon a gallery,
I was a tourist in a seaside town, shopping midst a vast array
while blinding rays of sun’s reflection, caught my close propinquity
In one window, several seascapes, bucolic seaside scenes
but, one small painting called to me,..a harbinger of all my fantasies
I cupped my hands around my eyes...and that was when I sighed....
It took my breath, and I was kept a captive by the artist's pride...
A lovely landscape of a town, the village of my dreams
This very street now, whence I stand, but from a different theme
Redolent of days erstwhile of scenes, from time quite long ago
Before the tourists trampled ground, and shopped for souvenirs
This village poised, beneath the hills...turned back two hundred years
Where cottage homes wore faded frames, on efflorescence sands
demesne spreading wild and free, and skies were azure bands
Narrow lanes branched far away from roads that went astray
dipping down to petrichor dunes, where grasses bend in wind
A general store and a blacksmith shop, and summer never ends
Seagulls glide with angel wings, against the afternoon
The peaceful lift that lives within, how wonderful it looms...
With a dalliance of my own epiphany, ..my thoughts are wild and free
how ephemeral it would be if I could freeze this day
If I could pull it out to see and visit it...again,
If I could bring it back when I am down, ...this peaceful afternoon...
Where leaves would never fall from trees, so ancient in their sway
And the gentle slopes would never know cruel storms of winter days
Where tears would never fall, again, and age, a timeless thing
If I could paralyze this town, the way it was back then
If time could be my captive prize.....if only for awhile…
I'd smile, if once I were allowed, a chance, to step inside
3/15/16 For Contest: "A Day In A Town" Sponsored by Nayda Ivette Negron
Required Words Used:
1.Bucolic 2. Dalliance 3. Demesne 4. Efflorescence 5. Ephemeral 6. Epiphany 7. Erstwhile 8. Harbinger 9. Petrichor 10.Propinquity 11.Redolent 12. Serendipity
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2016
If i have ever hurt anyone in any way I'm sorry, cause I learned in the last two days that everybody has something wrong in their lives everybody has troubles in some way and one word u say could hurt them badly ... And one good thing u say could make their day so everybody I'm sorry if I ever hurt u in anyway.. And I hope everyone has a good day. No one deserves to be treated how u treat people, we all have feelings... And we all have made mistakes, and we all have issues but that's no reason to treat someone like u do Imam pray u get a heart and learn what you are doing is wrong. And I hope u stop. You say u hate drama? But girl u r drama! Just saying so from now on I am going to be me, I'm going to be myself not who everyone else wants me to be... (: cause being someone your not isn't right u shouldn't have to change for anyone..
Copyright © craig schaber | Year Posted 2012
A new path is what we seek.
The surroundings are taking a peek,
Going through, very meek,
Seeing no bleaks,
While hearing creaks,
In the new paths that we seek...
The new path is what is found,
Going through forests bound,
Going through the path inbound,
With soothing and raging water sounds.
Passed through burial grounds...
Seeking for another way around,
The paths newfounded,
Our instincts compounded,
Followed by the hounds,
Echoes in ultrasounds,
Passed through mysterious breeding grounds...
Going to stamping grounds,
Trying to get off this ground,
With those burial mounds,
Death moving the wheels around,
Silhouettes running aground,
Trying to leave safe and sound,
Passing through some hunting grounds...
Seeking for common grounds,
The mistaken path redounded,
Regretful screams abound.
Though some are fouled,
Throughout the paths that were found...
However, most are lost and wounded,
Most tended to walk out,
Some minds and hearts full of doubts.
Hearing salvation shouts,
From all these new paths walked and found...
Copyright © Ruben Alejandro Hernandez Diaz | Year Posted 2013
I live in your body with wishes i never existed
You killed my vibe when you felt i had no feelings for your feelings
I’m a prisoner in your conscious
How can i not be when your eyes constantly pee less tears
Stop waking me in dark streets
For i know it’s another girl’s peace
I care not of your power cravings
Please stop barking my silence with your anger symptoms
I care less of your less fortunate fortunes
I was named emotional reaction for real reasons
Stop confusing me with obligated connections
I feel what you choose to feel
I approve not of your violent nickname skills
Serial thigh breaker sins
Occasional house breaker stinks
You accept none of my guilty conscious messages
Your heart server always fall short
I demand parole to this invisible jail sentence
My patience is turning pale
Heavier than what’s between your legs in a scale
You break bones of a silent soft thinker
I break chains of well painted pictures
My heart glows in the dark
For you kidnapped me in your conscious
I am just feelings connected to your heart
Let me loose please
Copyright © Raymond Ngomane | Year Posted 2014
Back in roman times I was called a stylus
I wrote messages and stories on papyrus Writing since Before Christ,
Don't matter what the time is
Even wrote for the great poets known as the vikings
I translated Roman-to-English with just hyphens
I can go back and forth on the timeline
Used by the dude who even wrote "Mein Kampf"
But before that used for maps to draw islands
I even wrote that rap and I screamed "BYE STAN!!"
I've seen everybody’s diaries, but I don't speak
I write the dreams they have seen, it's punishing...
I'm their best friend at quiet times
For poets,and rappers that write rhymes
Or artists, that compose the lights eyes
Oops I mean the end of night, it's the "sunrise"
I cry when they draw their mental picture
I miss it easy, like the ancient Egyptian scriptures
Last week I wrote a broken heartfelt letter of a boys dead sister
His tears made me smear, smudge and bitter as well
I mean i'm supposed to be emotionless, but this feels like hell
I guess literature is the only way I help
This is how I'd explain it, if someone asked how I felt
I'm literally consumed in everybody’s literacy
Different languages, but I still know their history....
I’m the victim see, every word written composes verbal imagery
Even carved Mozarts spirit in every symphony
I take everyones thoughts and write it down lyrically
Have you solved my mystery? I need some sympathy
One second i’m drawing so skillfully, then destroying paper so viciously
So if you’re crazy just like me, take my spot and fight off this infantry
Then you will see, all these sad letters of these casualties
Of when France defended against the great Italy
I’ll riddle more, I was even there when the bible was born
I was even used for the art of the Tribal of course
I even wrote of the tale of the Trojan horse
I even seen the great GRA fight
GRA meaning arts and culture
I’m running out of graphite.
Copyright © Trent Billy | Year Posted 2016
There is a painting at the art gallery
I have a strong affection for
It is a man that calls me from the past
In the year 1670 lived this nobleman
Long dark hair falls to his shoulders
A strong face with fathomless eyes
Eyes full a passion and desire
He does not smile, yet I adore him
I want to reach out to him
He seems to see me, beckon to me
Come to me he whispers
Aristocratic is his demeanor, dignified
O, but could I step within the frame
Be in his world, in his time
We would hold hands in silence
For he would know without question
My heart and soul are his forever
Written by Constance La France
November 11, 2012
Copyright © Broken Wings | Year Posted 2012
I live alone in this broken down house
My dreams once lived here but they have faded
Like the paint on the west side of the house
To many years facing the music
I kept to myself and stayed in the shadows
The tears don’t twinkle in the dark
You will find the door locked
No one has been inside in years
To see this broken down part of life is not for the faint of heart
It took years to get here, birthday parties, Christmases, Thanks Giving’s, and a whole myriad of other celebrations to bring this crashing down on the emotions of good intentions. I tried to pretend that I cared but I didn’t. I just wished they would go away. And finally they did. And I was once again alone. There was no one to hurt me or to speak to me when spoken to. No more beatings at the hands of my father. No more demoralizing speeches from the elders. Finally they passed away or just gave up. And I was alone. I only needed a friend and he only came around twice a year. He would bring music and we would listen and play for days and then he would leave. And we both were happy. It was bliss. Then I met a girl. At first it was tenuous. I didn’t understand her. Her moods were like the moon I could never tell what cycle she was in, but she was always in one. After a while I began to ignore the moods and we just talked. I liked that. She seemed to understand some things I had been curious about. And eventually we became intimate. It was scary, I didn’t know where it was leading but we were happy just the two of us. Then other people wanted in…family, relatives, kin, needed to know what our intentions were. None of their business, but they wouldn’t have that as an answer. Finally I retreated back to the dark places and despair became my new partner. Why couldn’t they leave us be? My friend said we should face them and let them know how we felt, but how do you tell people to leave you alone that you don’t care for them without hurting their feeling.
I couldn’t do it. One night I slipped away down the Green Eddy and followed it to Shoal Creek. There was a bar there and people we playing music and happy and I decided to try it out for myself. It was a revelation. I never felt so happy playing music and so close to people in my life. And it was at that time that I realize you could enjoy life and make people happy and still remain alone. And to this day I remain alone, yet happy. Playing music and walking home alone along the streets of Austin, TX.
Copyright © Stephen Kilmer | Year Posted 2015
Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch some pails of water
Jack climbed some trees while Jill was picking some pretty flowers
After some hours Jack realized that he was wasting time
So he called Jill to hurry up before ‘tis half past nine
So off they went to continue their very long journey
‘Till they passed by an old beggar and gave him some money
When they both reached the well Jack and Jill filled up their buckets
Near the well were some berries which they put in their pockets
When they reached home their momma and papa were so happy
For dinner they had meatballs and soup and chicken curry
And five bags of bananas which a rich neighbor gave them
The good that you do to others will always be returned
Copyright © Mariam M. | Year Posted 2013
That answer to that is painfully simple: I’m a disabled, thirty-something individual with compromised mobility…and I’m a lazy S.O.B...
But, oh, how I fantasize! And loath am I to torture myself by looking at all the exquisite, fabulous fashion creations by Versace, Comme Des Garcons, Missoni and Vivienne Westwood; elegant creations I will never be able to wear, let alone afford. Though I enjoy being a man and would have it no other way, I envy women and sometimes wish I was one, just so I could wear a Versace gown, even if it were just to take out the trash.
I worship fashion and models; they are my demigods. They embody all that is outwardly beautiful. I don’t mind the shallowness of it. I wish I was Coco Rocha, Naomi Campbell, Janice Dickinson, Linda Evangelista, Tyra Banks, Milla Jovovich, all rolled into one. I wish I could strut and stomp the catwalk; to pound the runway in some outrageous creation by Rei Kawakubo. To jet-set to Paris, Milan, Tokyo, London…! I would die and go to fashion heaven, and see Gianni, and I would be his Muse. Poor, Gianni; why did that bastard kill you? Genius was lost that day and fashion has since suffered in your absence.
I wish I was as skillful with sewing as I am with words; since I’ll never be a model, I’d at least like to design clothes that would echo my influences. A mesh of the sex of Versace, the elegance of Missoni, the insane artistic destruction and anti-fashion of Comme des Garcons and the hipness of Vivienne Westwood; yes, that would be my style, as my poetry echoes Poe, Shelley, Keats and Dickinson.
But, alas and alas again! For these are all but mere dreams and fantasies that shall never be fulfilled! But a gay boy can dream, can’t he?
Copyright © Just That Archaic Poet | Year Posted 2013
Through the corner of my eye I see the bride and the groom,
Slowly our corneas make contact I'm the elephant in the room.
A drunken night.
Sex combined with spite.
Makes a tainted marriage,
a fractured life.
"Speak now" said the priest, "or forever hold your peace."
The best man raised his hand and dropped to one knee.
"I can't let you take what is mine, I fell in love with her first
to me she's more than a bride. She's what keeps my hearts beating, she's whats make the sunshine, the air keeping me breathing"
The woman dressed in white looked down than looked right,
at the man dressed in regret, the man with green eyes.
Copyright © Gerald Moise | Year Posted 2014
Sometimes I write as if I'm an expert
When it comes to the subject of love
On the contrary, no one is an expert on love
Every encounter is like our very first
We are so afraid to stumble that we do stumble
We stumble over our words
We stumble trying to do all those romantic things
That all our lives we're programmed to do
But somehow it never quite works out as planned
As to what we envision love to be
No, I'm certainly no expert but I'll keep trying
That being said, the joys of love
Whether simple or complex far outweigh
Any lack of finesse that we might have
So do your own thing, there's no failing grade
Be creative in the art of making love!
© Jack Ellison 2014
Copyright © Jack Ellison | Year Posted 2014
Don't ask me how it happened; I have no clear recollection. I have always had this brazen habit of coming right out and directly asking for whatever I want; I always figured "no!" was the only worst possible outcome, aside from a good cussing, perhaps. Either or both I can handle.
My best friend, who had invited me to this event, wasn't even a speaker; she was just present for class credit and I had nothing better to do so I happily joined her. Her professor was the director, or MC, of the night's festivities and proceedings and Jill introduced us soon after we entered the banquet hall and before the speaking commenced.
I also have this horrid habit of mentioning that I am an artist to anyone of any importance or significance whatsoever, hoping to sound gallant and impressive. I can only surmise that Jill's teacher asked me what kind of artist I was, and I must have boldly stated, with an air of haughty confidence no doubt, that I was a de facto grand poet of the ages. I was only 19 at the time and thought I was Poe! My style was sloppy and unrefined, but I didn't know it yet.
Given that this was a "Women's Studies" organization and all guest speakers that night were, obviously, going to be female, I don't know how I convinced, finagled, schemed, bulled, or mechanized my way into making myself an impromptu speaker as well that evening. It was an "anything goes" type platform, from women reading poetry to short stories, to essays or presenting artwork. I was, I kid you not, the first male to EVER be a speaker at this "Women's Studies" gathering.
Having committed many of my poems to memory, I just quickly jotted down four or five particular favorites, and when it was my time to speak, impertinently stepped right up to the platform, adjusted the microphone, and recited my horrible poetry to a group of...I'm not sure if "feminists" is quite the word for which I am searching. Let's just say that if Gloria Steinem or Gertrude Stein had been in the audience, I might have been yanked off the podium. So there I was, babbling about, having basically crashed this Feminist rally. That I wasn't mauled or had my eyes scratched out can only be attributed to luck, progressive-thinking, guardian Angels or plain ol' polite courtesy. In retrospect, I blanch at the thought of my shameless, unabashed audacity.
I would love to know whether any more males ever took part in anymore of their events, but I guess I'll never know and can only hope that little bit of history I made that night remains intact. True story.
Copyright © Just That Archaic Poet | Year Posted 2014
The morning greets me with birds at my window
They peck at the glass,
they chirp and harass,
"The sun is up, the grass smells clean!
The flowers so pretty they must be seen!"
I pull the covers back up to my chin,
the cold cotton pillow feels good on my skin.
But the longer I lie here the more I realize,
the coffee is calling; I really must rise.
With eyes barely open, I saunter about.
The kitty is purring and happy as trout.
My shepherds come running, their tails wagging fast.
They want to go outside, and go running past.
I open the door and nearly knocked over,
They run off the deck and into the clover.
I walk to the table,
all dressed with pink roses,
waiting for barking, and kissed by wet noses.
I smell the aroma of Colombian beans,
my percolator singing, while I get on my jeans.
I'm feeling quite artful,
the day has begun.
The birds are still chirping,
the yard in full sun.
The coffee tastes great, and as I sit here,
the birds at my window, the cat in the chair,
there's one place that's calling, with north light galore,
just past the den, where Big Bear will snore.
My studio corner, my wonderful place,
where dreams are realized, and canvas to face.
The day has begun
It's a spring morning
-Mary Susan Vaughn
Copyright © Mary Susan Vaughn | Year Posted 2016
Lady bird, lady bird, why thou sings so beautifully
When other had got their voice cracked in the noon?
Do you sing of peace or lost love?
You have bottled my heart with your adverbial voice
Tending the grains in my garden to peace whilst they clap
Thou have undressed the grasses of the field with your song
Your muse perching from tree to tree
The leaves dances merrily in their branches
The air in their wonderful world rejoice
Thou advertises their motions and worth
The sky clapping brightly in justification
Of your undying voice of historical flight
Hold on miss independent and repeat to my ear
The last line of the song you sang
It sounded so sweet to my soul
The meaning of your heart beat
thou sings like a preacher on the altar of love
With a rekindled voice radiating the soul
The wind trumpet hilariously whilst the tree dances
Oh lady bird, thou make my heart beautiful
Clamouring for the lost vegetable of my life
Tell me what thou sing of that i may join
In the perfection of my glowing bed which
Shows me the important of good neighbourlines.
Copyright © john chizoba vincent | Year Posted 2015