So I walked into my local supermarket
to buy my weekly shipment of Kit Kat bars,
Cinnamon Toast Crunch,
and Ovaltine powder mix.
As I shake off the snow on my fake Timberland boots,
coated in frozen animation,
thaws into warmth’s teardrops from
the supermarket’s 75 degree vents.
This moist sense of happiness was quickly interrupted
when I heard Wilson Phillips, “Hold On”
over the PA system.
Thankfully, the cutlery isle was just to my left.
So, now, I had plans!
But, before I could commit felony’s song,
I saw her.
A Portuguese goddess
with a strut that can ruin a man’s dignity.
She had Autobahn curves,
dark brown curls of hair & visuals,
and thick flesh meat that even Vegans would envy.
Her face lacked Maybelline coated misapprehension.
Cause I never did like clowns.
After staring longingly at her,
like a crack head with impulsive eyes upon a broken/unlabeled bag of baby powder,
she breezed past my stifled posture and clocked in to work.
She didn’t even get a chance to smell my $500 cologne called “Piece of Me”.
So with new-found urges to grab all my groceries,
like a burglar who really has to pee,
I rush to express checkout.
There she is.
Her register beeps in coupon lady’s rhapsody,
while my register needs a cleanup on Isle 9.
Now it’s my turn.
With girlish inner-screams of boy-band intensity,
I say, “Hi”.
She scans my apples, while I scan her melons.
The melons that the customer ahead of me didn’t want…
…they were on sale.
As if she read my mind,
“Are you feeling warm now?”
“All I want is to be the heat in your moment”,
which I almost said.
But, “Now I am”, is uttered.
As she smiled with seductive demure,
she handed me my receipt
with her phone number on back.
As I left the market,
I began to get cold again.
These winds of change
became gusts of numbness.
I locked myself out of my heart.
I turned around to go back inside.
Only to discover,
she didn’t have the key.
© Drake J. Eszes
Copyright © Drake Eszes | Year Posted 2010
He stands proud and strong, this kilted warrior
head held high against the unending pain
of a heart born out of sadness
for the loss of those who came before him
and thoughts of those who would
continue on when he himself was no more.
Proud men one and all
vows made, till surrendered in death
to defend that which
was their birthright, the very land
upon which he now stood.
The call to battle though long since silenced
came from within his very heart and soul
blood of the ancient ones raged in his veins
his sword by his side...shield upon his back
he stood ready to charge into battle
to do what was expected of him since birth
to fight as those before him fought
without fear, but with a strength
only a battle hardened warrior
knew and understood.
Copyright © Melody Coster | Year Posted 2007
Hiss, Hiss, Snap goes the lighter
And he walks ahead
Just like a fighter
Click, Click, kaching goes the money
And he leaves with his poison
Why am I laughing? This isn't funny
But I can't help but laugh, laugh, laugh
My face hurts
My mind is starting to drift
And boom! Something bursts
I'm the boss of me
And I'm not so right
What do I do
I'm losing my own fight
Who is this?
This isn't me
I can't believe what I see
Hiss, hiss, snap goes the lighter
And he passes it round
Down, down, down, goes the fighter
We all make a sound
Crash, crash, crash
We are heading
Burn, burn, burn, we are burning
But, no one is learning
What did I do?
What was I thinking?
I can't believe I wanted to
I'm the boss of me
And I'm not so right
What do I do?
When I let myself lose sight
Who is this?
Who is she?
What did I do?
Is this me?
Copyright © Rebecca Berezin | Year Posted 2012
I'm driving through such beauty, this lush rural countryside. I find it hard to believe that my
career has taken me to here. Being where I am is so much different to the Highlands from where I reside from.
Thankfully my 4 x 4 takes the endless rutting roads with aplomb. Mind you, sometimes they remind me of back home, councils never repairing.
As I drive, visually I see scattered belongings. Has the wind carried them to there, as I stare, whilst driving, mm!
The long and winding road takes me to where I've come from. The Coffee Plantation that allured me here initially, empowers me to think back to it's early days. The wanting of the locals, hungered for work, steady monies, quaint prosperity from their already empty existence.
The next day, I hear on the news, that Habyarimana and the Burundian President, Cyprien Ntaryamira were on a plane, shot down, all were lost.
Having met Juvénal Habyarimana before, it saddened me totally.
The next day on the local radio, I hear there's been disturbances. Like many places in Africa, it was the norm. Onward I went about readying for work. Off I go, before I reach the entrance, a crowd rushes towards me. Angry to say is an understatement, vociferous they, wielding anything they can lay their hands on. Branches, planks, irons, machete’s to name. I'm now needing to veer, to not hit workers that I recognise.
I stop a few miles from home, sweated, shaking, as to why?
To get to my Coffee Plantation, I have to travel through the local village, town, call it what you may. As I near, like yesterday, strayed clothes abound, but different, and so much more. This time they're reddened, stained, adorning ripped bodies.
Now frightened, I travel on foot, walking through blooded carnage, my stomach churning.
Children clutching their mothers, fathers and sons I assume holding hands. Young girls taken, forsaken, their life seeping into their lands from where they lived.
As I near the village, town, there's shouting, chanting, the stench of burning flesh. Upon view, machetes wield down on many, amidst cries I've unheard of. Limbs now release, torso's tired, fired, my eyes streaming tears for fears.
In frightened stare, I'm spotted, sadly by my neighbour. He points at me, my heart surges, scared, disturbed by what I've seen. Instinct tells me, run, and I run, Lord do I run.
Upon reaching, fumbling I am for the keys, this image I'd only thought was in the movies. Now where I ask, knowing where I am. For once amidst this, I think, border, which border, as I decide to head East to Tanzania, knowing we have a sister company there.
It's later that day, my eyes now in tears.
On the news, knowing people I see. Their hacking children, pregnant mothers, fathers and sons.
What's taken this for the Tribes to have undone. I worked with both sides, for many a year.
I now look back as I'm summoned, to give evidence at the '100 Days of Slaughter'
Caught up I am, to declaring Rwanda's loss, of my Tutsi wife, and our daughters
. 11th Oct 2014.
Copyright © James Fraser | Year Posted 2014
Genoa by night
Meandering streams of light
Like wisps of smoke
Wrap themselves on the hills
Of the dormant city,
Sliding towards the sea.
Genoa beautiful appears
By night too
Almost as awaiting
For the new day
Genova di notte (italian version)
Rivoli di luce tortuosi
Come volute di fumo
Si avvolgono sulle colline
Della città addormentata,
Scendendo verso il mare.
Genova bella mi appare
Anche di notte
Il nuovo giorno
Copyright © Mario DE PAZ | Year Posted 2013
Life is a journey of countless sub-destinations
It’s in stages and phases
Life is a function of time a subset of different season
Wet, dry, winter, spring, or summer
Each is experience one at a time
Life continues as a journey
When the journey is far
I am empowered to keep moving
When every thing seems locked up and become tiring
I received encouragement never to look down but keep focusing
When the sun is at its peak
I am hopeful there is a shade ahead to hide my head
When it’s stormy, heavily rainy or snowy
I know with an assurance
That the house ahead will take me in
Just in a land of different culture and lingual codes
I feel at home because I have a friend that knows, trusts, and believes in me
He is the reason I’m encouraged and the source of my strength
He is the house and home that take me in
He is my beautiful angel sent from above
I bless the heaven for the friend in you
Copyright © Joshua Akinwande | Year Posted 2011
Main Entry: relieved Function: adjective Date: 1850: experiencing
or showing relief especially from anxiety or pent-up emotions
— re•liev•ed•ly \-ˈlē-vəd-lē\ adverb Relive One entry found.
Main Entry: re•live
Pronunciation: \(ˌ)rē-ˈliv\ Function: verb
Date: 1548 intransitive verb
: to live againtransitive verb: to live over again; especially : to experience
again in the imagination Releave must be an adjective or mabe just a noun eye
frown as some of my flock of followers must do at some of the spellings eye
make of words that have been spelled this way for at least six years. Main Entry:
reweave Reweave can be found at Merriam-WebsterUnabridged.com. Reweave
is the way ELMER GLUEALL says RELEAVE. OH FUDD. WAIT. Releave looks
just like a real word does it not class. This is the reason we have school idint it
so fun. Some professors get a case of nerves when something like this typo
occurs but eye as a Lewis type teacher make inroads of nuances the words
flowing in the desert places like oasis of stasis static ornaments near Colorado
Boulder. There was this episode of Mork and Mindy where the EGG went flying
and OH my it landed hard. The memory gets better when you stop. Just give it
some more time to regenerate the Christ is GOD. People are idiots in there
dealings with other people. Scientific evident escaped the masses when they
chose to witness to the escaping gases of the sublime whiskey beer farts given
time they may recover the couches with upholsters from the hang over guns of
the cowboy trudges. TO: the eviloushonist life is just a reactored accidental
inflated accident. The worthless people who run the behind the scenes at the
internet places aer too blame they aer too flaming strang. There is a
misconcepting theorem that people do what other people think the truth is that
people do the impossible things that no one does or even thinks of like getting
up from a day of boredom and going on to see what finding means to see what
living does. Please do not feel let down or depressed or put upon eye tired to
make this fabel work without an idea of any kind without a premises without a
forum places without much hope of even rhyme this thing is done this is quite
enought for now please stay tuned and keep me ici and come back its
SATURDAY the next one will be formed on SUNDAY when the author has more
Copyright © charles hice | Year Posted 2008
Cold, callus, crying, shivering,
and covered in sweat.
Wondering what has happened.
Not yet understanding this fate I’ve met.
What of a guy that stumbled around,
just trying his hardest to show he’d been found,
after all he had just been purchased
from the human pound.
That promise to you.
Man I broke it.
I told you Id stop,
and for a time I did,
but that stuff two blocks away,
my will power just wasn't work-n.
My wrist watch again broken.
Always from the look on my face,
you could tell Id been smoke-n.
You tried so hard,
but the mind wasn’t mine.
only a shell of what used to be,
all of me you were trying to find,
and I didn’t get this till my alone time.
I was pushing.
You were pulling.
Then it all pushed you away.
It was all down hill from here,
so naturally you couldn’t stay.
I sit here so sad
for the way you must of felt.
Let alone how you dealt.
Ill never understand how I could do this to you.
You're so prefect,
even your aura dances in ambient light.
You’re the best friend I could of had,
and that leaves me really mad,
that the rest of the world
may never know what we had.
The thing is I know now,
that you loving me.
This really was Much more,
than I loving you.
~Ha,Turned around this insecurity was always mine.~
Copyright © jay o'neal | Year Posted 2011
(Dedicated to Dana Rugina)
On that very cool and refulgent evening
Flying from Europe to Africa
Luck placed me beside you
How beautiful it was to look at your pretty face
How wonderful to know you are from Romania
How pleasant it was to have a seat beside you
How glad I was to know you are a mathematician
Though accented, paid kin attention to listen to me
I had a smooth and sweet flight
Not because it was an Egypt Airline nor that I sat in business class
But because you keep my company
“Is your final destination Egypt?” ignited our conversation
“A man that keeps quite will die” will I always remember
Because they are words of wisdom
I believe I’ll see you again
Friend on the flight
Where and when, that I cannot say.
Copyright © Joshua Akinwande | Year Posted 2011
Eye chased mye deer into the rough the golf was tough and leathery the ball
wound up in the gulf near the coarse leather coat the top coated layer of infinity.
When every internet address is placed into the category suited to it best and
every number has been named and everyone is best at what they do not just
where they are could it be hard to let them off to la la land to make them just to
understand the slot the slotted place therein. The lob lolly cained there was two
of them they rub and shudder expectantly in exctasy like twine boarding a fence
posting to the dead letter offices in all the land. The firmimentnation of the united
stations was attacked with hate the rabbit tripped over the log anon and said
quite frankly my dear eye don't give a darn who who is. They drugged the maiden
dragged her screaming from the bed the water stain will set in the rug don't ewe
understand it was to be this afternoon not later in the day not tomorrow anyway it
has to be soon after noon. The goon dropped a cup and he grumbled and he
gripped it in one hand and it slide like the banana peeling from the tree shaded
oasis banana vines green black men picking them forking bales of hey what was
that noise a student in the background just redialing all his porn so sure that all
those girls are doing time to make him worn. Egads the Chounds are about us
they have been released on Edgar come Allen forward POE. They foxed the
kittens and sometimes the medical officer gets some extra hush money to look
the other way is danger danger warning warning the alien is coming. When you
must explain anything a joke or silent laughter a penny for your thoughts the
hidden manna best sometimes to leave unsaid the thing so evident for iff she
has not gotten it a lenghty explainnation will not further it along the windsome
parapet the jester faking it has lost the thread the limits of the outer kind
surpassed in unbelief. Nothing is perfect in scrabble blast eye have noticed
sometimes there is only one tile left over but it still gives ewe the option of
scrambling the letters and it even tosses the tile up in a vain attempt to move the
thing in semblance of the shuffeling required by law in this game. Survival
dictates like a witch brewing portents in the ditch poor and sinful man disgraced
walking to the human race the chounds to chase.
Copyright © charles hice | Year Posted 2008
Slowly find a quiet place,
Which captures your heart and comforts your soul.
Where moments of peace,
Weave into a web of complete perfection.
Free as a cloud,
Your spirit reaches out to a horizon without any limitations.
Drowned slowly with painless relief.
Walk the earth gently,
Where a thousand sun`s rays dance on the days to come.
Far in the distance
The past disappears like a dark emotion over the edge without regret.
Silence is this moment,
Away from a life where there are no reservations.
Presented by time for soul`s renovation.
As moments of truth offer us life`s gratification.
Soft sounds with soothing affection,
Reaches the mind on the soft evening breath.
The day waves good night to the sky with tender emotion.
Leaving the soul with a gentle reflection.
With a wandering mind,
The eye catches the footprints left by yesterdays dreams.
A slow wandering pace into a future offered by tomorrow`s beliefs.
Slowly time meets at the edge, where moon`s rays dances on the end of the day.
Magic is born,
When the stars` promises dance on the moonlight`s thoughts
Yesterday is lost in time, to open up space for another tomorrow to come.
The soul reaches peace when the magic of the moments meet.
Copyright © Elizabeth Frost | Year Posted 2016
Glistening silver on water’s edge like thousands of diamonds for my hair -
Snow covered mountains hide summer flowers of purple, pink and gold
while black bear and deer search for left over apples from October’s harvest.
Ellijay is crisp and cleaned to perfection by nature’s wind and cold -
The cows hide inside the old, red barn up the hill.
Hickory trees barren of fruit, yet a lone woodpecker flits back and forth looking -
searching for substance from the thick bark only it can penetrate.
My prayer for snow covered mountains has been answered.
Seventeen years of Florida sun has scorched my throat and mind.
I wanted to see New York snow in North West Georgia -
One full Sunday of snow falling for my eyes to fill
in the glorious beauty of winter’s wonder.
Copyright © Natala Orobello | Year Posted 2011
Brecon Beacons for pony-treks,Cumbrian fells and bubbling becks;Dartmoor
with rocks rain scarred ,Lake District views beloved of bards.Northumbria, above
on moor and hill,where Roman echoes linger still.Stone-bridged hamlets in the
Dales with enclosed leas along its vales.Snowdonia ,one thousand yards high
reached by slow trains up to the sky.Pembroke with its distant trail so
long,heritages for us to protect and prolong.National treasures to preserve and
enjoy by rich,the famous and hoi poloi.
Copyright © Brian Strand | Year Posted 2007
The meat slicer is vintage 1957
the walls are a dull green
the deli case is full of the same
bland pastries that crumble
as ruins at Jericho.
The waitresses smile quickly
through tight lips flashing
those straight marble teeth
as they march with their menus
across the linoleum to take
orders for Latkes,
two for six dollars,
a large size chicken liver
plate for eight fifty,
or the half pound corned beef
“wall” sandwich for
a fair price.
I sit at Kravitz's
today for the atmosphere,
I hear the strains of
Va Pensiero in the silence
of the patient deli case,
the pastry ruins,
the circus that is the menu,
the New York style low cut
coffee cups, the face
of Mr. Kravitz in the corner.
This is the place where
things happen if one but
sips coffee and waits and
I order the thick Latke's with
a teaspoon's worth of apple sauce
for each. None wasted.
The minutes pass slowly
in this gastronomic temple,
I have faith in a destiny,
down to half a Latke.
My phone starts playing music.
Copyright © Peter Kautsky | Year Posted 2015
What trace of shadow, of language long and distempered in memorial
elegy, of abbeys as dismembered dolls lifted from their wrappings, of
hallowed grounds embedded with upturned forks while cigarette
embers chuckle soon sound aslumber in the crooks of pews, of
fallow convictions interred between dour stones of the Thames,
retracted like a lover's kiss, of security in flightless ebon wings
while its mercurial eye peeps on Marriott's old ladies for 30 quid,
of refuse systems as landmarks to history, dear old old Form(al)
no cat no cradle in its strings of moving metal carriages in the heavens
Shakespeare Shakespeare! What a play you've made of her, our fair
Copyright © Collin Lam | Year Posted 2013
S it starts with S no arguments the EI could be the IE but the E is alphabetically
the foremost letter and IE seems wrong to mee then there is another S. It seems
so out of place but sounds so there it seems to me the S makes seismic sense.
The M is just the middle of the word caught between the EIS and the ending. The
ending is the IC it seems to me to be less forcefull AC would do better call it
seismac rhymes with smack see eh? And makes a much better and harder
word. The possibilities multiply immediately the Seismac Ocean. The Isle of
Seismac. The Seismac waves washed over the smurfer today as he sat android
like at his computer terminal in the shaded area. Everyone has favorite places
and webpages on the internet there is many such places a man will visit and tell
everyone about them but there is a few that he will never divulge the info even on
his deathbed he keeps the sign in log on secret.
He will sit and watch the movie while his best and only friend flips the simulation
cards to make the mouses ears move up and down. This is vanity and chagrin.
The up to the minute news is had while his only friend sits looking at the crystal
glass ball in an effort to determine what transpired in la la land. The news in
Africa is GOLD in America its OLD in Switzerland it's COLD in The Netherland it's
BOLD. The same seismac article of war zone policy states that upper echelon
read faster they get better weather and more money cake and laughter. Mein
COMP. MIEN Comp. The hills are blue the beans are red becomes blue beans
the hills are red, the while away the time becomes the time is marching on the
sun will set in the western sky at daybreak in the eastern lie. The tsunami waves
of seismac grains reach all the living left alive for when the people die the spirit
feels it. Eye am seismac.
Copyright © charles hice | Year Posted 2008
Some folks believe it. Others do not. The legend told in the Bayou Cannot. The only witness who can swear that it's true, are the creatures who live in the bayou. The owl told the gator, the gator told the frog, about the horror filled night that changed their home in the bog. Far off on the mainland, miles from the marsh, in a large city, where living is harsh. A man's world invention sprang into life. A breath of fresh air to man's world of strife. A new deisel engine, queen of the line, would make it run for the very first time. The sunset limited it was aptly named. Gleamed in the station waiting its moment of fame. Boarded by folks going south, some headed out west, none mindful of anything, but each's own quest. New York to L.A. via the southern run. So it was, the trip had begun. Back in the bog, things were happening too. A barge made its way north with its captain and crew. The day had been hot. The night had turned cool. The fog roiled in, with its blanket of dew. The captain steered his tug, painfully slow, caution was key to safely deliver the tow. All of a sudden there was a scrape and a jolt the barge floated free, not held by a bolt. Panic seized the crew! "We've lost the tow!" "MAYDAY!" screamed the captain over the radio. Amid the chaos and moans of disdain, another great jar, "We've got it again!". Back on land not far down the track the Limited sped with a clickety-clack. Approaching the tressel no one noticed the shake. Who could blame the poor folks; the hour was late. Midway over the bayou came the tressels demise. A great shiver another great quake, tons of speeding steel, folks met their sad fate. Days went by weary and sad. Rescuers agreed none worked a wreck this bad. Twisted and bent the engine was pulled from the muck and the slime. "102" came the final count, the coroner spoke and noted the time. A weary voice shouted "Wait!" "Sir, I disagree!" Tired eyes turned, what did they see? A weary man held in his arms a child about three. Today believers say "an angel wanders." "A tiny spirit" Others agree. On foggy nights when no moon can be. A tiny light flickers so you will see. "It's a firefly!" Say the skeptics of haunt. The creatures disagree and murmur their taunt. They know the spirit of the child now lives in their swamp.
Written by my grandmother Sandra Burch
Copyright © Ashley Abraham | Year Posted 2012
The seductive smoky weed descending from Kabiru swept through my nostril
Cracky creepy shanties sneaking
Pulsating stench sneering from gutters
Churning and choky smoke oozing from the BRT buses
Area boys bullying
Police officers begging for spiritual currency
Perputuality and patriotism is our uniform
Confusion descending from the State House
Fashola’s spectacles is missing
Tinubu is snoring
Okada’s boys on rampage
Mama Risikat with assorted bottles of combined
I embraced a cup to shine my eyes
I embraced street live
Growing up in the hood
Swimming with the skally wags and hood rats
My dreams are illegal in Lagos
A meter from my nose
Is a sawmill and smiling garbage as high as Babel
Emeka’s blaring speakers echoing;’ do me, I do you, God no go vex’
Beside me, is a 2 storey house
The city of scam
‘Boys go hamma’
Unliag coconut heads with their effizy
Adeola’s gap-tooth snowballing
My naughty pen crying, ‘chop my money’
At dawn, the muezzin whispering’ Allahu Akbar’
O’ Lagos, your womb is polluted and punctured
Your dreams cut through third mainland bridge
Swaggering and swooning it trails
Lagos, a confuse city.
Written by Awoh Kingsley
Dedicated to Adeola
26th October, 2012
Copyright © awoh kingsley awoh | Year Posted 2012
Across the River, West 'tis that
at the cliffs & clefts of Victoria above
blackish waters slick as Legislation, of Verrazzano
& not-so-merried ferries, the promontory sits of
visage, resplendented of red deer & red bear &
white Eagles' scat from Lady Liberty!
Why, in the glare of where, opossum
& red squirrel, vied in-passioned
imposters of small virtue in deed
sought, wrought of purloin
for some vertu & bijouterie
(The Chief Islander) - so the Mythic goes!
But hey!, it's up-on the BigScreen, now
playin' @ The Bijou, & in the dutri-plexes
& plexes of plexiglasse &
MegaPlexes of Tribeca, in the Tri-boros+2...
Avaunt! Above Verrazzano visage
tramontane, there! the Filth & Flair
of City fare, miasma which got us into
Copyright © H MANTEL | Year Posted 2007
Shifting sands, ever changing
with the always steady beating
of the planets heartbeat.
Patterns dynamic in their structure
always different, never the same again
carried on the wings of the wind
and its passing whim.
Hills and valleys dot the landscape
flat lands going nowhere lead ever onward.
Tiny grains of sand alone
are naught but infinitesimal specks
but together they can be mighty indeed.
Life abounds in this ever changing universe
with times passing it continues to fight
in order to survive its sandy domain.
To exist at it is/was destined too
is the only truth it knows.
Grains of sand mark the passing of time
minutes, hours, moving ever onward
with the shifting of sand, never to be retrieved.
Where it begins no one seems to know
its ending a mystery as well
is the end the beginning, or is the beginning the end?
Copyright © Melody Coster | Year Posted 2006
Dear Recipient: You have won the lottery.
Please add this address to your address book immediately so that we have our
fishhookers in you from the start. This is VIP BENDSMORE from the obscure
village of Pretendmore in East South Africa; we have upwards of ThirtyThree
Millions Gold Bullions Cubes taken from the diamond mines of Kenya. Can you
send us all your unknown information so we can fleece your pockets with our
real inventions avarice and greed; we aim our guns to please. Send us nammes
we need addresses we want numbers dates of birth and places we need to
knoe the namme of all the ancestors so we can dig them up and do it to them
also we need money in the form of PayPal send it to us by the score. You are
also the one billionth customer we have a bonus a real raw diamond taken from
the belly of the statue of the Qyeen of Sheba standing in front of the only Pyramid
left in South Africa the Temple of Dome. We will send you the diamond when
southern places freezes over Rodger and outside the ball one a swing and a
miss the Swiss have many freebank accounts we want several more. To verify
the account we will need the account number. Make the money in various
denominations marked in small bills at least less than the Hundred Dollars so
prone to counterfeit. So ewe want to be a writer it is not easy ewe to consistently
come up with new ideas day after day document after document and make it
pleasing to the eye and to the public view. Remit the African Qyeen list the
holdings in your vault one by naked one send the stain sealed cartons with the
nammes of all deceased upon them make the Africa River falter in its flow with
barges laden with the heaps of dough. Remit mee send it rather quickly the need
is efferpheasant rapid transit in my Africa Jungle is the local version of the snail
the backs of Natives's heavy laden with the burdens of the way upon the lithe
black ebon forms they sway in rhythms like a long slick serpent moving in a row.
Please add Seventy five cents for deposit. We found a founder he will send us all
the more he is the President of Baltimore the Oriel. Ewe remember him the long
tall one with the largesse straw hat the one who did the 7 Up commercial oh did
eye say HAT no his head was shiny bald. Try saying that one quickly in the cold.
Copyright © charles hice | Year Posted 2008
Author: Ken Jordan
Short Story: Bodega Bay
Edited By: Sparkle Jordan
It was late autumn when the
summer leaves on the trees
was just turning to a reddish
orange, and each day the
morning sunlight would become
dimmer by a mist of incoming
Down by the sea, fisherman
were out in there boats with
fish nets in tow searching for
the big catch.
In the distance, a constant
sound of a foghorn was heard
for miles, and giant waves
splashing against the channel
rocks, was a
beautiful mental painting Pablo
Picasso, would've been proud
Then suddenly, straight out the
sky appeared these tiny
Sandpipers, parading along the
shore, pecking there beaks in
the sand for food
on the beach -
It was a beautiful autumn day
at Duran Beach in Bodega Bay,
Copyright © Ken Jordan | Year Posted 2014
I wondered about midnight, with the
of my tongue standing straight up in between my teeth, my hair fell to places that were
begging for his fingertips, for the smooth warmth that occurs when he kisses my skin...
I laughed at moments we shattered, because destruction is amusing when you are in love,
and I was untouchable then, my breath sounded like time and time...
leaving bruises that resembled....
I wanted to submerge his inebriated head with the secrets I hid behind my smile, and if
spaces were eventual then surely I'd reach for him, but he'd never remember the corners of
my mind when he slept, he'd never have nightmares from the knowledge that my cobwebs have
captured his smile...
I walked through us as if we were ghosts, I saw the images of our every mistake, I bit my
lip and threw my shoes to the bottom of forever just to see if I could hear them tumble,
so I'd know what I'd sound like if I...
were to fall in.
I begged for quiet with the twisting of rings and my thumbs seemed naked despite the
donning of Seattle, and you know the mountains there, they whisper secrets when you're too
to hear them, when you're too caught up in the beauty of possibilities to listen...
so I found myself quite possibly caught and I wondered if his webs glistened in the
moonlight that dropped from sleep
I wondered if they smiled
if their tongues clicked
if they felt
Copyright © JeanMarie Marchese | Year Posted 2007
I have not eaten today,
But my heart is filled
Not hungry of affection.
I had a fill of you last night
A fill of you for a life time
All around us are walking corpses
Corpses of political disregard
Humans of no nations
Even when they are bona-fide citizens
Your blood and mine flows in them
The government abhors the poor
Feeds them with empty promises
Shoves them through the door
They pay the bills
For social amenities they can’t find
Pay taxes for their castles
Government built in the air
But we know their ancestors
Filthy dogs eating from the king’s crumbs
No; Lets not unknot the knot
Soon a messiah might heed us
In heaven’s book of life,
I heard the poor names are there
In here’s book of life
It is deleted.
Thus, in your head,
Lays your kingdom and glory
Get rich or die trying
Or; be their poor and keep sulking.
Well, like them I saw…
I have not eaten
Flesh gone weak to skeleton
The solitude of love within
Keeps me living; I am breathing
But I am moving,
Towards your direction
I see your beam
I feel new
When I see you
From my heart
Seeps through the rays of the sun
Its fun; this love on death line
We survived the genocide
We survived the war
We survived love
We survived us
I love you too.
This poem is dedicated to the abused tribes of Rwanda and Nigeria during their respective civil wars resulting in near human annihilation. Though time has passed, we still feel your pains chilling our bones. The survivors.
Copyright © Isioma Esemene | Year Posted 2012
Light is speech. the mind
an enchanting thing
picking and choosing.
Our past becomes present
Modesty may,might nay must
rescued by the disposition of angels
in pedantic literalism.
A distrust of merits, style &connoisseurs.
prisnmatic colours,hyphens &lines.
efforts of affection ,interacting with
apparations of splendour.
Inspired by the works of Marianne Moore
Copyright © Brian Strand | Year Posted 2016
First, be aware, all close by 6pm.
NYC, this aint.....
Second, call up.....
"How much are beers?
"Okay- I'll take 4 beers and a slice.
What's that come to?"
"Hold on, 4 beers, each $2.50,
that's $10., right?"
A slice is $16.50?"
"No, you have to add sales tax,
Oil surcharge, delivery fee, employee
dependent's education fund,
wear and tear on the tires,
and telephone imformation fee."
"sorry, you're right, that should be $29.50."
"Additional questions are $2.50 each...."
"Hello, Chinese Jade Restaurant..."
"Hi, any MSG?"
"No, we don't go to Madison Square Gardens"
From now on, english muffins and liverwurst!
Copyright © tom bell | Year Posted 2008
Narrator Ed.Note: CharlaXAndroidoneseven is now flying to the moon to save
Supergirl he has to disable the program that sent the disc…
Stay tuned to find out more about the MOON in the new twilighted zoned series
Copyright © charles hice | Year Posted 2008
Tall thin pine trees swaying in the wind
Sunlight breaking through the narrow gap
Distant green-capped fields the morning find
Discarded over there, a branch with sap
Yonder, redundant teacher prunes his tree
Still an intellectual without a class
Had a dream of one day being free
And now believes that life is crass
Lonely dog prowls around his den
Tied to his post without a walk
Why should God's creature be kept therein
What would he say if he could talk
White butterflies have crowded round the bush
What do they know that I do not
The hedgerows coloured and full of lush
Nature's stories we have all forgot
We all believe the pathway long
And suddenly we glimpse the sight of age
Why have we neglected nature's song
From this day I will turn a new page
Reflect you well on life, on pain
Started well with hope and joy
Life is witness to wealth and gain
But is a failure were dreams to die
Copyright © Patrick Ronan | Year Posted 2007
I sang the words of
and pretended to own barstools as my sweaters lost color, I scribbled words on napkins and
slid drinks underneath them, I pretended to be...
“Buy me something, something I can wear around my neck and place pictures in, something
that sparkles, something.....pretty,” I asked him.
He shook his head because he knew about my tendencies to break chains when I felt too
locked up, he knew the way I loved to run.
I stopped for a second and paused the moment we were supposed to kiss in, I placed my head
on his lap and told him of North Carolina~
only because I loved the words.
I stopped there, sometimes, on the borders that separate Virginia, I've thrown my life on
hotel room floors, losing it under the bed just so I could sleep, I've walked out and left
myself behind, and I've wondered, those times, about the meaning of forever.
We met, he and I, you know, in a hotel, in a room where the key unlocked me, and I had
thrown myself to the floor with a black skirt and a pair of fishnets and
h i d
under the bed while he smiled...
I kept my eyes open, on top of bedspreads and headboards and I kept thinking that we'd
stayed too long
stayed past the moment where people kiss...
and I wondered, that time, if that moment meant forever, but I forgot to ask and was too
frightened to hear the answer.
Years later, we slept, we dreamed in North Carolina, after I sang him
after he gave me something pretty,
he gave me his name
Copyright © JeanMarie Marchese | Year Posted 2007
The long never ending landscape of southern Alabama never runs cold. Today it decided to. The wind was at
ease and all the snow flakes were about. The cold ground shuddered beneath me but I could tell it was a good
kind of shiver. The snow fell down in a hurry yet it still took it's time swaying in the wind. All the snowflakes
danceing around soon started a low tune far off on the wind. The band played a song that the world has been
playing for centerys. One of love and peace. One that has no bounds or experation date. The song was cold
enough to freeze the earth but here I stood warm as I basked in my happieness. The world seemed still as the
orchestra played it's beautiful tune. The wind swirling and twirling as if it were a finely tuned violin. I couldn't
bare to close my eyes for it was just to beautiful to look away from. As the wind picked up in it's gusts the
snow felt ever so heavier and the skys begain to melt the love within the snow as all the snowflakes fell down
as rain. "What a beautiful conversion" crossed my thaughts. The snowed over feild grew dreadfully quiet as the
beautiful tune escaped into the wind. This was when I sudenly realized I was soaked and freezing. Almost killed
me but I steped inside away from the Alabama snow. But I knew she'd come back for me.
Copyright © Cate Rock | Year Posted 2010