No mother would fill up her eyes with tears of woman...
if it weren't for God performing a miracle at dawn,
as she cried out in joy and held her baby in trembling arms
but shed many sweet tears hearing his laughter so loud;
oh, he couldn't see her mommy's face through his tiny eyes,
and it will be long before he'll will utter the first word, " Mom."
Now that baby sleeps under the attentive look of his mom,
who's too young to become a mature woman;
many visions of this birth crossed her gleeful eyes
she dreamed of the very same words whispered at each dawn,
repeating them in her silly head as if they sounded too loud...
while cradling a pretty doll in her folded arms.
Will she be welcomed home by her parents opening their arms?
Will they reprimand her and not consider her a legal mom?
Perhaps they will not be angry and speak not so loud:
girls are supposed to be girls, not suddenly turn into woman...
So this innocent girl, deceived by a bad boy, must wake up at dawn
when her baby cries and feed him with scary, childish eyes?
Nights seem longer for her, trying to stay awake rubbing her eyes,
what she beheld in those exciting eyes, now it's a burden in her weary arms;
she remembers that pain was too unbearable, but joy more sublime at dawn...
how will she learn how to care for the infant by watching her mom?
She must have seen a nursery or read a book how to think like a real woman,
and can anyone imagine how she keeps that secret instead of revealing it loud?
She must gather enough courage inside to feed her baby who can't cry loud,
but for now she must carry that baby without sighs of distress into her bright eyes;
and her parents can see the changes making her a loving person already woman;
they may ask questions to why she has gained weight and holds dolls in her arms...
no, they aren't anticipating great news and in doubt, they await a splendid dawn.
Mother and daughter closely together amazed by the coming dawn,
any concealed secret can be easily spoken...somewhat joyful and loud;
they imagine the infant's futures will be part of grandma and mom!
Their reunited hearts come together to show love in their delighted eyes,
and they'll take turns feeding the new-born, tenderly lulling him in their arms;
what if forgiveness hadn't been there to deny her all of the joys of woman?
Would a mother deny her daughter compassion as a good woman?
Even God hurried dawn to offer that gift into her gracious, tender arms...
and those arms accepted it with the gentleness and kindness of mom.
Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2010
I am the center of raw and wild feelings.
Born from an ancient spirit of infant and child.
Falling back in a womb of darkness, myself I discover.
Hiding in an egg, I hear a whisper.
My shell is touched by a promise in the wind's soughing.
Infinite breath of wind caresses, I, who am little.
I am conscious of little.
A time before definition or feelings.
Warm, wild wind soughs.
Motion stirs the blueprint of a child.
God in every breath, every whisper.
Take form and discover.
A bud must open in order to discover.
Hesitation and fear cry out from a bud so little.
Inside a chameleon wears it's feelings.
Fright filters through the pores of a child.
Leaf and skin shiver in a dark wind's soughing.
The angelic songs of a river soughs.
Life's song for us to discover.
Along the riverbank runs the child.
Of the future she knows little.
Reflecting in water a spectrum of feelings.
Their sound is a scream, a laugh, a cry and a whisper.
As I grow the acceptable sound is a whisper.
My tears often mix with a shower's soughing.
Bodies aren't meant to cover feelings.
They should be naked dancers that discover.
Their steps are big and little.
Dance with the flow trusting child.
As I grow older, in my soul lives the child.
My heart is the room where she shouts and whispers.
It's a never-land where she will always be little.
Hope sings in a tear-river's soughing
With care and love we'll learn to discover.
We are courageous explorers of feelings.
The child, her voice a prayerful wind's soughing.
A soft reminding whisper not to fear discovery.
Oh little love I am with you always, experiencing together our feelings.
Copyright © Tamra Amato | Year Posted 2009
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
Smile in your sleep
A midnight temptation is in the midst of the stars.
Brightness feeds and eventually consumes the eclipse.
Individuals described as both boy, and female acting very young.
Both separated at birth, yet they roam every night while they sleep.
Yet, one day they met for the first time at North Eastern Heights;
An academic learning center, a school where everyone made memories.
There were plenty of times where Nick had football memories.
Niki was dreaming of one day becoming one of those famous movie stars.
Both would have been fabulous careers, but neither climbed the heights.
Thursday, the day Nick and Niki had both looked at each other like an eclipse.
Tossing, turning all night, the two wish to dream of each other, but cant sleep.
Both wanted love, both wanted money, both wanted to be forever young.
Smiling at both their baby pictures, Nick and Niki looked oh so young.
Nick asked Niki to be his homecoming date and one of his fondest memories.
Both looked at each other, gazing in their eyes, so boring one could sleep.
That night at the dance, the two acted as if they were dancing with the stars.
Boys and girls attending the dance made up a color wheel of a shining eclipse.
Nick and Niki were on top of the world; they couldn’t fall off the heights.
At the end of their senior year, it was graduation at North Eastern Heights.
These were the days they realized that they couldn’t be forever young.
That no parts of all life are going to be as shining as an Eclipse.
Even they, remember the things we hate too keep as part of our memories.
The only thing of there young adulthood that didn’t change was the stars.
Nick and Nicki gazed upon stars all-night, and smiled in their sleep.
Both they lay, laying down on the comfort mattress, smiling in their sleep.
Dreaming they both do, climbing the Appalachian mountain heights.
Camping by a fire in the mountain range the only thing present was stars;
One of the last things they saw was an owl, it’s cooing as a young.
The two lovers will always be remembered just as memories.
And suddenly it was all gone; the dream went away as fast as an eclipse.
A looming eclipse-
All alone, how can I sleep?
She’s gone, my erased memories.
I fell off the heights.
We were so perfect and young.
We were a pair, just like stars.
Forever the stars-
They enjoyed being so young
Sometimes we all fall off heights.
Copyright © Trent Turney | Year Posted 2015
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
The world spins kaleidoscopic, a whorl of color in revolt.
Oceans quake malleable, molding into fissures of tectonic hunger,
ravaging the deep, stirring the primal need depressing
populations’ unseen to the denizens of land, disregarded in man’s wake.
From the diatom, to the whale, from the single cell to the open hand
from the sun, to the stars, to the mushroom bomb, we’ve light.
Within the orb of eye, retinal flares of light,
an inside-out, upside-down, yin and yang revolution
juxtaposing wealth with poverty, as throngs rise asking for hand
outs, aching with a human need to know, hungering.
Childhood has ended, the tell-tale snake does wake.
Death’s rattle will subside, as the head eats the tail of depression.
Communication will become the global antidepressant.
Natives in aboriginal huts and Inuit in igloos will see the light.
There will be no holding back the tide for hand in hand, each cell wakes.
No longer can knowledge be withheld. “Phone home,” a revolutionary
cry, the tit will not be ripped from the lips of hungering
humanity, the tyrant and the saint juxtaposed, their time at hand.
Instant communication, shall scrape the barnacles of blight handily.
The stroke of finger tip to key shall depress
and ignorance will flee, freeing the hungry
for the way out ,the way up, the key, light-heartedly
heads bowed in prayer, we shall revolt.
Let tyranny be eaten, and righteousness wake.
On the egg of earth, we float in celestial wakes.
Solar tides stir the shards of glass raising death’s hand.
Round and round the top spins each revolution
forced by the pumping thump of rods depressed
rods magnetized and charged with lightening
for we all hunger.
Each evolution a revolution, each thirst quenched brings new hunger.
Repression will never depress the desire to wake,
nor, will the fisted hand ever bring the light.
Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2011
Quite often it seems we tell kids, it’s best to be first
They sign up for fun; parents, it seems, for the fame
Whether it’s academics or sports, why not just let kids thrive?
Create environments for learning and fun needed to thrive
Nurture with affection and love; be their springboard first
Build the foundation they will need to handle future fame
A solid foundation will ensure an easy adjustment to fame
In any circumstance, self- assurance makes anyone thrive
Teach them, the game of life is not won by coming in first
Good character first, may lead to fame in which anyone can thrive
Copyright © Annalise Brigham...a.k.a. Audrey Haick | 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
Christmas Sestina: Stage Centre!
A Child is born! Of Life this is beginning.
His cup is to defend the truth and right.
A stable now becomes of earth the centre,
At this, as yet un-named but very first “’Christmas”.
Of pain and misery soon He’ll make an end,
For God, the Holy One, has entered time.
Some wise men saw a star, and said “It’s time
To see the newest miracle beginning –
A great King born – Oh what will be the end?
We thought that in the stars we had it right,
But what is this new saga? (Call it Christmas)
When stars show a new King at creation’s centre?”
And yes. Indeed. A scream erupts at centre
Of attention as the knife cuts deep in time.
Old Simon lives a happy day this Christmas –
Now satisfied with death, his new beginning,
While Anna cries rejoicing as the right
Messiah comes, to bring to death to end.
But this could never ever be the end
As baby Jesus will yet take stage centre,
As is his mortal destiny and right,
To come fulfill the prophecies in time,
To bring salvation as a new beginning.
Such a day will ever be known as Christmas.
Now men the whole world over celebrate Christmas.
Of blindness, ignorance now there is an end.
Of truth and life He brings a new beginning
As in the hearts of men he builds his centre.
Justice and compassion have their time,
And a man can set his Heavenly heritage right.
So know that everything will be set right
For Jesus came at night, on that first Christmas,
To start the final era – the last days of time.
His Spirit births in men who’re at an end
Of self, and who will gladly make Him centre
Of their death, and so engage the new beginning.
The earliest beginning was at Christmas.
Narcissism is right at its very end.
Now Jeshua has the centre of the stage of time.
Copyright © Helen Murray | Year Posted 2011
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
All those High School years, she stared at smiles
and would envy those, lined up in rows
shoulder to shoulder, enjoying the carefree days.
They with porcelain jewels, of sparkling white
she would have given her life to have such shine,
but was much too shy, to seek their eyes
At fifteen years old...she averted her eyes
while beneath her nose, no winning smile
would grace her face. So, to avoid disgrace, she declined to shine
or laugh with the kids in the algebra rows.
How often she'd long to star in the play and dazzle her whites
"Be patient," they'd tell her...."You'll be a beauty, one day"
And while she waited impatiently for that far away day
keeping chin down, this ugly duckling, with lowered eyes
It may seem extreme, but a few kids, with straight and white,
called her "Metal Mouth", which dampened her spirit and also her smile.
Barely could she eat the mushy fruits, passing the rows
of cripsy foods, ate mostly mashed and white, pining for a crisp apple to shine
She talked with a lisp, while awkward wires shined
and wore horrid bands. Then on those "Ortho" days
after school, while in uncomfortable chairs lined up in rows,
he'd greet, "How are you, Missy?" ..with his bespectacled eyes.
"Open wide"....(and with pliers that looked like her Dad's, but could fix a smile)
as, with all of his might, he adjusted and tightened....correcting her whites
Branded with bands across the whites
Correcting the gaps, the lapse, the crooked shine
A few like her with awkward smiles
Would count the hours and count the days
Longed for smiles to please the eye
And be so blessed with perfect rows
Finally one day, while sitting in rows
Snip-snip!, at last, he cried..."Let's free these whites"!!
With excitement, the life came back to her eyes
"I'll grant your wish, with a brand new shine!"
She was the happiest girl on the planet today
and she left his office with a brand new smile!
While sitting in school rows, she beams her white teeth, merrily joining the fun
Her eyes always shine now, she stands tall and proud, singing out loud in the sun
And during each school day, she smiles all the time, finally her life has begun!
For Debbie's Joy contest (Sestina)
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2010
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
Once upon a time, mother was gifted new life.
Reformed, reborn the second child to poverty,
through the coldness of a Maine winter came beauty.
A fair Eve to her brothers Adam construction
her bloom was destined for a fresh spring being
and her eventual undoing awaits at death.
And, so she was born from the stark darkness of death
and raised on the undone leavings of old life.
Grandma brought bright sunlight with all of her being.
Granddad culled the forest deer to dress their poverty.
A thin walled lake cabin, a homes base construction
housed a family full of fine children’s beauty.
Field and forest with flower and tree were her beauty.
The doe, the buck, the rabbit bought life from their death.
The harshness of this life brought forth angry constructions,
razor strap beatings on small white behinds laced their lives.
Fishing, gardening canning and sewing relieved poverty
In time love came for her dancing into being
The Big One WWII brought my Dad to being
Auburn hair and chocolate eyed was Mom’s beauty
Her handmade clothes sewn with the art poverty
The war had brought them all too close to death
Lovers grasp at the gift they’re given, gifted life
and a new family of country and city was constructed.
Fifty years more , she was given, in this soul construction
tearful years of longing for a different being
with little joy at home, the family of this life
denying the world outside the walls the beauty
not even accepting the end of pain her death
Her gift to me, knowledge, I live not in poverty.
Mom died on a cold wet January day in poverty.
Her poverty was of money and not of love’s construction
at her tidy bed sitting with her hand in mine she died.
“Oh, I wish it were so, and then not, with all my being”
Not all of her treasures gone, for her children’s beauty
remains, their love had not left her throughout her life.
Though in reality Mom lived a short time in poverty being
but the construction of even that poorest plight was always beautiful.
And what is death really once through the pain but rich new life.
Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2010
Lassie, the golden retriever was
a beautiful dog with a rich, shaggy coat,
and two gorgeous brown eyes;
thirty long years have passed,
and that name still echoes with hurt:
remembering the fun times we had!
Deep into the back-woods, a kind of wilderness,
she would ran off and sometimes get lost;
I'd call her and she would answer with a bark...
Lassie found a strayed puppy who needed milk,
and right there she fed him with her motherly tenderness:
how cute was the hungry puppy suckling without haste!
Lassie, lovable, Lassie slip off the leash and run off to chase
after the timid and slender squirrels that love to climb
in the dogwood tree, which I planted four decades ago!
Lassie, adorable, Lassie lead me to the narrow and dusty lane,
where we both find a fragrant apple tree,very green but low...
to rest in its soothing shade as summer delights us with its sound!
Dogs have short lives, mine seems very long, and I immensely regret
to have taken you to the animal shelter by those dark rail-road tracks...
by whisking you away in a bright-yellow cab,
so that they could find you the nicest place to stay...
because the land-lady, with a German accent, stated," No pets allowed!"
And that happened when I moved to a small apartment in Ozone Park by mid-May!
Lassie, faithful and loving dog, your pictures proudly hang
on every wall, refusing to let that memory vanish from inside,
always cherishing the sweetness of you: my most loyal friend;
and I still can remember those younger days as dashing as sunlight!
Come, Lassie...let me snuggle you and make believe yesterday never came;
I would rather recall the happy past...than constantly linger on blame!
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2009
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
When love was innocently
given and this once gorgeous boy, merely fourteen,
choose a red-haired girl
to be his special friend;
he offered her a smooch sweeter than honey,
to find delight on her rosy cheek...
She smiled back and shyly kissed me,
I plucked a blue lily from a meadow painted in green,
and put it in her soft hair resembling Autumn's auburn leaves;
some warm raindrops fell on her brown eyes so pretty,
decorating her lovely face with happy tears:
while a robin, with yellow wings, spied on us with curiosity...
Sweetheart, you certainly were surprised and much pleased
by the performance of my first, phenomenal kiss,
which lasted longer than it should have, indeed;
you thought I wasn't old enough to feel both affection and bliss:
without knowing the meaning of their profundity,
but I felt a desire that couldn't wait until I reached puberty....
My adorable darling, adolescence has endured, not passed,
and age has made you extremely charming and beautiful!
I have grown and look as handsome as a fair prince,
recalling that moment which never slipped into a time so vast:
a memory cherished by a thought so fond and reachable,
to relive that gallant gesture of warmth and innocence...
When love was innocently given and kisses
were the fragrance of delicate roses,
these lips touched to share tenderness;
oh, those young hearts were not vain, greedy and shallow;
all the spontaneous smiles were genuine surprises:
adolescents sharing laughter, cuddling under the splendid rainbow!
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2009
Every boy has his toys,
and each girl her dolls;
and as they grow they are put away where light can't enter:
there in that closet, which often memory recalls
how delightful and merry their days were,
but wishing for a return is a constant, useless prayer...
Everyone once had the possessions of a younger age,
some were precious and memorable, others simply painful and vacant;
and who can remember being hugged and truly loved by all?
Many still reminisce the sad thought of having been offered none at all,
and how they longed to have felt a little, sweet taste!
Nobody desired that more than I did, and only mother provided that!
Blue-bells seemed blither than I.. colored flowers that have no feel,
no soul to express their joy or sorrow, had I become like them?
Larks and mockingbirds weren't as malcontent as I was indeed;
all they wished for was some rain and the quietest place to rest!
Oh, how much sympathy I felt...with no one loving them, but their Creator;
and my circumstances affirmed how true that really was for me to declare!
An evil doer can be a father, who denies his children profound affection;
malice or thoughtlessness scars the hearts of the tender ones,
to become a malady or blight that leaves many fragments of broken lives;
and shouldn't someone grab them by the scruff of their necks,
and put some sense into them when they intentionally induce pain?
This snarl...rebelled at such atrocity, although no slaps could prevent those tries!
Husbands love your wives devotedly,
mistresses are the cause of your adultery;
would the faithful ones pursue an extramarital affair?
And what are the consequences of your sin and surliness?
A curse from God for many generations,
to deny your little ones the possessions of a younger age!
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2009