Is this life but a dream?
I once wondered to myself, in this life
Will we really find true happiness,
A place to which we can escape,
A place where there are no worries of the future,
Where we, once again, may envision life with the naivety of a child?
The life of a child
Is quite a lovely dream.
Sadly, as children we are often much too eager to reach the future.
We’re told, ”Take it one day at a time, this life,
Be sure to experience that great escape,
And most importantly, without regret, always indulge in your happiness.”
We seem to spend our whole lives searching for happiness.
It appears to vanish from our lives the moment we cease to be a child.
We attempt to find a method for which we are able to escape
From the trials and stress of our mundane lives. Losing ourselves in a dream,
We continue aimlessly through life,
Permitting ourselves no further notions of the future.
I have found that I am no longer satisfied living in a daze, I believe if I begin to live for the future,
I am bound to find that unequivocal happiness.
I must be honest; I, too, was never truly patient with life,
Underestimating the true meaning of it all; I was, unfortunately, a frivolous child.
I now see reason to abstain from placating ourselves in a fanciful dream.
I’ve gleaned its best to make the most of what we’re given; for there is no real possibility of escape.
So, I’ll no longer entertain the senseless musings of my grand escape,
For, I am learning to be confident and complacent in my future.
I’ll no longer consider the absurdities awaiting me in a fictitious dream,
Because I believe I have finally found my path to true happiness.
Thankfully, I am no longer a lost and ignorant child.
No longer will my time dissipate with no real worth; I aim to be forever grateful and joyous in my life.
There is no such thing as an eternal life,
And sadly, death is the only reprieve we get; in the form of that previously sought after escape.
However, in the wondrous eyes of a child,
Life seems everlasting; there is only ever the future,
And the possibilities of what it might hold; the promises full of love, laughter, and happiness,
And no such thing as a broken or unrealistic dream.
So, I’ll live my life forever striving towards the future,
While no longer pursuing any type of escape, I’ll be thankful and welcoming of any happiness
Afforded to me, and I’ll surely take time to encourage a child to make a reality of their dream.
Copyright © Teri LaRusso | Year Posted 2015
He looked out at the snow and ice,
As a cold wind whistled winter
Through the door, bringing hope
Of making a real-life snowman,
A special friend for a lonely boy,
At least in his world it was so.
He ran out of his room and leapt so
High, sliding down the banister as if on ice.
Then, putting on his boots and scarf, the boy
Flew out of the door into the depths of winter,
Laughing, scooping, sculpting his snowman,
His pal, his accomplice, his hope.
He rolled about without a hope
Of caring for the cold, and so,
Wrapping his scarf around his snowman,
He skidded about on sparkling ice
Losing his boots to the big mad winter…
And there was no happier boy.
A solitary but cheerful boy,
No others there to spoil the hope
Of finding secret delights in winter
That only he believed in so,
Secrets long buried in solid ice,
Yet found inside a snowman.
He danced and chatted to his snowman
And he in turn smiled down at the boy,
Complete with carrot nose and eyes of ice
It filled his heart with warmth and hope,
Showed him the meaning of life so
Full of love, in coldest cruellest winter.
Back inside he looks on winter
Watching his own precious snowman,
And though the fire roars and sweets so
Tempting fill the senses of the boy,
Nothing gives him more joy-filled hope
Than gazing on two lumps of ice.
The darkest winter, that lies inside a boy,
Is brightened by a snowman, a light of hope
That friendship gives so, through frozen ice.
Copyright © Charlotte Kingsfield-Blake | Year Posted 2014
somewhere in the depths of self
pity holds a child tight
mind spills her dreams
on star-filled nights
and reflections of yesterdays
echo through mirrored smiles
through framed glass i trace her smiles
soon realizing child is self
i search memories of yesterdays
but mind's gate seems closed tight
darkened same as rainy nights
tears fall sofly like her dreams
if once i could fulfill her dreams
would my own face reflect smiles?
could mind find piece on sleepless nights
if answers were released from self?
i seem to keep these memories tight
that robbed me of my yesterdays
not knowing the pain of these yesterdays
i've tucked away most old dreams
blocks of memory hold them tight
under lips bearing mona lisa smiles
and child withdraws within self
as days blend into nights
or dark thoughts blend days and nights
in all of these forgotten yesterdays
i choose not to pity self
just escape in new dreams
cracking occassional smiles
as loved ones hold me tight
yet when my eyes are pressed tight
i find myself fearing nights
quickly losing one of these smiles
to a brief memory of my yesterdays
safely tucking away all my dreams
deep within troubled self
seeking revenge on self with blades pressed tight
i try to hide through dreams from nights
haunted by yesterdays that robbed this child's smiles
Copyright © Sandra Adams | Year Posted 2012
Choosing that faithful woman to fulfill this fate,
she'll conceive a healthy baby with a loud scream,
a sweet cry so innocent piercing air and soul,
touch him tenderly, he is the fruit of our seed,
may his faith shed light on doubt and darkness,
let's hope that his deeds and words will be fine!
Growing up learning the right ways, he'll do fine,
these parents with their love will brighten his fate,
he'll experience loneliness conjured up by darkness;
none of our arguments he must hear when we scream,
let's assure him that we are proud of this gentle seed:
he'll understand what satisfies a man's empty soul!
Some will try to convince that life is separated from the very soul,
putting doubts aside, he must persuade himself that all is fine;
he'll remember who lifted him up at birth: the hands of his seed
and he'll thank his mother for being born despite an uncertain fate.
A lot of wisdom in everything is needed to survive and not scream,
never straying from those words that he must avoid all darkness.
And he immensely influenced by our righteous ways, will not know darkness,
even being tempted, he wouldn't allow a little disgrace stain his clean soul;
if nightmares replace dreams, nothing will have to make him fret and scream.
Our hope in him is greater than any opposing force that implies is not quite fine,
but he'll stare at these two smiles that give him a brightness so denied by fate;
isn't it such a triumphant joy to have grown and tendered a perfect seed?
How can uncaring hearts abandon and not nourish a promising seed,
letting shadows surround him with scary images of lethal darkness?
Even at fourteen, he is too are fragile to fight the forces of fate,
he may look mature, but he seeks adventure without fearing any soul;
we watch what he does and we are certain his day will be really fine,
and perhaps with our understanding, he will have no reason to scream.
To bear a child every woman must feel a great pain followed by a final scream,
than she will hold that tiny creature who tries to smile as she cuddles her first seed;
before he was in her womb with little room to move, now he's being fed and feels fine.
Wouldn't a mother call him by name and he' would respond even in darkness;
her voice and touch will leave that feel of tenderness, he'll keep them in his soul,
and like us, he'll teach his children to grow in love despite the unfairness of fate.
Joy was heard in your scream, a lightning through darkness;
you touched him softly, cherishing the beauty of your seed...
this will effect his deeds, he'll be very wise in dealing with fate.
Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2014
Words on a page, sounds, Mother's calling
soft tones rose from leather tomes sweetly,
through rouged lips they tumble with love.
Lullabies call through the coldest of nights
as frost haloes about the curls, open-hearted,
eager, a child of contested love’s joining.
What would this chimera become now joined.
Oh what would be the result of this clarion call?
Angels wonder at the blend of unformed heart,
as words of Our Fathers resound so sweet
for the thrice kissed lips of child and overbearing night.
May all who come from the light delight in love.
May the child addressed bring comfort, bring love,
grow in service to the higher good and join
the wholesome hearts who warm the darkest night,
for bringing comfort, kindness, and caring is a calling,
which teaches every opened soul of sweetness
and heals the aching angry sores of forlorn hearts.
With words of joy, and a voice full of heart
let her hands touch, and sooth, each pain lovingly,
with the like-minded teachers and nurses sweetening
the balm smoothed upon the brow of man, enjoined
to heed the call, the ancient ever-present call
of majesty in morning and peaceful rest at night.
Each life presents its morning and ends in eternal night.
Each soul stores fonts of happiness and heartache.
Conception buds and blooms, sending out a clarion call
enjoining all who have the healing gift to garner love.
Gentle ones, who plant the seeds, tend the hearts join…
be the humble gardeners of the meek and sweet.
What task could be richer or path sweeter
than that of those who doctor, and nurse, and warm night?
Tender hearts and helping hands come together, join…
in the higher consciousness of he’s and she’s heartfelt.
Raise the banner; fly the unifying flag of healing love,
make this your onward path the Way, the Red Road your calling.
For what is sweeter day or night for each are joined,
heartily we love and live to heed these fine callings.
Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2012
Choosing a faithful woman to fulfill this fate
to bring forth a baby with a loud scream;
sweet cry so innocent piercing air and soul,
touch him tenderly: he is the fruit of our seed!
May his faith shed light on doubt and darkness...
let's hope that his deeds and words will be fine.
Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2014
Our excitement to have you in our life
That you deserve a regal retreat inside our house
This once dark room spruced up with chic bedroom
With soaring peaked ceiling overlooking your bedroom
The wall with trompe l’oeil effect that’s how you furbished our life
Fixed window overlooking vast vistas of the modern house
Dark mahogany furniture lined up inside the house
A forest-green bed crown to lay down on your bedroom
In vibrant hues, you have transformed our life
How blessed our life that within our house, we built a bedroom for our little prince
February 15, 2013
Copyright © Noel Villarosa | Year Posted 2013
In the unrestrained laughter of children,
is the exalted, purity of joy.
Just seeing that first Crocus of the Spring
or kittens, their antics, exuberant.
You can't help but smile, in wonderment,
at the abundance of simple pleasures.
To watch vibrant sunsets, brings great pleasure.
As does a phone call, from both my children.
I'll recall their eyes, filled with wonderment,
and their squeals, as fresh snow fall, brought pure joy.
Their young minds, bounding with exuberance,
playing outside, in the warm days of Spring.
I love new baby animals at spring.
Their mothers, showing them off, with pleasure.
Playing, jumping, with such exuberance.
I am happy to have all the children,
with which to share these adventures and joy.
To see their eyes, grow big in wonderment.
I remember my own childhood wonders.
Seeing big rainbows in the skies of Spring.
Hearing birds, in the morning, sing with joy.
Watching mom, tend her roses, with pleasure.
My Grandmother, would send out us children,
to go play and use up our exuberance.
Now it's Grandchildren, with exuberance,
that find, in their lives, so much to wonder.
See the world through the eyes of a child,
the seasons; Winter, Fall, Summer and Spring.
I can't think of anything more pleasant,
than to watch them, their lives, filled with such joy.
Life in the desert, has brought me much joy.
Thunderstorms, beat my heart, exuberant.
My heart and soul, revived, with the pleasures.
Rugged beauty, fills my mind with wonder.
As life giving rains, that herald the Spring,
welcomes all of natures newborn children.
I find joy and exuberance abound,
in the pleasures and wonders within life.
That spring forth, from the child, within me.
For the contest: Joy To The World
Copyright © Paula Swanson | Year Posted 2010
Like a penny, lost and worthless, woman
mother, and buried within the origin pit, dark
she brought me like a Jezebel into her life of mourning
mistress of the stage and child to horror
born, and off he ran, forced flight my father, loss
the hussy dies but on Edgar lives in awe.
Blood and death and pain feed Poe’s awe.
Why she had done, what soul had she, this woman
leaving him a found fledgling of loss?
“Why, why, bring me into this hellish dark?”
Coal black the pit and pendulum of this zealot father’s horror
the devil’s drink brought penitence and forced, mourning.
“Bastard child!” his stepfather screamed in mourning
as his new Mother looked on in awe.
And, his new brother watched on in horror,
the lash was not spared nor kindness brought by woman.
In the starkness of his mind there was only dark.
Abandoned child, Poe, and his rescuers brought only loss.
“Run, leave, you villains all!” He cried. “There is only loss!”
So on, he wrote into the dark and mourning.
The ink the Prussian blue released the anguish his dark.
Intuition, and superstitious fright will feed him awe.
Cousin, sister, wife, would be his woman
the banshees cry, her bloody death became his horror.
“Alone, alone…” The corbies’s caw brings horror,
but for the devil’s drink, he’s naught but loss........
“Lenore…..” He’ll wall his tainted heart away from woman
and make his blasted soul the start of mourning.
“To hell with you!” He screams at those in awe
of his blank and burned out hulk of dark.
Bricked in or deep within the ripest dark...
“God, so alone……….” He hides in horror,
forlorn, depraved and not at all in awe.
For there is no romance found in loss
no beauteous bounty in the dross of mourning,
no family, friend or wife not tainted, born from woman.
So, Poe lives and dies in awe of the dark.
Where woman’s deepest depths bring only horror
and loss is all he knows in light of mourning.
Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2010
Nightfall begins. It's beautiful, magical,
even astonishing. The grueling, long
process of avoiding my dreams.
So many bad thoughts from the books I read
right before bed. I could feel the darkness
creeping up my window. I am scared!
Terrified, anxiety ridden. I'm scared!
I try to think of things, happy or magical
to counteract all the feelings of darkness.
I want to go tell mom, but the hallway is so long
to my parents room. So maybe trying to read
baby books at this hour will help my dreams.
I tried a dream catcher to catch my dreams.
And if it stayed bright all day I wouldn't be scared.
Across the globe there are places like that, I've read
about. And that in itself is absolutely magical.
A night light being enough, is the type of night I long
for. But until then I still have to fight with darkness.
What did it ever do to me, darkness?
Other than infiltrate my precious dreams
with monsters, loud noises, and long
dark memories. Leaving me broken and scared.
Sometimes the creatures are even magical
in weird ways like the books I read.
It is not only what I have read
but also movies that are full of darkness.
Equipped with a creative genius' magical
ideas, movies bring tons of visuals to my dreams.
One day, I know I am going to get over being scared
of these things. But that's going to take so long.
So until then, I can only long
for the day that I can read
a book and not be so scared
and anxious of the darkness
that it entails. Or let my dreams
turn events into things that are magical.
Although I know it'll be so long until this night’s darkness
goes away, I will read until the morning interrupts my dreams.
Because being scared is for the birds, but the nightfall remains magical.
Copyright © Alyse Williams | Year Posted 2017
There are smells and sights and tastes which always remind
of Grandma with her rows of flowers bright,
the red of poppy the gladiolas white, the blue of spring violets vain
the scent of lilacs in the air and pine needles in the mix.
Sometimes too, the memory of her sweet breath does rise
of Black Jack gum or peppermint and all those summer times.
The search for new spout dandelions the mushrooms other times
And summer’s end brought black blue teeth a blueberry’s remind.
We’d dig for bait with cans of tin, Idella, grandma mine, and rise
from ‘neath the patched quilts of calico so bright.
By chance to fish within the stream, trout in our breakfast mix
along with silly shaped pancakes so placed on china vain.
The beauty of her sky blues eyes never was so vain
that wisps of salt and pepper hair gave time
its only claim. To rise like yeast a child within this mix
to hear a bark of terrier and feel Babe’s tongue remind
of childhood days a Grandma’s house. Idella our bright
find. Take those blessed tender hands and rise
Touch childhood cheek like dough of white and rise
have no dark dwelling thoughts of blue blood in the vein
the thinness of her fragile skin the dimmed light so bright
just remember love full of the better times.
And with the scent of venison and sizzling pans remind
laced with home made butter, fried onions in the mix.
How had Idella’s loveliness from German bloodlines mixed
together with the stalwart Grandpa Trussell’s rise
to birth the lively bunch of child my Mom’s remind?
When in the dark of night the rush of red rolls through my vein
mind light flies and flickers like the candle flame of time
and I return on winged horse within a dream so bright.
Smell the wood smoke from the stove caste iron bright.
See the siblings teasing cat and dog within the mix.
The mantle clock’s brass pendulum sings in time.
Hear the winter wind blow through the rafter’s rise
like tucked in chicks the storms blew all in vain,
now only grand kids live these tales and do remind.
Always in the darkest times I think of my Idella bright
and Gram reminds me of both joy and sorrow’s mix
soon like the wind on weathervane I'll rise to heaven and her kiss.
Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2010
Sweet were those childhood times
No worries no fear, just a carefree life
Mother’s lap seemed the treasure of world
Rejoicing each day with heartfelt joy
Happiness needed no reason, it was inside
Talking the heart away while spreading smile
No material possessions to bring joy
Family and friends formed best of life
No pretension, simply being self all times
Harmless heart giving even stranger a smile
All in the face, keeping no ill feelings inside
Lovely phase better than riches of the world
Sing hosanna aloud without rhythms inside
Every time on the cloud nine with a wider smile
Childhood answers the true meaning of joy
Confidence sparkles whatever be the times
No complaints or curse how dark gets world
Live and let give adds more rejoice to life
No rat race spoiling the true essence of life
Innocence of child nurtures divine times
Wishes in hearts once to crawl back in life
As to embrace the color of seamless joy
Open a child’s eye to see the lost world
Find happiness not in things but soul inside
What a life was it the pretty childhood times!
No scare or fear of losing the track of life
Sky is enough to live not the riches of world
Optimistic heart to unfold the worries inside
Reasons not searched for to simply smile
Rapture beauty escalates the treasured joy
No retake given in this wonderful whirling world
Grow up but leave not the child breathing inside
All emotions form an integral part of life
Haste not while wearing costume of lively smile
Celebrate the season of childhood with joy
Once in life humanity blessed with those times
Treasure life like jewels with a brightening smile
Learn from world but not let go the child inside
Joy is here and now…bound it not in time
Copyright © Sneha Agarwal | Year Posted 2010
The beautiful day begins in the house.
At the end of it, all that’s left of it is the moon,
Shimmering in all the night’s light.
A door to another world opens.
The only movement is a page turning in a book.
Suddenly, without notice, an inconceivable object drops.
The thing jumps and twirls and once again drops.
A person from another time, the future, enters the large house.
The man, pacing back and forward, finally sends away the hovering book.
He magically transports it to the glistening moon.
Something like a black hole, a portal inexplicably opens.
The book vanishes in a fading yellow light.
The visitor sees something bright, a room full of light.
And inside, a piece of paper from the hands of a child drops.
The door of the room slightly, quietly opens.
A child and her grandmother are drawing and inscrutable house.
In a circle and a beam of inconceivable beauty appears the moon.
On the page, like the hovering object, once again, is the sight of a book.
The child explains that she has, many times that year, read the book.
But her grandmother slowly shows the girl the true “light”.
Now, the girl understands that she was wrong, and now appears the moon!
It comes closer and closer, and then, like a shooting star, down it drops.
The planet has gone down from the sky to have a conversation in the house.
The moon elegantly flies in, as large as an elephant, and its mouth opens.
And now all of the people come close together and a road opens.
The grandmother and child are guided by a rather large book.
In time, the home disappears; they have left the house.
The book vanishes, and all that leads them is a guiding light.
The key to a room, calmly, as if carried by the wind, drops.
“Come in and let’s have a talk,” says not a person, but a face in white, the moon.
The grandmother is surprised, for she is seeing the real, live moon.
A beautiful and long conversation through all the night opens.
Then as dawn arrives, blood-red, the tone of their voices drops.
Grandmother and child come out of the wonderful book.
Outside it is day, a new beginning, another lively light.
They walk o’er their field and talk till’ they reach the house.
In the morning, the otherworldly man leaves the house.
Also, he disappears in a now magnificent golden light.
That is the end; there are no more pages in this book.
Copyright © Alan Grinberg | Year Posted 2005
Broken but disbelieving, we wait
for any doctor to say it’s just blood
as the gray man greens, throws-
up in triage. A Goth teen holds Band-Aids
to her scalped thumb. Somebody loses
patience, explodes, Why are the sick
treated this way? Doors dilate & the sick
smell of antiseptics greets a waitress
wearing a steak knife. We are cribbed by loss;
gone, teeny heartbeats as I pass blood
clots. A junkie limps, unaided,
to the bathroom, another throw
away human, unlike a tot thrown
from a fire. Unforgettable, that sickening
sound, shrill scream after scream raids
the room of complaints. Hell won’t wait
for examination, I learn, as bloodshot
eyes meet mine. Hope is lost.
Patients stoically sit. Some lose
change to a vending machine. A cop throws
a look to his charge. Words drift, bloody
stool, x-rays, concussion. Sick talk to the sick.
My hand is gently squeezed. No one else waits-
out a miscarriage. I watch an aid
swab vintage tiles, restack HIV/AIDS
pamphlets as if they’re a deck of cards, like loss
is just some hand dealt. Somewhere, a mother waits
for her boy to sleep, will wash bottles, throw
out dirty diapers. Somewhere, a heartsick
father releases bloodcurdling
sobs because a body was found. Blood
is both bond & amputation. I took first aid
so I know why the sickest
get priority. Besides, we've already lost
each other, little one. Our separation has thrown
me off balance. Why couldn't you wait?
As if I need hearing aids, a nurse throws
my name out to the sick, the lost, ER roommates.
No. I'll never be ready. Let the bloody stirrups wait...
Copyright © Cyndi MacMillan | Year Posted 2017
A cherub with a rosy face
and plenty of curly hair
that the breeze loved to lull,
more than the daises so fair;
and that was the closest comparison...
to the beautiful child he once was!
The youngest dreamer ever to be born
with eyes as bright and lively as stars,
such were his to take imagination
beyond every possible dimension;
and such was the closest comparison...
to see himself as the beautiful child he once was!
He grew up too fast with an instinct
that was immensely blessed; so keen,
privileged and gallant seemed that fearless
kid not to be able to earn one's keep,
to make perfection the closest comparison...
to the beautiful child he once was!
The shady paths covered by the swanky pine trees,
were as dusty as any country road which needed rain,
and it came without ever wishing for it; and he welcomed
it by getting wet, to lose himself in its gentle peace;
and what other closest comparison would he have made?...
If not that of the beautiful child he once was without worry and pain!
Entered in Deborah Guzzi's poetry contest
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2009