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The freaks started it all by Jean-Baptiste, Nagella
Why We All Must Wear Masks by McLain, James
All That Can Be Ours by Gentile, Mike
Just Pray With All Your Heart by Asuncion, Bernard F.
FATHER CREATOR OF ALL AND MANKIND by Lee Sr., James Edward
Representing All The Leaders Salute Salute by Thalpaguruge, Nathasha
all i do is think of you by Hauser , Mike
Above All - The Loop Poetry Style by Petersen Potter, Dorian
All The Little Things by Budd, Cassidy
you are all i need by Thompson, Julicia
ALL LOVES ARE NOT CREATED EQUAL by Gauthier, Line
It Is All In Your Hands by Project, The Brooklyn Six
Death Is The End For Us All by McLain, James
I HAVE LOVED, HURT, BROKE HEARTS, LIED BUT MOST OF ALL I HAVE LEARNED by Monwa, PoeticMonwa
All Hail The Queen by Acrich, Marc
We Are All Somebody's Child by Milliner, Sarita
All I want is One Woman by Frank, Mark
Virtual, But Love After All by U.D Palawon , Sunita
IT ALL ADDS UP by Bell, Deborah
All alone Save For One by Whalen O Haolin in ancient Celtic, David

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Like A Girl

Listen to poem:
Like A Girl 

I play like a girl, I hit like a girl
You say I throw like a girl, 
And, when I run -- I run like a girl!
All that plus more, enjoy this one size fits all

Who and what I want comes from being strong 
Classy and fabulous, 
THIS is my song!

I've been told, cut to size
The world dark and gray, when life becomes an insult
Take heed when I speak my mind, 
I am tough, outstanding and beautiful!

Move ahead --- say it twice, I smell nice
A taste of Cool Water and Justice Perfume
I have a non-stop multitask fixation
Like a woman, everything about me is hidden 
Magic and alluring the only joy in sexuality you'll need

I'm empowering this moment!
Endorsing Myself, with a certain sorta mystique
I deliver an independent will, 
     don't ever underestimate my physique

I am a caregiver, a female who won't give up the fight
I remain firm and believe all women have equal rights
I walk and talk Like A girl 
    wearing heels Breaking the sound of Annabel

       Like, Mona's unforgettable smile, 
       I stand tall Like Miss Liberty
       I am, Betsy Ross, America's #1 designer
            Harriet, who escaped slaver-y 
       Like Theresa and Mary, I'm here to give change
       I am, Hilary overwhelmed with determination
       A leader -- A Goddess, I burn like Joan
       ---Cleopatra in the room
       ---Calamity Jane's wild side
       Emelia's, won't give up heart
       I am Anne, with a secret hidden spot
       Susan B, with the right to vote
       Emily who writes deep and pretty

The sound In your eyes aren't listening!
You imagine I am weak -- not strong enough -- brave enough, 
You call me different and difficult!
Still, you want my warmth -- my love -- my attention

I am not less, I am more
I am a woman -- I frown -- I cry -- I hurt and yell at the universe
Nevertheless, I make a difference
Like a girl, I smile
A smile never seen or felt before, both defined and undefined
Your heart will ask and implore for more

Like a girl, I'll drive you wild, looking pretty "You're In Love!"
My Self confidence comes from who I am deep inside
Everything I've become follows the makeup on my face
Bare and nude, I am the Madonna flowering the mood

At the end of every day, I have one other thing to say
The Next Time You ask me to cook and clean
Because you think, I belong in the kitchen
You better believe I'm doing it my way
LIKE A GIRL


Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2015

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Where The Sycamore Grew

The sun-yellow house seems smaller somehow,
regarding it now,  with time-worn eyes...

The street seems narrower, and the trees are taller..
Where once open fields spanned both sides of the road
there are new tract houses, and fences have bloomed
The neighboring orchards have all been removed

But somehow we knew the house would remain....
As if seen from a distance, ...yet, still much is the same

There's an unfamiliar red tricycle, and a skate left behind
along flagstone pavers that wind to the door
It's a path that we laid on a hot summer day...
in front of this house that sits at the bend
near the end of the road, where the sycamore grew...

As suddenly as wind, that springs from the dust
thirty years flew away, and fell into in the past
And quickly alive, all the memories rise, 
     like a whirlwind of leaves, in a springtime of lives.....
_____ 

...Our first Christmas trees,. our first anniversaries...

 The place where I cried long into the night, 
  as the child in me grieved for a mother who died...

 Long, starry nights, I was bathed by the moon
                    rocking my babes to a lullaby tune
_____

Yes....it is all captured there, in the small yellow house
Our very first house, with the snow-white shutters

Strange, it may be, but I'm glad it's still yellow...
Still wearing the face of the warm summer sun 

The sun- yellow house, with a flagstone path
Where old slate stones bring the sun to the door
It's a path we laid on a warm summer day
in a place that we knew as our very first home
 
Just a small yellow house, with snow-white shutters...
that sits 'round the bend, where the sycamore grew...


                                       _________



Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2009




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Broken People

I wish to be with the broken people
the get in your face challenge me people
The sometimes hidden
sitting in a dark corner kinda people
The don't you love me
I wish you seen me sorta people
People just being real people
not having to have it all together people
Them doing their best to figure it out people
dancing and singing without the smooth moves people

I don't care about the color of their skin
or what others think of as their sin
They don't need to be perfect to win
seeing and listening is where I'll begin
Beyond appearance of fat or thin
I only know what I know
I've never been where they've been.

We'll start 
with our broken smiles
It's the best we've got
It might seem like so little 
still I think it's a lot
Through life's struggles we've all fought
lessons needed learning
experienced not taught
real is real it couldn't be bought

So forget the fake people
the all about perfect hair and clothes people
The I live in the right neighborhood and drive the right car people
It's all about me, top of the hill people
They only hang out with the supremely cool people
those too important to talk to me people
thinking they're the best of the best kinda people
when all along they are merely Sheeple 
ba ba baaing, thinking they are strong instead of feeble

I love characters 
people who are unique
I look under exteriors to gain a peek
strength of lions disguised in meek
unconcearned with fab or being chic
Worth listening to if allowed to speak
the stories they tell will make your eyes leak

For in the end
we are all broken
stumbling and choking
Disguising hurt with our joking
victims of others and their poking
So look close maybe you'll see
eyes that aren't blank 
hearts that aren't empty
Who we think of as complicated
in the end might not be
They might push when others come close
yet they are affectionate times three
Each just a bit afraid and broken 
all the while wishing  
and wanting to be
A part of something
If only we choose to see
those on the fringes
are a part of the we
All we have to do 
is let them be!


Dedicated to our homeless population.
They teach us the unvarnished truth about ourselves.






Copyright © Richard Lamoureux | Year Posted 2015

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Disposable Wisdom

Each day Annie Lesley opened a can
Her eighty-six-year-old hands trembling
As she sat with her cat and ate pet food
What is wrong with this elder’s rendering?

Pride swallowed to remain independent
Large, sunken eyes peered from her weathered face
Her late spouse a decorated hero
Annie’s lifestyle a national disgrace

More enlightened cultures all over the world
Have revered their seniors throughout history
Asians and Native Americans
Are just two who honor their ancestry

Polynesians, other Pacific tribes
Respect the wisdom that comes with age
Seniors are welcome in family homes
But here in the states they’re placed in a cage

Bone-thin Annie Lesley chose to be free
Amazing neighbors with her endurance
When social services tried to intervene
She fought with remarkable resilience

Old photos on walls told many great tales
But only purring Tibby was listening
Each morning she rose to care for her cat
Until the day that Tibby went missing

In tears she claimed he must have been poisoned
Though in cat years he was older than she
Each day she sat by the window, staring
Awaiting the homecoming of Tibby

She’d been abandoned by society
Lost in the world’s most “progressive” nation
For sacrificing her spouse in World War II	
Annie received little compensation

This widowed war bride never had children
Her mate had met his fate in Normandy
Posthumous awards she dusted each day
Annie’s life was defined by loyalty

To a man and a cat who never came home
And the vigil she kept all alone
Ended quietly one warm summer night
When an angel came to take Annie home

With a can of cat food in hand when found
Annie had nothing else to eat in her house
This is the way a veteran’s wife died
And tear stains had blemished her faded blouse

Although seniors’ wisdom is heeded
In societies that grow from history
Too many like Annie lead lonely lives
Wisdom untapped, they die in poverty


Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire | Year Posted 2009

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A Long Loud Sigh

genius?
sometimes you are in its minimal spotted light...sometimes!
other times you just know you've been touched and you freeze,
moved but frozen...like a stranger it moves in, does its work and leaves.

...maybe it's been a while since you two spoke...
when the dead sea still hosted life,
the hanging gardens of babylon grew in sinc with the breath of the planet,
before the tower of pisa started to lean or mayan buildings were in ruin.

so you write words...any words...they might at least soothe your hurt
hold your heart in a protective shield.
you know how crippling unrequited love can be.
do you still dream of its hug...genius?

life and love share more than a first letter
(like the first letter you wrote under the veil of inspiration).
they also share good and evil...it's a flip of the coin.
either way is fine with you. you'd bathe in holy water or sell your soul.
life, love...passion...somewhere in there...it lives, genius.

all of nature a reflection through its transparent figure glows dark 
like the shadows live in the radiant illumination of evening rays.

so let me speak of us!
recently when i tried to hold you...
you were like a ghost in the bright of day,
a phantom out of its element...
there was nothing of you...i could embrace.
when i tried to enter you a freezing cold ran through me like a winter brook.
you exhaled me 
as if i were fog on a deserted country road invisible to absent eyes.
still you were my drug of choice.
addicted, i chased the dragon...you...genius.

memories fill me...
days when we would paint words,
stitch in a metaphor or two,
weave in music, 
write instruments to fill in the spaces,
ordain a voice.

i remember...

you wanted to taste me
i was overwhelmed 
how you put your fingers on my lips 
how you licked them...you...genius.

you were that giant pine i would climb in the dead of winter
(why do they say that "the dead of winter"? winter will die 
when hell freezes over. winter isn't death it's purgatory.)
the one with the needles that punctures human skin.

come to me again and touch me...
like the butterfly does the wind...barely but thoroughly.
(is it true that just a tiny flutter of their wings could be 
the start of a hurricane? are the icebergs melting?)
i didn't just write that out loud...did i...with you I'm shy...genius.

GENIUS?

fine!
hide.
don't show yourself.
don't speak to me.
fine!

don't bother with rising the sun today.
forget those showers you create your magic arc with,
vacuum away all the plants.
lower your wall of blue.
i'm not interested anymore in those pillowy shapes i use to love so.

i've always known it is fire that cleanses, water that burns,
it is the moon that breaks the heart,
the stars that slaps the face...with...i don't know...reality.
i've always known by the time we see a star...
in real time...it's already extinguished...already dead.

it is our friends that will use us...our heroes that will lie to our face...
our blood will betray our trust...our teachers will fail us...
our leaders treat us like just another job...
the devout that will exhibit hatred.

still i believe. no matter what else...the rose will always survive.
the petals deceiving. they will repel all that is unholy.
grab it by the neck and squeeze out its black ooze,
leaving a gentle soul there to admire its adversary.
don't even get me started on the orchid
or even the flowers all...alphabetically.

i dare confront the beauty of nature's art unframed...
canvas loose to admire...genius!

i miss you but i am out of tears.
do drop in though. 
i can offer you a cup of dry warmth...
soothing like burning logs that crackle with laughter.

or 

take you to my secret place.
behind the camouflage of forests dense,
where vines grow through spiral staircases 
made of turtle shells and dressed in discarded snake skins.
green is the theme there. it is everywhere,
unabridged, unabated, unaffected, undisturbed 
with a fuming, burning, yearning to be touched.
so let's...let's grab...hold...squeeze..
feel free from the cheap paradigm offered.

i don't think you know, even while you sleep, i hold your hand, genius.

dream a full rainbow on a fingernail moon night,
feel february twenty ninth its absolute might,
taste fully the slight of a pheasant in flight,
yearn eternal life, wish a vampire's bite,
concoct rhymes nicely fluffed with built in sight.

genius?
on this sombre morning the sun is blinding.
damn my eyes.
there is a negative entity drapes our children's world.
shame on us...shame on you...i need you.
i am reduced to an objective observer.
life glides on the little wings of its carrier,
its final resting point in the hands of the wind.
another life carried away on a worker bee,
busy stealing nectar from a succulent bud.
a stowaway hangs on for dear life to the flyers leg.
gets off at the next flower.
meets up with a companion to create a new life.

genius?,
everything changed when I met you.
was the sun rising or the mountain sinking.
was that an orange globe against a blue sky
or a lit round hole in a sad wisp of air.

i'll play a keyless piano if you'll paint me a horizon I can reach.
i'll sing you a ballad with a single note...

i walked into my life without consideration.
maybe crawled.
all the same...
when do I get a choice.
when will they stop holding death over my head.

if i could direct a few more plays with you as my guide...
my art, my life! genius i long for your influence...
even one last time to see your face, 
unite and give you one last kiss...goodnight.




April 1 2015
Maurice Yvonne
Sponsor: Linda
Contest Name:A Million Dollar Poem








Copyright © Maurice Yvonne | Year Posted 2015

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The Poet Who Never Was

I thought I was a poet who had a pen of gold
With clear access to writing that was mature and bold.
I thought I could go roaming beside the foaming sea
And watch the seagulls gliding to give a show for free.

I thought I was a poet who walked along the beach
In awe I stood and wondered, my hand stretched out to reach
The silver thread dividing the water from the sky
And traced Selena’s features as slowly she went by. 

I thought I was a poet who knew what joy could be
On hearing water roaring cascading down with glee.
I looked for inspiration, experienced utmost thrill
When climbing down the valley or up the verdant hill.

I thought I was a poet in charge of heat and cold
But lost my true emotions when I was duped and told
I had to reach perfection to please my heart and mind
By means of imitation. My soul I left behind.

I thought I was a poet who had a pen of gold
But now all of a sudden I’m weary, frail and old.
I thought I was a poet. My pen is of no use.
With teary eyes I whisper to my dejected muse. 


-------------------------------------------------------------
Contest: First Place Only
Sponsor: Laura Loo
Placed 1st ~ 18th June 2016

Contest: Any Poem #36
Sponsor: Poet Destroyer A
Placed 1st ~ 13th March 2016

Contest: Million Dollar Poem
Sponsor: Poet Destroyer A
Placed 1st  ~  13th June 2015
Chosen Poem of the day ~ 8th May 2015



Copyright © Paul Callus | Year Posted 2015

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How Poetry Began

That thing that we call poetry -
when asked where it began,
I’d say it started beautifully
before the dawn of man!

It glistened on the oceans
before man came to be.
It blossomed on the grassy cliffs
that met the first great sea.

It glittered in the moon and stars
and beamed on earth below
in meadows where bright flowers danced
and on the pristine snow.

It sparkled on the lakes and streams,
and when man came along,
he took sweet words that flowed to him
and turned them into song.

This was how it always was
before we knew of time.
The poet who begot us all
made it to be sublime.

Poetry has now evolved,
and as with many things,
there are many kinds.  . .  but I
still like it when it sings!


Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2014

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One Brief Moment

Look...See how long nights are drawing in.
Dreary birdsong gradually abates -
Opaque dusk grows dim;
And just outside the creaky little garden
Gate,
Stood opposite the empty wood
Where the vacant threshold silently awaits,
I pause, when, resonating quietly back...
I now hear...
Far distant echoes of my glorious childhood 
Tugging like a Siren upon my ear.


With a heartfelt pang I turn to move,
Before my staring should offend some 
Old friends ghost
To manifest in vengeful affright,
Towards the comforting sanctuary proffered
By the warm kitchens weak neon light...
That sneaks out from behind the half-shut
Door,
But held - Transfixed! 
Brought from wither-not-where to this one
Small place - Staid...
As if caught in a state of heavenly grace,
Conversing to the soft wind in harmonious 
Angelic rapport:-
Thus soothes like enchantments waves...
Rolling gently up to repeatedly break upon 
Magical banks girdling Nivians lakeshore.


For what be this odd muse 
That upon my aging senses does so readily
Enthuse...
And to my inner soul so inextricably
Implore?
Ahhh...But this much I may be allowed to 
Say,
Before darkly gathering skies extinguish 
Over weak flames of the last spluttering
Ray,
Perhaps it is our inner voice
That seeks out the solitudes of 
Tranquilities choice -
To witness and record and dutifully store...
Those rare and fleeting moments 
We all too briefly adore.



Copyright © john fleming | Year Posted 2016

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WHEN I STOP AND PRAY

When the storm clouds boil around me, 
And the lightning splits the sky--. 
When the howling wind assails me,
And life's sea is rolling high--
When my heart is filled with terror,
And my fears, I can't allay--
Then I find sweet peace and comfort, 
When I simply stop and pray.

When the things of life confound me,
And my faith is ebbing low--
When my trusted friends betray me,
And my heart is aching so--
When the night seems black and endless,
And I long for light of day--
Then I find a silver dawning,
When I simply stop and pray.

There are things beyond the heavens
I can't begin to understand,
But I know that God is living,
And I know He holds my hand.
Yes, I know He watches o'er me
All the night and all the day--
And He's always there to hear me
When I simply stop and pray.


Copyright © William Robinson | Year Posted 2006

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Black Diamond Night

Black Diamond Night (a coal miner’s cemetery) 

Where the ebony, we call “NIGHT”,
Old black rocks sit under the twilight
Diamond shape eyes unclear and lonely, 
Sinister through hostile spirits only,

I stumble across these stones without a bone
A solitary confinement alone,
From a barren zone the light transcend
Only in time, our minds will mend

Endless valleys and limitless stones
These bones- these bones they sit alone
The abyss, of rotten cavities with no fill,
A system no power can unwell the drill
The blood that passed over without a spill
Peaks collapse into a spellbinding chill
They are trapped! They are trapped!
Another diamond in the rough
Is what they left

Obsessed with the dead without a death
A death that impatiently awaited their last breath
Gushing, into the gems of dead chemistry,
Diamonds holding its own intensity,
These lonely graves, on top of sycamore hill
Coal mining hearts that will never heal
If only shiny eyes could see?
These lonely bones inside of me!
Moving in every direction possible
Flowing in every direction noticeable
Sockets without eyes.
Stones hiding under the cobalt skies.
The mad sparkles, the madness dies.
Throughout this mess, we held in the blasphemous
Intervening lots of gems so miraculous
  
Into a stone of self-religion,
A black night filled of legions
Acknowledging the soul's capacity of free
Near the frail bones that sit alone,
Alone they sit in a morbid home.
Through a path unclear and all alone,
Troubled by the visions of my own stone
Where the night takes place in the dark
The ebony rides under the diamond bark
Along with the coal miners who never got to see the;
“Diamonds of another day!”

:) pd


Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2012

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Alice Sweet Alice

      ~Alice Sweet Alice~

        *Like Sisters*
   Everyday -- Holding Hands 
Sunday Dress -- Pink Ribbons
         *Alice And I*


How can they say she did not exist?
This Sweet Girl I Named Alice

The way she looks at me
-Her eyes tender green
A body figure I can't describe
Together we played hide and seek
We swung in ways no one could see
This girl with pretty red curls
Who enjoys the sound of pouring rain.

Together we slept under the same breeze 
We carved our names on the same tree
Side by Side it Read Alice & I!
She whispered the day I fell off my bike
Alice Sweet Alice loves the way I look in red!

Every day I face the mirror
Alice puts her left hand on my right
We share the same identical scars,
Under the right and left palm.

The way she held my hand
Healed the scrapes in every fall
Beating from the bullies, she screams!
Again, Alice, whispers--- "Kill Them All!"
No one ever said a word,
When she stood by my side
Alice knew me in ways no one else did
She knew my eyes -When they cried!

Now I can't sleep,
Since, Alice has fallen back into the abyss
Forever conscious in a self-hug
--- this is no dream, it is real!

The rage inside, burns.
It took place the day she left!
Burning curtains 
Empty mirrors
This Girl Named Alice spoke of darkness,
then disappeared 

When I hear the sound of pouring rain
I stare at the shadows on the wall
Nothing feels the same,
I allow myself to soak in a darkness where it began.

My hair of red is not the same
These cuts are all that remain
The only clue in which Alice, was here!
Holding on to stainless blade, I sleep

ALICE SWEET ALICE! 
Please call my name!
Why do they whisper?
Why are they saying she never held a breath?
I know she is real, she's exist
Why else would I let her cut my wrist?

This Sweet Girl 
"I YELL FOR ALICE!"
Finally, visits again ---
But, who is to believe?
For everyone says 
Alice lives inside my head.

By:)


Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2013

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Glory of her magnificence

Oceans apart buried under sandy shores, a rare pearl slept comfortably behind her walls. Fate must have been kind, for a common man like me, to stumble upon her shell. As I brushed away her debris, astonished - my eyes could not believe this beauty, revealed before me. Spellbound - I could not help but stare, stunned by the glory of her magnificence. As she took one step forward, unutterable sensations, took a hold of my emotions. Yet I remained motionless, overmastered by this majestic heavenly vision. And I could have sworn it was a dream, until the softness of her fingertips, graced the imperfections of my soul, and for the first time it felt perfect. All of a sudden it felt like we were floating, ascending towards a myriad of stars, with the moon guarding us silently. Stardust sprinkled with the sight of her smile - how fortunate was I, to celebrate this artistry. Her lips blossomed like flowers as they succulently caressed mine. Breathless, without saying a word her eyes acknowledged my vow for eternal devotion with ever lasting love.
Simple Musings Silent One 19 September 2017


Copyright © Silent One | Year Posted 2017

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Hands

Featuring: Leonora Galinta
----------------------------------
Take My Hands
I Offer Them To You
Hold Them Tight
Never Let Them Go!!!
---------------------------------

~MY HANDS~

With all the time on my hands
I gave my hands one job.
 My Hands   -The Artist-

My hands paint everything in my life
they paint my weakness, my strength 
they paint the fire in my eyes
they hold me when I'm cold
When I need them the most,

Like an architect, my hands colored my childhood,
In one touch they drew the plans and layouts of my life.
My hands *very articulate, are they?* 
They continue to sew and show the way  
Sometimes, my hands paint the truth
Sometimes, my hands paint lies
---  Painting hurtful images on drywall
My palms, my fingers embedded calluses from every fall
Creating images, healing my heart
Sometimes my hands are the only friend I see. 

With no words to say
I caress the sky like a mime
My hands ride the wind, 
My hands paint the world, 

Young and pretty fingerprints 
They feel, they hold, they grip
Don't let go!

Clever and cute
It's time for motherhood
My hands painted your first hold
Traced your first smile
A painting I treasure in my heart
Yes! A Rembrandt they became during birth 
Now you're all grown up...:-(  
Embarrassed to embrace the hold
One day when I'm old,
 you will hold my hands and remember the gold.

My hands paint designs when it comes to love
sometimes a masterpiece 
sometimes a mistake
sometimes my hands feel images I can't describe
Handicap moments when lost
--- My hands perfect when in love
They write songs when complete
So many interlock moment with you
Firm, the perfect match, my fingers spoke.

My hands  -The Artist-  they've been told!!!
Held so many times,
always meeting, greeting,  
waving hello's and goodbyes... 
((you see my hands, they smile too))

Painful, arthritis, cuts, bruises
pinching my way through reality. 
Reaching holding on to dreams
clapping, snapping fingers, we are a team.

My hands age in every turning page
Shriveled and old
Still you embrace and love the hold
My hands touch and made a difference,
my hands employed by me!
My hands give and pray
Right and Left, they know their duty!
When they are bored, they tap-tap
and draw THAT annoying noise.

My hands know secrets, a fortune teller can't reveal
they hold the past, present, and  future in every line.

I extend my hands, without flipping the bird
Thank you, Hands, I enjoy a good sign language show!

In my next life, or so, I will praise my hands
Yes so beautiful, tender, they love to feel.......

My Hands   -The Artist-
I can't believe with all the time on my hands,
I forgot to mention I'm left-handed.

by: PD


Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2013

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Forgotten Heroes of the Somme

Over the top lads, for old Blighty! Hold the colours high!
Say a little prayer for me, for this summer day we die.
My brothers from the ripened field and blackened mill, shop floor, 
Your brother in a killing field to fight a rich man’s war.

In bloodied mud and shattered wood, fight legions of the brave,
Unwitting youth, you’ll do your duty until you’re in the grave.
A sergeant greets a fresh-faced boy, “welcome to the slaughter!”
Here you die from three diseases, bullet, gas or mortar.

In arms we fight together and in leaden hails we pass,
We die amongst the filth and stench that once was verdant grass.
“In the morning we will remember them” we hear the leaders call,
Those fickle words of history, will not remember us all.


Copyright © Howard Bull | Year Posted 2009

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Unspoken Words

I often scribble in the sand 
The words I find so hard to say
And hope the wind will come along 
And blow them all your way.


---------------------------------------
Contest: Simply Beautiful
Sponsor: Kelly Deschler
Placing: 2nd   (April 2015)

Contest: Five Lines or Less
Sponsor: Black Eyed Susan
Placing: 2nd   (April  2014)



Copyright © Paul Callus | Year Posted 2014

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Death of the Poet Destroyer

~The Untold Fatal Attraction Poem~

Mid-morning she sees the sun ahead
Her death flowed in a messaged bottle
Gazing into her brown eyes upon all open sores,
Her conscience dark and gray a never-ending war!
A giant cyclone of a thousand thoughts swirled around this little girl.
Inflicting away the pain, through the comfort of others pen
The way she twisted and twisted life’s perception was out of her control
Inside she knew the glass slipper was never hers to show off
 
She is baring nothing but a tainted pen, walking throughout eternity’s sand
A prosecutor of misdeeds, accomplishing what, without knowing the way
Departing from her fractured self, she begins to slip into a righteous form,
Twirling her twilight's pen like a baton, spinning it to one final stand
 
She awakens in a dream, where her sadness does not allow the light to reform
Her body is weak and pale against the birth of her undying sun
Staring down into the deepness of every-bodies abyss
Inside all souls is where she felt lighter, than the retarded sun gives
A crimson sky follows her just to reveal her diminished soul,
A life of shunning out the city glow will always dwell deep inside her
Sleeping under society as one, insulting the taste of innocent blood
Forgetting the vengeance, in a dimension where the pen is mightier than the sword
 
How did she let it come to this?
In one feeling she fell in love with the spirit of the living rhyme 
Watching from a cave, with a diabolical look
Refusing to grasp the self - nature and kill off the destroyer's will
A price beyond this enigmatic world, craving to be just like them
Condemning her meaning to a blasphemy of white butterflies
Destroying her poetic meaning that was destined to dance a tangle of endless rage
In love with the essence of her deceased will
She clings on to the dimness and brilliance at the same time
All corpses lost beyond the girl in question,
Sympathetic in a bizarre language, she mutters out sweetness
Her heart mended, recognizing all the adoration and poetic addiction
Exchanging the real terror, fixated by the life force of her poetic destruction
Giving birth to a new revelation
Now she will never deceive her love for the making of true art,
Not wanting to belong in this wretched world with her destroying criteria,
Her soul sails looking for a new era where love will no longer generate
As she loathes the love and decides not to destroy this generation with hate

At last, longing this one day with the angel of death
With a closing teardrop, one last thought
My death will not be the end; only the ascension~

by;pd


Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2012

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PLAGIARIZING

"Mine all Mine!"

A thief I long to be
Your eyes original like the moon and sea

A lover in the world............
An Anthology, you walk and talk like the word "AMOR."

The words you send, I nicely tuck under my pillow
Every note every line you left behind 
I memorized till they became all mine
Word-for-word, 
Unauthorized I scrape the concrete calluses off the tongue
Pirating the perfect dramatic monolog look,
Basking through the passage around your Bio, 
Lost in the musky scent -around the sonnet of your aura light 
Epic enough, I reach inside to feel every idyllic rhyme
A strong iambic meter curse, conjuring up the perfect verse
In you I lift a copy paste from your lips, 
No need to credit the sources in your bliss
The sweetest undamaged sensual memorandum book
A moment I stole and sealed without copyright proof

My dearest Poet, 
When you move across the room
I see a thousand arrows that follow from behind, 
Indulged when you speak and point out a verse per verse
I am a victim pampered by your words,
Sponging every line, adding them to my crib notes 
Improved wordplay that infringed my everyday diary
A haiku so tangible, it sets the perfect images in my dream,
Hypnotize after I read your first love poem
A printed feeling--
Borrowed from the sun

pd


Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2013

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If My Love For You Was Greater

if my love for you was any greater the trees would  line up in poetic forms ...awe you in sonnets written... ...part...to allow winds to cool your face...  to trace it with natures hand. all the oxygen that covers all the waters rise, supercharge the breath of my emotion. mountains would melt, shed their peaks like tears of joy. even the arid deserts serve up fruits,  their prickly pears peeled on a platter. sunset would pause and sunrise hurry... ...exist in a paradox to herald your presence. petals would climb their stems  regroup to bloom again. butterflies re-cocoon  emerge as glorious fairies  for all children to adore. the skies would willingly  shape, etch,  paint,   frame my exuberance. the planet would swell, the galaxies expand. in the endless depth  of my singular love  i hold you dear, safely contain you  in my admiring smile, for now, forevermore. 16~10~2014 Sponsor: Rhonda Johnson-Saunders Contest Name: Your Most Romantic Poem of 2014


Copyright © Maurice Yvonne | Year Posted 2014

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AT THE FOOTBRIDGE - LIMERICK COLLABORATION

At the footbridge Sue was meeting her beau (He was married to a woman called Flo) Sue soon found out his deception She dismembered his erection For his love life it was a massive blow To the hospital fled poor Rodger For an op to repair his todger Now fixed, it's SO big Rodger grunts like a pig in porn films as Rodger the lodger Inspired by but not for contest BY JAN ALLISON 7~18~16 He promised Flo he never would leave her And she would be his only receiver But she caught him with Sue And his chances were through Gnawing off wood when he neared her beaver WRITTEN BY TIM SMITH Sue castrated that cheating deceiver With one whack of her meat cleaver she pulled a Lorena Bobbit turned Rodger into a Hobbit Sue's now known as an "overachiever" WRITTEN BY MARTI SUTHERLAND Across the table sits sweet Amee Once A Roger, before he became a she The master of infidelity So many personalities Before and after he became an amputee.. WRITTEN BY SKAT A He was known as a terrible stoner With a huge un-deflatable boner It now sits in a jar At the end of the bar A reminder to all of its owner... WRITTEN BY JOHN LAWLESS It’s become a tourist attraction As a symbol of female subtraction Grannies sneak in for a peek Everyday of the week Dreaming of former of love action. WRITTEN BY MARK WOODS Oh how sad that pork missile should be unemployed but for all there to see if science, in a jiffy can rejuvenate stiffys then the first in the queue would be me! WRITTEN BY VIV WIGLEY Flo wanted to give Sue a high five For slicing Rodger with all his jive A two timing fool Who broke every rule Now lil Rodger don't work in overdrive WRITTEN BY ALEXIS Y Rodger's story has been immortalized For having his thingy circumcised It's on display in a bar Now hanging in a jar While it's slowing becoming crystalized WRITTEN BY MARTI SUTHERLAND As she ponders on what to eat Hopefully, it won’t be red meat For there on the log Is Rodger's hot dog So she gets excited and jumps off her feet. WRITTEN BY WINGED WARRIOR There's a lesson I really must blurt To all those blokes out chasing some 'skirt' When you're on heat Don't share your meat 'Cause your todger might really get hurt! WRITTEN BY MARK WOODS Poor forgotten noteworthy Sue Looking so gloomy she blew At the pickled todger once belonging to Rodger kissing good times its last adieu WRITTEN BY EVE ROPER As "Rodger" snaked out of the door It went past a room on tenth floor. A woman therein Said "Come right on in." she kept screaming, "More, I want more! WRITTEN BY ANDREA DIETRICH After Sue chopped his tally-whacker Poor Rodger became quite the slacker He tried to bring his pecker forth Never again to be pointing north Now when he pees he sits on the crapper. He stopped at the house, the red-light was on Knocked on the door, the girls were all gone Stuck with his sawed-off boner Tonight He's going to be a loner Damn, why did the girls all have to be gone? BOTH POEMS WRITTEN BY JAMES ANDERSEN A group of limericks quite clever Began with one simple sever Of engorged penis which is, (between us), I think, a spicy endeavor WRITTEN BY H PENELOPE SWIFTLOCK There was perfection in his pecker, as a porn star he was a wrecker, but to his wife he was unfair, so she severed what was down there, now his only job is director. WRITTEN BY CASARAH NANCE Poor Rodger thought he was being slick when he carved out a handcrafted prick he rubbed his new attire his precious toy caught fire Now he is left with an ashen stick WRITTEN BY TEPPO GREN An ashen stick means man minus prick. Poor Rodger, now a eunuch, without a fix. He decided to become a transgender. Then off he went on a bender. Woke up married to a man from Bertrix WRITTEN BY JEAN MURRAY Rodger's new love was a prudish fox but for brains she had a head of rocks he splinted up his willy popsicle sticks look silly he said it was new and still in the box! WRITTEN BY SONNY ROPER (EVE'S HUBBY) To be fair "At the Footbridge" Now to be completely fair And to stop every persons stare Rodger was not actually circumcised As he was a player, so don’t be surprised This was from wear and tear and his willingness to share WRITTEN BY MARK PAUL VAN DER MERWE Now Rodger mostly stays home for lack of a viable bone. He reaches by habit down for his rabbit: he's got Phantom Willy Syndrome! WRITTEN BY DALE GREGORY COZART Rodger was a good friend of Eye Had a real hankering for cherry pie Tasted every chance he got And it would hit the spot Until his crazy wife made him cry WRITTEN ON 14TH JUNE BY EYE TRUTH TELLER Roger pretends that he's a sexy stud But when the ladies find out he's a dud they all laugh in his face anatomically a disgrace His manhood is referred to as "The Bud" WRITTEN ON 15TH JUNE BY LIN LANE Rodger thought his op was a success When he found he had more and not less But the surgeon's blind stunt Sewed it on back to front Well, he certainly lacks some finesse! WRITTEN ON 15TH JUNE BY RAY GRIDLEY As he crossed the footbridge, Georgie saw a duck Quite unique and raucous, it could quack AND cluck! (And did so incessantly) "Hey! Hey! It's all about me!" It loudly proclaimed, with much aplomb and pluck WRITTEN BY LIM'RIK FLATS
I also wrote another poem but this one did not turn into a collaboration - if you read it you will see that it is quite different to my usual style https://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/at_the_footbridge__2_822879


Copyright © JAN ALLISON | Year Posted 2016

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Hard Times

When hard times come they sit a spell, Like kin folk come to stay A-packin' troubles, pets an' kids That always get ‘n your way. It's drought an' flood, an' flood an' drought, There ain't much in-between. You work like hell to make ’em good, But still they’re sorta lean. The ranch went under late last year, The drought got mighty tough. The boss held-out a long, long time, But finally said, "enough!" So here I am dispatchin’ cops An’ watchin’ felons sleep, In Junction, at the county jail, A job I’ll prob’ly keep. The wife, she works at Leisure Lodge, Where older people stay, A-makin’ beds an’ moppin’ floors To earn some ‘extra’ pay. Though “extra pay‘s” the term I used, It goes to payin’ rent, An’ after all the bills are paid, We wonder where it went. We hocked my saddle, guns an' chaps, An' then our weddin' rings; Then when we couldn't pay the loan, They sold the 'dad-blamed' things. We felt real bad a day or two But then we let it go, Cause it got Christmas for the kids When money got real slow. When hard times come they sit a spell, Don't matter who you are; They'll cost ya things you've set aside, An' clean your cookie jar. You'll loose some sleep an' worry some, Won't pay to moan an' groan; But hang on to your happiness, They'll finally leave ya 'lone.


Copyright © Jim Fish | Year Posted 2005

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Hidden Beauty

Hidden beauty resides not in the grace like charms
Of coy smiles 
Painted across a gentle Madonnas face.
Nor is she vested within the chastened vows
Of saintly knights; encased Great-Helm:
Thus maketh the pale maidens meek pulse
To so fervently race!

She neither dwells in fair Michelangelos alabaster statues,
Or famed masterpieces hung upon hushed galleries
Hallowed walls.
Never does she proudly boast from-on-high
In lofty ivory towers,
Or brazenly shout across yawning grandiose marble halls!

For she will not be found in royal palaces,
Or sprawling estates of greatly lauded piles;
She is not to be found in ancient cathedrals -
Or exalted from their most sacred holy aisles!

She will not be found in hidden empires in brave new worlds
Frontiered by far flung foam washed shores;
Nor found prowling echoing dusty bank vaults -
If all the worlds bankers
Were to throw open all of their bolted cold steel doors!

For hidden beauty knows all the crafts and wisdoms
Of learned mens most subtle and tricky arts:
And cares not a jot, or gives a damn,
For all the poets and their foolish sentimental hearts!

                            But.....

Perhaps she shyly glowers inside a sun struck morn -
Her stealing lips simmering upon the dew kissed dawn;

Perhaps she wantonly flirts alongside a babbling brook -
Where sweet Virgil, Her, for a Muse mistook;

Perhaps she frequents the flowery paths of verdant pasture -
With all their lush, vibrant, unassuming rapture;

Perhaps you may find her in the dappled shades -
In and amongst the streaming glades;

Perhaps she traipses idly through heavens lights -
Of beached harvest moons and star tilted nights.

                            Or.....

Perhaps she briefly flickers across sizzling lightening strikes -
Accompanying thunderous cannonades of symphonic rolling might;

Perhaps she sometimes ignites the drifting tallgrass plains -
Glistening within fleeting rainbows blazing an arc over sparkling rains;

Perhaps she is in the gulf filled roar of stormy headlands -
Whose pounding seas smash and grind the sheering cliffs to sands;

Perhaps she burns across diamond ice in glacial mountains high -
Where frozen snows reach sharply upwards to rip open the azured sky;

Perhaps she slumbers in impenetrable greening forests deep -
Lain down with the hunted grey wolf...safe at last in contented sleep!

                            For.....

I am the glint rippling upon the gleam -
The tumbling cryptic flashing only partly seen;

I am the eternal flame that crackles in the grate -
The enigmatic, indecipherable, most profound innate;

I am the paradox within the intrigue -
That does so contrive but does not deceive;

I am the quantum within the curled up string -
The grain of truth from which all half-truths spring.

I am all these indefinable moments and much, much more...
which all of your befuddled senses are resigned to grapple with - 
Whereupon to set such store!

                            So.....

Content yourself and make not the mistake
To assuredly set me aside to thus debate.
For i am beyond the conjectures of a mere mortal mind,
As by accidental-consequential reaction...i cannot be denied!

                            For "Hidden Beauty".....

Once freed from Pandoras box upon this spinning coil:
To fire and play upon your enchanted thoughts - and forever foil!!


Copyright © john fleming | Year Posted 2015

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Big Girls do Cry

Big Girls Do Cry

They expected her to be the jolly fun one.
The one   w e a r i n g   a smile on her face.
So she became.....who they wanted her to be
She was quick with her wit, telling her practiced fat jokes.
It was a pre-emptive strike of sorts
her attempt to remove the target
from what some thought was her "considerable ass".
Never again wanting to be the "butt" of people's jokes!

She remembers the year she was "Chubby Checker"
the year her parents gave her that checkered jacket
she also remembers how hard she cried.
They laughed and one boy sang 
"Big Girls Don't Cry----- they don't cry!"
She vowed to herself on that very day
"I will never ever cry again!"

There were the many diets
the yo yo effect..."Yo big girl, lookin good"
 Friends asking her  "have you lost weight?"
Those "good for you"s!!!!
The attention felt good in a way
but the weight she'd lose seemed to come back the next day.
Somehow the cursed food felt like her only true friend
the only one on whom she could depend.
The food never judged her
instead it filled the empty sad part
the part that weighed nothing
yet felt like it weighed a thousand pounds!
The part that felt lighter when she was full
it somehow felt like a hug from the inside.

She stopped eating in public
not wanting to hear comments like
"she could do without that ice cream."
There were also the buffet comments
"She's going to get her money's worth!"
Still what hurt even worse
were the nice people
the trying to be kind people
the ones who felt sorry for her people
Saying "all you need to do is lose a few pounds." 
or "you have such a pretty face." 
Some people would tell her "You're just big boned."
Then there was comment she hated the most
"You have such a great personality!" 
For she knew it was all part of the "Fat Girl Show"
the persona she had gifted to them.

Then came the day
that epic day she stopped joking.
When she smiled when she wanted to smile
when she dressed in the ways she wanted to dress.
She embraced the form she was given
she celebrated all of her curves.
She decided to eat when she was hungry
nourishing and loving her body
she allowed colourful foods to occupy her plate.
Strangely, she started losing some weight
but it wasn't her goal
for inside she was becoming whole.
Skinny was not who she needed to be!
When tears came she allowed them to flow free
she was no longer her own enemy
The more she cried
the less she felt her empty.

She learned, everyone
y e s.... everyone,
has some kind of insecurity!
No one is completely who they wish to be
some have hidden bits
others are more obvious,
even  if   some are somewhat oblivious.
She now has learned to be a compassionate witness
one who is much kinder to herself
she doesn't  keep her thoughts on a shelf
So when others make jokes
or give painful pokes...
She tells them "That's hurtful and it's not okay",
"I am who I am and I'm perfect this way!"
Maybe next time they will consider what they say.
For today and tomorrow and every other day forward
she is more than some number on a scale that she weighs
or some joke in an insensitive phrase.
She now can be and see her true self in extrodinary ways


Written March 27th, 2016
Entered into SKAT's Premiere contest.








Copyright © Richard Lamoureux | Year Posted 2016

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Natures Gift



     It's how the stars are lit at night
     and how the dew drops glisten
     How evening shadows mock the light
     and it's how the silence listens

     From the gentle sway of trees
     that bid such fond adieu
     Songs in a summer breeze
     a voice so clear, so true

     The glory of such symmetry
     so more than fills the eye
     To the beauty of such poetry
     this hopeful heart draws nigh

     In natural peace all love is born
     To live and thrive each blessed morn

     03/14/2017

     Poem Of The Week of 3/19/2017
     Best New Poem of the Month 4/01/2017


Copyright © Charlie Smith | Year Posted 2017

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A Tulip Grows Under An Evergreen - Inspired By The Poets At PoetrySoup


A
fine
Parrot Tulip
in vibrant intensities 
with unique undertones
of green acquirable only in a 
few forests. A ruby red swirls within 
its petals beckons awareness of those very 
strokes that live in the lustre of your shapely lips 
like fantasy realized. Mirthful yellows in all those lacquers 
barely ever seen as one would scorch their eyes to gaze lastingly 
directly at the Sun - though I have been fortunate to witness identical 
iridescence in strands of your hair you unintentionally flip and like dainty 
fingers wave me on to move closer to your flawless frame - memorized easily.
A 
special 
fuchsia sparingly 
paints the flower they
say exists only in certain 
singular gemstones yet l know
this tincture for I have seen it in your 
cheeks when we play and laugh. Oh your 
laugh how it fills me - replacing noise surfing
the waves of sound in the surrounding atmosphere.
How enchanting when your laughter there - dwells to
tickle molecules invisible to the eyes but felt by the human
heart. Parrot tulips with their soft myriad shades become stunning 
against a deep black backdrop which shimmers bright like your ebony eyes. 
Sparkle like your smile and I grin happily just thinking of you, just thinking of us.
A 
pearl
white that also 
adorns the flower a 
special light effect I have
found in your complexion - dazzles
my mind each and every time I see you.
Parrot tulips a miracle of nature, a special
breed I admit are as remarkable as any offering 
that grows in our gardens but rarer still - you the flower 
I share my life with. No one, no thing, no life compares to you,
your approach - for every time I even think of you, the joy it brings
completes the meaning of my existence full. If not for you no other delight 
would have that extra zest I feel from the sharing of your love and light always.
A
Parrot
tulip oh 
what joy it
brings. How the flower
draws these words from
me. Ironic how true allure felt
fills our glass so I thought I'd share
with you how it uplifts my days - knowing
confident in our love as one - you'd never resent
me speaking of an elegance other than yours. So you may 
know - understand what the fibres of ones constitution compels 
them to write. Now - about a mystique other than the one you sport with
humility. Finally I have written a poem on aesthetics that does not mention you.
A
closing
monologue.
Just above and 
beneath the dirt grows 
riches unimaginable. Made to 
be absorbed by senses recognizable 
only by a few. They are free for the taking.
An appreciation, a love of a natural essence.
A flower, a person, romance you breathe incomparable
to anything real or imagined.  It alone are the wings we humans 
seek...as real and as precious as all else consumable. How lucky I 
am the magic handed out daily on these pages. The people I could never
find anywhere else then here. I am in love with their words in love with them.


the   re    frain       
is a  par    r               a 
ot  tu lip                m
hid   d                a
en u                j
   n             e
   d           s
   e         t
   r      i 
   c    
   e
    v
     e
     r
    g
   r
 e
 e
n
earthearthearthearthearthearthearthearthearthearthearthearthearthearth
r  r r  r
 o   o   oo
o      o o   o
    t      tt     t 
  s      s   s      s
r r        r   r
o  o    o        o
o  o        o   o
t      t          t     t
s   s        s       s




April 27 2015
The Gardener





Copyright © Maurice Yvonne | Year Posted 2015

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Starry Starry Night

When Wishes were made on a shooting star The Heavens looked down and smiled With sprinkles of stardust on a whisper of moonbeams They created for us a child Soothed you were by twinkling stars In a crib that faced a velvet sky Did Queen Cassiopeia sing you a sweet lullaby As she heard your cries from ever so high In the years that followed you blossomed Joy abounded at the Wondrous You A rare jewel that we could hardly believe was ours A beacon lighting a path so True We named you Vincent - Our shooting Star We felt with the artist you identified a gifted creativity - an affinity with stars Sharing a world of art personified The ‘Via Lactea’ expanded into names defined Elliptical galaxies pondered while star gazing Sirius the Dog Star the brightest of all Followed by Canopus and Arcturus - Amazing Vega - Alpha Lyrae - the Soaring Eagle You dragged us into your nightly game Willing participants we soared with Him Our mundane lives now never the same Tents were pitched on ink black nights Constellations on high seriously contemplated Of Draconis, Capricornus, Gemini and Aries The Heavenly hand that had so skilfully created You captured the Milky Way in oils and canvas In a fashion shared with artists of old Your palette made up of hues and shades With flaming strokes of colors so bold And then it all Changed Why did it all change? You drew within Shutting us out despite our pleas Your palette changed to blacks and greys A boat rocking on emotional seas We begged and pleaded - you shut the door Leaving us baffled at what was wrong Your light grew dimmer by the day Our sorrow sang its own woeful song And then on one starry starry night The final flame - extinguished by you Leaving utter devastation - bereft in its wake Your parents’ hearts broken in two Time heals all wounds so they say Your farewell note being read and reread Through tears of sadness, the hurt replaced With acceptance and forgiveness instead. And now as we sit years later on our porch Staring at one star that sparkles so Bright The words of Don McLean’s echoes in our minds Of Vincent and his Starry Starry Night ‘For they could not love you But still your love was true And when no hope was left in sight On that Starry Starry night You took your life Like sometimes lovers do But I could have told you Vincent This world was never meant For one as beautiful as you’
Footnote: Though fictitious, this is a story that truly represents teenage Cyber bullying suicides all over the world including Asia today. The innocent victims fear blackmail and repercussions refusing to talk it over with parents or mentors. The parents are not even aware sometimes of the dark void of despair their child is facing and trying to address by themselves of which they have no experience and sometimes think the only way out is to end it all. In this cyber age, these cowardly bullies hide behind anonymity, targeting their innocent victims, spreading and sharing lies and venom. Hat’s off to my friend Kate Pennington of ‘Beyond a Joke’ Anti-Bullying Centre, in Sydney Australia, an amazing lady dedicated to helping the youth. No real names of victims have been used in this piece of poetry and any resemblance is purely coincidental. POTW 23rd April 2017


Copyright © Maria Williams | Year Posted 2017