Days pass into the weak, loveless nights. The moon blinks.
The stars swirl beneath Van Gogh’s brush, as he links.
Comet light passes twisting cypresses, a schizophrenic’s concussion.
On and on, the wind twirls the trees, and does not complain,
nor, does the cosmos cringe awaiting reciprocation.
Lightning bugs mimic the stars. Atoms sneer.
Those who spout love and friendship abandon him, sneering.
Their images dance beneath his lids, when he blinks.
Though denied a compass, his soul does not reciprocate.
Through pain, physical and mental, he still connects, links
with the life which absorbs and excludes him, not complaining.
Nights pass without his mistress, Sien. His mind is concussive.
His face trembles torn in the brass sounds of the storm’s concussions.
The butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker, all of them, sneer.
How unmerciful, this cycle, this God to whom he does not complain.
If lack of mercy is just, may he not know why? Time blinks.
Thinking causes pain. Only painting connects him, he links.
He accepts art and the pain, as gifts, choosing not to reciprocate.
Voices, the paint, the moon, the voices say, reciprocate.
He chases mice. The cheese plate falls with a loud concussion.
He rubs his gnarled hands across his lids. He maintains the link.
How? Why? But, the mice eating his cheese only sneer.
The sunflowers shimmer and wiggle in their vase, as he blinks.
Stumbling, he falls attempting to sit, the chair does not complain.
He had thought God clear as sunlight; yet, the paint complained.
He was not God; he could not capture the light. He must reciprocate.
After all, who was he, but a mere man, ashes to dust; life blinks.
Ah death, le grand mal, no minor concussion,
He must escape, join the celestial spin, and avoid their sneers.
Sick, yes, sick to death of not being understood, not linking.
The brushes call. He prostitutes himself. Oil spills, connecting, linking.
Theo, brother, never would he forgive. Many others would complain.
Ah, Gauguin, His dear friend, he would understand and not sneer.
If God was truly a loving God, surely, he thought; God will not reciprocate.
The mockers who did not live in Dante’s nine levels of hellish concussion,
they will call his actions cowardly. Merciless, they did not live between the blinks.
Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2011
Days pass into the weakest of loveless nights. The moon blinks.
The stars swirl beneath the colored brush of Van Gogh. He links.
Comets trail snowfields of light pass agonized cypresses, schizophrenic concussion.
On and on, the wind twirls the trees and does not complain,
nor, does the cosmos cringe awaiting reciprocation.
Lightening bugs mimic the starlight, atoms sneer.
Those who spout love and friendship abandon him sneering.
Their images dance beneath his half closed lids, when he blinks.
Though denied visual compass, his soul does not reciprocate.
Through pain, physical and mental, palpable pain, he still links,
with the life which has both absorbed and excluded him not complaining.
Night passes without his mistress, Sien. His mind writhes, eternal concussion.
His torn visage trembles with the brass sounds the storm's ranting concussions.
The butcher, the baker the candlestick maker, derides and sneers.
How unmerciful is this cycle, this God to whom he does not complain?
And, if indeed, lack of mercy is just, may he not know “Why?” Time blinks.
Just the act of thinking causes pain. Only painting connects him to the link.
He must accept both the pain and the art as gifts, choosing not to reciprocate.
Voices always the voices, the paint, the moon, the voices, reciprocate.
He chases the mice. The cheese, pewter plate and all, falls with concussion.
He rubs the backs of gnarled hands across his lids, maintaining the link.
“How? Why?" But, the mice eating his cheese grimace and sneer.
Inside the cottage sunflowers shimmer and wiggle in vases, as he blinks.
Stumbling, he falls in an attempt to sit, the insubstantial chair does not complain.
He had thought God clear, clear as sunlight, yet the damn paint Lord! complained.
He was Not God, and try as he would, the light escaped. He MUST reciprocate.
After all who was he, but a mere man, ashes to dust, life blinks.
“Ah death…le grand mal…no minor concussion,”
He must escape this mortal coil, join the celestial spin without their sneers.
Sick, he was sick, yes, sick to death of not being understood, no link.
Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2010
Here in the heavy depths of insolent woes,
We gesture and talk and waste our time,
Staking claim to each minute of our earthly life,
Running the hours through a clock by the day,
Never sated, not content to find even love,
Buried deep inside the petals of a perfect rose.
So was a metaphor created from the rose,
Then plagiarized and used for all of time,
Simply here to represent the beauty of love,
A perfection to which we cannot aspire to in life,
Or even death, in the darkest of all those woes,
Great though they may seem by the passing day.
It's a fragile, soulful kind of love,
In the pressing presence of the breaking day,
Where your back breaks beneath ample woes,
And there just simply isn’t ever enough time,
To do what you plan to do with your life.
Then you start to resemble that rose.
Soft and delicate, with easy loss of life,
Mournful of the passage of time,
Counting down, day by dreary day,
Ever seeking out to find dear love,
The theoretical banishment of woes.
Such is the way of the deep red rose.
Has it ever occurred to us not to mark time?
Just to ignore it, along with any such woes,
Just to leap forth and enjoy life,
To live to the absolute fullest everyday,
And just as chosen by the poet's rose,
To find and hold on to, that one true love.
For I find, that it's mostly true these days,
That people don't make enough time,
For laughter and fullness in life,
So preoccupied with petty woes,
That they forget about the beauty of love,
And in doing that, they forget about the rose,
I know what the rose represents in my life,
And I work hard to expel my woes every day,
So that soon I will have time for true love.
*****Written in Sestina for Constance's Poetry 101 contest.*****
******* 5th Place winner*******
******Sarah Blake August 2010******
A sestina is a highly structured form of poetry consisting of six six-line stanzas and a three-
line envoy (thirty-nine lines). The end words of the first stanza are repeated in varied order
as end words in the other stanzas and also recur in the envoy.
Copyright © Lorrie Scheider | Year Posted 2010
I love being young, getting to ride the roller coasters.
The sound, tick, tick, tick, tick-like a heartbeat racing to the top.
Then, surprised even when you know it’s coming, dropped into the abyss.
Something always pulls it down, like gravity.
It’s frustrating, riding something so close to being dead.
So far away but still so close, seating rows.
I hate being so close to, yet so far from the row.
She was in with me on this roller coaster.
Adrenaline rushed my body so fast almost leaving me dead.
The blood flowed so fast emphasizing the highs of the top.
But something keeps pulling me down, gravity.
Here I am again, back in the abyss.
In the ride, weeks of no communication, the beginning of the end, the abyss.
The scariest. My worst fear of my youth. Looking back at the rows,
I see her, with my own image, my heart sinks more. I hate you gravity.
But it’s the only thing that fuels the roller coaster.
Nothing makes me happier than bringing it back to the top.
Let’s hope this isn’t so abrupt, so fast, like the last one, leaving me dead.
How I hope so much, so much hope still not dead.
The heart, the love, the eternal abyss.
Strikes me back with enough momentum to reach the top.
Lines, love, flashing like an old film, with rows.
Showing me a movie, reminding me of, a roller coaster.
The movie explained that the only thing that keeps it going is gravity.
Thank you gravity.
My worries are gone and dead.
Just accept it, and love the roller coaster.
Appreciate the loneliness of the abyss.
The reason you’re here is for the ride, not the rows.
I just want to enjoy the youth and its happy tops.
This coaster, like love has its tops.
But something brings it down like gravity.
Distanced with rows,
Never seeing her again, thinking she’s dead.
But deeper and deeper coming out of the abyss.
The complicated life of the young, the love of roller coasters.
Get on the roller coaster, rise to the top.
Don't worry about the drop to the abyss, It’s because of gravity
That you’re not dead, and I don't care about the rows.
Copyright © Marcus Jjaks Reyes | Year Posted 2013
In the anters and shadows of this baleful life
perhaps the little brown mouse searching in silence
bewray a lonesome story behold
For eyes to wander a brief candle behold
in hushed light, enwheeled...this pitiful life
if only, my friend, to peer in silence
where love had flown in years of silence
to gape for dawn, a friendship behold
in ghostly thought of scurried life
From the cold reality of life where painful silence smothers, Behold!! compassion is born..
Anters - Caves
Brief Candle- Life is compared to a candle flame
Copyright © Rick Parise | Year Posted 2013
It begins with the joy of giving birth
Continues even after the moment of death
Life, like the scope of all man's music
Opening and closing passages of love
Messages sung and carried on the wind
Written in the deepest part of the heart
That palpable place we call the heart
Emotion long before the first cry at birth
Scent of beginnings carried on the wind
Unable to imagine the notion of death
For her baby, mother's unconditional love
The crooning sound of her sweet music
The years pass, so changes the music
But not the forever melody in her heart
Children grow and so does her love
A bit different than the day of birth
But constant and hopeful until death
As perennial as blows the winter wind
A young man's story is written on the wind
With pen in hand he writes his own music
With hardly a thought of the canvas of death
But tucked away in the corners of his heart
The certainty known from the moment of birth
That in her life he would always find love
Still his mother's eyes are filled with love
Vision dim with age , acknowledging time in the wind
The spring will bring again the miracle of birth
The lambs in the fields will make their music
The joy of rebirth will fill the simplest heart
Beauty will reign even in winter's death
Facing now the certainty of her coming death
He looks at his child with a new depth of love
Knowing with certainty that breaks his heart
Letting his tears be dried by the gentle wind
Believing he will still know the joy of her music
Hoping that in death will come a new birth
Garner strength in your heart to face death
Remembering from birth a life full of the joy of love
And as the wind of time blows, hear the music
Copyright © Barbara Gorelick | Year Posted 2010
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
Gazing, at its own reflection is the Magpie.
A magic bird, a mystical creature, with a soul
and the power to see things, the power of scrying.
It sees a tomb in ancient Egypt. It sees death.
A soul locked within a glorious bronze mirror,
Cleopatra and her Maid in a bond unbroken.
Time passes in silence as deep as the unbroken
promise of endless wisdom, gifted by the Magpie.
whose caws the Maid hears, within the depths of the mirror,
calls to the Queen, her Cleopatra, to her soul.
Magpie speaks to She on the Eastern Barge in the afterlife of death,
and to her Maid entombed. The sacred bird so near scrys.
The Magpie sits within oasis staring into the pool. It scrys
for all this time, its vigil, its protection, never broken.
Even when the sarcophagus is carried to the necropolis of the dead,
without, unknown, the bird speaks wisely through reflection, her Magpie.
Entombed, his Queen and her Maid, their bodies but not their souls,
Queen, Maid and Magpie, each cast a last gaze, alive within the mirror.
The Vows of Innocence, the Maid bespeaks the mirror.
Pleas to the Swallower of Shades, both Queen and Maid have scried
to The Burning One, and claim no lie, upon their soul.
As the light dims within the Maids eyes, in tomb unbroken,
she sees the life of her Queen and their Magpie
pass fast upon the brass, last breath of life and dying.
Oh, too soon the end, moans the Maid, I am dying.
Her life's reflection moves bronzed upon the mirror.
She screams, "My Queen," but hears only the caw of Magpie.
All around her other servants succumb and cry, whilst she sits scrying,
and the Magpie flies above in life entombed, eternity, unbroken.
As she beseeches all the Gods to save her soul.
The Magpie's spirit self moves within the mirror's soul.
He swoops gathering Cleopatra's essence, past the dying,
and brings her to the Maids side unbroken.
In afterlife upon the Eastern Barge they join the mirrored
whole, for he, the bird of magic, Magpie, has called and scried
it so. Part light of life, part dark of death, the Magpie.
The essence of each entwine united within this eternal mirror
for the Magpie cannot bear their deaths. He will protect and forever scry
in life the mirror sits unbroken a stolen bauble, and in it they dwell with the Magpie.
Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2010
If there be some one thing more breautiful
Than to lie with you in warmth and dark,
I would fear that it might burn my soul away
Before the purging purity of light
Its perfection must diffuse.
Your love is all the beauty I may stand.
I carry what we make within this dark,
Our human near-perfection, out into the light
Each day; each moment as I stand
Against the ravages of life I take away
Those stains that fall diffuse
Upon my careless soul, and mar the beautiful.
It is the love of you that brings the light
Into the confusion of my doubtings' dark
Securing what fitful fate may bear away,
That grants the strength to stand
Opposed to all things foul, in alliance with the beautiful,
Committed to a hope as noble as it is diffuse.
There is a light that will not pierce the dark
As we lie conjoined, our love diffuse
About us as the night in little measures leaks away;
It would but blind the eye, if seen, this sacred light
Before which no ill thought may stand,
This light that paints the unseen beautiful.
All worthy things are also most diffuse
As are the light, the dark, the beautiful.
Their meanings advance, recede, then turn away
From our poor apprehension's gropings dark,
Even as our hope moves us to apply what light
We may, to illumine that before which we stand.
So in the end, my mind, struck dumb, turns away
From the mystery, in consult to stand
With the heart within the lovethick dark
Where you lie near and shining without light
Within that sphere of all good things diffuse
About us, incomprehensible and beautiful.
No; there can be to me no thing so beautiful
As the light of you shining in unbroken dark:
Your love is all the beauty I may stand.
Copyright © William Masonis | Year Posted 2007
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
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
My heart, it is a beating drum
and it dances to many a note.
This sweet, song plays;
by God, is recorded.
Part of the heavenly band;
a spiritual lilting light.
In Gods light,
my beating drum,
slong with the band
tings out its notes.
A best-selling record,
finite, in its play.
A mortal song can play
within God’s holy light.
with golden drums,
play the best notes
in Heaven’s band.
Every good band,
with unending passion, plays
the most dynamic notes;
uplifting tones of beaming lights.
Every drummer’s drum,
Is heard and recorded.
In Heaven’s studio, is recorded,
when I play my drum;
oh how I play
vibrations of light;
celestial crystal notes.
Resounding, celestial notes
Ring on the ethers and are recorded
faster than the speed of light.
The history of Heaven’s band;
a soul’s music, can be played
upon their mortal drum.
Many notes dance in the celestial light.
Soul’s celestial records, will eternally play.
The happiest soul in the band; to the rhythm of life, will drum.
Copyright © M. L. Kiser | Year Posted 2015
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
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
We spend our lives from solstice to solstice,
creatures caught in a trap hidden by darkness
stuck in a wheel of fortune spinning in no direction
in its endless circles we lose our way.
Despair prevents our souls from healing
all through the solitude of night.
We spend our days like it’s forever night
concealing grief from solstice to solstice,
no hand reaches out in gracious healing.
Moonbeams try in vain to pierce the darkness,
we stumble through a forest losing our way
Like hound dogs running in blind direction.
Heaven has closed all roads that lead to its direction,
so we slumber dreamless, awake through the night,
hugging pain the comfort pillow life brings our way.
Our hurts multiply with each passing solstice,
our days strewn with muck and darkness
in stubborn silence we cast aside light’s healing.
Storms cannot quench earth’s thirst for healing,
Sounds of thunder and lightning beat in all direction.
We sink deeper in a crimson sea of darkness,
struggling under the waves all through the night.
Rain pellets overshadow light in summer solstice
turning into rivulets of water to flood the way.
We stare in apathy at disasters that come our way,
they only aggravate our wounds beyond healing.
we bother not to survive in winter solstice,
as flotsam pieces of our lives scatter in no direction.
We lose our strength and surrender to the night,
under an ominous sky masking the eve of darkness.
We moan and beat the air in the invisible darkness,
feeling no urge to find our feet as we fall on our way.
All the world is foggy and detached as the night,
Ugliness abounds and searches not for healing
We lose step with life’s senseless direction.
while the stakes cut deeper from solstice to solstice.
Each coming solstice may usher more darkness
we need direction to guide us on our way
bring healing to our hearts in the hollow of night.
Copyright © Josefina Costales | Year Posted 2015
Keeping your mind,
healthy and open
and taking that big step
through the opportunity door;
you’ll find going up,
the career ladder, easy.
It’s not always easy,
to keep and open mind.
Going straight up
the ladder, opens
many possibilities; open doors
lay at the top, of the steps.
You may not be taking steps;
the climb up so many floors, is not easy.
The illusive door
of the human mind,
is hard to keep open.
Mind locks itself up.
Go ahead, limb on up,
take those steps;
many opportunities will open
and it will be easy,
for your mind,
to open its own door.
When elevators close their doors
and they glide slowly up;
as you get off, mind
your first foot step.
You’ll find it very easy,
any door to open.
The world is full of, open
You’ll find an easy
path, as you gradually rise up.
No one wants to go, back a step;
that thought alone, can open any clam shelled mind.
Secure files open, with a code, quite easily.
Through many a doorway; you’ll advance your steps.
Climbing success’s ladder upwards; is simply an act, of the mind.
Copyright © M. L. Kiser | Year Posted 2014
Sometimes it all feels like a dream.
A dream full of love,
Full of life,
And full of happiness.
It is as though I am surrounded by flowers;
Yet, every pedal stings like the nick of a blade.
A sharp, jagged blade.
Carving every inch of my body. Could this really be a dream?
I lie here, trying to escape, but I keep drowning in the flowers.
Even through all of this pain, I still feel the joy of love.
With every tear I shed, I still feel happy.
My world seems empty and cold, but I still feel the warmth of life.
I wonder if this is the end. If my life
Could really be taken by a simple blade.
I begin to stray away from my happiness
And realize that this is no dream.
I thought I was draped with love,
But little did I know that this garden was filled with malicious flowers.
I once felt delighted in the presence of a flower.
The cheer it brought made me burst with life.
I thought I knew the meaning of love,
But I never knew the pain of a blade.
It helped me distinguish reality form a dream
And determine what would truly make me happy.
It seems so far away, the hope of happiness.
The pedals turned black, darkening the hate within the flowers.
I close my eyes, begging for it all to be a dream.
Praying for a prolonged life.
I lay in the garden of vengeance, awaiting the pierce of a blade.
Longing for the compassion of love.
Not even a moment later, I realize there is no love;
Nothing that can make me believe in the existence of happiness.
Again and again I feel the torment of the blades;
The misery that began in this garden of flowers.
I feel my grip loosening, about to let go of life.
I am beginning to disappear like the memory of a dream.
At that moment, the light shines through the flowers.
My body fills with life,
And I finally wake from that horrific dream.
Copyright © Corinne Meade | Year Posted 2015
A Christmas walk in soft sun of winter
Across crisp fields of umber and green,
A sharp breeze blowing with freedom
On their faces, aglow with the hope
Of seeing one again – a bird; their bird,
Soaring and diving defiantly so.
The eagle. Powerful, swift and so
Free. Wings outstretched on currents of winter
Warmth, rising higher than any other bird.
It’s golden feathers shimmering over green
Hills and clear blue skies, in the hope
Of spying prey, running in a last bid for freedom.
They looked and walked and talked in freedom,
Enjoying the country lanes and paths in so
Carefree a manner; such a rich land of hope,
Bursting with creatures alive in the winter
Meadows: robins, rabbits, hares, a green
Woodpecker, and many a chattering bird.
They paused to rest and listen to bird
Song and breeze, relishing in the freedom
At the heart of nature, so fresh and green;
When suddenly, they saw a bush shaking so
Violently. They stopped and stared, the winter
Wind? Too strong. They watched in hope
Of seeing something curious, or in the hope
Of discovering if this at last was their bird,
Hunting untamed in the wilds of winter.
They approached, careful not to intrude on the freedom
Of the wild, but all they could see was a fluttering so
Urgent, flapping wings, a rubbed-raw leg, a thread of green.
A blackbird was trapped on a branch by green
String; frantic, desperate panic, yet hope
Shone in its eyes, pleadingly so.
They spoke softly, carefully untying the bird,
Which flew off to the wind in a cry of freedom.
They felt proud, liberated, in a wonderland of winter.
They ran home for dinner of green sprouts and festive roast bird;
Bred in darkness and stench, no hope of daylight or freedom.
Incarcerated, deformed, wounded so bad, in a long-hardened winter.
Spare a thought for your turkey this Christmas…
Copyright © Charlotte Kingsfield-Blake | Year Posted 2014
Oh, hear the rattle of the rolling train;
yhe clap…clap…clacking rhythm,
beating like a conga drum;
every trip it sings along,
with the tracks repeating song;
such simple, inexpensive music.
Listen to that music,
of the heart-beat, of the train.
Sing along, with its melodious song.
Come, join in the rhythm;
don’t you love, to sing along;
with the clack..clack…chugging, of that rolling drum.
Run and grab your bongo drums;
we’ll play a little music.
A grand neighborhood, sing-along,
to the rhythm of the train.
Oh, what a wondrous rhythm,
is the old, Iron Horse’s song.
In the heart’s, always a song;
the body’s beating drum.
It keeps on pounding out its rhythm;
the heart beats of its Chrystal music;
beats with tempo of the train’
just clap…clap…clacking, on along.
All the people sing along,
with the old Iron Horse’s thrilling songs.
If with instruments, you’re untrained;
perhaps you do not own a drum.
Still, you can join the music;
just clap your hands in rhythm.
Revel in that rhythm,
sing and play along.
Just be part of the music
and belt out your own song,
to your own heart’s rhythm
and that musical old train.
Lighten up that rhythm and revel in the music.
Have a glorious, sing-along, to the many beating drums.
There’s nothing quite as joyous, as the songs sung with the trains.
Copyright © M. L. Kiser | Year Posted 2014
Since the publishing of the first book
Man has held this treasure in his hand,
A bit of magic bringing a new friend.
No limit to the wonder of this friend,
Between the pages of your book
All the wonders of the world in hand.
The pleasure of holding in your hand,
Each time cultivating a new friend.
Adventures between the pages of a book.
He who has a book in hand, always has a friend.
Copyright © Barbara Gorelick | Year Posted 2013
The ebb and flow of your life is in a constant state of flux.
While the “meat and potatoes” of a soul are at its’ core,
these sublimations are kept hidden deep inside.
They’re always under cover and kept hidden deep inside,
roiling your life with a tidal action to a constant state of flux,
while the “nitty grittys” of a soul are at its’ core.
The concept of souls are at its’ core.
Although souls are kept hidden deep inside,
they percolate life to a constant state of flux.
Your life is in a constant state of flux because the soul is at its’ core, hidden deep inside.
For Andrea's contest
Copyright © John Trusty | Year Posted 2013
The day’s beginning is a special gift.
Given over a life’s eternity,
One can’t help but feel the daily change.
How often we stay into the evening. An attempt to hold
Onto the feelings of joy and elation,
That made our day so emphatically special.
Are not the future possibilities also special?
That we dream of yet other gifts,
gifts of such thought, that might also inspire elation
From giver and receiver for all eternity.
Constantly close to both, holding,
As if to say, “Don’t Ever Change.”
Does growth not require change?
Should not that change be also special?
Only if you have forgotten about holding,
The longing embrace of previous gifts,
One that requires attention for all eternity,
fueling existential feelings of elation.
Even when intentionally forgotten, holding
On to the recipient, despite elation.
At one point, this internal agony was a gift.
What could ever make this change?
This gift that could never be more special.
Now it has changed for eternity.
The re-direct of energy through eternity,
The loss of love’s forever embrace.
Love, making pain beautifully special.
Will there ever be elation?
Maybe if we only change
The way we exchange special gifts.
Our future’s eternity might fill with elation
From holding the exchange
Of something special,
… the mere appreciation of a gift..
Copyright © Matthew Sample | Year Posted 2012
What's a sweeter gift than love?
What's the greatest wealth than hope?
What's a richer state than faith?
It behooves you to live by your faith,
And keep aflame the spirit of love,
Woe befalls him who derides hope:
Nothing is drearier than a life bereft of hope,
And he's a lost soul who's without faith,
But unfortunate is he of all who's without love.
All is lost when one loses love, hope and faith!
Copyright © Abdul Malik | Year Posted 2013
THE RUINS OF LIFE
I sat silently listening to silence
Reflecting on how good life could have been but it isn’t
Reminiscing on how good it was before it all happened; life ceased to be fair
Realising how bad it is now and how worse it is getting
Thinking on how possible it is that life could still be restored to normalcy
Planning on how to prevent it from worsening towards the worst road
In all and all after the deep thoughts; I only see the ruins of life staring at me.
Woke up from sleep and felt like I dreamt of the end of the earth
Everything seemed so real; I have some bruises still in me
Looking so confused as I just realized that I have woken up in a new place
A better view in the mirror revealed more of me than I remember
I became so frightened that I so shouted and something happened
The echoes of my voice shouted back at me louder
Just then, I realized; I am the only one left in this ruin.
I thought there was hope until I saw hope running for his life safety
Then all became hopeless; the world is ruined and the ruin is the world
What is left of the ruin can’t be grasped; there seems to be no recovery
Women are faithly praying; men are fately striving hard
A quest of bringing life to order; a wish of normality
The hope of saving life from death and life from itself
The ruin destroyed life; all left now is the destruction of life...
Lordvip September, 2013.
Copyright © Victor Alexander | Year Posted 2014
Universes of time, aged stars;
Silent and bright, how they swirl.
Each one lights its own corner of the heavens;
each stands as one body;
serving the universe, alone.
They all reach great heights.
There are no fears here of heights;
no phobias among these stars;
despite them having to stand alone.
Round and round they swirl;
each centrifugal body,
swirling in the heavens.
When people look at the heavens;
they look to great heights;
and peruse those wondrous bodies.
They stare and dream, beneath the stars;
watching them blink and swirl;
each doing their job together, yet alone.
The state of being alone,
up there, in the heavens;
in a constant state of, swirling;
can steer them to those, limitless heights.
Like people, they are travelers, those stars;
little gypsy’s in cosmic light bodies.
With no limbs to impede their bodies;
they travel to other universes, alone.
Each life has its own journey, even a star;
as it travels through the heavens;
it achieves, greater and greater heights;
never looking back, as it swirls.
Like stars, the human mind, with dreams…swirls;
within the mortal body;
Until it too, achieves great heights;
and doing this, very much alone.
Man dreams of rising to heaven;
just like the gypsy stars.
In the end, like dwarfed stars; the human mind will cease its swirl.
In the heights of heaven, there is no mortal body.
No soul is alone, yet without any spin, it achieves those new heights.
Copyright © M. L. Kiser | Year Posted 2014
Lost love where lust begins to rise
Relationships build on betrayals honesty
Grown in the mushroom dark
No one ever really knows their lover
Or another persons heart
Heavy where secrets sleep in hunger under cover
Cursed men escape into the desert vacancy
Soldiers parched, where no raging rivers run
Wrinkled lips dry up with ancient wanderers
Including their insides
Skin turns to leather brown
Warriors, dunes, live out the hour with them now
Doomsday is right around the corner of a smile
A tear tries to form but quickly dries
Broken men dream with gushing rivers on the mind
Sun baked with landscape misery
Thirsty, scorched, craving a glass of water
Lost on the sand to die
Love flourishes on the morning afterwords
Birds still sing in search for something nourishing
Frantic storms lift their last gasp of air
Sail on warm clouds of memory
Laugh at men who used to grasp for flesh
In pleasure for pleasures sake that past
Lost on the dunes
Under the unforgiving sun
Other men still wander
Wonder for ages yet to come
How love lingers where lust begins again
Over the buried souls of granular fine grandeur
Copyright © Earl Schumacker | Year Posted 2016
Sitting under a tree, old and grey
No flowers to bloom, leaves falling down
Birds desert the nests, no one to play around
The clouds are around, they hold no charm
Gave shade to many, no one to shade us
Waiting to fall one day, are we made for each other?
Copyright © Suresh Iyer | Year Posted 2010
“I walk a decrepit graveyard alone, in mists stirred by contrast winds
As a storm brews, I am grateful that I know in my heart he's alive
Skies bream with promise of torrent rain and shelter must be found
It appears; I’ve lost my shawl, and feel the cold chill even as I dream
I’m convinced it’s due to the storm; not because I walk amidst the dead
Further, I see through clammy mist a mausoleum, looms in the silence
As I near those rusty iron gates, leaves rustle loud in the silence
And I picture armed vagrants once here, perhaps chased by the winds
Now I rest assured, I am alone as I search this place of the dead
Painful moans erupt from within; my heart leaps; could it be, he's alive?
‘Who are you?’ My hear raced fiercely, convinced, this concludes my dream
Intermittent moonlight cast upon the floor, My Ross, at last is found!”
In a tomb her Ross laid in the silence; by love and hope kept alive
Calling upon soft summer winds; manifested in persistent dreams
Which resounded that among the dead, her beloved would be found
By Annalise Brigham
For: A Rambling Poet’s “Among the Dead” Contest
Copyright © Annalise Brigham...a.k.a. Audrey Haick | Year Posted 2011
My seed, I must admit I never even once wanted
Sitting unreallisticaly, at a doctors office
Waiting for my name to be called and to terminate this
Copyright © shane solomon | Year Posted 2011
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