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
We boarded the Carnival Cruise in Miami with excitement,
our destination was Montego Bay- with a promise of great fun;
colourful reefs, tranquil waters, breathtaking vistas and sun,
pure white beaches, music, and I was soon swinging to reggae rhythms.
Taking a break to stroll on the promenade, I leaned over,
the railing for a view of the water below and then- I was falling;
the next thing I knew was that I was washed up on a beach,
I looked out to sea and there was no trace of the Carnival cruise ship.
I said to myself, don't panic, keep calm, go find some help,
walking the beach there was no evidence of any human life here;
this tropical island was uninhabitable, yet I heard birds calling,
and soon noticed I was being followed by a group of cute little monkeys.
It came over me that I was stranded, marooned, isolated,
on this lost tropical island, although beautiful, I felt a great doom;
it was then I decided to go inland and find some water to drink,
but found no spring or pond, but I saw that broad leaves held rain water.
So right away I knew that drinking water was not a problem,
then it was getting dark and I needed to find a shelter for protection;
that is when I noticed a natural cave entrance in a mossy hillside,
it was dark inside but seemed a perfect place for me to rest until morning.
I fell asleep quickly and dreamt of my days as a Girl Guide,
recalling some of the survival skills- that I had been taught once;
the next morning I went searching for food but found nothing,
except mushrooms, red berries, and roots- the monkeys were eating.
I figured if they could eat it, then I could too, and so I did,
suddenly I was covered by mosquito bites, ouch, I ran into the sea;
later that day I found a plant growing that I knew- lemon balm,
it had a strong lemony scent and picking the leaves I used them like a wipe.
In the days that followed I became a survivor- with a fire,
when I fell a glass pendent came with me and I placed it in the sun;
with twigs and leaves and soon had fire for a cooking and a signal,
I gathered leaves to use as bedding in my cave and days took on a routine.
Each day for years I kept the signal fire burning and prayed,
a sharp branch became a spear to hunt, a shell became my knife;
days, weeks, months, years passed- and then time mingled,
so old, my hair white, bone weary and tired, I went to my cave forever.
January 21, 2017
For the contest, Tropical Island,
sponsor, Shadow Hamilton
Copyright © Broken Wings | Year Posted 2017
The mountain peaks in colored sugar coat
Of pinks and blues and lilac violet hues
The sky, just before sunrise, all windless and clear
The day is misty, bitter cold, and crystal sheen
But I am warmed by one small ray of golden morning light
From high upon a perch of snow top crest
A lone stag with graceful legs that fly
Carving out a quiet trail, like fleeting wind
The sound so soft, the hush of whispered steps
He halts, and looks at me with logic's eyes
And seems to smile in recognition,
His golden crown of antlers, gleam in morning sun
Just when I thought my crystal world would splinter
He tilts his head, and bids me to come
And like an eagle's wing, remote and sure
He darts away, just like a bird
Without a sound
Beauty of the wind....beauty of pure grace
I run after him, panting and breathless,
Through the glimmering, in search of answers
But, I cannot keep up, as he disappears without a trace
And still not wringing the answers from the slightest sound
Yet, I am left alone, and feel at peace
For Constance's Contest: The Nature Dream/Spirtual Dream
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2010
Very many years ago
In the land of rich men called NO
Bobo, a poor man, had nowhere to go
"Give me a little space to stay", he pleaded, but lo
"Your place is out of the city," they shooed him and so
Outside he stayed in sun, rain and snow
Rainbows glowed, stars shone, sun rays blazed on NO and Bobo
Reality was that All the people
In the land of NO
Benefited Out of Bobo's Woes
For when Bobo died, (and 'twas soon)
The heavens cried, (so did stars, sun and moon)
All lights stopped shining, (darkness invaded)
The men started whining, (fear pervaded)
The rich men died (one by one)
No one did abide (no, not one)
NO was no more NO without poor Bobo
The rich did never know that HE had been their Rainbow.
Copyright © Jo Daniel | Year Posted 2017
The smoke is a question mark...
My view of you is covered in gray
You pause, look back, then walk away
You’ve neglected to open your umbrella…
Tomorrow, under a different sky
I will listen to the songs of yesterday
The world leaves behind a sign language for broken hearts
It is cloudy, it is beginning to rain…
Goodbyes are bitter ales we drank today
I look again, through the smudges of the day
We are going to leave behind a trail of smoke
A sound like a tired mother calling in her child
The train whistle rings in the dusk
I take a last look through the window
I have said my goodbyes
The train begins to move
We are leaving the station platform
Tears weep down the window
Spilling over the imprints of my hand
I found myself dry eyed and my throat too tight to speak
Finding a place to put the carry-ons
People are chatting, settling in
Happy, excited, anxious to be departing
A thin straight lift and a gray, silvery curve
Like a sickle for harvesting the first star…
The smoke is a question mark
"Write A Backwards Poem"
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2011
Majestic illusions, dwell in my mind,
my special place that is only mine.
Filled with miracles, given through love,
my little heaven , when life gets tough.
A voyage I take, no one else is here,
I feel no sadness, I feel no fear.
The quietness, and serenity of an ocean voice,
waves coming softly, the air so moist.
Peace all around, no hassle of life,
my safe Haven of refugee, whenever I cry.
Copyright © Christy Hardy | Year Posted 2007
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
She climbed the liquid staircase
just to gaze at gleaming stars;
all she wanted was a wee one
to light up her fair boudoir.
A thousand times she spied them
flash across the midnight sky;
she strained so high to catch one,
but the mermaid could not fly.
Exhausted with hard striving,
she lay back against the sea,
rocking on the waves, gently,
as she rested peacefully.
The moon, climbing his set arc,
saw her glistening on the foam;
at first sight so madly loved
her, longing to take her home.
To lightly comb her flowing
hair, he sent a small moonbeam,
who tangled in her tresses
and woke her from her dream.
With a flash, her glittering tail
slapped the water and she fled,
sliding down in the ocean,
hiding in her pearl lined bed.
The moon, absent one moonbeam,
wanders heaven, round and round,
surveying seas and oceans,
praying his mermaid is found.
Sometimes in the deep, dark pool
he sees a shining light start
beneath the frothing billows,
and he clutches for his heart.
Forever in his orbit...
she, forever in the waves,
her hair with his beam glowing,
all of love he ever gave.
Faye Lanham Gibson
Copyright, May 31, 2014
Copyright © Faye Gibson | Year Posted 2014
Slate gray streets made even darker by cutting raindrops
Umbrellas popping up everywhere, people seeking shelter
But I stayed put, wanting to get drained with the rain,
then I hear this tinkling voice that says, “Don’t you just love it when it rains?!”
I look at her wearily and her eyes actually gleam with laughter
Oh geez, this lady was my total opposite. I was brooding, she was brimming.
I power-up my go away vibes, but she was like a darned magnet…
Was I the ferromagnetic one, or was she?
She gushed on the metaphor of rain in her life, and I didn’t feel like drowning.
Listening to her amidst the onslaught was so refreshing, making me thirstier…
There we were, two drenched souls, sitting on the pavement, chatting up a storm.
Of all her descriptions of rain, one in particular stood out for me…
Pearl drops strung on silver strands …
She said, “Rain for me would be silver strands streaking an otherwise somber sky…
pearl drops strung on silver strands, broken by the heavens to share with us.
See how precious it is?” Then she continued on with the metaphor for pearls…
Her words felt like windshield wipers to me, and I could see clearly now
By then, the rains had softened, and a lone pearl drop landed on her eyelashes
-that made me look closer at her eyes… her beautiful, wise, yet cloudy eyes…
I have never looked at rain the same way since then.
For Andrea's and Susan's Silver Strands contest
Copyright © kabuteng P.iNk k. | Year Posted 2011
I woke to the sound of sizzling bacon, the aroma of fresh baked Muffins and my Beautiful Lenore in her bright green Teddy. "Nubbies", I said, "what time is it." Lenore said" for You it is 3:30P.M., June 27th, 2013. You are in the O.R. at Dartmouth Hospital. For me it is time to bring YOU to Eternity for a short time."What are You talking about; Baby." I died last night before we had time to go to the Bridal Suite. I do not want You to go through that pain again. Please come with me to the railing on the starboard side of the ship."Below the shuffle board deck?""Nubbies, just
trust me." As we walked outside, I noticed there was no air,no breeze, no sea lapping against the side of the boat, the sun seemed pasted in the sky. Where is Mom and Dad;where's my Ma, Where is everybody? Harry we are frozen in time, for last night and today; never happened for you. I asked the Lord to give us this time together. I was 3 months pregnant when I said "I DO" I want you to see JoAnne Naomi Grow up. Now
Full Moonlight Stand on the railing with me and when I say 3; Jump. 1, 2, 3. You would think we would plummet into the Caribbean Sea, but we splashed into the Full Moon. The sun was warm,the birds sat on my shoulders, singing a song of Life Forever. The Peace, Serenity and Tranquility was unearthly. I then saw GOD and the Son of Salvation hugged me and in a Mezmerizing Voice said Welcome Home.
To be Continued
I want to apologize to those of YOU who are punctuationally bound to Poetry I do not know how to punctuate people talking. I know I'm suppose to use "" marks Sorry I LOVE YOU ALWAYS and FOREVER YOUR Liege...Harry
Copyright © HGarvey Daniel Esquire | Year Posted 2013
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
I dream about a day that may never come,
I watch my life unravel, simply come undone.
My feet begin to drag as I walk across the floor,
Still I cannot wait for what the future has in store.
I go out for a walk as the sun is getting low,
The sky explodes in colors as I watch it go.
It kisses the horizon and then it goes away,
It seems to mark the end of just another day.
I stand upon a hill as the light begins to fade,
I think about the day, decisions that I made.
Light begins to falter as it all goes dark,
I feel this spark growing inside my heart.
I look into the valley as the darkness grows,
I see the sparks of fireflies they seem to glow.
I hear the birds sing they soon will retire,
I look up at the moon it appears to be on fire.
The stars up above look like diamonds in the sky,
I watch the lights on planes as they streak by.
I think of the darkness filled with all these lights,
They seem to be like beacons to guide me through the night.
I lay upon the grass and gaze upon the stars,
They sparkle so bright in a sky dark as tar.
I close my eyes and imagine I can fly,
Travel to the moon as it rises high.
The day has give way to the wonders of the night,
Everywhere I look, I catch another sight.
As time flies by, I wonder where it went,
A breeze blows, carrying a floral scent.
I climb from the hill it’s time to go to bed,
Visions of the night still dancing in my head.
Soon tomorrow shall become today.
The sun will rise and the stars will go away.
Copyright © Mark Russell | Year Posted 2012
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
Insomnia, familiar friend,
crawled into bed this summer night
so once again, inflamed with dread
I wander now in pitch of dark
and touch the places, now by heart, that sprawl unstirred by weary minds
This lonely place, where I used to come
where armless grief, and headless doubt
and worry filled the rooms
I know you cold, my land of oz
So ruthless do you change your face
into a place I once refrained
But, don't pretend to make me fear, toxic robber of my sleep
I've known you much too long
You masquerade in shades of gray
And now I know that dark of night, is not the blackest thing
And room by room, I'll play the game
until the light of day
The shadows magnify your art
and though they magnify my loss of sleep
and while I've tossed and turned in vain
I've lost the lonely albatross
that pulled against the grain
From hooded thresholds I embark
to find a language of the dark
A liquid language of a mystic night,
that switches on the light
I've walked the halls of ghosts I knew, and those I hope to meet
I've felt the stares, and shared myself, no secrets left to keep
But not tonight, familiar friend
you bask in myth I understand
I'll fill the tasks that need my hands, until the light of day...
For Leonora Galinta's Contest
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2012
It started growing in a field
Billy Stover watched it grow
Because the corn was tall
Because Billy Stover was small
No one knew
Now one saw
No one saw how the tiny boy watched by the hour in summer's heat
Even from the top of high elm trees by the road
who could have detected that small lad stretched out
on his stomach leaning on his elbows watching
On stormy days Billy watched from the closest window
elbows propped up on the sill
He knew it was growing though he couldn't see it
He'd be down in the field now in the mud watching
but his mother forbade it
"What do you do out there Billy all by yourself?
What is it you do out there instead of playing?"
On certain days when the wind swayed the green stalks
and nipped Billy's cheeks his eyes would light up
He fought back a burning desire to run into the white kitchen
to tug at his mother's apron to bring her out
and show her his one spot
He jumped up once when the flames leaped high
started running for the house
"Mother! Mother!" he silently shouted
Every part of his small body shook with joy but
The bleak white walls of the kitchen
his mother her hands dipped in bread dough....................................
It started growing in the field in the dirt in the mind of Billy Stover
And no one could have kept a secret better than Billy
Copyright © daver austin | Year Posted 2008
I'm looking for some inspiration
Can you direct me to the Inspiration Store?
Heard they've got some real good bargains
Great ideas never used before!
I don't often need to avail myself
Of this vital and humanitarian service
Been quite prolific in the last few years
But now I'm feeling a wee bit nervous!
It's five minutes before the midnight bell
I've come up dry all the day long
Utter panic has grabbed hold of my brain
Thinking suicide would be wrong!
There's other things besides poetry I'm told
On this great big happy balloon
But none so addictive as rhyming and rhythm
It turns people into silly buffoons!
The Inspiration Store has saved many people
From utter and overwhelming despair
So I guess I'll do a search on Google Maps
Before I totally lose all my hair!
© Jack Ellison 2014
Copyright © Jack Ellison | Year Posted 2014
Scaling the skies and beauty of her wonder world
A fairy saw a sparkling thing down in a valley
Intrigued she flew up to it
Mesmerized she was, when she saw it
A big ,sparkling ,blue gem with lustrous shine
Thrilled by its luster ,she touched it
Her magic wand disappeared
She lost her wings and all her powers
In desperation ,she touched it again and again
But to no avail
Disheartened she walked up to the nearby brook
With her head in her lap ,she started crying
Suddenly she heard a soothing music
The music of rumbling, ruffling brook
Freshly scented spring air wiped her tears
Dusky splendid skies brought her smile back
A new world was unfolding before her
Elated she was, when she walked on the dewy grass
Her eyes shone, when she saw a small pink flower, growing under a rock
Her heart skipped a beat when she touched the bark of the tree
Intoxicated by this beauty, she wandered around
And unknowingly reached back to the vicinity of the blue gem
On seeing it again ,she felt that it’s beauty had increased
Again mesmerized by its luster, she touched the gem
This time with an enlightened heart and a beautiful mind
Her magic wand reappeared
Her wings and powers restored
Since night was befalling on her
She with an elated heart ,flew hastily up to her abode
Resting on her couch ,she felt something stuck to her feet
It was the fresh dewy grass
Holding the grass blade in her hand
She smiled ,as she knew
She had learned a lesson that day
Had seen a new world, a world beyond her magic
and had learned to keep her feet grounded….
Copyright © Irfana Ali Bhat | Year Posted 2012
“You may say that I’m a dreamer”,
With bold presumption in my youth
Beyond school age, but hardly saged
Turned loose, we hoped to use our wits to change the world…
And thought we would…and thought we could…
We declared to fight, what seemed so right
Those days as we leaned so hard against the wind
The plight of man’s predicament on earth, we mused
The breeze just caught our spouted words
And tossed them where it would
We feared our crystal world would splinter
Would shatter without our spin...
"Never knowing who to cling to, when the rain set in”
But that was then…
So naively in such innocence
Thinking we could see a world at peace
Hoping to make our dreams come alive
From thoughts we shaped on winsome days
Imagining, ….if you please
"It doesn't have to be that way!"
And now with logic’s eyes, I do remember
How changeless is a planet
Glimmering in search of answers
And still not wringing answers from the slightest sound
And words we spoke, with vigorous shape
Our hopes expressed, still looks for guidance…
Are uttered yet, by other voices…
“My words like silent raindrops fell,
and echoed in the wells of silence”
Lyrics From John Lennon “Beatles”
Simon and Garfunkle
For Chris Matt's ---'Contest Favorite Songs and Lyrics'
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2011
She walks here often, nearly every day
She thinks of him
And each day he will appear
With a different name, a different face,
But always,…. the story will be the same…..
His skin will be bronzed by the sun
Wet and glistening by the tide
He will not tell her his name
Instead, he tells her she is beautiful
The sand scalds her shoulders and thighs
She will let him have his way
He will talk with his hands
He tells her she carries passion in the little hallow of her back
Her walks along the beach
And into the brambles
Are never without purpose
She thinks of how he may be watching
She is pleased to hold
Her head tilted slightly downward
If, while she continues
Into the wildflowers and thistles
With her clothing open
With her skin borne
To foxtails and thorns
Letting them enter her flesh…..
She will of course admit
Astonishment, …….but no shame…
And promises herself not to return again
For at least a week
For Cyndi's Contest: Sensual
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2011
Before spring came, in late February
to the blooming and jolly hills
I ran, breathing heavily and frantically,
touching the perfumed blossoms
of a solitary, old cherry tree;
and underneath it I sat writing poetry
that hadn't a perfect rhyme and beat!
Weren't my skills marred by imperfections?
Canaries and red-breasted robins
flew down and rested on my outstretched legs;
perusing my lines to spot their names,
and when they did, they flapped their wings in gladness!
I could have imagined their joyful words,.
if only they had acquired the gift of speech,
and deeper in their thoughts I would have reached:
to dispel the myth that they had no feelings...
After my short poem was completed,
I reached for my harmonica to play my favorite classic tune;
and being surprised by the paleness of the fading moon,
I dedicated that happy melody to her not to let her despair:
by waving my hand to make her farewell less sad, while I whispered,
" Silent moon, eternal companion of every poet,
what's beyond the realm of this universe?...
Tell us more of those invisible suns and planets! "
Before spring came to the dormant valley,
the mountains' peaks allowed the sun to melt their snows,
to create gushing torrents to feed its water to the dry and cracked soil,
which needed rain instead of harmful frost;
and I drank the freshest water and washed my sweaty face,
while fighting off the bees' stubborn rivalry!
That spring has come again to dress herself with incredible splendor,
and this discontent and wishful heart desires nothing more than being there!
My theme is: Happiness In Childhood
Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2009
On the edge of the void, that's where we must be.
Somewhere between the thrill of taking your life into your own hands and the cold
realisation that you are finally in control of your own destiny is where you learn to
It is not the same for you and I, each of us must find our own void and peer
carefully over the edge, for we are human and we must look, or wither away, but to
carelessly leap into the void would surely mean destruction.
So we tread the fine line of life and hope that one day we shall learn to fly and bask
in the glory of that we can only watch from a distance.
Copyright © Nick Bagnall | Year Posted 2011
The little town known as Feels So Good.
Was a jolly little village hidden deep in the woods.
The people there would never go to sleep.
Hidden back in the woods so deep.
They never got big they never ever grew.
They averaged in height about an inch or two.
Mostly all they did was run and play.
That’s what made Feels So Good, so good they say.
The sun always shines it never gets dark.
Another reason they’re happy, happy as a lark
Their sky is always blue, and that’s the only blue to be found.
Happy thoughts and smiles they pass all around.
If you’re ever down their way just do as I say.
Take a sip of their water and get ready to play.
You feel yourself shrinking but it feels so fine.
So you can run and play in their warm sunshine.
Well I guess I better go and take me a sip.
Then I can run and play hop, skippity, skip.
Goodbye for now but you’re welcome to come down.
And join us in this merry little town.
Copyright © Ronald Bingham | Year Posted 2007
Is science fiction an oxymoron?
How can science be fiction
When it is the process by which myth
Is eliminated and all that is tangible
In the world is interpreted? And isn’t fiction
Nothing more than the literary
Manifestation of the dreams
That crash through the barriers
Of reality? How then
Can the two terms coexist
In a single phrase?
Is there anything made
By mortal hands
That was not proceeded
By a dream? Is it possible
That the creator of worlds
Dreamed before the first
Flowers bloomed in the garden?
If dreams lead to physical
Things, then they must be
The blueprints of the future
And the catalyst of science;
Conversely, science is proof
Of the dreams of gods and mortals.
Science fiction is not
An oxymoron, but it is
The infinitely redundant
Confirmation of life.
Copyright © Rex Holiday | Year Posted 2007
"Be careful about reading health
books. Some fine day you'll
die of a misprint"
- Markus Herz.
I had a particular problem;
fear of falling. Desperation
drove me to a library,
and found a book talking about
a cure. It read
"cure for falling......" with some
words missing. I blended
together some herbs written in the book,
which produced a concoction whose
color hadn't been given a name
in the dictionary.
I took the drink and slept.
The following morning I woke up;
dizzy. I felt like a balloon
in space. I was afraid of falling
from my bed. Doubting the cure,
I went through the book in the Internet.
It was a re-published version of an 18th century
which advised on the cure of fear
of falling in love!
I didn't have a shaman's advise on taking
the nasty drink.
I wish I went through the book my counselor
rather than healing myself in a cheap,
Contest Finalized: 28/4/2016
Publishing Date: 12/4/2016
Copyright © Teddy Kimathi | Year Posted 2016
A summer smile stuck on my face,
as I watched a soda truck racing
across the yellow maize farm.
"What is a soda truck doing
in the countryside, far away from
shops and clubs?" my workmate asked.
He looked as though he had witnessed
the Roswell event personally.
"Something isn't right," he added.
I smiled and gazed at the truck,
as it became bigger and bigger.
Monotonous tastelessness of rain water,
would soon be replaced by a fizzy, sweet
sensation to my tastebuds.
This would be the dozenth time I tasted
soda without actually drinking it.
Copyright © Teddy Kimathi | Year Posted 2017
I slid down the rainbow
Yet you couldn't see
all my colourful friends
Unicorns and fairies
dancing in rainbow light
If we weren't camouflaged
we might give you a fright
Some friends are bright yellow
others are quite deep blue
Seven colours to choose
many wore more than two
My friend, Count Dracula
is mostly fond of red
The Dye from his clothing
was gifted by the dead
I'm fond of indigo
some others prefer green
But the best was violet
as worn by Mr. Bean
No need for sunglasses
they will not help you see
Camouflaged in rainbow
don't you wish you were me?
Copyright © Richard Lamoureux | Year Posted 2017
Alone on a crisp seashore
Bellowing storm clouds engage
Rolling above me as I walk the beach
A pleasantry lifting my rage
Bending my head back looking up
My arms stretched out to their sides
Cool rain drops lightly kiss me
Sensuous tempestuous skies
Taking in a deep breath
I let my repression fade
Peace penetrates my Heartmind
Removing the storm's I've made
Slowly with each rhythmic beat
From these tiny three foot waves...
My anger vanished with the storm
Into a gothic indigo haze~
Copyright © Jane Bowen | Year Posted 2008
I unbutton your shirt slowly
gently brushing my
hand over your bare chest
your intake of breath
quicken with every touch
finally I remove your shirt,
your pants follow in quick succession
that all too familiar urges is back…
I so much want to forge ahead
do all the things we use to do
but I stop midway
as the picture of
the two of you
in “our” bed
flashes in front of me,
it's been haunting me for days…
"Stick to the plan"
I think to myself
I play with your hands,
rubbing them slowly between mine,
before taking your hands
and using the handcuffs
to impale them to the bedposts…
From the stunned look
on your face,
I can see you didn't expect this,
words dried up
as the whip comes out
from under the bed,
your eyes pleading
without saying a word
as the first lash
connects with your chest
the scream you utter
is like music to my ears...
*I probably had some twisted thought going on in my head a year ago*
Copyright © Wilma Neels | Year Posted 2010
like the raven
who taps taps upon
your chamber door
do not fret my Virginia
for it's my shadow
moving across the floor
this is what I'm telling you my darlin
and nothing more
I still call your name
come to me virginia
come hear the tap tap
upon your chamber door
for only you my love
I surrender and never more
wind howls in blanket snows
here I stand so all alone
broken hearted and misconstrued
my Virginia who lies under stars and moon
just a tap tap upon your chambers door
tis I and nothing more
tales of hidas truth
blackbird sings harps cords
just like the tap tap upon your chambers door
my sweet Virgina whom I adore
for there'll be love waiting and nothing more
as I lay right next to you in this tomb
I counted only seven who have even knew
the times of this raven who
tapped tapped upon your chambers door
twas only I and will be never more
Tribute To Edgar Allen Poe
And His Young Bride Virginia
Also To His Poem The Raven
Copyright © Katherine Stella | Year Posted 2009
Tomorrow’s times are in these eyes of mine.
Away and far my world shall part.
The Seas shall rise from their depths of deep.
And in the glow of the shadows the willows will weep.
The Sun will rise as my days still come,
The glory, the power, it is the rains with Sun.
Tomorrow’s times are in these days of mine.
Far and gone my world shall bond.
The Mountains will fall from their heights they climb.
And in the glow of the shadows the willows will shine.
Tomorrow’s times are in these thoughts of mine.
Gone and here my world shall fear.
The Lands will separate the world by Sea,
And in the glow of the shadows the willows will be.
Tomorrow’s times I know are mine.
Here it is that I fear I’m near.
My Land, my Seas, my Mountains of plain sight,
And in the glow of the shadows the willows shall shed their light.
®Registered: Ann Rich 1998
Copyright © Ann Rich | Year Posted 2010