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Ghost Town

Way up there in the Colorado mountains at around 9000 feet,
There once was a thrivin' village that served as the county seat.
It was a boom and bust town that now lies in desolate shambles,
Its one-time stately buildin's now overgrown with creepin' brambles.

'Tis said that a vein of gold was discovered when a feller dug deep,
To bury a friend who was gored to death by an irate mountain sheep!
His discovery was known as Dead Man's claim and the rush was on,
And to the place hordes of miners, gamblers and rabble was drawn.

There were three or four rowdy saloons on each and every block,
Servin' booze and featurin' high-kickin' women around the clock.
A Methodist church and a school brought a tad of culture to the place.
Folks of finer tastes thought 'soiled doves' paradin' about a disgrace!

An untended graveyard gives witness to the wickedness of the town,
As headstone etchin's reveal the doom of many who were gunned down!
Yet is heard the phantom sounds from saloons from rabble goin' bananers,
Fightin', gamblin' and dancin' to the tinklin' of out-of-tune peeaners!

Northerly winds prod tumble weeds up and down dusty thoroughfares,
Streets once teemin' with humanity goin' about their nefarious affairs.
Now is only heard the ghostly creakin' of rusty hinges on saggin' doors,
When frigid winter winds bear down upon those dreary windswept moors!

Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired


Copyright © Robert L. Hinshaw | Year Posted 2015

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A Sure Hand Neath My Head

If this night you suddenly find
you have lost all faith in mankind,
need I say anymore, I care.
A resourceful comrade, I’ll be -a
friend in your dreadful green se-a.  

I'm willing to help guide your boat;
sailing wild, can we keep her afloat?
Right now, waves seem brutal, unfair,
behind us spite-filled ships bear down
like dead weights leaving us to drown.

A  quick look to heaven reveals
bridge of mercy for such ordeals.
Overwhelmed, I found when despair
troubled me, then I learned to tread
water - a sure hand ‘neath my head.

I know the pardon He can endow;
will faith in mankind help you now?
Ease into this slowly and share
your forgiveness with stormy souls.
Mind, you must give God the controls.


written 2/13/14 
Roy Jerden's word acrostic contest, judged 3/10/14


Copyright © Reason A. Poteet | Year Posted 2014




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Bury The Dead

The rain pours down my face while lights flash in the distance

Among the ones once living, I choose the path of most resistance

Blood, sweat, tears, and rain mix as I grasp the wooden sentencer

Condemning to eternity the demons while my hands endure the splinters. 

 

The moon has left me, I’m alone on my mission

The clouds bear down with rain relentless

But I must press on to be set free

And bury the dead that dwells in me

 

Digging and digging but no hole deep enough

To be rid of these skeletons with time that got tough

And hardened with hate, vile, and discourse

To infect my being with no remorse

 

Pain shoots through my chest as my breath becomes ragged

The time is near but there is no casket

No viewing, no service, just a body and a grave

In this place called the land of the free and the home of the brave

 

No more shall my dreams and my life be altered

My visions are now clear and my step un-faltered

You have lived on way past your prime

And now I must say that you are out of time

 

I dig further until I reach satisfaction 

And as I throw me in, my face no reaction

I stand on the side as my face looks back up at me

I say a silent prayer and mouth R.I.P.

 

My body looks up back at me expressionless and cold

I throw on more dirt like it was foretold

That I would be burying the dead and living anew

And starting a new path without you

 

My body remains still as I continue to bury it

Knowing that a part of me will no longer be cherished

More tears come as I realize what’s done

But continue to move for I must move on

 

As I pat down the last of the dirt

The skies clear up to wash away the hurt

The moon looks down and says, “Job well done”

I look back at the moon and ask, “Now may I come”

 

The moon just smiles and begins to fade

And the sun comes in to usher in a new day

I pick up my shovel and walk back down the road

Fatigue on my mind but new light in my soul.



Copyright © Stevenson Benoit | Year Posted 2007

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Enlivened Spirit by Jim Hughens

I stood like an oak
my years as a sapling long since past
my leafless limbs dry and brittle
no fruit on my branches
my roots and limbs dry and brittle
no shade do I cast
no birds in my branches sing their songs
no squirrels play in my hollows
I creak and crack in the wind
Many lighting strikes have I taken
the scars of black I bear down my soul
Until you you came like the spring rains
You watered my soul
my leaves they do green fresh as a new
my roots they do spread 
my nuts grow abundant
the birds now have come back
the squirrels frolic in my hollows
my trunk swells with anticipation
my shade is great
the winds sway my branches
I know now I have not seen my best days
more fat rings will I grow


(This poem was written by my friend Jim Hughens. 
He wanted me to post it here to see if he would get 
any comments on it. I found it to be a beautiful poem
and am trying to convince him to write more  and join,
as he does have the talent. I recieved a comment stating 
that I am trying to claim it as my own. Though comments 
are few that was the only one that did not understand what 
I was doing).


Copyright © Patricia Prescott | Year Posted 2016

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Sargasso Sea

Becalmed, the doldrums bear down frowning.
Hull fouled by weeds, persistent barnacles.
The ship is steadfast in her silence, 
The light alone enough to shatter us.

Beyond us, off the bow the dolphins plunge
And leap toward home
While we, a company of refugees, 
Lie static on this open ocean.

Our eyes are burned by distance.
No breeze to flutter them, 
Our tattered flags of truce no longer fly, 
But hang like limp, compliant prisoners.

We pray for wind, 
The puff-cheeked gods of weather
Drawn upon our useless maps.

A force 10 gale, 
The flecks of wave tops on our faces
Rage, determined demons, 
In our dreams. 

 
James Andrews


Copyright © James Andrews | Year Posted 2013

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Horrible hobgoblins haunt harris household

Our own hagrid (in the corporeal essence of marital relatives) heaves livid rage
like real life harry potter dementors dead set on wreaking havoc
   mainly from the zison matriarch in a mental and physical decrepit stage
attributable in part to her four score plus years on a depression riddled life
   but mainly on account that her least favorite son in law lacks any income or 
wage.

Venomous rage spews forth like a smoldering volcano about to explode
threats to vacate the premises likened to toxic emotions 
   that bear down like the sword of Damocles or how atlas bore earth as a heavy 
load
which chronic onslaught of fiery livid (red hot poker) rage
   sets the entire collective family psyche in an awful tortured soulful mode.

Animosity brewed and festered for well nigh going into the eighth year
scant mutually agreeable resolutions prolong this debacle 
   at the corners of our ability to cope do rent asunder and tear
and last shred of sanity that remains whereby nightmarish demons leer
like haywire bots with maniacal grins their trademark flair.

Wrath batters and assaults without merciless cessation lathered with blame
that we supposedly bleed dry this elderly octogenarian dame 
criticism and insults indiscriminately hurled burns like hellish flame
no matter both myself and spouse experience inherent weaknesses
   any explanations describing efforts to reaching goals accepted as lame.

Angst permeates while hopelessness drips from every cell
dealing with malice (from blood kin no less) with no salvation this place we dwell
synonymous with living among the dead in I did believe in hell
whereby these retaliatory barbs tossed like hand grenades pell mell
because the old lady  this ramshackle house she wishes to sell.

If anybody who read this help us please
An affordable rent such a deal this guy would cease
as a permanent place to live our plight t’would appease.



Copyright © matthew harris | Year Posted 2007

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little concept, BIG thought

Little box warms me
Heat on my neck
But I don’t close the vent
I’d rather be hot, than feel nothing.
And inside it’s so dark
Turn my head right
All the lights
“Bear Down Bears”
Suddenly we’re so spirited
Wish we could be spirited about the right things.
So many people out there
How can we feel alone?
How can I be so lonely?
3 places to call home
But my heart is somewhere else
Maybe in the place I will be in the future
if I have a future.
Funny how God--
The concept is just funny
But God, he can take us away from this life
At any time
Like I’m the fly and He’s the newspaper
Swat my life away
At any time
I try to find what’s important to me
But I’m too afraid it will hurt me
So I build my wall
I can’t clean my room
But
I can build a wall.
All my insecurities are hidden behind it
Pieces are missing
But some pieces fit
Bill fits
I don’t want him to 
He breaks my heart in two
He takes away my life sometimes
Sort of like how God can
But the difference is that I’m still stuck here
In this life
In a pool of days that I don’t want to wake up to
I hope those days don’t come to me again
I hope our love reaches us again
Here I am, babbling on
I could do this ‘til dawn
Buckingham Fountain, Navy Pier
Lakeshore Drive all out my window
But, everything is nothing if there is no smile
No “how was your day?”
No “are you doing okay?”
That’s the way of life
We don’t pay attention
So who’d care if I left?
I’m lacking so much self-concept
I need soul-searching
I need hard-core purchasing
The stress is so high I’m choking 
Sirens going wild
I’m not even part of it
Sometimes I truly wish I could be
I will instigate a shove
So an eye is on me
So somebody will worry
That’s all I want in the end
Doesn’t everyone want a friend?
TV’s on the in the background
Typical girls’ room, nowhere to walk
I’m too broken to talk
Not capable to feel
But the heat blows on my neck
Letting me know that I’m here.


Copyright © Jaymi Hartman | Year Posted 2007

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Horrible hobgoblins haunt harris household

Our own hagrid (in the corporeal essence of marital relatives) heaves livid rage
like real life harry potter dementors dead set on wreaking havoc
   mainly from the zison matriarch in a mental and physical decrepit stage
attributable in part to her four score plus years on a depression riddled life
   but mainly on account that her least favorite son in law lacks any income or 
wage.

Venomous rage spews forth like a smoldering volcano about to explode
threats to vacate the premises likened to toxic emotions 
   that bear down like the sword of Damocles or how atlas bore earth as a heavy 
load
which chronic onslaught of fiery livid (red hot poker) rage
   sets the entire collective family psyche in an awful tortured soulful mode.

Animosity brewed and festered for well nigh going into the eighth year
scant mutually agreeable resolutions prolong this debacle 
   at the corners of our ability to cope do rent asunder and tear
and last shred of sanity that remains whereby nightmarish demons leer
like haywire bots with maniacal grins their trademark flair.

Wrath batters and assaults without merciless cessation lathered with blame
that we supposedly bleed dry this elderly octogenarian dame 
criticism and insults indiscriminately hurled burns like hellish flame
no matter both myself and spouse experience inherent weaknesses
   any explanations describing efforts to reaching goals accepted as lame.

Angst permeates while hopelessness drips from every cell
dealing with malice (from blood kin no less) with no salvation this place we dwell
synonymous with living among the dead in I did believe in hell
whereby these retaliatory barbs tossed like hand grenades pell mell
because the old lady  this ramshackle house she wishes to sell.

If anybody who read this help us please
An affordable rent such a deal this guy would cease
as a permanent place to live our plight t’would appease.



Copyright © matthew harris | Year Posted 2007

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Heaviness

Loads and loads
Heavy loads
So many loads
That I need
No,
To much for me
So why not, 
Let it go
Too much weight
No more room
But why do I wait
When the seas are enraged
Why do I, hesitate
To save myself
Placing this stuff
Back on the shelf
Only to bear down
On this boat
Instead of tossing this cargo,
Overboard
So I can stay afloat
Throw it off the boat
It sounds so very easy
But when the winds
Are strong and breezy
You see
That makes that same cargo
So very hard to throw
I know
This luggage
Must be vanished
Must be done away with
But this load, this weight, this cargo
Is just too much to shoulder
It’s just too much to hold
For one man, solo
It will always be
Who will aid me
In tossing this luggage
That has been so burdening 


Copyright © jordan brazell | Year Posted 2010

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Get A Job (II)

This feels to be the Last Frontier
Of the Great Urban Conquest.
I remain, day by excruciating day,
Steadily engaged in my paralysis.
Should I walk the streets with flying papers?
Humming the optimistic tune of the gravedigger?
City lights and morbid nights,
Keep your cheer in rugged fabric
Tied to uncommon reed, slung over the shoulder.
Bear down on this blind, blazing city
Like the death-hungry Bobcat,
Eyes gleaming yellow on the mount,
Distant and immersed.
Patient and alert.

Find thee a job.
Though these boots have no straps
Pull push and burn
That faith-light on
And on and on.


Copyright © Matt Caliri | Year Posted 2008

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Winds of change

I feel the winds of change
Blowing through my hair
All the beauty of the sun
It shines upon my skin

Today it is a new day
A time for inner peace
Time to heal all the afflictions
That bear down hard on me

Some were self inflicted
Learning the hard way was my life
But some were caused by others actions
Who loved to cause such strife

This is the day I choose to break free
To untie all that has binded me
I choose to seek only love and life
To bring to others an eternal light

So take my burdens and my worries
Lay them at my Lord's feet
For he knows my life's journey
He's drawn a map out for me

I shall no longer fear
The wicked and the unknown
I choose to walk along side the light
With confidence and pose

Though sometimes I may stumble
I know I'll never fall
With the love of Jesus above
I'll always have strength to get back up

He'll never let me faulter
He'll give me wings to fly
When I feel I've lost my way
He is my guiding light









Copyright © Lisa Brannon | Year Posted 2016

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Current Early Evening

Look down to see a penny pitched
  to the middle of the road,
Watch as it merges with ashen asphalt
  while treads bear down their load.
Study sidewalks,greyed and uneven,
  in rioted upheaval,
The route laid victim to ignorance's
  slow,decrepit evil.
Seven stones thrown carelessly upon
  the warped and misused bike path,
Enough to dislodge the spokes of wheels;
  a quiet,usurping math.
No more may a pedestrian's pace 
  seem so steady and serene,
As the fierce sunlight strikes 
  a copper disc,burning all that's seen.

Crooked gutters are choked by pamphlet
  litter and brittle fallen leaves;
Premonition of the final,yet greatest
  of all,New Years' Eves.
Cracked roadside curbs are overgrown
  with dandelions and clover weed,
Rubble strewn about,proving that
  nothing but decay can succeed.
Nature's narrow pass no longer 
  affords any means of escape,
The trail is washed away,creek's dammed
  by shopping carts and caution tape.
Soon,hope will become as a weary
  notion,hollowly feted;
Single cent in the slow lane,
  it's condition become embedded.

Hydro-poles stand as skewed crucifixes,
  bearing data's current,
The power lines hang low,as exchanged
  information's grown fervent.
Engineers' empty plans for the city's
  whole state of disrepair,
Penny's lost currency,hundredth of a
  dollar's beneath their care.
Take heed while enjoying late summer's
  current early evening sun,
Slow walk of prosecution's witness 
  to the End as it's begun.
For,what purpose in sojourn,if the 
  season soon bleeds autumnal,
From awareness comes understanding,
  pray it's not a late arrival.
  


Copyright © Ryan McCabe | Year Posted 2005

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Red Dawn of Warning

A warm Sunday morning in December
on the fringe of the tenants of freedom.
The sky was ablaze with the colors
that God had painted there.

Small birds of prey fly in flocks,
the coral disc ornates their wings.
They enmass to block out the light.

The birds have their quarry within sight.
They bear down on their objective,
destroying everything in their path.

Many die instantly, violently,
more suffer to their deaths
trapped far below.
Slowly, they recede to the locker floor
only to rise later, 
awash in the surf.


Copyright © linda smith | Year Posted 2008

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Mom

In wasted hours spent alone
I grieve over forgotten times departed
The candle slowly burns down
While the thin line of remembrance
Trails off and away from me-forever?
'Tis not enough just to experience life
But to also lap precious memories
When times of trouble bear down
And the very flame of the candle is threatened
For life without fond memories
Is like the flame without heat
Though many ventures into times past
Leave empty memories for a saddened mind
My flame grows hotter and brighter
For you are the warmth in this flame
And a memory never to be forgotten


Copyright © Randy Johnson | Year Posted 2017

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Shady shelterr

Each day I'm spreading
whither am I heading
in rains there are off shoots
I bear down, all enjoy my fruits
come under my shade ,relax beneath me
here set hive you bee
Ill soon blossom forth with flowers
ye birds make nests, ill shelter in showers
why is there so much smoke?
in these circumstances Ill choke.


Copyright © bawa talwar | Year Posted 2017

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Words for pictures found in an old children's book

Joy in work means joy in life,
And where none shirk there is no strife.

Bear down there, young man;
The wheel's in your hand.
Steady, set to it;
You know you can!

The glorious softness of multi-colored earth
And the glad straight rows of man, proving worth.

Side by side, in perfect pride,
The river roars down,
The boat puffs up.

One stands in front to point the way;
One in the middle to blast "Okay!"
Back by the flag, in stern control,
The Clermont's steersman sees the goal.

I know what I know;
I see what I see;
No socialist government
Will ever stop me.

Busy, growing, smokey, mighty Pittsburgh,
Whose labor have you not lightened?
Whose roads and houses not rolled or nailed,
                                   hardened, strengthened?
What magnificent cities sparkle now because of thee?
Busy, growing, smokey, mighty Pittsburgh!

Well, dog, you better run;
I'm going to work!


Copyright © Brian Faulkner | Year Posted 2008

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A Woman's Folly

Don't judge us too harshly.
 Instinctual, is a woman's folly. 
We bear down,
               we bring forth. 

The pain forgotten,
we count fingers and toes.


Copyright © Catie Lindsey | Year Posted 2017

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CHOOSE TO WIN

so mucn we have face
we,re choose race
we took all
that we;re call
and a grim
bear down it was hard sin
we  still stood tall
WE WERE
CHOOSE TO WIN



Copyright © kurtis scott aka curtis futch jr | Year Posted 2017