As a young boy
Sitting in a pew
The winter darkness pressing down
Candlelight waves from hidden drafts
Shadows danced on the walls
I heard the words destined to me
“Be still . . . know that I am God”
So I listen . . . eyes open
“The Passion of Christ”
I was gone . . .
I saw eyes . . .
Judas under the olive trees - Gethsemane
His eyes . . . cold, darting . . . filled with manic evil
Torchlights hissing . . . turning eyes yellow
Then a kiss and chaos erupts
I closed my eyes . . . suddenly afraid
Now I see a set of eyes . . . filled with burning hate
A High Priest screaming . . . B-L-A-S-S-P-H-E-M-Y ! ! ! ! !
All around ugly eyes staring with dripping contempt
Old men spitting with bared rotting teeth
Then I noticed . . . and . . .
And my heart ached . . .
Jesus . . . standing quietly with closed eyes
Then we were off to Roman authority -- Pontius Pilate
I saw his slanted eyes . . . squinting as if too much sunlight
Loud voices yelling outside . . . “Crucify him!”
In my heart, I cursed these people – but his eyes
His eyes were dark, soft – forgiving
A hand washing and we are walking . . .
To a hillside, a place called Golgotha – the skull
Empty eye sockets . . . a place of death
The eyes of soldiers hard, focused . . .
Spikes, woods – his sad eyes burning my heart
Closing my eyes, I heard a sharp gasp . . . soldiers yelling
As I opened my eyes – I was looking out with his eyes
We were seeing the same things
Angry faces with eyes of burning ashes
Taunting and jeering – a wave of hysteria hitting us
I heard and felt a deep groan
Fear gripping me – I knew instantly we needed to go
Men, women, soldiers, slaves, leaders, teachers
Eyes filled with blood lust
Evil, hatred . . . . I can’t breath
Death coming with the darkness
Jesus! Can’t you see . . .
Then I heard him whisper
“Father, forgive them, they know not what they do.”
My heart sank realizing with horror
Jesus is staying . . . dying
I felt his purposeful breathing
Muscles, bones, joints aching with a searing pain
My eyes filled with tears
I saw another set of bloodshot eyes
A voice next to me yelling
“If you’re the Christ, get down from the cross
And take me too! Let’s go!”
NO, NO!!! . . . What is he saying
Those are my words – I am sick
My stomach seizes . . . guilt fills me
I close my eyes
Another voice – on our right speaks
“Lord, remember me . . . “
Jesus painfully turns, twisting his body . . . looking . . .
He sees blue eyes – my eyes
I am hanging next to Jesus
“Today you will be with me in Paradise”
We were one – together . . . one body
Now separate crosses . . . I feel crushed by loneliness
But his words . . . “Paradise” . . . “today”
He loves me – I see him looking at me
His eyes illuminating my soul . . . it hurts
I tried crying out – I love you . . .
But only a sob squeaks out
Gravity pulling down pulling down
Eyes straining against the pain
Joints and ribs stretching . . . popping
Chest heaving for each breath
Body convulsing against wood
Head back . . . eyes wide open . . . he screams
“My God! My God! Why have you forsaken me?”
No one answers . . . surprised eyes
In my tears I felt the agony of the cross
The bleakness . . . hell
Back in the pew
I heard the preacher
“He died for you”
What . . . why . . . no . . .
No, I don’t want you dead
Hey, wait for me – slow down
Running hard, breathing deeply
I stuck my head in empty tomb – hum??? . . . .
I sat quietly next to Mary Magdalene . . . wondering
The gardener spoke – “Mary”
But he was looking at me – bright eyes
He said . . . “David”
“David, I love you”
Yes!! Woo Hoo . . .
Look at me . . . I am dancing
With shinning eyes
“I love you too”
“I love you”
Copyright © David Meade | Year Posted 2015
"THERE HE WAS HOLDING HIS HAND OUT"
God, can I hold your hand and follow you?
My child, it is I who will walk with you! You walked down my path with and without faith. You took my protection to ease your pain. My shielded wings comfort you during your moments of suffering while your life staggered across earth. Your love and devotion are what made you strong. Every time your dreams were broken. You managed to build more dreams in their place. You called my name during your happiest and saddest moments. You ran to me when you fell behind. Your secrets became our private talks. The key to your heart was always unlocked. I was there during your trials and troubles and tribulations. We could not speak, it was my light that kept you from going weak.
God, are you a dream of beauty? The holy book.
My preacher spoke of the afterlife, calling it paradise.
I remember now, I felt this company once before, this light.
Many times, I forsake the light and still you never left my door.
I felt it on the day I was born,
the day I became baptized in your holy name.
I felt this light before, can you explain it once more?
Lord pleases clarify the day I fell down to my knees, accepted Jesus as my savior?
On that day, I felt as if you stood away and walked on by, allowing me to face my failures’.
Was my life a waste in this impossible world?"
My child, this is the everlasting light you will feel every time your body is re-born onto a new road. This light never left you.
My sweet child did you not listen,
Matthew *19:26* MY SON looked at them and said, "With man this is impossible, but with ME all things are possible.
My child, you were not searching for the right answers.
My Lord everyone told me if I prayed you would come. Did I not pray enough?
My child sometimes your heart asked for more than life itself,
I always answered even when you shunned heaven away from your eyes?
The obvious question is whether this is the final immersing of your soul's disguises.
Lord, I have other questions to ask.
What should I expect out of my personal sins?
My testimonial sits in the palm of your hand
My mind and my heart's inner core have been wicked since my adolescence--
How is it that I am in your promise land?
Getting right with me has brought you here!
One more question My Heavenly Father
Can I see My Daughter, Mothers, Sisters, family, and friends?
Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2012
On your last breath..
I told you there was nothing to forgive
Stubbornness and bitterness - sure are a hard pill to swallow
Four years and not a word from you
How sad - your last words were full of rage
No chance to rectify them - you left without saying a word
In reality, you walked out a long time ago
Tell me father - who was to teach me how to be a man?
Tell me father - who was to teach me how to be a dad?
Guess you didn't know yourself - for a father you never proved to be
Lost with your demons - intoxicated by the evils of society
The fear you caused to so many - did you ever ask yourself why?
Leaving those who loved you behind - to chase decadence
Seduced by sinful deeds - your forgot you had a son
Isn't a father supposed to be a child's hero?
Even from a distance - I still loved you for being my dad
You made me strong - told me never to cry
Forgive me father - the tears didn't stop when I saw you dying
It was too much to hold them for so long - guess I'm only human
But, I promise you - I have not shed another tear since that day
You told me - son live to be feared - no need to be loved
But, I don't want to be like you - I have too much love to give
I guess you were right - after all I am my mother's son
You had your favourites and I guess I wasn't one of them
In reality - it is because of you I am so strong
because, I never wanted to be anything like what you had become
I know that you're looking down at me from up above
Tell me father - are you proud?
Of all that I have become? For at the end of the day it's your name I have
Cancer took you away - does it make you happy I survived?
You can't really miss something that you never had
Guess, I will always wonder what it is like to have a dad
You took away my childhood - but I hold nothing against you
Life was dysfunctional, but I didn't succumb to your manipulation
All is forgiven - I hold no grudges - life is full of challenges
Sometimes your thoughts cross mind - but then they just go away
I know you were misunderstood
But I hope you found your peace today..
13 October 2015
Copyright © Silent One | Year Posted 2015
One night a guy & a girl were
driving home from the movies. The
boy sensed there was
something wrong because of the painful
silence they shared between them
that night. The girl then asked the boy to pull over
because she wanted to talk. She told him that her
feelings had changed & that it was time to move on.
A silent tear slid down his cheek as he
slowly reached into his pocket & passed her a folded note.
At that moment, a drunk driver was speeding down
that very same street. He swerved
right into the drivers seat, killing the boy.
Miraculously, the girl survived. Remembering the note, she
pulled it out & read it.
"Without your love, I would die."
Copyright © Le'Rita Clark | Year Posted 2006
Birth was suppose to come easier than this.
I pant quickly as I was taught,
but pain evaporates my gallant front
and tears have come from eyes squeezed shut
I hear a voice unlike my own
The room is filled with some concern
I groan, the doctor takes a turn
Quick-fire decision, a swift incision
... a tug, a void,...a cry... a babe..
The next several hours are a bit of a blur
until everything clears, alone in my room
on sterilized sheets, too stiff, too sleek,
too fragrant of bleach, to think about sleep.
Suddenly, all I can think about is mother
and how different it was for her,
especially, since her young husband was so far away
This miracle I bore, as soft as fine silk,
with tiny closed fists, rose-petal nails
fills me with joy, with relief, I am filled
with a deep pang of grief
for a long ago thief
I can feel the connection, mixed joy, and compassion
I bathe in the scent of my brand new beginning ......
But my thoughts stream behind me,...... to a hope that had ended
My mother in bed, after losing her first....
So young, in her bed, without child,........ bleeding red
from the war that she fought, while my Dad fought his own
I cry tears all alone.... for the grief that she owned
I so cherish the breath.....of this babe on my breast
The circle of life, starts with birth .....sometimes, death
Contest: A Hundred In a Row
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2014
Once bloomed a rose so young and fair
With dark brown eyes and long black hair
Beside her be a tall dark tree
Whose branches stretch to smother thee
Too close beside the shadowy bark
That soon begins to leave its mark
She cries for help, but none shall hear
Her thorns too sharp, who’d dare go near?
To save this rose, who’d risk their life?
With naught to gain but pain and strife
Alone, afraid, she lays to rest
Her heart beats low inside her chest
And with the hour growing near
She sheds her final grieving tear
And so the rose soon falls asunder
Her final day, eternal slumber
She lies beside the old dark tree
The only one who mourns for thee
Copyright © Nina Hernandez | Year Posted 2010
here, where I walk,
confused silence swirls around my feet,
and the anguished summer leaves
are lingering limp, waiting for autumn..,
waiting to crumble and mingle with earth
drunk with the morning dew
somewhere beneath them
under the thunder and a tremulous sky
earth wears the scab of a fresh wound
in a place that will not be forgotten...
corrupt with mourning
sprouting with questions
immersed with regret
hollowed with anger
and shadowed by trees of despair
birch-bark faces, heads bent low, shadowed eyes
stone-cold voices, are carried in the wind,
held captive behind disguise
while mute birds watch without a song
the leaves will decay, green goes, and the eye forgets
while pawing on the hard and bitter earth
of reason, is impossible...
and autumn goes
I will live in hope that baffled minds
will clearly see a winter sun
and give up blaming ... who?
101 In A Row Contest:
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2012
Stepping out of the car, my father and I
after a shattering night
the skies were a dismal gray
The end of the world had taken all the light away
And dawn had taken all hope, and then had sucked all the air away
Even tears had nowhere to land
Frozen thick in our throats like dry desert sand
If just one would escape, how could they stop? ...no shoulder, ...no dam
My Dad was in shock, as he stood by the gate,
a glaze in his eyes, ...... and a million years old
My feet froze in place, my knees shivered cold
but without hesitation, I grabbed hold of his hand
I took him inside, and with deliberate intrusion
I fed him some soup, and put him to bed
He was the child, and I the adult
Day after day, somehow by default
our roles were reversed, ...and I became strong
My childhood had ended,.....and his had begun
For "The Fault Line" Contest
sponsored by Anthony Slausen
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2015
I am dead.
I travel towards a blue ball of LIGHT.
It calls me, communicates.
Whether we are billions, trillions or
even just millions.
we are eternal, we are one.
The time we spend on Earth
Hate has no place inside the light.
Give people the benefit of the doubt
there is nothing to be gained or lost
you just must.
Power is fleeting and it too means nothing.
I am speaking these word out loud
but my understanding is greater than that
a lot greater.
All life is vital; all of it travels back and forth.
Cleanse your spirit your mind and heart,
Your purpose is not what it seems.
Do not be afraid of those who hate you.
Fear no one.
Fear is a wasted emotion that only drains energy.
When you speak of peace the confused will attack.
Stay kind, stay pure.
There is nothing to win
there is nothing to lose you just must.
Look deep into others eyes
there you will see who you are.
Cleanse yourself there is a light,
a life that awaits us all,
what awaits us is greater
than any words or ideas.
In our simple form
we cannot conceive the after light.
Light not dark is our destiny
brighter than you've ever seen.
Live by the light, it will set you free.
It is the peaceful who are brave.
Just rid yourself of hate believe in peace,
walk lightly and all will be clear!
We are and will always be one.
........never ever give up on anyone.........
I am back.......
but I am back........
........I know because all my angst returns.
All my family is around me.
There are tubes down my throat
I am blessed my family with me
tears and smiles a love that blankets me.
Sponsor: Anthony Slausen
Contest Name: Near Death or Near Life Experience
Copyright © Maurice Yvonne | Year Posted 2014
I wept upon the news deployed
For now within, exists a void
My heart has stopped, it’s turned about
For life with love is now without
Now cast away, the physical form
I await the fate, to be reborn
To one day greet you there, again
The Gates of Heaven then let us in
Hand in hand, we move ahead
As souls permit, though bodies’ dead
A smile to you I then will give
For past our deaths, I know we’ll live
Copyright © Michael Degenhardt | Year Posted 2008
A young boy sat atop a hill
Wondering at all his Father had built
He thought about the clouds, the flowers, and the trees
He thought about his life, what it all means.
Then he saw death, dark and grim
Walking up the hill, directly towards him.
With fear and dread, the young boy cried
“I am not ready, this can’t be my time.”
Death listened to the Young boy’s cry.
And asked “why should I grant you more time?
Convince me?” He said. “Then we will see
If you are deserving. Perhaps I’ll let you be.”
The boy stared Death directly in the eye.
He searched his heart and then knew why
His life should be spared.
Why he deserved more time.
The boy stood straight and tall on his feet
And said, “I have never sung a song so sweet.”
Never written a poem that changed a life,
Or shared a kiss with my future wife.”
Death sat and listened with intent
To the boy's argument and was convinced
That this boy was indeed sincere and true,
He would not take him with his years so few.
Death said “Go live your precious life,
Write your poem and find your wife.
Sing your song with a verse so sweet
That man will bow beneath your feet.”
“I will come again when the time is right
And we will continue our journey into the night.”
“But, heed my warning to you.
Live your life right and always be true.”
The young boy grew into a tall, strong man.
He found success, money, friends and fame.
But in all his glory he was alone
And he walked again to his childhood home.
He climbed to the top of an old familiar hill
And as he stared across the land,
He marveled at the majesty of his Father's hand
And the man sat down to ponder his life.
As he sat Death's shadow came into view
The man stood and said, “I remember you.”
“You came for me here when I was young and afraid,
And showed mercy on a small boy and set him on his way.
But, I beg you please, don’t take me today,
for I have sinned and lost my way.
I am empty inside, I still need my life.
I haven’t my poem, my song or my wife.”
Death said, “Write your poem and find your wife.
Find your song and live your life.
When next we meet, I promise you,
Your life will end, it will be through.”
The man traveled the world and enjoyed its pleasures.
He made and lost an endless treasure.
But, time was not the man’s best friend.
And He grew old, his time was at an end.
His money spent and his friends all gone.
The old man set out to find his song.
He tried to write poetry, but couldn’t find a rhyme.
He searched for his love, but she too had faded with time.
And he came at last to a familiar space,
A tall hill overlooking a plentiful place.
The old man clambered up the steep hill
And sat in awe of his Father’s will.
And as he sat he saw a friendly face.
Death had come to their old meeting place.
Death stared into his ragged face and weathered eyes,
And said, “How are you, my friend? How have you passed the time?”
The old man stood and stared Death in the eye.
With a heavy breath, he let out a sigh.
“I never wrote my poem and I never sang my verse.
I never found my love and loneliness has been my curse.”
He paused for a moment before he said,
“I am ready my friend for my eternal bed
Take me now for I’ve nothing to show
Nothing at all for your years that I stole.”
Death took his friend who had known no harm.
Down that tired hill, they walked, arm in arm.
Through the green valley that his Father created
And into the shadows, his image faded.
Copyright © James Andersen | Year Posted 2016
No longer at desk the typewriter has been given
it's final rest.
As he cant recall the day or year.
The once strong mind is closed the body
but a museum or tribute to what once was.
he his home but locked within himself.
Vist's from thoose who once knew the man
are like people viewing a body at a wake.
he calls from within the shell for for release.
Yet his lips will not move his voice never sounds.
Inside he burns for the chance to run as the river
chases the sea.
To be the man they never knew and the one he
could admire and both despise.
The page sits in typewriter like a willing
eager lover in bed.
Waitting in stockings that cling to delicate thigh.
the tears escapes it's minds prison.
He thirsts for it like a drunk for that morning drink
of whiskey waitting hands held togather trying
to keep from shaking.
He sits as a painter without hand.
watching the most beautiful sunset fade without
a chance of ever capturing this moment.
The ink is drying he feels it everyday.
Soon he hopes like the dust that does gather
he will be swept away.
Copyright © John Patrick Robbins AKA Gonzo | Year Posted 2009
Three children and their grandfather died yesterday,
They died all together in a most tragic way.
Moments earlier, they were happily driving down that country road,
When you hear what happened to them, your head will explode.
Another man was driving, under the influence, that's what they say,
He should have made better decisions, before driving that day.
He likely forgot that all his decisions have consequences,
Now he'll spend the rest of his life, trying to mend these broken fences.
The thing is, it doesn't matter how sorry he is sometime later,
The pain and suffering he caused others, will always be greater.
How many times do we have to hear tragic stories like these,
before people who drink and drive are brought to their knees?
For the drunk driver it's simple...life goes on.
For the victims family...they try hard to carry on.
They wake up each day, trying to find a reason to live,
Even harder is...finding the strength to forgive.
WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU DRIVE DRUNK IS A FOREGONE CONCLUSION
FOR THESE VICTIMS FAMILY. IT'S SIMPLE, FOUR, GONE, CONCLUSION
John Derek Hamilton
Copyright © John Hamilton | Year Posted 2015
I awake to the beautiful plaintive strains
Of a violin - then realize it’s just in my head
Just a dream - a shame to find
I’m in the hospital - same room - same bed
The monotonous ticking of the clock on the wall
Time, an indefinite progress of my existence
Time for my pills, time to call the nurse
Time not on my side, breaking down my resistance
After lunch a quick nap
Then the visiting hour I dread most of all
Seeing pity in their eyes, they wish me back
To what I was before my withdrawal
The world of music - my life - my love
The fame and fortune that once was mine
Exhilarating - Intoxicating, a wife at my side
With children sharing the Glory Divine
I lived it - I breathed it
Plucked at its very soul
The core of its existence in my hands
Like a faithful servant it played its role
I look at the painting on the wall
A feeling of Déjà vu enters it seems
I’ve seen this glade of lush green plants
And these sparkling bubbling streams
I remember drawing back watching afar
An Angel who danced in its midst
Who danced with wild abandon
Her hair that the sun had kissed
I remember wishing I could dance with her
With this Angel from above
A hundred birds would sing out loud
To watch us Dance to Love
But it’s just a painting - There’s no girl there
And I’m just a sick old man
Wallowing in my grief and sadness
Existing however best I can
What’s this I’m suddenly in the glade?
A young strong man once more
She has come for me, my Angel love
I leap - I twirl - I soar
The world I’ve left behind
Unshackled my attachments of
A hundred birds do sing out loud
To watch us Dance to Love
We dance with wild abandon
We dance without a care
With sun kissed skin our arms entwined
Wild flowers in our hair
We do not know for sure if my Father – who was a great violinist and classical musician, had imagined this story when he was a young man, when he chanced on a young girl dancing in the glade. It’s a story he told us many times and we loved to believe it.
I like to imagine a fitting finale to the first story, when his time came and have pictured it in this poem.
Copyright © Maria Williams | Year Posted 2017
Tribute to Harambe, The Gorilla
Harambe, living in captivity...
mock forest of the Cincinnati Zoo,
in human world, as well as you can be,
beneath those peering eyes, that visit you.
And what bad fate for you when suddenly
without your fault, a child falls in your space.
At first, you seemed to act quite caringly;
you held his hand and looked into his face.
But then the shrieks of humans made you wild
and frantic, as you soon became afraid.
You dragged him to and fro, that little child...
and chaos then ensued, decisions made.
If only they had found a simple way;
removed the crowd from scaring you with screams,
perhaps your primate nature would then play
into a more protective stance, it seems.
Or maybe darted you to bring you down
and not forever, just a little while,
to rescue the small boy and take the crown
for saving both and ending with a smile.
Poor Harambe, Gorilla, your sad day
to have them end your life for their neglect
of building an enclosure that some way
allowed a tiny child to fall direct.
Within your borrowed space of humankind,
where you knew not of freedom, nature's way,
you had to face your end of days maligned
as a dark beast to pay the price that day.
Harambe, living in captivity,
mock forest of the Cincinnati Zoo,
not many of you left on Earth to see;
so sorry that this fate has come to you.
Sandra M. Haight
Contest: Short Story
Sponsor: Frank Herrera
Contest: Any Poem You Ever Penned
Sponsor: Broken Wings
Copyright © Sandra Haight | Year Posted 2016
They dragged my mother away
kicking and screaming
arms outstretched towards
my little sister
who lay dying on the ground
her lips parched
her eyes sunken
her wasted arms reaching out
“Myreik (Mother), don’t leave me!”
My father pulled my mother away
the young soldier’s grasping hands
the one who had violated her
the one who now sneered
“Keep moving….she will be dead
I hurried after them
stumbling through my tears
afraid of being left behind
I turned for one last look
There she lay…her eyes closing
left behind to join the
the dead along the path
That night I didn’t hear her cry
or complain as the soldiers
dragged her away
she was beautiful
with eyes the color
of the sea
eyes that danced
like stars on a clear night
eyes that smiled
eyes that embraced
eyes that spoke
what words couldn’t say
I fell asleep to the sound of my father’s weeping
“Wake up,” I heard her say
as I fought to keep my dreams alive
my eyes fluttered open
I closed them to the hungry faces
I closed them to the filth on her dress
I searched her eyes
calm and glassy
they looked past me
In them I read
Tears sprang to my eyes
tears for the death of my sister’s body
tears for the death of my mother’s soul…
My mother’s eyes
my mother’s eyes...
They haunt me still.
Though this is a fictitious write, the events depicted did happen during the Armenian Genocide in 1915 by the Ottoman Turks. One million and a half Armenians were marched into the desert in what has come to be known as the Death March. My mother's family were fortunate. They were able to run away in time. They relocated to Lebanon. My mother was a refugee at 14 years of age. She and her two sisters suffered poverty and had to work hard to make a living for the family. Their fate could have been worse. April 24 marks 100 years since that event. Not all countries have recognized the genocide. Unfortunately, America is one of them.
If you want to read an account of those days, read The Sandcastle Girls. Read of how woman were tied to stakes as the soldiers rode past on their horses and decapitated them. Read of how the orphaned children were gathered at night and put in caves and burned alive. Read of how the woman marched naked...their wounds festering, their hair matted...almost inhuman. Read of how women committed suicide rather suffer rape while others disfigured themselves to go unnoticed. History cannot deny the genocide. If justice is not served here...it will be....one day. God told Cain..."the blood of your brother Abel is crying out to me." The blood of these martyrs cries out today for recognition.
Copyright © Eileen Manassian | Year Posted 2015
Once upon a time, many years ago,
There was a sweet and lovely - red, red Irish rose,
That was plucked prematurely, from the garden vine;
A budding beauty, taken in her prime.
She was laid to rest, upon the death, of a lovers dream;
Upon a chest of ebony, where lie, his would-be Queen;
Lowered deep into the depths, of the church yard cemetery;
Her scarlet petals, wilting in the summer breeze.
Then the earth begin to fall, like autumn leaves;
Upon her petals, and the chest of ebony,
From above her tomb, where stood the grieving groom
Weeping , weeping, like a willow tree.
Then the sky begin to disappear, amid that mournful cry,
As tears - from above, fell from that lovers eyes,
And came to rest, like dew drops on that Irish rose,
As she disappeared beneath the earth, there in his grief below
In time, he laid a stone of ivory - upon her grave;
Etched deeply - with the promise he had made:
To love his Irish Rose - forever and a day.
The years and all their seasons came and went
And a million lonely tears were cried and spent
Upon her grave where everyday he kneeled and prayed
And dreamed of her until his dying day.
The epigram has long since faded on the ivory stone
That still stands alone upon her grave
Where from the million tears of love he gave
A seemingly impossible - blue, blue rose has grown.
Copyright © Elaine George | Year Posted 2010
In a small town there lived a little lady
The lady`s name was Lucinda
Lucinda was always bubbling, cheerful and happy
When she laughed here rolling laughter,
both her cheeks and bosom shaked
She was a beautiful woman with wide hips,
and a butt as big as a dinner table
Lucinda was old and walking was difficult
and life was not so easy for her
She had not so much in this world,
but she always brought a bicycle
Everyone in the small town would help her
as best they could
Whatever you did for her, she thanked with these words:
"You shall have my old bike when I die"
Following the bubbling laughter, shaking cheeks and bosom
Everyone in the small town knew Lucinda,
loved her and wanted to help her
Same thanks every time:
"You shall have my old bike when I die"
Now Lucinda is dead
Her bike the city has received as a gift from Lucinda
If you see a bike in the flower park in the small town
Is it to remind the beloved sweet, rolling round Lucinda
that was always cheerful and happy
A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
Copyright © Sunshine Smile | Year Posted 2012
The 18th of December was her last day;
she neither knew the date nor cared to.
Gathered at the hospital, keeping vigil,
we couldn't overcome her fright, or ours.
The pain, too great to be driven away,
was only "managed" with IV drips,
needles stuck in bruised appendages --
bony things -- arms and legs, hands and feet.
Above the medicines and washes, we sniffed
her scent, which, more than her yet familiar
face, to us identified our mother --
a smell we never would mistake
for any other. It went quickly
as her body cooled. The rouged and pickled
carcass they displayed was more a statue
than a person. We planned to bury her
with homely tokens, like an ancient mummy:
a family photo, a brooch she liked,
a pink hairbrush, and the brass bell she rang
to call her keeper during her last years.
But, when the time came, I could not bear
to have her leave so finally;
I took the bell from her metal box.
And, now, I ring it -- not to bring a keeper,
but to recall my mother on her birthday,
and on many dark days when I need her.
Copyright © Leo Larry Amadore | Year Posted 2011
“Good-bye my daughter dear,” she said
As tears welled up in her eyes
“It’s time for me to go to sleep
This must be no surprise
The good Lord knows my battles
And my health is ailing still
He’s given me so many blessings
I’ve passed them to you in my will
I’m sad to say good-bye
For we have shared much joy
Remember me to Sarah
My grandchild I love and enjoy
I love you my daughter
These years together have been sweet
I’m so glad you love the Lord
And again we will meet
I’m not afraid of dying
‘Cause I know that in a while
Christ will call me from my grave
I feel my life has been worthwhile
For I taught you to seek your Father
To help you through every trial
He’ll always be there to guide you
With never a denial
I leave you in His hands”, she said
As she gently kissed her daughter’s hand
Her eyes closed very slowly
Against cancer she’d lost her stand
She’d been a wonderful mother
Teacher and true friend
Faithful to her Lord
And gracious to the end.
Copyright © Maureen LeFanue 2007-2012
Copyright © MAUREEN LEFANUE | Year Posted 2012
I have died so long ago.
The pieces of my bones were buried in Sheol.
It was so dark where I lay now.
My flesh is rotten and almost gone.
I have lived once in this world,
Where a loving family I was involved.
A dearest mom who loved me so,
Loving siblings I treasured most!
I'm a free-spirited young lady.
I love to entertain the world,
Wind hums as I hit the notes.
The nature became my hidden world.
I was once a fruit in a tree.
Until one day, a harvester picked me.
Still unripe, too young and fresh.
He stole my innocence.
Too many years past and my seed grew.
I have started bearring fruits.
But the harvester did not content,
He pulled me out from where I'd been.
He murdered me on one darkest night.
Then buried me beneath the ground.
I'm so helpless, no voice to shout!
My breath is counting one by one.
Until I surrendered the last air in my lungs.
I have died so long ago.
This girl that you used to know,
Isn't the one who writes a poem.
She had died so long ago.
She walks every night to find her home.
Copyright © Aiyah de Torres | Year Posted 2014
JE SUIS CHARLIE — Afterthought
The shock of this most frightening tragedy is practically beyond
the pale of any reasonable or adequate attempt or effort to explain
it or to rationalize the horrible circumstances surrounding it.
Let me just say that all of us who are writers and poets ply our
poetry, “our intellectual wares,” if you will, in a common written
medium that expects the same unrestricted level of freedom of
speech and expression exercised by those extraordinarily brave
artists at “Charlie Hebdo” who were recently murdered in cold
blood by self-styled Islamic extremists in Paris.
It is also equally saddening and deplorable that some courageous
police officers died in the line of duty defending these freedoms
as well as some other security people and hostages caught up in
the midst of these most terrifying circumstances.
The heinous actions perpetrated by these armed extremists
destroyed innocent lives and affected the lives of a number of
loved ones whose burden of sadness and tragedy is unimaginable.
Their actions also were an attempt to strike at the very heart of
those sacred freedoms that all of us who live in open societies and
democracies cherish as part of our everyday lives. The armed
extremists, by their actions, also personified and demonstrated an
obvious affectation for barbarity, stupidity, ignorance, and cowardice
that were all on ample display as a result of what they did.
Freedom of speech and expression are among those certain
historic inalienable rights given to all of us by the divine hand of
God himself, and certainly not by the generosity of any government
or religious group (regardless of faith). The brave souls who died
at Charlie Hebdo, died exercising this most sacred franchise.
The point I’m driving at is this: Those extremists who committed
these most reprehensible actions of recent against their fellow man
did not win in spite of their collective efforts to destroy lives and to
sully these precious freedoms that all of us as writers and artists
hold so very dear.
The outpouring of emotion and sadness in support of these slain
heroes in the face of this most despicable crime is quite compelling,
and underlies the continuing determination of all of us who love
and cherish the freedoms of speech and expression to continue to
speak out and to exercise these sacred rights without reservation.
With all of this in mind, I humbly and proudly conclude my narrative
to all of you here by saying and echoing as loudly as possible:
“Je Suis Charlie” . . . “I am Charlie.”
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved (January 10, 2015)
Copyright © Gary Bateman | Year Posted 2015
He's used to war, he fights real hard,
He's a soldier, he's battle scarred.
The enemy is weak, there is nothing to fear,
His compassion is gone, he has no tears.
He was taught well, was taught how to kill,
He's done it so much, it's lost it's thrill.
He no longer feels bad, when the enemy dies,
Tears don't come any more to his tired eyes.
In the beginning it was against his will,
But he soon broke down, and got used to kill.
Never thinking that his foe, was also just a man,
Like him with a family, doing the best he can.
He cannot have feelings, for anyone,
But then, for a moment, he thinks of his son.
He wants to go home, but it's not time yet,
So he goes back to a war, that he wants to forget.
Next day on the beach, on his tour of duty,
Lies a child's body, on the coast of Turkey.
He cannot believe what he sees with his own eyes,
A cute little boy, with no signs of life.
Lying face down, right there on the sand,
He picks him up, with his big strong hands.
And when he saw that there was no hope,
The soldier realized he could not cope.
He shuddered deeply...letting out a sigh,
And that's when...the soldier cried.
Now the whole world mourns that little boy,
Many children elsewhere, receive another toy.
Yes, people stand by, while these refugees die,
Some see the news and say, please...pass the pie.
John Derek Hamilton September 04,2015
Copyright © John Hamilton | Year Posted 2015
A shaman prays, the Spirit hears
While a Seventh Calvary regiment waits
Unarmed, a tribe endures a Union's hate
Their animosities, and their fears
As the blue coats begin to circle...
Their wrath begins to circle.
That shaman saw but a single Spirit
That was split between different beliefs
He could accept the white Spirit Chief
But the white men would not hear it
They would not blend their God
With the red heathen God.
Anger explodes behind powdered shot
Spraying death from muzzled shame
Cruelly winning their ill gotten fame
Painted heroes claim a tainted spot
History claims the Ghost Dance...
As death claims the last dance.
A Dakota creek runs darkly red
Forever silencing the Ghost Dance
A chanting shaman dies in his trance
One hundred fifty Sioux lay dead
Now, only blue coats remain...
Only the blue remain.
A creek ran red with Union shame
When a shaman called the Spirit Great
And that Spirit did not hesitate
He fell on Wounded Knee and came
To take His people home...
His people swiftly home.
Timothy I. Brumley
Copyright © Timothy Brumley | Year Posted 2011
I'm sitting cross legged on the side of the road
while Dad holds my shoulders, in trying to console me,
but tears, uncontrolled, keep tumbling down.
Most stunning, right now, is the fear, I've not known
Never before, .....had I felt so alone.
Reality has settled, like darkness around me
A first-time encounter with death and it's toll
Though, how many times, I have played out the role?
It was always the same.....
Just a game to be played
The drama? Just kid's-stuff.....who knew what it meant?
Bang, Bang you're dead!...
Point a finger .... he's dead
A stab, rubber swords, ... at my eight year old heart ?
While slowly, with drama, we played out the parts
Our death scenes, .....pretending to take a last breath
Then, back on our knees, and up in a flash
ready again, to reverse all the rules......
Death wasn't real........and never this cruel
Tonight, driving home
a deer out of nowhere,
A thump, and a jar, a flash in the light
And in the dash of a moment, ....a crumpling crash
Make-believe shatters, in the path of our car
Dad reaching his hand, to check I'm alright
Then opens the door out into the night
Reluctantly I follow his somber silhouette
And met by a moment I'll never forget
The air bitter cold, has taken our breaths
I turn eyes away, but now it's too late
Glass lifeless eyes stare back in the lights
I'm strangled by silence, and the shattering sight
as still and cold, as real as if stones,
The deer's lifeless eyes, stare into the night
I feel such a change in the stars and the sky
I felt something die, in a child's heart tonight
For Trashed #2 Contest: Sponsor: Broken Wings
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2015
They were married for sixty-seven years.
Lovely she still was to him,
though wrinkled of face and hair of pure snow.
Entwined hearts forever held sparkle and glow.
Honestly believing, he was the luckiest man alive.
Just thankful to be by her side,
sharing her life and giving her all that he could.
But fate did loom, bringing unmerciful doom....
she died a long time too soon....
leaving a lonely and broken-hearted man.
To his son, he said, "Say it ain’t so, Joe!
Just say it ain’t so!
She can’t be gone.
She’s been with me so long.
What can I do without her?"
As news spread throughout the town,
many a friend came to call.
He tried to maintain, but three months away,
his heart just couldn’t withstand.....he died that day.
Mourned, his daughter to her brother, amid flowing tears:
"Say it ain’t so, Joe!
Please say it ain’t so!"
CATCH PHRASE: SAY IT AIN'T SO, JOE
Contest Sponsored by: Deborah Guzzi
Won: 5th Place
Copyright © Carolyn Henderson | Year Posted 2010
My heart was in such pain
I felt like I was going to go insane
I just don't know what to do
And my eyes full of tears that distort my view
I fell to my knees and felt the urge
My muscle tighten and pin needles struck me like a surge
My body was warm and with feelings so confused
My mind felt sadness had fused
I could not conquer my fears
I just sat down and fell into tears
When some close to you passes on
It felt like a warmth has gone
So I raised my hand towards a box that was empty with no tissue
I first was embarrass and had a little bit of issue
All my friends hugged me and said sorry for your loss
So now I cry in my bed and toss
April 14, 2013
Copyright © Reynaldo Mast | Year Posted 2013
My favorite of songs is The Old Rugged Cross.
The most tragic of days was the worlds’ greatest loss.
For sinners that day were all given their chance.
His Father in heaven could not even bear to look not even one glance.
Forgive them He prayed as His life’s blood ran down to the ground.
Can you picture Him there wearing that thorny old crown?
On that hill so far away, sad but precious memories were made.
Born of a virgin mother in the tomb He was laid.
Death could not hold Him, death would not last.
Three days in that tomb, so long ago, death too it would pass.
He arose and was seen by many it was said.
Our Savior arose from the grave and no longer was dead.
As He gave His final words to His apostles and friends.
He ascended to the clouds but they knew they would see Him again.
He made us a promise He would rule once again.
I feel that day is coming we’re reaching the end.
The prophecies that abound.
With each new day they seem to be coming unwound.
Are you ready my friend for the Millennium Reign?
Are have you sunk to wearing the mark worn by Cain?
Sacrifices my friend we all have to do.
Just look at Jesus and the sacrifice He made, was made just for you .
So on that hill so far away I kneel at the thought.
With His precious blood my cleansing was bought.
And what have we learned, or did He die just for nought?
I look to Jesus and His love I have sought.
He must come first in all that we do.
And when the day comes you’ll see I speak true.
Copyright © Ronald Bingham | Year Posted 2007
Raven was Death. She dwelt in death. She lived on death. Ages past, she had worn
the blue-black, purple, feathers of the raven and dined on royalty at Tower hill. A
tumble from grace had lodged her here in this fragile form. No more would her maw
drip ruby red, no more would her caw fill the mourning, or her soaring flight slice
the air like a Frenchman’s sword. A Raven, with clipped wings, was she.
Centuries had passed since she, in her feathered form, had feasted on the King.
**Bran the Blessed, giant, King of Wales, had been her down fall. Cursed was she,
as she dined on his eyes, in the field of battle. Ah, what did a raven know
of the curses of man. But, she knew now. Bran's head was placed,
as a talisman, on the grounds of Tower Keep in Londontown. She,
transformed, cursed, walks the night in this beautiful, weak, human vessel for
as long as, Bran's name is remembered.
Her satin-sandaled feet hold her earthbound. Just as superstition
holds her clip-winged brethren in the Tower courtyard, Bran's Curse holds her here.
No longer can she fly, but, she is free to roam. The churchyard calls her. Ashen skies no longer welcome her, but the gravestones, spade-shaped like the tails of carrion feeder, beckon. The evening corpse has arrived. Draped in mourning weeds of black, her death-like pall, luminescent in the moonlight, her lips a tell-tale crimson, she arms her self with a firebrand. The bluish steel glistens. Death with a gun, certainly, one could see the
over kill? She laughs. Looking skyward, she calls. “Husband*, children…”
she mimicks the caw of her unfettered kin. “Come to Ma Ma..dinner is served.”
*Raven's mate for life...or death? ;)
**Bran is the Welsh word for Raven/ King Bran the Blessed
Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2011
He would enter the corral in the thick fog of mist,
up long before daylight would christen the air
The skies would be coral, and the sun glazed the crest
Dust clung to the heels of his old leather boots,
and gathered in shrouds around the hoofs of the mare.
Billowing were clouds, and a whirlwind of grief
that followed the storms of long hours awake
Endless were nights without the refuge of sleep
while he waited for sun to arrive and relieve
Caressing the flank of her sleek narrow, frame,
his favorite mare, Queenie, was the color of dawn
He would gather her reins, for a moment of calm
then, bury his face in her rusty brown mane
He'd watch as the light slipped over the hills,
smoothing the shadows, that haunted his world
Without ever knowing the worries we found
as we saw those same shadows, splay rapidly down,
drowning his eyes, with dark circles and frowns
Grief and the love of his horses, would ride,
together, off center....wherever, to hide,
and soften the hours, that waited for night
For the house was a shell, and the bedroom, upstairs,
became the forbidden, without her to share
The nights, ever long, were just waiting to tear
open the wounds that couldn't be shared
Up at the sunrise, and out until starlight
Where shadows grew stronger, and nights even longer
Burning the daylight, until light was in ashes,
then thrashing the midnight, with the darkness of mourning,
wading through dust-clouds, to see morning's light
Waiting for something to make it alright
Dedicated to my Dad
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2015