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
A child of four suffers recurring dreams,
disturbing parents and siblings with screams.
When she awoke, always sore in one knee;
next to a birthmark, it throbbed painfully.
Night after night she feared going to bed.
What caused these nightmares that raged in her head?
Even when grown, the torment persisted,
so a therapist’s aid she enlisted.
“Hypnosis,” said he, “might offer some clues.
Why not try it? You’ve just bad dreams to lose.”
Once under, he guided her to a room --
here people’s lifetimes in books were entombed.
“Find one that is yours,” her counselor said.
Quickly she did, but before it was read,
she felt an ache, saw just a faint title.
The words, she thought, said “Alister Bridle.”
The hypnotic trance now suddenly broke;
puzzling questions “Mr. Bridle” evoked.
For many years she thought that was her name;
perhaps a past life had been filled with pain.
Who was this man? She simply had to know!
Seasons passed, summer suns made way for snow.
In Florida now, 1998,
she thought all the nightmares she had escaped.
But strange dreams always catch us by surprise --
when the lights grow dim, our minds fantasize.
Cloaked in velvet, she left her parents’ farm,
stealing away on a late autumn morn’.
To meet her love, she climbed on the carriage,
knowing her folks would forbid their marriage.
Warm-hued leaves carpeted the hillside road,
and her pulse beat fast; she’d soon join her beau.
She thought only of him; joy cast its smile,
but that’s when he called, “Alice, the bridle!”
The leather band broke and wrapped ‘round her knee.
To the ground she was pulled; her horse ran free.
She met death, but past-life dreams recycle,
and she’d never been “Alister Bridle.”
*Based on real events I experienced.
Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire | Year Posted 2009
As a young boy
Sitting in a pew
The winter darkness pressing down
Candlelight waves from hidden drafts
Shadows danced on the walls
I heard the words destined to me
“Be still . . . know that I am God”
So I listen . . . eyes open
“The Passion of Christ”
I was gone . . .
I saw eyes . . .
Judas under the olive trees - Gethsemane
His eyes . . . cold, darting . . . filled with manic evil
Torchlights hissing . . . turning eyes yellow
Then a kiss and chaos erupts
I closed my eyes . . . suddenly afraid
Now I see a set of eyes . . . filled with burning hate
A High Priest screaming . . . B-L-A-S-S-P-H-E-M-Y ! ! ! ! !
All around ugly eyes staring with dripping contempt
Old men spitting with bared rotting teeth
Then I noticed . . . and . . .
And my heart ached . . .
Jesus . . . standing quietly with closed eyes
Then we were off to Roman authority -- Pontius Pilate
I saw his slanted eyes . . . squinting as if too much sunlight
Loud voices yelling outside . . . “Crucify him!”
In my heart, I cursed these people – but his eyes
His eyes were dark, soft – forgiving
A hand washing and we are walking . . .
To a hillside, a place called Golgotha – the skull
Empty eye sockets . . . a place of death
The eyes of soldiers hard, focused . . .
Spikes, woods – his sad eyes burning my heart
Closing my eyes, I heard a sharp gasp . . . soldiers yelling
As I opened my eyes – I was looking out with his eyes
We were seeing the same things
Angry faces with eyes of burning ashes
Taunting and jeering – a wave of hysteria hitting us
I heard and felt a deep groan
Fear gripping me – I knew instantly we needed to go
Men, women, soldiers, slaves, leaders, teachers
Eyes filled with blood lust
Evil, hatred . . . . I can’t breath
Death coming with the darkness
Jesus! Can’t you see . . .
Then I heard him whisper
“Father, forgive them, they know not what they do.”
My heart sank realizing with horror
Jesus is staying . . . dying
I felt his purposeful breathing
Muscles, bones, joints aching with a searing pain
My eyes filled with tears
I saw another set of bloodshot eyes
A voice next to me yelling
“If you’re the Christ, get down from the cross
And take me too! Let’s go!”
NO, NO!!! . . . What is he saying
Those are my words – I am sick
My stomach seizes . . . guilt fills me
I close my eyes
Another voice – on our right speaks
“Lord, remember me . . . “
Jesus painfully turns, twisting his body . . . looking . . .
He sees blue eyes – my eyes
I am hanging next to Jesus
“Today you will be with me in Paradise”
We were one – together . . . one body
Now separate crosses . . . I feel crushed by loneliness
But his words . . . “Paradise” . . . “today”
He loves me – I see him looking at me
His eyes illuminating my soul . . . it hurts
I tried crying out – I love you . . .
But only a sob squeaks out
Gravity pulling down pulling down
Eyes straining against the pain
Joints and ribs stretching . . . popping
Chest heaving for each breath
Body convulsing against wood
Head back . . . eyes wide open . . . he screams
“My God! My God! Why have you forsaken me?”
No one answers . . . surprised eyes
In my tears I felt the agony of the cross
The bleakness . . . hell
Back in the pew
I heard the preacher
“He died for you”
What . . . why . . . no . . .
No, I don’t want you dead
Hey, wait for me – slow down
Running hard, breathing deeply
I stuck my head in empty tomb – hum??? . . . .
I sat quietly next to Mary Magdalene . . . wondering
The gardener spoke – “Mary”
But he was looking at me – bright eyes
He said . . . “David”
“David, I love you”
Yes!! Woo Hoo . . .
Look at me . . . I am dancing
With shinning eyes
“I love you too”
“I love you”
Copyright © David Meade | Year Posted 2015
"HOLDING HIS HAND"
God, can I hold your hand and follow you?
My child, it is I who will walk with you! You walked down my path with and without faith. You took my protection to ease your pain. My shielded wings comfort you during your moments of suffering while your life staggered across earth. Your love and devotion are what made you strong. Every time your dreams were broken. You managed to build more dreams in their place. You called my name during your happiest and saddest moments. You ran to me when you fell behind. Your secrets became our private talks. The key to your heart was always unlocked. I was there during your trials and troubles and tribulations. We could not speak, it was my light that kept you from going weak.
God, are you a dream of beauty? The holy book.
My preacher spoke of the afterlife, calling it paradise.
I remember now, I felt this company once before, this light.
Many times, I forsake the light and still you never left my door.
I felt it on the day I was born,
the day I became baptized in your holy name.
I felt this light before, can you explain it once more?
Lord pleases clarify the day I fell down to my knees, accepted Jesus as my savior?
On that day, I felt as if you stood away and walked on by, allowing me to face my failures’.
Was my life a waste in this impossible world?"
My child, this is the everlasting light you will feel every time your body is re-born onto a new road. This light never left you.
My sweet child did you not listen,
Matthew *19:26* MY SON looked at them and said, "With man this is impossible, but with ME all things are possible.
My child, you were not searching for the right answers.
My Lord everyone told me if I prayed you would come. Did I not pray enough?
My child sometimes your heart asked for more than life itself,
I always answered even when you shunned heaven away from your eyes?
The obvious question is whether this is the final immersing of your soul's disguises.
Lord, I have other questions to ask.
What should I expect out of my personal sins?
My testimonial sits in the palm of your hand
My mind and my heart's inner core have been wicked since- adolescence
How is it that I am in your promise land?
Getting right with me has brought you here!
One more question, Heavenly Father
Can I see them,
My Daughter, Mothers, Sisters, family, and friends?
Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2012
On the day
that John Lennon died,
people were just going
about their business
as they did every day.
Mark David Chapman
Catcher In The Rye
void of his holy self.
He would have had to
Imagine there’s no heaven.
John took the elevator
down from his room
at peace with his belief
that there was
no hell below us.
He stepped out
on that fateful day
above us only sky.
On the day that
John Lennon died,
people where just going
about their business
as they did every day.
Imagine, all the people
living for today.
Chapman talked to Lennon.
Just before he killed him.
He was singing "imagine
there’s no countries
because it isn’t hard to do."
Chapman shot his
hollow point bullets,
there was nothing
to kill or die for
and no religion too.
What a senseless killing,
how senseless killing is.
I imagine all the people
living life in peace.
John fell to the ground,
a pool of blood beneath him.
A preacher on a soap box
unaware of the horrific act
that had taken place
was spewing words
that never belonged
to his soul but filled
the tin cup he was holding.
He yelled loudly,
‘you may say that I'm a dreamer
but I'm not the only one’
a woman in the crowd hummed
‘I hope someday you'll join us.’
A teenage couple under
their breath followed with
‘and the world will be as one.’
They say when the police arrived
Chapman was reading his book.
Imagine no possessions,
I wonder if you can.
The Detectives did not wait
for an ambulance.
They rushed John Lennon
to the hospital.
They weren't looking for credit;
they had no need for greed.
The preacher had left
with his tin cup full,
no need for more or hunger.
At the hospital the air was
like most emergency departments,
people comforting people
who themselves needed comforting.
A brotherhood of man.
In a hospital with its tragedies
life is more than real
you don’t need to imagine
all the people sharing all the world.
It just is.
You can hear
beating in tune,
‘You may say that I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope someday you'll join us
And the world will live as one.’
Sponsor: Kelly Deschler
Contest Name: I Love Rock n Roll
Copyright © Maurice Yvonne | Year Posted 2014
You were beautiful,
my tiny child,
wrapped tightly in my arms,
close to my heart.
I listened to you breathing.
I counted your fingers
and your toes.
you cried out to me
and I loved you
with every ounce of my soul.
Will you hear me
when I cry out?
Will you hold me close
as I held you then?
I remember the day
You took your first step.
There was no stopping you.
Your feet gave you freedom
to explore the world
like never before
but danger lurked.
I opened those doors anyway,
you to the world.
Where will you be
when my legs
no longer run?
no longer work?
Will you realize
that I love
about that day
you first tied your shoe.
We tried and tried
to get that rabbit
in that hole
and you finally did it.
You pointed your toes
for everyone to see
how proud you were.
I am proud too,
of my writing
and my drawing,
of my needlework
and my cooking.
But my hands are beginning to ache
and my fingers will not bend.
I will lose the things
that make me proud
except for you.
Hopefully not you.
Will you let me
brag on you?
Even tell wild stories
that are a bit beyond the truth?
Will you be proud of me too?
I waved good-bye
that morning when you left
on that large, yellow bus.
I was so scared.
I know you were too.
You waved at me bravely
through the dusty window
but I saw the water
forming in your eyes.
You came home, however,
full of pride and joy.
You sang the alphabet song
and got most of it right.
You practiced for hours
until you could sing it
even in your sleep.
whether I took
my pills today or not.
if I told this story before.
I even forgot once
who you were
and it terrified me.
is my treasure
the only thing I have left,
and I heard you make
fun of me
for not remembering
that I gave you the
same gift as last year.
Will you love me
when I no longer
know who I am?
You came home blushing
from the glow of
your first kiss.
Your first love,
the one you thought was real.
You talked about him non-stop.
You changed for him. You gave.
But he left you anyway
for a blue-eyed girl
and I held you
while you cried for him.
I too have a
The love of my life
left me after
He left me here
to live life on my own
while he moved on
to another realm
And I cry for him too.
I long for his shoulder
and strong embrace.
I feel betrayed
because he and I
made a deal
that we would never
leave the other alone.
Yet I am alone
sitting in an echoing house
with no hands to hold.
You welcomed her home today-
your tiny baby girl.
She has your eyes
and possibly your toes.
I see you counting them
as they roll me
into the room.
You finally came
It has been a while.
You look up at me
with tears in your eyes
"Will she tie my
when I get old? "
Copyright © Rachel Kovacs | Year Posted 2013
The woods were silent except for the shifting
soft sounds of his hooves as they fell upon
the forest floor. There he stood amid the mist in
his white majestic coat calling to me to come
to him and ride upon his back, vanish with him,
(as the sun lay dying into quiet shades of twilight)
into an unknown sacred realm where no
one's footsteps could follow.
I stroked his soft warm velvet nose and felt the
subtle flair of his nostrils breath on my hand.
When I climbed upon his back we rode
as one as our love and trust in each other
had slowly grown into a synergy unsurpassed.
Moonlight filtered through the verdant trees
as darkness enveloped the starry sky.
Suddenly we found ourselves in a glade
where we were surrounded by the soft glow
of tiny faeries as numerous as fireflies.
We were warmly welcomed into their sacred
sanctuary and I felt enchanted by their sylvan
beauty as two tiny faeries braided long strands
of my golden hair, intertwining fragrant flowers.
I was asked if I would help to keep the forest
safe from clear cutting, and I promised I would.
I awoke to the faint sound of hoofbeats as dawn
was rising and there were pretty flowers in my hair.
© Connie Marcum Wong
Poem of the Day April 4, 2016
Copyright © Connie Marcum Wong | Year Posted 2016
if I had all the money that I ever wanted,
I suppose that I could travel the world;
live in a better home, buy designer clothes and stuff,
if money was no object in my life . . .
but you see money cannot help me,
each day my health is more delicate, slipping further away;
and all the money in the universe will not change a thing,
this is my struggle and my daily reality . . .
the things I give myself are simple,
relaxing music to soothe this weary soul;
peace, tranquility and love to ease my pain,
and I ask the Lord for acceptance . . .
in meditation I try to fathom the why,
of course, with money I could go to a fancy retreat;
but a corner in my bedroom is set aside for meditation and relaxing,
and it is there I have placed peaceful things that cost very little . . . .
perhaps with money I could get better drugs,
but no drug is going to change this girl's destiny;
this I know deep in my heart and soul,
I have for a long, long time . . .
I think a lot about my past and life so far,
the paths I took or did not take;
the things I said or did not say,
could money have changed my journey in any way . . .
a warm bath, a cozy bed, a sweet purring cat,
paper and pen so I can write;
my laptop within reach, a walk in nature listening to the birds,
a loved one to hold my hand . . . .
these are my indulgences and they may not seem like much to you,
but I feel like the wealthiest person in this world;
for money cannot buy happiness nor can it buy life,
all I need is the indulgence of tranquility . . .
''and that comes from within''
January 28, 2015
Submitted to Contest 259, Brian Strand, Seventh Place
Submitted to, Poems That Are Soup Favorites, PD, Tenth Place
Submitted to, Indulgences, Shadow, First Place
Copyright © Broken Wings | Year Posted 2015
They had fought.
He left without a word...
...while she was sleeping.
She threw on the gown she had worn for him the night before,
pushed off the china vase and blooms he had given her.
She watched them fall in...s l o w...m o t i o n,
listened to them crash to the floor...
...sat on the window sill,
where the bouquet and container had been.
She proclaimed to the world "c'est la vie!".
She was alone
but at least...
...she was the only flower.
Sponsor: Judy Konos
Contest Name: c'est la vie
Copyright © Maurice Yvonne | Year Posted 2014
"Shhh, look there they are.
No one believed me.
Now you see them too.
A blessing of Unicorns.
If anyone knew where they were
it would be the end of the Unicorns.
The one with the wings is the Queen.
See how sad she looks.
She has separated herself from the blessing.
She loves the other Unicorns
but she is dealing with her own issues.
They love her, she knows that.
This is different.
She has to deal with this herself.
She knows she is loved.
She knows they all care for her.
She is their Queen after all.
I don't know.
I brought poetry.
I brought soup.
I have to try.
I hope she believes me.
She is going to be fine.
I dreamt about her.
In the dream her wings were spread.
You should of seen them spread
they must of spanned farther than the horizon
higher than the milky way.
In my dream her magic horn was a beacon,
it was leading her through the dark
but she was also a beacon for everyone else.
Everyone who was trapped in the darkness.
She led them too!
She always has.
She is our Queen after all.
I stood there amazed
she was magnificent.
She waited patiently and the light filled her.
She knew it would happen and she was right.
That hand from up above
the one she always trusted
filled her with light.
She is the Queen and in my dream
she had returned in her full glory."
Linda was back.
It starts with an L
L stands for love.
Maybe It's not a dream.
'Fairy tales can come true -
It can happen to you...
life gets more exciting with each
I believe dreams are
just a window to reality.
I believe in Fairies.
I believe in Unicorns.
And I believe in Linda!
Sponsor: Shadow Hamilton
Contest Name: Fighting Depression(poems for PD)
Copyright © Maurice Yvonne | Year Posted 2014
Teacher said my decisions needed consequences.
I have to write a million gazillion sorry sentences.
Billy was stupid to tease me, call my family poor.
I had to kick Billy so he wouldn’t say it more.
Just like Dad does, I laughed when he hit the floor.
Dad would say I was strong, teach says I was wrong.
I don’t understand any grown up stuff.
They don’t act the same way enough,
or Dad is right; I’m so stupid, I can’t keep up.
I’m trying so hard to stop my eyes.
Things always get more worse when I cry.
Even when I’m quiet and being haved
my tummy hurts cause it feels afraid.
Everyone’s at recess, but cause I made an upset,
Teach said there’d be no play time for me yet.
I don’t know what she means by classroom policy,
but it seems like a plan you grow up and forget.
There’s no sorry policy in my family.
Dad never 'pologizes when he kicks me.
... CayCay Jennings (I want so much to hug the lil' one in the contest pic, I long to do so)
November 23, 2017 / Contest: Photo Story - Eve Roper / First Place
Copyright © CayCay Jennings | Year Posted 2017
On cold evenings
Surrounded by friends
I could stay up forever
From the blackness
Feeling that I could float upward
And walk with the stars
On their lonely journey
There was a girl
I was with then
When I first saw her
I wanted to feel her softness
Her breathe on my cheek
Brushing against my thigh
When I held her close
And even closer
I wanted her
To say she loved me.
Had a perfect balance
Teasing and challenge
A subtle change
That I never understood
The closer we became
The more anger
And resentment followed
When she smiled I was envious
When I laughed she was angry
We broke up
We were young
It was my fault
Or blame it on the times we lived in.
Outside my room
In a long and empty hallway
And like an undeliverable letter
A message scrawled
To no one in particular
Haunting visions are
Returned to me
The slenderness of her waist
The way she arched her back
The touch of her hand
The way she kissed
I feel her presence
Yes, I relive all that.
Copyright © Edmund Siejka | Year Posted 2009
THIS IS A FICTIONAL WRITE THAT EXPLORES THE QUESTION OF WHAT LOVE IS. IT DOES SO IN A DRAMATIC WAY, AFTER ALL THAT IS MY DNA. IT ALSO TAKES A UNIQUE AND CONTROVERSIAL APPROACH TO THE TOPIC. IT IS MEANT TO STIR THOUGHT NOTHING ELSE. IT POSES QUESTIONS AND SUGGESTS ANSWERS BUT MAKES NO CONCLUSIONS. SOMETIMES AS WRITERS WE HAVE TO MAKE WAVES. SOME WILL RIDE THOSE WAVES ON THEIR SURFBOARDS AND CONSIDER THEM INVITING. OTHERS WILL FEEL THE WAVES CRASHING AGAINST THEIR FLESH AND IT WILL BE PAINFUL.
Love is a streetwalker at the corner of Hooker Lane and Prostitute Crescent.
You wanted to pay. Do it and leave. That's the way it's suppose to happen. But it doesn't quite go like that. She is looking at your eyes and she sees something and it feels like love to her. She cries and her tears are real. She touches your face with her pretty little hand and goosebumps run up your spine and you lose your breath.
You kiss her and stroke her hair and you are staring into her eyes as her pain grabs you by the biceps and touches your heart. So you just hold her you hold her and you love her as if she is a beam sent for you to project sent for you to protect.
She opens up and says words you heard in her tears. You listen you hold her and you just listen as she peers into your subconscious to sit with the frightened child inside of you. You take each others hands and you roll in the softness of the innocence of your childhood. Your silly hopes and dreams. Hopes and dreams that back then were anything but silly.
She is beautiful. She is barely twenty. And you? Well you are going on thirty or is it forty.
You pray God will save her. Not pray you mumble it. Her smile tells you she knows. She feels like your responsibility and you don’t want her to die on the street working her corner. You don’t want to feel but you do. You are a weaved outer core of veins and you do. You feel everything. You are her.
She looks in the White Knight eyes she pinned on your face and you know the pins are there and you see her with your Gladiator brights.
You make love to her and she loves you back and holds you in her dream of what might have been. She is your Queen and you have stripped your armor, stripped your flesh and your organs. You are naked in her shine. You are raw in her light.
Sex? Sex costs one hundred and fifty bucks! Sex? Sex is two dogs humping in the park. Sex is not love, it is empty. Empty because the person is a stranger and there is no emotional connection.
At least that is what you thought.
But one day you are 53 years old and you think of your one hour bought woman. Did I say woman? She was a girl a vulnerable lost girl.
It is more than ten years later and you still remember her. That single hour in your life and it is engraved on your skull. Tattooed to your mind. Just one word. FOREVER. You can barely remember six year long relationships but you can still remember the touch of a woman, yes a woman you were with for just one hour in your life. You can still feel her skin. Her tears still burn like molten lava.
She is still on your palette; you still feel every word that penetrated your hide and struck the part of you that was her. You remember it. Not as a single moment but as every tick of the clock, and the multitudes of emotions, of thoughts, of realizations, of questions that existed in each and every second and you wonder...
Maybe you can buy love. Or at least find it on the other end of a financial transaction, maybe once you did..
Maybe love doesn't last three hundred and sixty five pages like in a novel. Maybe love isn't roses from the first frame to the closing credits, with a beginning a middle and an end
Maybe love is the memory of a 60 minute love affair with a working girl you met all those years ago. A memory safe and sound, written and produced, neatly tucked in the black vinyl grooves on the highway between your heart and your brain.
Copyright © Maurice Yvonne | Year Posted 2014
The blackberry's love for the garden rose
Brought down the gardener's wrath.
The blackberry sensed the danger
As he wended the garden path.
" A love so true as mine", he sighed,
"Must dare to brave the hoe.
Just a few more feet to reach her,
My true love she must know."
He crept along so quietly,
Sometimes quite out of sight
Until he nudged his darling's feet.
Did he dare to trust the light?
He heard the gardener's heavy boot
And hid in craven shame.
He knew he'd soon be weeded out,
A seedling with no name.
"Have I no worth since I don't rate
Some Latin nomenclature?
Without a well known parentage
Am I a freak of nature?
His darling's line was long and pure,
No skeletons in her past.
He had to make his feelings known.
Those boots were treading fast.
Gently then he wrapped his vine
Around his loved one's spine.
In great amazement he opined,
"Her thorns are sharp as mine".
The sweet rose felt his tender touch
And realized his fear
And wondered at his bravery
In coming to her here.
She heard the swishing of the hoe,
She heard those nearing feet.
Quietly letting down her leaves
In a manner so discreet
She covered her wild lover.
The gardener unaware,
Stopped but to view her beauty.
He saw naught hiding there.
She whispered, "You are safe now".
The blackberry's heart was light,
Thankful that his dear sweet rose
Had not exposed his plight.
"A rose is still a rose." she said,
"By any other name
And in our distant ancestry,
We share some of the same".
"I'd rather know your wild love,
Than a love that's dull and tame,"
Cuddling close, returned his kiss
Without a bit of shame.
Next season there were seedlings
Of a very different kind.
The gardener delighted, cried
"A horticultural find."
The moral of this story?
Things aren't always what they seem.
The love you look down on today,
Could be tomorrow's dream.
Copyright © Joyce Johnson | Year Posted 2009
As a young boy
I watch with interest the small man
Wolf Hunter - a wise father of the hunt
He begins an old ritual
coating his knife blade
rich animal blood and tallow fat
Wolf Hunter adds another blood-tallow layer
and another – freeze
A frozen tallow-blood knife
Wolf Hunter knowing the wolf
fixes his knife in ground
prays and leaves . . .
Grey wolf sniffs air and begins to run
blood is on the wind
he licks, tasting the delicious blood-tallow
He howls into the night and licks faster
a blood lust building
lapping the blade until the sharp edge bites
Feverishly now, faster and harder
Grey wolf licks the blade in the arctic night
great is his craving for blood
The insatiable blood-thirst
now being satisfied by his own warm blood
the naked blade biting his tongue
his carnivorous appetite devouring
In the pale morning light
Wolf Hunter finds Grey Wolf
dead in the snow
stooping down he picks up his knife
I stand . . . frozen – sicken by the sight
Wolf Hunter looking at me says
. . . to be consumed by your own desire
is a dangerous and deadly foe
staring at the bottle
hands shaking -- eyes filled with lust
a vison: a grey wolf consumed . . . dead
the howl of the wolf-wind beseeching
To be consumed by your own desire is a dangerous and deadly foe
Copyright © David Meade | Year Posted 2014
My depression grows everyday,
It started as a come and go,
It decided to stay and create a black cloud,
All I can do,
Is sit and hope,
Wish and dream,
Cry and smile,
I fake these looks for my family,
They feel responsible,
Like they caused my pain,
No one caused it,
It just came,
because a boy,
All my fault,
Not being there,
I was so stupid,
I yelled at him,
Told him i hated him,
Told him to leave me and never come back,
His friends came and got him,
They drove him home,
He decided to come back to see me,
My fight caused,
He tried to get to me,
A car smashed his,
Last words said,
I hate you,
I rushed to his side,
Last thing i hear,
I love you,
Never forget me,
He passed away,
In my arms,
Me in tears,
Unable to tell him,
I love you too,
Never could I forget you,
Your my heart,
You'll always be with me<3
Copyright © Emily Rakis | Year Posted 2010
Seb's young fertile face beamed African royalty
even in the penury of this Nigerian refugee camp.
Her mother's downcast eyes shunned the camera's querying lens,
while Seb's, "I-love-you", eyes were welcoming.
Seb's eyes were as blossom-petaled obsidian pools,
each pierced by the light of a distant star.
Her blackness did not succumb to woeful displacement,
but shone with the promise of an overcoming spirit;
for a Mother's prayers were writ in the marrow of her bones.
Born with a tenacity to love,
her young heart leaped out through trusting inquisitive eyes.
Her tongue, budding out of rich dark faced soil, seemed eager
to taste the sweet juices that her spirited-eyes promised;
smiling, "l love you", behind barbed wired love-me-nots.
Seb was a child . . . full of joyful expectations.
A child who did not choose this world;
'tho born of a Spirit conceived to love . . .
to love the . . . hell . . . out from her world.
(Note: This piece came out of seeing this fascinating photograph
by Sebastian Rich, of Seb clinging to her Mother in a camp for displaced Nigerians.)
Caption : A Nigerian child in a UNICEF clinic, who was finally on the road to a full recovery after suffering from severe acute malnutrition. Her unprompted smile filled my lens.
I would encourage everyone to visit the website of Sebastian Rich. His heart-gripping photography is incredibly moving and of great importance.
Copyright © george v. | Year Posted 2017
Psychedelic Whistle Plays a Rhythm into the Darkness
Entering the dark side of a moonbeam on this evil lens of life,
A gruesome old man recreates a murder time and time again,
As the cold and lonely howling bitterness of the night escapes.
The psychic contrasts go up in a surreal smoke-filled entirety.
This is not lost to the all-seeing consciousness of the cosmos.
Moaning a malefic agony of selfish needs devours all that’s good,
Whilst under black leather gloves bleached deadly-white his bones,
Fill the heart expelled with a legion of grieving spirits—sad and lost.
A maze doth open as Dark Demons are made of rotten plank ridges,
And scraps of empty emotions that maketh them all deliciously evil.
Inside ashes intoxicated with the Hallowed Eve's evil kiss bringeth
All a Gorgon-like gift so cursed and raised in Lucifer’s own Hellfire.
Leaveth them to their executioners and wash your own hands clean!
Cain within life's garden dwells as a zombie—a grief-stricken animal,
As a psychedelic whistle plays a rhythm into the darkness of the cosmos.
Ebony darkness seduces as a fire burns black ebony removing the flesh.
Ice-cold tears in anxiety fall, shouting loudly that nobody sees nor hears
The jealous whimpering of jackals needing love with no way to find it.
There remains emotionless beings who kill passion with a crocodile’s bite.
Fear not the tempting by Lucifer as long as the silver crucifix adorns thee!
Fireflies born in a hellish fury cast in anger the past sins of those doomed,
Yet they can be "Bearers of an Ancient Light” for things good and noble,
If they can passeth through the veil of evil and darkness into God’s light.
When the smoke blows away pride there’s no remorse only danger ahead!
The silence afterwards is deafening to those of holy-pure mortal blood!
Understanding of reality loses its meaning in this evil realm of darkness,
As an agonising pain is cleared in an eclipse found under “Hate's Trigger.”
Under a deep crater twilight ghosts rise as “Shadow Beggars of Despair,”
Whilst feeling unholy torment in nerve fibers of a past-life enchantment.
Only Lucifer knows this truth as he collects souls for eternal damnation!
Uncanny conversations are secret and bloody-confused in Hell’s own pit.
Rising from the ashes unhappy beasts mark the ground with sharp claws,
As disoriented tongues of envy are struck down by lightning bolts blinded.
Lucifer knows the omnipotence of the psychedelic whistle as it plays its
Rhythm bewitching all lost souls as they enter the darkness of the cosmos!
Anne-Lise Andresen, Gary Bateman, and Liam McDaid
A Collaborated Poem, Copyright © All Rights Reserved
May 5, 2017 (Narrative)
Copyright © Gary Bateman | Year Posted 2017
it began so innocently
we exchanged ideas on poetry
his art, the suffering he endured
he preyed upon my compassion
as he meticulously bided his time...
i felt safe as we expressed
our mutual love of words
i was excited, i was learning,
unbeknowst to me, i was his prey..
many months and thousands of hours,
talking, reaffirmed my trust; faith in him
he shared his life, triumps & tragedies
i supported all he desired for himself..
i understood, i felt his pain,
his drive i admired, he overcame tremedous odds,
became a doctor so others would not suffer as he had;
he baited me; the innocent and naieve one.
living life with no regret,
i chose to take a leap of faith,
he guided me, alleviated my fears,
of promises to cherish and adore me..
as a tiger waits patiently to pounce on his prey
i was oblivious to his hatred inside,
he was a master of manipulation
his mission - to destroy me..
i felt he was worth giving
up all i knew to build a life
he so lovingly described to me,
little did i know, his words - poison..
america bound i left everything i knew; i loved.
the terror of his drunken rages, his icy silence,
the cruelty of his words stung like red hot coals.
what he admired most about me,intensified his hatred.
the vacancy in his eyes was terrifying,
i was alone in a strange country,
knowing no one, in a house, not a home,
full of tension, rage, abuse; numb and in shock;
this was my reality..
with each painstaking day of living in terror
dreading his arrival, my fear reached new heights;
i had enough; i was leaving.
his rage increased, his words pure venom..
i was numb, shaking, fear drove me to action
he became desperate, i did not sleep
for fear of never waking, his actions so terrifying
i felt a strength within, empowering me..
planning my escape, fear became my ally,
i reached the airport and did not stop shaking
until safely on the plane, doors shut,
moving down the runway to take-off;
i wept, i crumbled, i collapsed.
jubilantly at home, i felt peace, safe,
and soaked in the beauty of my freedom; my home.
it has been six weeks; i have flashbacks,
terror still haunts me; i am determined
to not let another change me.
i am healing and am grateful for every
moment i smile, smell a flower, witness
the marvel of each sunrise and sunset.
i am a blessed girl.
~this was me~
Copyright © Lynn Marie | Year Posted 2007
He lies, warm and straight; unmoving.
Free from pain in his transitionary world;
safe within a love that shared his body and mind.
Without her altruistic and unyielding care
he'd float through the eternal abyss
of clouds and endless memories.
Images of her weeping pervade.
Her tears flow in viscous streams,
like lava flows that wrap him in
a final expression of love.
Hands, once inseparable, are slipping apart;
yielding to a final, fingertip touch of goodbye.
As they catch a rising breeze,
closed curtains stroke a stirring caress
like the delicate sway of a grass skirt.
Tiny, impish faces appear then disappear
among the pattern, playing peep
then hiding in their secret, fantasy woodland.
The paintings on the walls become animated,
zooming and retreating like a camera lens.
Their inhabitants: alive and busy
like tiny repertory companies
in their framed microcosm,
creating scenes of a recognisable past.
Strange, vague faces of yesterday
hover in subjective silence as they
claim the gloomy corners of the room.
Some smiling, some scowling;
some turning away without reason.
Why would they turn away?
What secrets do they refuse to share?
Endless conversations with the dead,
yet only one audible participant.
Passed relatives visiting incessantly,
in forms that bring most comfort.
The vertical finger of silence touches the lips
when the living enter the room.
A shuushhh.....and they leave.
Returning to the mysteries
that exist beyond this 'mortal coil.'
But always they reappear:
a night-and-day procession
until exhaustion overwhelms.
Distant voices of children
travel the sky, certain to be heard.
That playground cacophany
amalgamated to a luring hubbub
of childhood communication.
The mind floats back with
the eye of a soaring eagle.
Back through the forest of life,
scanning images of existence past,
to a clearing where children
dance in happy, skipping circles.
Suddenly, the sky turns dark,
as leaves swirl in rustling tornadoes.
Ominous, churning clouds tumble
and roll in a thundering menace.
The children run, drenched,
in an expanding ripple of screams,
for the safety of the trees.
Then, a flash of lightning ignites
a wondrous, refulgent dawn.
He steps forward into the glow,
without fear, as he hears
the cry of a newborn baby,
held within its mother's arms.
He looks up into the eyes of the mother,
and then.......all memories die.
A rising breeze blows the curtains open.
They unfurl: banners of respect, fluttering
in unison for his last, whispered words.
On whose release, a wistful wind
carries them to an infinite silence:
'I'm tired, my love, I'm so very, very tired.'
Copyright © Jonathan French | Year Posted 2018
As I walked into the banquet hall of the
Goodman’s Inn, the first thing that stood
out to me were the eyes of the people. I
felt as though I could actually see hope. Eyes
seemed to sparkle and everyone in the hall
sat talking to the others sitting around them
as they waited for the main course of the evening.
To understand this report we need to go back just
over a year ago when Lindsey Long won the 50
million dollar lottery. Apparently the multimillionaire
booked the Goodman’s Inn for December 24th through
to January 2nd of this year solely to house the homeless
over the Christmas holidays. Miss Long walked through
the streets herself over the last week inviting the
unfortunate homeless to come to the motel for these
festivities. Lindsey Long has not only provided the rooms
for this week, she also has clothed them with new
wardrobes and warm winter clothing and accessories.
Now as the people sat around the table they were
told Miss Long had an announcement. We all waited
to hear what this amazing lady had to say
and excitement filled the room. When this
beautiful young woman began to talk there
wasn’t one dry eye in the building. She told them
how she was not going to just send them back
on the street next week but how she had
built a new centre that would have sleeping
facilities and showers to accommodate all
of them. This new facility will be serving
three meals a day which will be prepared solely
from themselves on a voluntary bases.
The feeling in the Inn that night was pure joy
and as the people realized the impact of this
wonderful news, they all broke out singing
It Came Upon a Midnight Clear. This is
Rhonda Reeds reporting for
The Good Newspaper.
Merry Christmas everyone.
Written by Brenda Meier-Hans
Sponsor Mystic Rose
The Good Newspaper
Copyright © Brenda Meier-Hans | Year Posted 2014
The Old Dark House
This tale of “The Old Dark House” is one that’s replete with a
most horrid sense of pure evil and macabre, and is worth being
retold each year during the deep-dark hours of All Hallows’ Eve
before the chime of midnight, when the thin veil separating the
land of the living and the dead momentarily dissolves, bringing
both worlds together until the break of dawn.
Beware of this house’s mythical and ethereal presence in the
shadow dreams of the innocent, and be forewarned to never
conjure its image in your unconscious mind. If so conjured,
The Old Dark House shall become an unending reality to the
innocent and uninformed, and on All Hallows’ Eve, the evil
“Demons of Hell” shall come for your very soul!
The Old Dark House is one that is bathed and cursed in utter
hellfire and damnation by Lucifer himself. It’s one that creeps a
chill and frozen reminder into the very frame of its nasty, putrid
structure. It shall guarantee you the worst possible nightmares as
your very soul cries in agony and pleads unrelentingly for mercy!
Your nightmares are, in turn, amplified and born into the very
structure of this house with ivy creeping as you palpably sense
the wretched ice-cold fingers of Hell opening the doors to the
cavernous basement were evil shadows of goblins, ghosts,
ghouls, vampires, and werewolves parade openly from past lives.
Everyone suffering the curse of the damned was captured here
when they visited, becoming prisoners to the darkness of true evil,
far away from the light, goodness, and eternal mercy of Almighty
Six generations of my family actually dwelled beneath the rafters
of The Old Dark House where demonic forces were constantly in
play—as hot sparks burned the tongues of lost souls who cried in
agony, and their world would enter the vortex of darkness whilst
blood-curdling screams could be distinctly heard during the night
on All Hallows’ Eve. Ghostly images would appear out of nowhere
supported by the frightening ferocity of Lucifer who is the true dark
presence and ultimate tempter of mankind!
The horror I felt as a young boy trapped in this existence is truly
unimaginable. The image of The Old Dark House still haunts my
adult consciousness, even today, as I would shudder in the cold
night-sweat of sleep to purge its eternal presence from my mind!
Cruel pictures adorn the hell-hole hall of imagination as a gruesome
and unbelievable power underneath wields its vice-grip of hideous
words, whispering in the coldest of ice without the living being able
to breathe in a cloud of mercy and forgiveness, within an ancient
language of evil and evil-doings that twist the shape of words to
suit one’s human fears and cold shivers!
I still don’t understand the full measure of things being lost in this
dark pit of Hell in The Old Dark House. It’s a place that’s devoid
of human meaning and worth as shrunken heads are disembodied!
I hold on to what remains of a past shame, hovering high in the air
as unclean spirits of a crooked vision-circle wander aimlessly as a
Blind Sheppard leads our lost souls to the depressing Dark Land of
Nowhere and Nothingness!
Every October as the full moon rises high in the dark-sky evening,
a ritual fire is set by a local coven of witches to celebrate the advent
of All Hallows’ Eve. These witches know well the power and evil of
The Old Dark House. Their burnt offerings and black magic spells
echo hauntingly as Hell’s own fury is unearthed, challenging all
things virtuous in mankind’s existence and in God’s world of beauty,
hope, kindness, and light.
These evil images of black magic and witchcraft haunted my sleep
entire. I couldn’t sleep at all before dawn. I constantly sense now
an awakening madness in my soul, as if it comes from hidden graves
yet to be uncovered. Images and bad memories of The Old Dark House
push me now toward the opening of unknown tombs. I can actually
now smell Death’s Sulphur-burnt flesh!
Doors begin to rustle behind me as I hear loud footsteps of a pin
echoing deep in my mind. The echo shatters any illusions I have
of human sanity and forgiveness. I feel the sheer horror and begin
suffocating as the stale air is trapped in each breath I take!
I sit up now—immediately confused, looking directly at a lonely
and empty Black Void that goes on and on and on—to infinity!
Cell doors in the house basement were always closed tight with
rusted iron links bound by heavy chains. As a poor child alone in
this house with other condemned children, there were nice rooms
upstairs that were always barred and shut to us as we suffered in
the filthy basement below. In Lucifer’s Hell!
I recall now too, in my memory, a gallery of special portraits in
The Old Dark House, which formed a ghastly mosaic of pure evil.
These portraits were of key human disciples of Lucifer who had served
him well through the ages. All of these images were grotesque and evil
when taken as a whole.
What did I learn? Evil is what Evil is! And Evil does what Evil does!
I’m free now from the eternal curse of The Old Dark House. I escaped
this mansion of the macabre as a young man and found my soul path
to Almighty God and stepped into His holy light of forgiveness and
As a very old man now, I sleep and dream a lot. Usually my dreams,
thank goodness, are pleasant as I draw toward the end of my mortal
existence here on earth.
Yet, despite all the good things in my life now, during October of
each year, as All Hallows’ Eve cometh closer in the deep recesses
of my mind—I remember clearly that the ground floor of The Old
Dark House always had these frigid-cold wind gusts that spoke
chillingly to one’s very soul. As young kids we would run upstairs
in this evil house to hear the “Demons of the Night” moan and cry!
Old Hob always had a way to speak to all of us as kids in His House!
Anne-Lise Andresen, Liam McDaid, and Gary Bateman
A Collaborated Poem, Copyright © All Rights Reserved
September 7, 2016 (Narrative)
Copyright © Gary Bateman | Year Posted 2016
In the rundown little house where her family currently lives,
the fourteen-year old glances obediently at her glaring daddy,
nodding her head in quiet compliance
to his usual horrible demands of her for the evening.
Not to acquiesce would incur his utter wrath,
and that is something she has learned well by now to avoid.
Things are not like the old days, when she was twelve,
feeling so lost, and he would lavish her with little gifts:
bracelets with charms, cute purses, chocolate candies. . .
With warm aqua eyes, he’d smile his approval
as she whirled around the room, modeling a pretty dress for him.
In those days when her world had fallen apart, he’d taken her in.
His voice would softly soothe her then, chasing away her every fear.
Back to reality. Daddy’s voice now is laced with menace.
And his eyes are ice blue marbles staring through her.
“Do what wifey says,” he instructs her at the door
as she leaves with four other sisters and the one of legal age, her sister-wifey.
Leaning in to her, his breath like chill wind on her nape, he whispers,
“And you better be VERY good with your dates this time.”
The young girl, in high heels, slit skirt, and heavy makeup, has exited the door
when her daddy barks commands to his helper in the living room, and then
Daddy exits too, but through the garage, where a Mercedes Benz is parked.
He drives alone, a short trip across town to his other house -
the one with manicured lawn and garden and a large pool out back -
the large beautiful house where a real wife and a real daughter
“How was your day?” his beautiful young wife gushes
as he crosses the threshold in his expensive business suit.
“Oh, just another day at the office,” he quips,
leaning in to give her a soft kiss. Then his young daughter
comes bounding down the stairs, broadly grinning.
“Daddy, look at the new dress you bought me!”
She twirls with adolescent glee.
The man, with blue eyes dancing, looks his fourteen-year-old daughter
up and down. “Sweetie, you know I don’t like you wearing lipstick yet.”
“Oh, Daddy,” she teases, “I’ll be dating soon.”
“Afraid not,” he lovingly chides her. “Those boys will just have to wait
at least for two more years. For now, you are Daddy's little girl."
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2016
Why are you so sad ?, Have you lost anything ??
If lost, then what ??? I think it is nothing.....
You stepped earth with your empty hand,
after death you will need only six feet land.
Then, calculate what you lost ?
And, what is it's cost ??
People earn only fame to grow their name.
They alive even after death.
Hence, try to win your faith.
Remember always, God means duty.
No other short cut path to almighty.
Then, what is duty ??
Work with no return desire is real duty,
which caps your success enhancing your beauty.
If duty is certified by your soul,
Easily, you can reach your goal.
Then, what is soul ???
The god within you is soul,
And, it plays a very vital role.
A purified soul can only fly to kingdom of God.
So, it changes body after body for cleaning all mud.
It follows a cycle of birth and death,
at the end, makes a pleasant stay
with God, the supreme truth.
I hate ego, but love service with devotion,
Devotion , that always invites perfection.
And ego !!!
Ego, a monster within you
that compel you to lag your race,
bringing tension and fostering darkness.
kill it, before it kills your goodness.
In devotion, a man sees God in everything
and everything within God,
He will never come to a bad end
who will see lotus in every mud.
In every shadow, there is a light,
In every tear, a smile.
Don’t sleep like stone
Petting your life.
God is time,
the great destroyer of the world
and is called as death.
Offering yourself to God
march ahead and ahead
up to your last breathe.
And always keep in mind,
You stepped earth with your empty hand,
After death you will need only six feet land.
This poem is all about voice of god described in our holy & sacred book 'Bhagbad Gita’.
Copyright © Manmath Dalei | Year Posted 2016
She is searching for the son taken from her arms
simply because she was believed to be a child herself.
She was unable to stand up to her parents’ wishes -
those GOD fearing upright Christians whose pride mattered
more than their daughter’s feelings.
Her son’s pink-cheeked newborn face, chubby and cute,
haunts her waking moments.
But in dreams, she sees him tall, athletic and so beautiful.
Beautiful like her Johnny, the boy with whom she’d conceived her son
all those years ago.
Nathaniel she had named him, Nathan for short!
Shortly thereafter, she’d accidentally but happily been given to know
that the adoptive parents were honoring the wish of the biological mother.
They’d kept his name Nathaniel. Though she knew not their surname,
his name was her glittering hope. It IS her hope today,
for this one piece of knowledge has sustained her through
the eighteen long years that were to follow
that long sweltering summer before her child’s birth.
That summer so long ago, when she'd been made to stay at her aunt’s house
in a little town far away from her city and out of sight of her parents’ friends.
As her belly grew larger, she would bide her time, sometimes taking walks.
Past a rusty gate that led into an old graveyard,
she would seek shelter from the sun,
along a green shady path meandering past headstones
headstones with names of souls who once inhabited this strange little town
where she was spending the fifteen summer of her lifetime.
She'd never been the child her parents believed her to be; she was an old soul.
She could have been a good mother. If only Johnny had not deserted her.
Oh, beautiful Johnny, the father of her Nathan! Surely she'll see her son soon,
and surely he will resemble the love of her youth.
She has returned to this little town where she’d felt her Nathan’s tiny fingers
wrap around hers that last day she held him - as if imploring her to stay.
But obedient daughter that she was, she gave her son away.
Today her Nathan turns eighteen. Born August 28th, he can’t be hard to find.
How many Nathan’s with that same birth date could exist in this little town?
She has kept the vow she made to herself all those years ago -
to not try to see her son until he became an adult.
Now she is finished visiting the town’s two schools.
There is no record of a Nathan, Nate or Nathaniel born Aug. 28th.
All these years clinging to her hope. Had the adoptive parents left town?
Had her son never grown up in the little town at all?
With dismal thoughts swirling in her mind, she finds herself walking. . .
walking like she did in the summer of her tribulation.
Past a rusty gate is that old graveyard she remembered from before.
Here she is again on another sweltering August day walking
along a green shady path meandering past headstones.
Almost instantly, her eyes are drawn to a small mound and a stone
overgrown with vines.
A strange dread has come upon her. As if compelled by some strange force,
she finds herself yanking the vines off the tiny headstone!
Tears well up in her eyes as she reads the birth date on the stone
and sees the very short span of life revealed by the date of death of
her son Nathaniel.
Written 10/1/16 for the Overgrown With Vines Poetry Contest of Broken Wings which was judged First place along with some other first place beautiful poems, 10/8/2016
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2016