Narrative Seasons Poems

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Details | Narrative |
They organized a church bazaar,
To raise money for the poor.
A booth for selling chances
Was set up, outside the door.

When I bought the raffle ticket, 
My reasoning was murky,
And I could only just believe it,
When I won that doggone turkey.

Now, the kids were all excited
When we brought the critter home.
So we placed him in the barnyard, 
Where he'd have lots of room to roam.

Since the date was late October,
I'm quite sure you understand,
That to have him for Thanksgiving
Was my awe inspiring plan.

Well, the turkey was no birdbrain,
As I was very soon to find.
That bird knew what I was thinking;
Why, I declare, he read my mind. 

I let the children care for him,
To my most profound regret--
He turned on his charming manner,
And, quickly, he became their pet.

But that fact did not deter me,
I told myself it didn't matter.
I was dead set and determined
To see that gobbler on a platter.

When the kids perceived my purpose,
They turned on the tears and pleas.
Then, the wife joined in their chorus,
And that brought me to my knees.

So I told my grieving family
They could dry up, and relax.
I concealed my disappointment--
Went and put away the axe.

Came the dinner of Thanksgiving,
Not a sad face could be found.
And our live Thanksgiving turkey
Was the gladdest bird around. 

We gathered around the table,
And I humbly asked the blessing--
While Tom gobbled down his corn, outside,
We had hotdogs and dressing. 

Copyright © William Robinson | Year Posted 2006

Details | Narrative |
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

Details | Narrative |
As spring brings life to all that sleep
Spirit, body and mind renew
Joy reflects in bursts of blossoms
Heralding new birth to God’s creation
As man and nature journey as one
In a dance of celebration
Hope reborn in all that live

As the summer of life screeches by
Visitors invited, welcome to share
Love, laughter, living and dying
Soon comes bittersweet joy of liberation
Knocking, bearing gift of freedom
As mountains rise along the way

As the autumn of life drifts in
The lights of my eyes will grow dim
Yet the hummingbird still sings
Joy of my vision, my rock
Through light of day or darkest night
Like a child I trust, I sleep

As the winter of life arrives
When my tresses turn white as snow
With the sound of my voice just a whisper
Though shallow breath, my prayers ascend
To the joy of my salvation
Just beyond invisible gates
I will in quiet adoration kneel

Note:  Written 9/17/09
          By Audrey Carey
          Entry for Constance La France's "Why Oh Why" Contest

Copyright © Annalise Brigham...a.k.a. Audrey Haick | Year Posted 2009

Details | Narrative |

It was one of the warmer summer days
Not a breeze or cloud in the sky
The humidity so high
I could almost reach out
And pluck it from the air

I watched the sunlight
Hitting the north side of my house
Seeking shelter then slowly roll away 
Towards whatever little shade remained
With the speed of Grandma’s Black Molasses

A few miles east of the old country trail
The river’s waters had fallen
Lower than I had seen in years
Even the riverbanks had dried
Into a crumbling hard brown clay
That yearned for the rains to come

The heat, so oppressive and unyielding
Muted the voices of the birds
While all the wild animals
That usually ran about the fields
Sought out some relief or at the very least
Waited until night fell 
Before coming out to play

These were the quiet days
The silent times of life
It was the summer of waiting
A time that I could no longer dance
Or sing, or see you under the starry sky
This was the summer you had gone 
And I had grown much, much too old
To wait for another winter to come


Autumn arrived
With a cool morning wind
And the rustling 
Of golden brown leaves
That changed color
As they hysterically danced
Through the town streets
Before heading out
To their winter home

Here and there
Gangs of ferocious squirrels 
Ran up and down the trees
Harvesting whatever fruits and nuts 
That refused to drop
From the shivering trees
Whose bare bark
Could be heard
All about the woods

As I watched
Their once small mouths
Now bulging
With bits and pieces
Of summers’ leftover bounty
Hurrying down 
The old woodland paths
I couldn’t help but smile

This is the time of year
That I enjoy the most
A time of transition
When the earth 
Prepares for a long winters nap
Yes, it most definitely was
(As I thought to myself smiling)
A time of scurrying squirrels


Night inched its way
Up the north-east side 
Of my house
Much in the way
A little child
Would climb over a fence
One small hand at a time

And as night's shadow
Reached the very top
It stopped for a moment
Before tumbling over
And falling down 
The south-west wall
Plunging the house into darkness

It was a familiar winter night 
But what I remember most
Was how much colder it seemed
Then other winters before
Warm or cold
It was winter
Complete in every way
With winds like icy fingers
And falling snow
That seemed to go on and on

It was on a night like this
That I thought of you
A night
When I was overwhelmed 
By everything that winter was
Compounded by a darker darkness
Than any nights I could remember
That had come before

And try as I might
I could not summon the sun
Or make it rise more swiftly
To free my mind
From unwanted thoughts
Nor could I find any solace
In the quiet, quiet
Of winter’s silence


The windows rattled
As the spring winds blew
Down from the mountains
And across the forest
As I watched the newly budded trees
Bend and sway

Although spring was here
It was a cold wind
That chilled my cheeks
As I pulled the hood
Tighter over my face

Walking home I watched
While last year’s winter leaves
Scurried across the ground
Every so often stopping to rest
Before running out of view

I enjoy days like this
It keeps my thoughts from rambling
On thoughts of you
With your Easter dress and bonnet
Walking, walking, walking down
This old country path
Waving to me
For the last time

Copyright © CJ Krieger | Year Posted 2015

Details | Narrative |
Within these walls…
Fragrant aura of comfort
Freshly washed baby hair and sweet breath;
Passed around in soft pink pajamas
Laughter and wit from older minds;
Even though the stories are well used
Awkward ramblings of youngsters;
Still testing their wings
Warm delicious wafts of seasoned meat
And sugared pies
From a kitchen full of women;
Sharing recipes and secrets while sipping Chardonnay
Rambunctious giggles from upstairs;
Playing children’s games in pretty clothes
While piles of coats, hats, and purses
Sleep soundly on the guest room bed;
Along with one gray tabby cat
Crisp fallen leaves dance with shimmering snowflakes,
The first of the season
In a chilly November breeze
Just outside the door;
Painted a vibrant red
Illuminated by glowing amber post lamps;
Stalwart sentinels for our
Within these wonderful walls

Copyright © Kelly McDonald | Year Posted 2006

Details | Narrative |
Everything is so still as the morning slowly comes,
from afar, the sound of a babbling brook is heard.
Perched  high up, I wait for daylight to surround these peaceful woods,
as I sat listening to  the dew dripping from the trees.
What a beautiful place to be, on such a cold November morn,
the first day of Deer Season has finally come.
Shhh, listen, strange sounds coming from behind, as I turn to look,
I can't believe my eyes, he is big, so big, sniffing, and grunting
he comes closer.
Counting the points, yes, ten I see, trembling, I take my rifle
in hand, zero in,  he is mine, monstrous rack..
The echo rings through the woods, perfect shot, he is down,
shaking I climb to the ground to take a look at this BOSS of the Pines.
My first hunt of the season, and what a deer, one for the record.

I have two and a half months of this to listen to......
and this is his dream every night, and I hear it every day.

Copyright © Christy Hardy | Year Posted 2007

Details | Narrative |
Ruddy faced tots
lick ice pellets
off soggy red mittens...

Copyright © valerie bellefleur | Year Posted 2008

Details | Narrative |
Through the air they came, 
shattering the silent peace. A voice, 
"is that the rain, it is the rain," as 
they danced aloud on the metal 

A memory asleep sparked as a 
mighty flame;early in June when the 
rains would come, the thirst of a 
dying earth to quench, awaken 

I remember the plain, that big plain 
where children pranced: dead 
brown, had life surely sprung in 
awesome green, and gaping mouths 
therewith would close. The healthy 
plague spreaded, thus green life 

I remember the trees, some fruit 
trees, when their naked armes 
would bud, then fruit came, along 
with the wild birds who had their fill, 
and the children, rambling with long 
rods and plastic bags to gather the 
spoils for later a feast.

The sleeping lands awoke and 
happiness could breathe once more.
The dancing fades now and the 
memory slowly sleep, for I will 
always remember the rains.

Copyright © Alex Hazzard | Year Posted 2012

Details | Narrative |

Mostly mild, wet, and muddy  in winter,
but also chilly, cold, and sometimes snowy.
We feasted on ice cycles from tin or asphalt rooftops;
We screamed and yelled as we fought each other with snowballs;               With patience and craftsman-like precision, we made snowmen as        mothers watched with smiles, making us the best tasting ice cream.
Late nights and early mornings, we waited to hear from the newscast.
“The roads are too bad, and for the sake of safety, no school today”.
Such words over the radio or television are the only ones that mattered.
But it was not all fun and games in the Northern Mississippi Dixie land.
Rain, snow, sleet, or sunshine, there were always outdoor chores to do.
There was wood to cut and to bring in with the coals to keep us warm.
There were hungry pigs, chickens, a cow, and sometimes goats to feed.

One day out near the O’Hare International Airport, my feet nearly froze.
That was when I was driving a VW Bus that was fun to drive until it got cold.
Let the truth be told, Chicago is not just a Windy city by the lake; it’s icy cold. I had my Chicago share of winters in the ‘70’s.
In Chicago, with hardened and freezing bones,
on short days or long ones, life always goes on.
It was so cold that I could hardly walk.
It was so cold that I could barely talk.
It was so cold, yet nothing seemed to halt.
It was so cold that my whole body would shake,                                            and my ears ached in pain as if they would break.
If New York City never sleeps, Chicago never stops.
In the dead of winter, people on State Street continues to shop.
Mayor Daily’s city kept the streets clear, and the buses kept moving.

This year our heating system was first used on Saturday evening, November 7. It seemed that summer forgot to cool down and depart, or even stall; but ran head-on into fall. My trees are still very green, and the leaves are slowly falling because Winter is calling. It’s Sunny California in the Sacramento Region, and Winter is just around the corner. For a few years now, the rainy winter season has produced much heat, but little rain. Our hope is that this winter will be different for a change; perhaps cold and wet.

Copyright © curtis johnson | Year Posted 2016

Details | Narrative |

Love is like the flowers that bloom in early spring Love is the real reason, why red red robin sing Love is like a sun filled day smack in the middle of summer Watching occasional clouds drift by, one and then another Love is like an autumn day with colours far and wide Reminding us how special life is, this very sweet magical ride Love is like the chilly winds of yet another cold winter With time to reflect and realize, we're really just beginners Love is the ultimate expression of all the seasons of life Helping us to appreciate things, a bargain at half the price © Jack Ellison 2014

Copyright © Jack Ellison | Year Posted 2014

Details | Narrative |
Some sounds like the noise of bees
Hovering around the atmosphere
Or like rain drops on our roof tops,
I opened my round window
The window of my hut,
I wanted to know
Why my sleep won't mellow,
All i saw was sorrow
As the atmosphere turned green.
The cassava farm was over shadowed
Banana plantation feebled,
Apple orchard struggled
Yet their efforts stifled,
Lemon grass for mama's herb withered,
Rose flower shattered and our 
Groundnut farm tattered.
Suddenly,the green army fled,
Tears exuded from my eyes
As i sputtered in pain,
Mother filled with melancholy,
Father tore his heart in grief
Villagers hope captured and crippled,
So their travail displayed as
Everyone mourned over 
The locust plaque.....


Copyright © Charles Melody Lightning Ink | Year Posted 2011

Details | Narrative |
They call me the dying month, the bringer of cold harsh winds from the north.
I sneak up upon unsuspecting late summer well wishers, wrap my cold hands around their cheeks and come forth.

Moving silently across the country side, I graciously give the kiss of death to the once green leaves.
In my path I leave nothing but skeleton shapes twisted and old, they are nothing but shadows of once mighty summer trees.

In death however comes beauty of colour, the brown crispy leaves illuminated by the red autumn sky.
The stage is set and the players cast, the final curtain call is all but nigh.

With a crunch under foot, hat and scarves protecting such delicate pale frozen skin.
The first frost falls upon my deathly hands, I greet winter as my old friend with an honest grin.

Like the leaves from the trees my time is short, but the cycle continues without me and I die knowing my part has been played.
I close my eyes as you do in bed, into winters night will an autumn evening fade.

My time has ended and I bow out gracefully, for the work I've done I feel no shame.
As all things that share a purpose and live with meaning, it's time for us all to return whence we came.


Copyright © Damien Biggs | Year Posted 2015

Details | Narrative |
It’s mid-October, and the cool morning air
refreshes and replenishes the players as they march
across a muddy lacrosse field, the low sun
that manages to peek through the gray clouds
glistening off the beady surface of grass blades.
The stage is set for glory.

Copyright © Jesse Jones | Year Posted 2007

Details | Narrative |
I’ve a vast store of mem’ries about Chicago
as I’ve lived there for a couple of years
helping out in the parish of many immigrants,
especially Mexicans and Puerto Ricans.

I’ve made friends and a number of them
still continue to correspond by emails;
it’s like a treasure-trove of relationships -
where friendship makes a big difference.

I still remember when I get invitations
from people of other cultures in their homes;
their different cuisines and customs,
a great experience, a wealth of culture.

Chicago’s known for many attractions,
home of architecture with modern skyscraper
the neo-gothic Tribune Tower in the north
along with white Wrigley building in the city;
rich in architectural history, a sight to behold!

Its classic and modern architecture so far,
complements each other in visible terms,
with innovative ideas and creative designs
a special city with marvelous history.

Daniel Burnham, the famed architect,
designed the Merchandise Mart and others
significant to his life like ‘Paris on the Prairie’,
a tapestry of combined art of old and new.

Renowned architects with their respective styles
such as Frank Lloyd Wright and his prairie designs,
Louis Sullivan and his visible ornate facades
Ludwig Miles van der Rohe for modern styles.

Oh, Chicago, known also as the Windy City
so rich in history and its uniqueness too,
the time when a huge fire razed the city
destroyed lovely buildings in 1871.

Well, with the growing skyscrapers in the city
Chicago Spire, for instance, with its 150 stories
designed by a renowned architect Calatrava,
stands as the tallest building in North America.

With the so-called Trump Tower in its 92 stories
and then, Waterview Tower with its 90 stories,
Sears Tower, the skyscraper with its 110 stories,
that’s the only tallest among buildings in the U.S.

Oh well, this is Chicago in the landscape of beauty,
as a windy city, as well as a gateway to reality;
there’s meaning to trace back in history
there’s continuing progress towards this century.

Copyright © mark escobar | Year Posted 2012

Details | Narrative |
My twin sister came for a visit to New Hampshire at 30 below,
It was even more frigid when the fierce wind would blow.
Wearing her leather coat from Georgia, she didn’t have a prayer…
If it hadn’t been for a funeral, she never would have been there.

She got out of the car on arrival, and let out a squeal,
Because of a strange noise she heard that made her reel!
She said, “What’s that horrible, creepy sound?”
I replied, “It’s just the snow creaking from your feet on the cold ground!”

She said, “You have to go back to Georgia and get out of this hell hole!”
She was shivering from head to foot…the cold had taken its toll.
Later that year in the summer my revenge was oh so sweet!
It was 100 degrees in Georgia and she was complaining of the heat.

She said, “It is 110 degrees in the shade and I can’t do a thing with my hair.”
I said, “You’ve got to get out of that hell hole you have down there.”
“It is 75 degrees and beautiful, and my hair looks great!”
“You can have the weather in Georgia... this is worth the wait!”

Contest No 220 Any Form or Theme Max of 16 Lines
Sponsor: Brian Strand
Awarded 9th Place

Copyright © Brenda McGrath | Year Posted 2016

Details | Narrative |
In the center of our galaxy
from 1992 through 2003
astronomers were able to observe
a star, orbiting compact radio source
Sagittarius A.
The star had an orbit with average radius
1.4x1014 m
and period 15 years.
From this information astronomers estimated
the mass of Sagittarius A.
v = 2π(1.4x1014)/(15x365x24x60x60) = 1.86x106 m/s
a = (1.86x106)2/(1.4x1014) = 0.0247 m/s2
0.0247 = (6.673x10-11)M/(1.4x1014)2
M = 7.24x1036 kg
7.24x1036/(1.989x1030) = 3.6 million suns!
Astronomers infer that Sag. A is a
supermassive black hole
(it cannot be seen)!

Copyright © Jesse Jones | Year Posted 2007

Details | Narrative |
In the spring 
Who break in the flowers 
And spread fragrance 
To provide nectar for mankind 
Humans who pick the flowers at will

In the summer 
Who sit still and staring at all 
Let the tree be cut down by mankind 
I wandered and wandered 
Wandering for host to compass me

In the autumn 
In hollow tree 
Eating my favorite nuts 
But mankind neglect my hiding 
Frozen till unable to extricate myself

In the winter 
In iceberg 
Having my own fun 
The bad action of mankind 
Make the water temperature rise

Melting the iceberg 
Only hope that 
Mankind change their humanity 
Because of the replaced seasons 
Spring summer autumn winter

Copyright © Yap Kian | Year Posted 2017

Details | Narrative |
Only female mosquitas bite,
she said.
So what do your male mosquitoes eat?
he asked.
Whatever we inbite them,
s/he said.

So who's in control?
he asked.
We are,
she said.
Why not the mosquito?
he somewhat sexistly asked.

We are
includes both mosquito and mosquita
s/he regeneratively explained
her unfolding engenderfication
of bilateral time,
in racingly integrative space.

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2015

Details | Narrative |
Duchess, a brown chestnut Tennessee Walker with a
long flowing ebony mane, frolicked non-stop along the 
fenced pasture bordering the corn field.  She had the 
whole eighty acres to herself, kicking up her heels as if 
she was still a yearling.  Fall was nearing its peak and 
winter was just around the corner; for Duchess, it was 
just another wonderful season like spring or summer.  
The dark gray skies indicated a storm was approaching 
and with the nights changing temperatures, a dusting 
was evident.  Dusk slithered in with the north wind, 
suddenly- whirling fallen leaves and whipping cold- 
needle- like rain pierced her huge brown eyes.  Duchess 
bolts – and like the wind, wheels her slender muscular 
body in a joyous dance.  Hoofs thunder intensely on 
hardened cold soil, uprooting clumps of grass, sending 
them flying along with her splaying tail.  Oxygen 
saturated nostrils swell as she canters poetically in a field 
of crystals.  The snow now picks up pace as does her 
slow stride; turning into a gallop.  Steam pours from 
swollen lungs through her soft muzzle, she feels alive 
but exhausted from the sudden burst.  She gazes across 
the open field and watches the tiny crystals collect on 
evergreen along the hillside, gradually transforming into 
puffy white flakes.  She knows winter is here.

Copyright © 2010 By Caryl S. Muzzey

Second Place Winner ~ "Horses or Snowflakes or Horses 
and Snowflakes” Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance~A Rambling Poet~
Nov. 8, 2010

Copyright © Caryl Muzzey | Year Posted 2010

Details | Narrative |
Sick of the monsters
that track my steps,

given the chance I'd
lay them to rest.
Following my
they trail my every
Gotta lose 'em
before the moon
Grab my carving set
and begin to think
Grabbing their
attention- I get the
upper hand.
Stabbing through
their frail skin, 
I find the image of
blood in and on my
Cross-eyed and close
to the cliffs edge.
The moonlight sheds
time on the
monster's young
and i drop my knife.
For they are me, I
was them, and soon
we will be together
Looking back it was
a full moon's end.

Copyright © Kris Lund | Year Posted 2014

Details | Narrative |
Deep in the woods I hear an angel's lyrical call.
Tranquil and serene, a majestic summer waterfall.
Where the oaks and wildflowers shade the creek,
reflections fall to earth from rays of destiny,
refreshing my soul and setting my spirit free.
I smell the aroma of rain mixed with the paradise breeze.
Tranquil and serene, a natural wonder and rainbow of peace.
A cascading sparkling jewel,
above a wave rippling whirlpool.
Upon the wind rides the angel's lyrical call.
Tranquil and serene, a majestic summer waterfall.

Copyright © shannon farlouis | Year Posted 2010

Details | Narrative |
One early morning I heard the sound of approaching spring.
It was the sound of a bashful maiden crossing the stream 
barefooted, holding the skirt in her slender fingers.  

An azalea on the hillside is, with flushing cheeks, 
peeking through the gap between two rocks.

I heard the swish of whip under the scorching sun, 
it was the summer wielding the whip in middle of air 
to drive a poor little white cloud away.

It was the great struggle and cry of a maiden 
who was dragged by a big hand for forced marriage 
to an overly arrogant, and therefore, disgusting man, 
who lives in the village on the other side of the hill.
A cicada in a perfect impersonal beatitude is meditating 
under the shade of a tree eyes closed on worldly matters.

On one nightfall, I heard the sound of autumn passing through 
the plain, accompanying fallen leaves.  It was the hollow resound, 
a sardonic self-scorn of a lonely woman who walks over the fallen leaves.

It was the empty echo, a painful sigh of the broken hearted 
woman who looks back the horrible past from the forgotten path 
of perverted fate.
Under the beam of moonlight a cricket in the dungeon 
as a confined prisoner, overwhelmed with grief, sadly chirps.

I saw an approaching winter violently punishing a dead tree’s limbs and branches.  It was the roar of fierce tempest, it was the grudge of a woman who stands 
in the middle of blizzard.

I saw winter walks on the stars above frozen sky in white garments.  
It was the lamentation of the woman who roams in the other side of netherworld. It was the horrible memories of absurd past the woman can only recollect.

The tiny seeds in the soil, to overcome the bitter cold, are keep reciting 
the last line of last stanza from Shelley’s To The West-Wind s— “O wind, if winter comes, can spring be far behind?” with tightly closed shivering lips.

Copyright © Su Ben | Year Posted 2015

Details | Narrative |
Mermaids and watermelon

Summer time I became an aquatic creature
My best friend and I cooled ourselves floating 
Around and round the pool or rocking on an innertube
Waves as high as a couple of girls could splash.
Giggles and sunshine my summer fun times.
Mom would cut a watermelon after it was cold
The juice washed off in the pool and no one noticed
Summer time I grew fins and gills
That went perfectly well with little girl thrills.
Mom didn't know I would jump off the top of the slide
Right into the deep water....double dare you to try it!

Copyright © Doris Culverhouse | Year Posted 2012

Details | Narrative |


   somewhere above 
   the overcast sky,
   the gods hold 
   an open bowling

   The earth 
   shudders, then 
   violently trembles
   as gigantic balls 
   crash, roll and roar 

   barreling noisily 
   down titanic 
   bowling alleys,
   exploding, blasting 
   away at colossal 



Copyright © romeo naces | Year Posted 2011

Details | Narrative |
I dont know much about her
but I heard she wasnt that talkative
She didnt like being alive
She was numb to all the pain she had to go through

I heard she didnt like anything that was green
She ate roman noodles everynight for supper
She always wore flannels and bellbottoms
Sometimes i seen her wear dresses and fancy tops
But lately shes been wearing band shirts

She wears converse shoes and uses an army bag for school
I know that she dosent like to communicate through talking... only through her peoms
or sometimes even her songs.

I see her drawing and painting all the time
She draws famous people
She would like to be famous and not so unknown
When she tries to speak to anyone they always walk away and leave her alone

When she gets home she goes upstairs to play her bass guitar
She hates chocolate cake but loves chocolate
Her family left her behind because she cant forget her past

Sometimes when shes alone she contemplates the meaning behind her life
Her favorite color is gray because her life is black and white
Everything she says is false according to the world

She is not so innocent
I understand that she dreams about the perfect life
When she opens her eyes they are pitch black

She is someone that is fake
She acts nothing like she should
She is very grungy and unclean

She knows of no safety
and of no time
Her life is smashed into pieces by the giant sun

She will always be a ghost
She knows of no god
She crawls around in the world of death
She remains forgotten

Copyright © Shayla Dendinger | Year Posted 2012

Details | Narrative |

With storms my passions dance and play
As winter swirls above our heads
Sleep's embraces grab you tight
Hawaiian visions crowd our bed

Deep in frosty winds of night
While you are dreaming balmy skies
I trace the beauty of your back
And lick the whiteness of your thighs

Sometimes you smile, 
sometimes you groan
But it’s my delight 
to hear your moan.

I snatch you from that ivory shore
And wake you begging me for more

Copyright © Victoria Anderson-Throop | Year Posted 2012

Details | Narrative |

If I hadn’t seen the speckled splash
                                     hadn’t heard the cry -
     a forlorn sound
     reaching out to distance -
I wouldn’t have this shivered-thought

Yet?    The joke’s on me
The gull
A bird for all seasons
Loves to trigger imagination
He’ll shriek at wedding or wake alike
He’s just hungry

But I wish to hell
     on this gray    late December day
         with ball descending
He’d drop his load on someone else 

Copyright © daver austin | Year Posted 2010

Details | Narrative |
Cold spells get to a slow start this year,
with this month's full moon -
known as the Beaver moon.
It makes me think though;
of my homeland where people walk
and enjoy the precipice of the night.

While in New York autumn holds
symbolic meanings and stories to tell;
with a giant wind that looms over a coastline;
it's another landscape that beckons across the farmland.

Withered leaves drop and fall on the ground,
trees in their creeping sadness
continue to lose the sojourn of their youth.
At their height and moving branches,
make me stay up and watch them through the present time.

As I gleefully walk right up to the shrine of Our Lady,
there's a missing whisper, a song to my ears;
those birds spilling down the garden's main avenue.
Like an army, an orchestra that provides
melody in the midst of sympathy.

As a magical moment of Mother Nature,
I see enormous changes in forms and shapes;
an attempt to thrive for another threshold,
keeps me believe the power beyond
filled with images of life.

Copyright © mark escobar | Year Posted 2012

Details | Narrative |
Dawn’s Morn

	She burns of
scorching Reds and Oranges,
	Set on fire as
She rises early every morn,
	From pitch
black to morningious colors,
	She rises from
the morn’s yet still valley,
	Showing Her presence,
melting the cold dew of the night air,
	Breaking the ice
of Winter’s vast rays of light,
	Rising from the bellows
of the essence of dear womanhood,
	Bringing new life,
seeing in the day Her old self,
	She brings hope to all,
She is fire and She brings change,
	Wake up, Wake up,
the sunrise has unwillingly called,
She is dawn in
the Golden Hour of the morn,
	Dawn is here, after
the long, long past dark night. 

Travis “Ceijaeh” Klein

Copyright © Travis Klein | Year Posted 2016

Details | Narrative |
The potato plant's roots keep yielding her precious fruits,
As the youth of the Spring's breeze blows through the trees,
To provide the shadows of life on its green leaves,
A bastard child is born without the presence of a father,
Drugs and prostitution have destroyed her young mother,
There are dreams being shattered and nothing really matters,
When the lights grow dim...

Generations full of lust, lost in shame,
Silly ladies shake their pretty round hips in mischief,
The Summer's heat has came,
There are dreams being shattered and nothing really matters,
When the lights grow dim...

The great struggle of the poor man is a steady fight with all his might,
While the rich man gets richer off those huge city centers,
That help light up the night,
As the leaves from all the trees have fallen to the ground,
Diseases, poverty and sickness is all around,
There are dreams being shattered and nothing really matters,
When the lights grow dim...

The chill of the Winters's frost freezes the Earth's vegetation bear,
So, the people look to their governments for shelter and security,
But, it is so dam freezing cold,
And nobody knows if anyone even cares,
There are dreams being shattered and nothing really matters,
When the lights grow dim...

Centuries pass and life spans flows and goes,
Where the wind comes and goes nobody knows,
The Son provides the world with power and illumination,
Until the day of judgement,
Only the "Blood of the Lamb" will provide true salvation,
There are dreams being shattered and nothing really matters,
When the lights grow dim...

The Earth will exist until the end of times,
When God has defeated all the evildoers,
As it is spoken by his voice of thunder,
With the Saints of mankind,
For, there are dreams being shattered and nothing really matters,
When the lights grow dim...

If life's motions and actions would pause for an instant.
To realize it is never too late for change and redirection,
Until, those great old trees crumble and fall,
As its trunk gives way to decay,
And the axe as the Lumberjack calls,
Or, when all men's souls leaves their bodies,
To be judged by the "Almightly",
When the lights grow dim...

Copyright © eric harris | Year Posted 2008