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.
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
There once was a bum. He
was the neighborhood drunk.
He had a unkempt demeanor.
His salt and pepper hair had not
been washed in years.The
clothes he wore were ragged.
His shirt had giant holes in them.
He looked twice his age. In his
drunken state he cursed every-
one that came his way.His smell
was so horrible you might as well
say he showered in whiskey.That
didn't bother this young missionary
who lived nearby.Every day she would
bring the old bum food and clothing.
She would offer him shelter as well.
"Hi sir . How are you today?"
"Why don't you just leave me alone.
Can't you see I don't want to be
bothered."he stated with a slur.
"Sir I'm going to leave your food and
your clothing right here". As she said
those words she bent down and placed
his things on the ground.This was their
routine for well over a year.But on this
in particular day the ole drunk appear-
ed to be coherent. He was sober.As
the young missionary approached him
she said, "Hi Sir. How are you today?"
"I'm fine ma'am. How are you?"
"I'm well Sir. Are you hungry today?"
I brought you some food and water
and some clothes and shoes."He
shook his head no.
"Ma'am I don't want anything.How-
ever I do appreciate it so. I'm going
His statement took her by surprise.
"Sir I didn't even know you had a
"Ma'am I do indeed have a home.
I'm homeless by choice. I want you
to know your kindness will not go
She knew it wasn't right to judge but
she thought to herself he has gone
" Miss I stopped believing in God a
long time ago but your loving kind-
ness showed me God today."
"Okay Sir.I'm going to leave these
things and I will see you later.How-
ever the next day the old bum was
not in his usual spot. And sad-
ness overwhelmed her spirit. That
old bum had become a big part of
her life. She grew to love him very
much. As the days went by she con-
tinued to look for him and he wasn't
there. It was as though he dropped
off the face of the earth.Today was
a beautiful day and she was at the
corner, in the spot where the bum
sat.Deep in her thoughts as she be-
gan to walk she nearly bumped into
someone. As she was about to speak
she saw this well groomed middle
aged man with dashing good looks.
" Hi Ma'am. How are you?" She recog-
nized the handsome stranger's voice
"Sir is that you?" She asked just to
make sure her mind wasn't playing
tricks on her.
"Yes Ma'am it is me. I just came by
to formally thank you for all of the
kindness you showed to me. I was in
raggedy clothes and never once did
you show disgust. You see I am a
millionaire that had lost his way. You
see my wife of nearly thirty years got
ill and passed away. In that moment I
lost my mind because my home didn't
As he finished telling his story little
tears began to fall from her eyes.
Through small sobs she said,
" I'm sorry for your loss. I will con-
tinue to pray to God on your behalf."
" Ma'am your prayers is why I stand
here today.If God had not sent you
my way I would probably still be lost.
Please don't cry for me I will be okay".
He reached in his pocket and pulled
out an old business card and handed
it to her.
"Take my card. Feel free to call me any-
time. All that I have now belongs to you.
Do you remember that day when I told
you that your loving kindness would not
As he said those final words he turned
and left, leaving the young missionary
Copyright © Alexis Y. | Year Posted 2016
-This buds for you!-
-It takes one to know one!-
-I know you are, but what am I?-
A second hand, on my stopwatch, going nowhere!
You are a joker, a smoker, a midnight stroker
<-------How, about that, Steve Miller song
I'm not here to talk about the way you comment a poem
That's not how I roll, now listen, and listen well,
I don't care, about them words you speak
A whining sheep, every time you don't score
Crying behind close doors,
Boo-Who, I did not place high in so-and-so's contest
Gosh&dammit, not everyone's on a quest
Blogging, about the day, your poem got demoted to nonsense
Trying to comment relentlessly,
You can't top, a mountain that has no setup
I'd rather leave a copy paste comment,
"than being fake as fake can be"
At least, my copy paste was a song,
in which welcome the new poets on
Treating, everyone with love and security
Your invites, are cold and force, to you it's not about community
No motion, to your notion, simple, and disgusting
I don't know why you think, we are competing,
Long ago, I left you bleeding, no reason to be defeating
Your paranoia, has you thinking, it's all about the points,
It's getting old and boring,
You cry babies are nothing more than jokes and hypocrites
Hey you, this ain't dominoes, we done pass every Jo-Jo
When, I have time I sit here for fun, my trigger finger on the gun
Reading, commenting, until my day is done
You think, because someone, left a copy paste
That your poem was not read,
Perhaps, it was not understood, or enjoyed
Or, a welcome to the neighborhood
A nice smile, from me to you
Nice poem, You Rock!
So What! ---- WOW!
This Bud's for you
I think it's time for you to GET A LIFE!
Be glad someone took their time, in checking you out twice
Not, everyone on this site, is full of bull-shit
The smallest words, are more likely to be legit
I don't need and expensive comment,
I don't want to impress, when it comes to the best comment
Please do not make love to my poem!
A nice pat on my back will do,
Now that my friend, puts a smile on my face
To know you care, to know you were there:)
Copyright © SKAT A | Year Posted 2014
~It's a Beautiful Day~
Under every star,
A smile waltz-like no other
Once a simple cherry blossom girl,
enjoying puppets and lullabies.
Sitting in front of the screen
Anxiously waiting for him to come in
through the front door, whistling a song,
trading a suit jacket, for a zippered sweater;
made with love. ---My day just got better---
***It's a beautiful day***
In a charming little town square
A servant, serving a friendly atmosphere
Welcome to the land of make-believe,
where all my friends are real.
Here comes the speedy delivery
Mr. McFeely and his letters.
Prancing puppet skin in love with
Beautiful Lady Aberlin.
Henrietta, a mighty and feisty pussycat
My favorite strings are the king and queen
Before the show ends, Trolley's a friend
tooting around from make-believe to reality.
***It's was a beautiful day***
Oh the innocence of my childhood,
My neighborhood is gone
Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2016
Poem 1: A Boy And His Painted Piano
he used lively greens
touches of plain mauve
and rainbow trout splatters
to paint music
on the gas fumes
that inhabited the clean air
that once use to live there.
he made the ugly decaying
neighborhood i lived in
bearable on even the worse of days.
he was the soft harmless rays of a comforting sun
and responsible for the smiles that broke through
the usual dismay on the faces of seven to ten year olds
already sold on the idea their life expectancies were
somewhere in the low twenties.
life isn't always about the new iPhone being released
he represented hope.
hope that someone could make it out of the sewers and return
to free the whole chain gang presently locked firmly to a large solid steel post.
even in the dingiest basements of the worst streets
somehow, a whiff of hope threads through the tar laden atmosphere
and children rise above the manhole covers
that would otherwise maim their existence and keep them
buried below the impossible dream.
luckily there is always a don quixote who sees beyond
the all too real windmill set to blow others away?
Poem 2: A Street Puddle
what story hides
in this street puddle
what do the reflections want to recite.
one broken flower lies on the wet tar.
the wall cracks from the very bottom to the top
sitting there are black boots quivering
stalked by white boots with their bully badges yelling "comply"
blind to the co-operation to their commands. deaf to pleas of mercy
as black rubbers fall
as the wall echoes their cries
three boots stand and you wonder where lies that fourth boot.
do the mass boots of all kind even care
black feet walk as their words float
to fill the air drawing on the sky "no justice no peace"!
time passes, deceptive winds clear the atmosphere and...
weeds grow through the concrete to climb the walls
you can see the shadows large against this impromptu screen
and nothing changes. white boots rule.
Poem 3: In The Beginning
I have always been here.
I was here when you turned the Earth's Stomach.
When it regurgitated your acid tongue
stripped the land of its roots and nothing grew.
When you thought you could just skate through
but instead fell through the lake and froze the Planet
from one pole to the next.
When you cheated the Sun of its permanent spot.
Had it not been for romance who placed
an infinite sparkler in the night sky
who orbited earth barely clad in her white night silk dress
you might of owned time.
I was here
when you flooded the land
but you hadn't counted on
everything changed and you retreated
to your original pit of fire.
maybe you could deal in souls
you knew what was coming
when the heavens opened
and released the winged guardians
so here we sit
the best i can hope for is
good and evil
I'll take my chances with those odds.
Poem 4: A Boy And His Wooden Dragon
a detailed wood carving of a dragons bust leads an ancient
ship through an unforgiving storm.
if this replica could only breathe fire like the ones in children's tales
his face is lifelike, ferocious!
one could swear trails of smoke escape from his nostrils,
i am convinced his eyes are real emeralds.
the waves against the metal ship,
the salt that dissolves the rust,
flows over the dragons neck,
giving one the impression the creature is bleeding.
old wood has no life flow...
no pump to circulate sap
...i'm convinced this inanimate portrayal is leaking vital fluid.
the craftsman's hand has...,
a long shot to say the least...,
given his formation...
can the craftsman's artistic soul be so intense as to breathe
a half life into his meticulously chiseled creation?
how much power does the real artist?...
on a more practical line of thought,
will we survive?
"who cares" i think "that decision rests not in my hands."
i foolishly climb the dragons neck.
i remove my shirt to use as a tourniquet.
i apply it to his gushing neck in an attempt to heal him.
the whole time stroking him in a calming manner
suddenly he releases a breath
he opens his jaw wide
and exhales fire equal to that of a volcanic eruption.
and just like that
the storm stops.
the sky flashes his baby blues.
would we make it back to land?
is this just an ironic pause in the inevitable egregious battle yet to come?
time would tell.
time always tells.
never trust time with a secret.
time would tell
that is all we have
Copyright © Maurice Yvonne | Year Posted 2015
Ride with me on my time machine to a different time and place
Return with me and let me see if I can put a smile upon your face
To the days of AM radio and the TV was black and white
To lying in a grassy field and counting stars at night
Popcorn and soda in the balcony at a Saturday matinee
Parades led by the High School Band on Decoration Day
Dressing up and going door to door on the night of Halloween
Cigarettes rolled in your shirt, pretending to be James Dean
Pep rallies before the football games, everybody stand and cheer
Going in the woods with your friends at night, sharing a quart of beer
That feeling inside, turning red, when she smiled at you at the dance
Wanting to kiss her goodnight, but you were afraid to take a chance
Playing chase tag at night in the neighborhood, hiding behind a tree
Holding hands with your first steady, so all your friends could see
Medicine Show at the end of town in a giant canvas tent
Saving pennies for a rainy day, fasting on candy for Lent
Going for a Sunday ride with Mom and Dad in the family car
Playing in the yard at night, putting lightning bugs in a jar
Drag racing on that long stretch of road, Chevy was hard to beat
Stealing peaches from a neighbor’s tree, always seemed so sweet
Riding bikes all over town, never knowing the meaning of fear
Identifying cars by their tail lights, make and model and year
News and Stooges at the theatre before the movie starts
Valentine’s day I love you written on tiny candy hearts
Easter bonnets and picking flowers for Mom on Mother’s Day
Opening day at the community pool the last weekend in May
Sock hop in the auditorium, collar up, trying to play it cool
Meeting friends at the usual place, everyday after school
Six for a quarter on the juke box, music that would move your soul
Return with me now to those glory days and the birth of rock and roll.
Copyright © Vince Suzadail Jr. | Year Posted 2009
On the day after Christmas, they started appearing,
cast out of houses, stripped of their finery,
lying crooked in the gutter, garbage bags flanking.
My brothers and I walked to school
and halfway there, three blocks away,
was a steep ravine called The Hollow.
A place of some dark mystery in summer,
one hundred feet deep and forbidden land
according to most parents, The Hollow
sang its song to all neighborhood kids.
Returning to school after Christmas,
my brothers and I would drag the discarded
Christmas trees along the sidewalk and onto the bridge
that spanned The Hollow, then heave them over the railing,
watching their graceful tumble earthward,
their air brushing final fall.
"Hey, I used to do that too!" Donnie was a lot older,
almost done with high school, and his walk took him
right by our elementary school - he laughed to see us
hauling the trees to that concluding bridge.
He grabbed a large one, bigger than any of us could handle,
and upon the bridge had us help him hold it upright on the railing,
as it stood in life, as it looked down upon Christmas gifts;
we watched it slowly lean into Gravity,
watched the balletic descent into silence.
Donnie kept with us that first month into the new year,
the pile of trees growing in the bottom of The Hollow.
He told us things, we told him things,
we asked him things and he told us more.
My brothers and I still talk about that big tree
on the railing of the bridge over The Hollow.
It hit right on top of the pile of other trees
and bounced off to the side, its own special place.
As January wore on, we didn't find as many trees,
and ultimately it was all done.
Eventually the school year too was done,
and then more years, and school itself was done.
The trees at the bottom of The Hollow rotted away to nothing.
Somewhere in there my mom told me that Donnie
had been shipped off to war, killed within a few weeks.
We had that one magic month.
December 25, 2016
For Anthony Slausen's contest - 'The Day After Christmas'
Copyright © Doug Vinson | Year Posted 2016
Unsung Hero – My Mom
My Mom has always been unassuming, never flashy,
But her name deserves to be up in bright neon lights.
My magnificent Mom, Olegaria, is my hero!
In her eyes, no one is a zero,
And she is a blessing to all who crosses her path.
Successfully raising her own five children,
She also helped to raise all the stray children in her neighborhood.
Her guiding motto is “You can’t believe in God and
Not care about others - whether it is people, plants, or animals.”
An extraordinary human being, generous to a fault,
She would give her last slice of bread
To anyone who needed to be fed.
Nothing, including her time, is too good or too precious
To share with family, friends, and even strangers.
Often she’d sacrifice her own happiness,
If it meant that others would be happy.
While Mamacita is very humble, forgiving, and non-judgmental,
She is nobody’s fool and can be a fierce lioness,
Quick to defend her values and those she loves.
Caring mothers like her are especially rare today,
And should be declared national treasures.
Because of her powerful influence and the solid values she instilled,
I am a stronger, kinder, more conscientious, and better person.
My Mom helped me to see life in a more positive
And compassionate way – to treat people
How I would like to be treated.
Even though she is not a regular church-goer,
She prays several times daily and her home is her altar.
I thank God every day for blessing me with this wonderful mother,
And for her continued presence in my life.
Mom, you will always be my hero!
Entered in “Unsung Hero Contest” sponsored by Carol Eastman (7-30-
Copyright © Pandita Sanchez | Year Posted 2014
He begs me to come, but he's run out of luck
You won't catch me dead in that beat-up old truck!
It was painted blue...now the color is rust
But you can't be too sure...since it's covered in dust!...
The engine must idle, (about an hour is good)
You can feel the vibration, around the whole neighborhood
A life is at risk, if you go for a ride!
The windshield is broken, and leaks rain inside
It makes a weird noise, rides bumpy and rough
The dashboard is littered and covered with "stuff"
The seat cushion's torn, and it pokes at my rear
The dog sits beside us and licks at my ear
There's no place below us, for resting my feet
There's a hole in the floor, O my God, there's the street!!!
The windows don't close, so there's more than a breeze
Wrappers from Twinkies, a Burger King box...
One lonely old sneaker, and smelly old socks
Half a stale donut smashed down on the floor
Darn!! The dog beat me to it, and is looking for more!!
The muffler is loose, you can see the sparks fly
Dirty looks from the folks, who get smoke in their eyes
When we drive by the neighbors, I duck my head and I hide
I'm no Prima Donna....but I've still got some pride!!
He loves that old truck, he calls her a gem!
Make him choose between us??? ....I'd be out on a limb!!
For Verlena Walker's Slamming Battle Contest
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2008
PINK TENNIS SHOES
I mother always pride galore
until the words from daughter abhor.
Her gentle heart and loving embrace
smashing to pieces. She fell from grace.
Her untied tenny shoe, wrapped and tight
around her bike, could free no might.
Mommy checking faithful each half hour
found her daughter helpless, no power.
Down the hill mommy went
no time was wasting nor was spent.
The wind passed threw my long hair locks
when shock took over from what I got.
Not what I thought from bike I bought
but cruelest words, my life distraught.
From those lips kissed each night to bed
not once, nor twice, but thrice to head.
“Hurry up old lady” from my daughter
how my heart bleed of tears and water.
For no words crueler ever sere spoke.
My shame, the horror on face neighborhood folk.
My tail between my legs indeed
got there, put there by my third bore seed.
And mothers day and birthday too
three days from now turn 45, BOO-HOO!
Never knew my aging beauty fade
would be this hard for the lies I’ve made.
Lies I’ve told to self each day
that children’s love fulfillment may.
So on this very special mothers day
this “old lady” family f--- off say.
Copyright © catherine Reinke | Year Posted 2009
Its easy to become what you fear..
Could bring you down,or shift you into high gear
Embrace the hope you see in others..
A neighborhood filled with loving sisters and brothers
Love and care for eachothers..
Always a helping hand and some leftovers
Smiling faces in the streets,children playing in paradise
Come on over,check it out while we roll the dice..
June 29th 2012
Anne Lise & Arild Andresen
* Collabration with my lovely hub
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
Copyright © Sunshine Smile | Year Posted 2012
i stood looking outside
listening to the rain
with its long slender fingers
tap a tune against my window
squeegees in hand
i could see
the troops of drops
clean the air
for a clearer view
while on their descent
holding their umbrellas
attempting to escape
the cruel barrage of
knocks to their heads
there are a few children
in their rainy day gear
locked and loaded
steady and ready
attacking the puddles
with a fierce offensive
crushing any and all puddles
dare question their authority
jumping and diminishing
the enemy ruthlessly
the children's joy
propels me to thoughts
of the gift ahead
a rainbow large
or maybe a double arc
fully colored vibrant
i proceed to prepare
my rainy day cocoa
in my neighborhood
it's a law
cocoa in hand
i return to my show
the trees are soaked
the rain unrelenting
the plants forced
to bend under the
weight of heavy rain
all the tiny flyers
for their landing
are in their
out for their
from the earth
will be glad
of any kind
they would think
the rain now
is descending violently
apparently in cahoots
with the wind
but still no
thunder or lightning
this must be their
a paid vacation
my cocoa only
warm and almost
i decide to
bid the rain
a good night
September 12 2014
Rainy Day Contest
Copyright © Maurice Yvonne | Year Posted 2014
Turkey's on the table, both legs up
Everything was fine, 'til I made the first cut!
The turkey unleashed a "CACKLE!", then jumped onto the floor
All you could see was basted skin, bolting out the door!
"Catch that turkey!!", I screamed,..."That's our evening meal!!"
The neighborhood looked on in awe, while asking,..."What's the deal?!"
The turkey rounded the corner, boy, that sucker was quick
Dashing like a sprinter, pumpin' those massive drumsticks!
It darted down an alley, disturbed a hobo's nap
And there, seated in a corner, he jumped upon his lap!
"Thank you Lord!", the hobo cried..."Today I won't have to beg!"
"Maybe I'll start with a wing, or perhaps I'll have a leg!"
"Put the turkey down!!", I roared,..."That bird belongs to me!!"
All I could see was a tailwind, as the hobo decided to flee!
I chased him down the alley, perhaps a quarter mile
Acting a fool in public, was never quite my style!
We dashed across the freeway, dodging every car
All I want is my turkey, can't stop, I've come too far!
The chase led to a corner, right past a city cop
He stood there like a scarecrow, talk about a useless flop!
Suddenly, it ended, the bum tripped over his laces
He broke his leg quite viciously, in fact, several places!
I woke up the next morning, thank God it was just a dream
With a hangover and an achin' skull, "OUCH!!" is what I screamed!
I looked over at the table, what do you think I'd see?
That same ol' basted turkey, lying there peacefully!
I stumbled to the table, laid that bird in a box
Packed two sides with a bisquit, then staggered on down the block!
I came upon that alley, peeked behind a garbage can
And there, sleeping like a baby, was a ragged ol' homeless man!
I placed the box beside him, never did I say a word
I penned a note which kindly read,..."Hope you like the bird."
Copyright © Milton Toran | Year Posted 2009
Who are these men who would leave
To storm the gates of hell’s domain?
Who are these who don't grieve
For their brother’s wounds and pain?
For the sound of a thousand feet
That march to the beat of a drum
With the bitter taste of defeat
Bringing lonely soldiers back home.
Where are the girls of the neighborhood
Whose loves were lost at sea?
Where are those who died in foreign lands
Who hung on a forsaken tree?
They come from long lines of soldiers
Whose solemn duty was fulfilled;
And their blood lay silent on the ground
When the enemy had killed.
Where are the boys dressed in blue
Who flew when their eyes were blind?
Did God bless this awful mess
That was created by mankind?
Who are the warriors destined to fail
Who rode with the cross to die?
Will they go down in history
Did their mother's cry?
Who are these who would fight us now
Has their purpose been concealed?
Only with the dark hands of time
Will the reason be revealed.
Copyright © elizabeth wesley | Year Posted 2011
Friends and trouble go hand in hand.
Legends of the neighborhood.
Like statues and vacant buildings still stand.
A crime in plain view no one ever saw.
Held hostage in fear.
The mouse sturggles to escape from
Blood on the bricks that stains my mind.
Time takes me away.
Yet never leaves the memory far behind.
Summers in the city nights run into days.
We turn are backs to the truth.
But in this game everyone plays.
Heros are villians depending
on who you are.
Stories told bout the other night.
Hidden truths like the bat under the bar.
The players are future tombstones
Men glorified beyond there name.
the citys children caught within her confines.
Forced to play a different game.
Copyright © John Patrick Robbins AKA Gonzo | Year Posted 2009
I was shot by Cupid's tainted dart
And puppy love awakened my sleeping heart
Tried to impress with exaggerated tales
Mark the box letters sent through the mail
Hunted and fished for sport and food
Baseball games with the neighborhood crew
Dirt always flying from old gravel roads
Wearing my brother's, hand me down clothes
Baseball cards popping bicycle spokes
Stealing the babysitter's pack of smokes
Riding my bike to the nearest creek
Stripping off my clothes to the water I'd streak
Change from my Sunday suit after church
Running around in just shorts with no shirt
Family meals three times a day
Each time we'd all bow our heads and pray
Lied about it all with two crossed fingers
Dad finding out meant a real humdinger
Turn around and do it all over again
Way back then when I was ten
by Daniel Turner
Jan 29, 2016
Copyright © Daniel Turner | Year Posted 2016
Loving yourself is the birth of romance,
Dancing alone is still dance,
Practicing augments one’s courage to try
Failure at worst brings a sigh!
Athletes learn early the secret of gain,
Know how to work through their pain,
Who cares in time they will likely get beat,
Master’s of neighborhood street!
Victory good friend of those who don’t quit,
Forget your plans to outwit,
Golden ideas are flag you’ve unfurled
Practice your gift to the world.
Practice and failure uncover your gold,
Teachers are never so bold,
No one can ever say what you should do...
Treasure lies buried in you!
August 9, 2016
Copyright © Roof Missing | Year Posted 2016
I awoke to a memory that asked to be felt through the emotions of
An early rising seeing boys playing in the park without wondering
about the meaning of life because at that time life had no
meaning only to be lived and enjoyed in the moment
And I wondered
Was it better then as a tear climbed downward on the lines carved deeply in a
face that had
Seen so much and loved so fervently
Those days when a sandlot became an arena and the ringing
of laughter echoed
Through a neighborhood
Where there were skinned knees and sprained ankles but hearts were left
Unharmed and the gladiators had not seen 13 yet
While skirts were still a reason for giggling and it was more important to reach
first base from the hot corner than it was
To acknowledge her smile because
We were warriors with a common bond
Copyright © Vince Suzadail Jr. | Year Posted 2007
My mind is like a dangerous neighborhood
I try to never go there alone.
I thought that after all this time Id finally grown.
I met a spark that kindled my fire
How quickly it expired.
Enrapturing me in my sleep.
It burned so deep
It burned so deep.
Whispers of wonders invading my perception
Turns out it was self-deception.
I longed to continue in this delusion
But in the end it would be spiritual pollution.
How do I mend what I have done?
The separation has begun,
But the face of an angel lingers in my brain
I never meant to cause any pain.
If I could jump out of my skin and start again
Wisdom would have kept him like ink in a pen.
If only he could have come to myside
Happily we would forever abide.
But reality is a dark hole
And a bleeding soul
A vacant hole
Where many travelers never go.
Once again its chill creeps down my spine
And I release the one I had to leave behind.
By: Sabina Nicole
Copyright © Sabina Nicole | Year Posted 2016
New Economics is Feminist Economics,
about cooperatively nurturing healthy nutritional investments
rather than WinLose dyspeptic high risk
divestment competition games.
Have you seen a Rockwell 1950's Lemonade Wars?
Two girls, both white of course,
dressed for young Republican success
scowling at each other on a pristine deserted street
of the tree-lined suburban variety,
arms folded across their angry relentless middle-class chests,
shoulders hunched for their LoseLose anger battle.
Each stands before her lemonade stand,
across the street from one other,
each with a sign that originally says 10 cents,
but with a bold line across it,
replaced below with a somewhat smaller 5 cents,
also crossed out,
followed by a 2 cents price war notice,
about which the entire neighborhood apparently would not give 2 cents
to get involved.
Would this be less surprising if we were looking at two white boys?
How about two brown-skinned boys?
Does the humor have more of an edge to it?
Or perhaps it's no longer funny at all.
Maybe more about just another racist stereotype
about not having 2 suburban cents between them,
about what is intelligent multicultural economic behavior.
Do you think it more likely two girls might have formed a cooperative?
Placed their two tables into one larger street presence,
faced their two signs both up and down the street
to better alert oncoming traffic,
rather than aim them across the street at each other
like weapons of mutual disdain,
splitting their take at the end of a lovely day
chattering away with and between more convivial customers.
But, probably less likely for two boys from the 50's and 60's.
Today, I'm not so sure.
Perhaps boys and girls, and all between,
are learning a healthier,
way of doing the math,
finding profit through cooperative ecopolitical relationships.
We have feminist psychology and therapy and medicine
and theology and history and sociology
and probably anthropology, for all I know.
Research and theorem proofing and disproofing
more likely to unfold through networking circles
of mutual nurturing
than competitive marching in financial-support squares
of irrational distinctions without seminal difference.
So, why is New Economics not called Feminist EcoPolitics?
Maybe it is, but not where I live
and not where I have read,
but I still hope to see more cooperative lemonade stands
across suburban and urban and rural divides,
blending gender divides to make lemonade out of,
well, whatever you have of potential nourishing value,
discarding over-heated presumptions of competition,
to pour out equivalent assumptions of cooperative ecopolitics,
where Golden Rules apply transgenderally
as Golden Ratios reply transculturally,
producing Golden Elixirs of inclusive consumer satisfaction;
this day we will have done well.
Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2016
Trying to recapture the joy of those winter days is difficult. School cancelled: sun shining through the sheer, white, curtains into an all too girlie room, the sound of a tea kettle's whistle, the ice cold feeling of oak boards on bare feet, between scatter rugs; I ran to the kitchen. The transistor radio sounded, still calling out school closings. The snow sifted down.
sparkles on snowflakes –
the plow roars
Quick phone calls, punctuated with giggles, roused a gaggle of neighborhood girls. White skates in hand, I burst out the door. I rushed toward the swampy area behind the neighbor’s house. My rubber boots crunching crust above the powdery fluff. At the edge of the watery wood, I stood staring. Boys, I see the boys in there. They have their skates on already. Tommy Maloney, my crush, skated toward me.
his black waves
dusted with snow –
whoops of delight
A hummock of snow-topped grass served as a seat. I removed my boots from beneath the zip sides of snow pants and try to tie laces new white skates. Once done I stood wobbling, weak-ankled. Tommy laughs, as knock-kneed I attempt a glide toward him falling on my butt. Oh how his eyes sparkled, an Irish rogue at twelve. Kneeling, Tommy began to re-lace my skates. I remember wishing, so much, he would kiss me.
First Contemporary haibun online Fall 2013
Published in Winter Legends 2014
Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2015
(after Edgar Allan Poe's "The Angel of the Odd")
It was a tidy day and I sat, replete, under vellux blankets.
Sadly, my tea was weak, the bottle of cinnamon whiskey
tantalizingly low, and my feet swelling above my anklets.
So I was snippy one might say, zippy, flipping with zee...
from one screen to the next, oops, forgot! Poor Usain Bolt!
Yes, I took it out upon him. Dressed him first in bouncy hearts
cruel, I admit, and then purposefully fried him, let him float,
banged him, tripped him, let the sloth dine, and let out a fart.
Crude, I admit. Let's blame it on the tea, shall we? "I say not."
I sat up. Who had spoken to little old me, an old lady too weak
for any great villian with a booming voice. I blew out my snot,
found my glasses and good grief! The speaker made of teak.
Pseudo teak, my stereo a bit old. But leaning against the wall
fruity-kins wearing leotards when he should not, the belly
like a spiked watermelon. I admit I considered a sip at neck gall
but got turned off by papaya thighs, arms turned banana jelly.
Who are you, I squeaked, smushing low to hide like a flea.
"Zolar, the Inet God. Say, I wonder, are you a high roller?"
No, no, said I. No bingo, no slots, no high stake poker, just see...
"See? I see far too well. You let my buddy Usain go polar."
Tee hee. Just, um, fun and games. How about a nice slushy?
Yes, I admit it. With such as he, I couldn't help but imagine
giving a blender whirr, a smash and splash, sort of plushy.
With glee whee, off went vellux and I set to the kitchen.
The rum was old and watery, the vodka scummy at collar
and all went crash. Imagine the horror if you will, foot rot
in my fine spirits? My hoover sucked it without bother
and when I examined residue, found crumbs, hairs and a dot
of mushy raisins. So I googled on my phone with askance
how purify spirits? Zolar suggested kindly, "Try a colander."
A genius of the mash, a nonpariel of the objective chance.
My mind turned to such grater things I made my first blunder.
Who'd believe a fresh market reject could move with alacrity
I swung a hammer, missed his head, slipped on the slick floor.
The recoil hit my head, and I bled red vintage, singing a ditty,
Oh me, oh my. I'm gonna cry, while Zolar went out the door.
Not leaving my just desserts to chance, I slipped and slithered
rubbed my foot rot, and hopped after him, butcher knife in hand.
A beep from my iPhone and away he dodged, while I dithered
leading me, up, up and out to where it rained to beat the band.
It hit me then, just get close enough to hug Zolar, then push
he must have read my mind because he darted and I flew
head over heels, but thankfully over a branch like a lush
who did okay on the acrobatic bars, hair tangling in dew
covered maple leaves and my dismount worthy of a ten.
I mucked toward my door, my bare feet covered with mud
I opened the door, except it was locked, no window open.
I checked my pockets, found a lighter, snapped, a dud.
No phone, can you imagine? Even Usain Bolt wouldn't recover
such blasphemy as rain, muck, and maniac fruit without zen.
I now had an axe to grind and a green house to uncover.
My thirst now absurd, my mind stuck on might have been
I raged, thrashed through cabinets, seeking a bottle once stored
and found it. Amen. I uncapped it, took a deep swallow
Hot. Hot, hot! Immediately I upchucked, help me I implored
to the God of the Inet, Oh Zolar, call 911, don't let me wallow
It's cold, wet, dark and mucky, and here I'm all upchucky
I pounded on doors, they'd open, snap a flash then close
oh, woe, woe. I clutched my head, my throat, I'm ever so unlucky
to wish to slip into slushy and end up posted before repose.
A siren in the night grew and grew, then flashed beside me
a voice said, "Ma'am? Can you hold it right there, put your hands
overhead?" Sure, but bladder being bad I couldn't stop my wee wee
from dribbling down my leg, then my feet slipped unplanned.
That's how the news pictured me, along with neighborhood
postings, feet all asply, a phew of urine and of whiskey,
my hair filled with leaves, eyes black and blue, and would
you believe it? My hand rests on watermelon, me unable to flee.
I never go near the iNet, never search out or bash Usain Bolt.
The night of Zolar in mind, I even gave up cinnamon whiskey.
Because a fruit in hand is better than an axe to grind or a volt
from lightning, with tush grounded and no vellux to cover me.
Copyright © Sheri Fresonke Harper | Year Posted 2014
How did a cherry kiss? Bitter flower petals with sweet pistils.
So laden they act as halos while we breathe the love
in a pink hollow, silence sounding like taste, acting like epistle
to hold this moment in a silvery image, like moon, or dove
low, low, a bowl formed while sunshine flickers above.
Chains of yellow petals hang over our deck, the leaves hands--
offer welcome resting branch, our sheltered home.
Seeds follow close, fragile like beans, hard case to feed the land
crawl before God, they say, be grateful as we weed and stir loam.
Together seeds and flowers and hands make a life a poem.
Awaiting the sumac, the flame at summer's ending is fruitless
we've passed the feathering, the pimping of red underneath bristle
the deer horn softness crawling out in oddest places in a mess
lining the sand pond, above the purpled iris, the pestle
of stone and sun, no rain to bring down sumac's fiery trestle.
Vulturous crows squawk and fight the ring-billed sea gulls
waiting, one in the bared hollow hands of the cottonwood
the other fat-bellied and waddling after rain finally dulls
we're under hoodies, under shivers, our neighborhood
waits the pinking and mossing, will it unfurl new wood?
Copyright © Sheri Fresonke Harper | Year Posted 2014
I know we love to read of beautiful things
Hear early morning serenades the song bird sings
See buds blooming into roses perfumed
Within majestic sunset's horizons become consumed
There's another place I lived in for a little while
A neighborhood where somethings didn't make me smile
A child banging on the door, mommy let me inside
Things in the home, I guess from his eyes they must hide
I befriended a boy of ten riding his bike
Said he always went to me-maws to get a bite
For there was no food in his house to eat
Dad found other things to buy instead of meat
A few days pass, no sign of my friend
There he was riding down the street again
I asked where he'd been, was he alright?
He explained he was recovering from a bad dog's bite
I asked him what the doctor had said
He replied, I sewed it myself with a needle and thread
I reluctantly said, let me see your nice sewing job
He pulled up his pant leg, I choked back a sob
I asked him if his daddy was ever mean
He shrugged his shoulders, said sometimes it seems
It kinda hurt my feelings when he said to me
Finish him off - right between the eyes
I won't feed a dog that bites
Not worth the ground where he lies
Sitting on his bike, a leg began to sway
Eyes filled with tears, quickly he wiped one away
Remembering the killing shot he'd fired that day
Toughen up son, is what his father said
Advice given in love, maybe....
Then off on his bike he rode to have some fun...
I know in some places many families still really care
But Mayberry exists only on TV in shades of gray
I moved back to the country where buds bloom into roses perfumed
And into majestic sunset's horizons I can be consumed
Copyright © Donna Jones | Year Posted 2013
It was on the other side of the rainbow
When I slid into a dream
I guess at that time nothing was, as it truly seemed
People came and people went
The needle played my blues
Through the rainbow dreams into leprechaun schemes
I was Papa Smurf with the magic brew
I built a Crystal Castle
On the shores of nevermore
I guess sometimes I wonder, “What was I searching for”
Beauty danced with big brown eyes
Though the faces always changed
Many times I slept with gals I thought were rather strange
Magic slides that no one hides
I wonder where they go?
I once slid down the rainbow just to see the show
The stars are bright it’s a beautiful night
Moonbeams illuminating mushrooms all around
Here by my house crickets and frogs are the only sound
Fairies dance like fireflies
It’s really quite the sight
Ever tripped down Hollywood and Vine on a Friday night
I have lived through many dreams
Shared many angels souls
Shattered dreams and broken schemes, nothing but empty goals
Broken hearts torn apart
Blowing in the wind
Like fairy dust you just can’t trust
Not even your closest friend
I dove into a crystal pool on the other side of the hill
I swear sometimes in my ears I can hear the ringing still
I rode upon the tornado just to go spinning through the sound
Landed in a concrete room bouncing all around
Leprechauns and rainbows
Unicorn’s beautiful and white
When I finally kicked the horse
It wasn’t a pretty sight
Like a frog on the log or a sick old dawg
Just a skeleton in a box
With the strength of Arthur's sword and trust in the Lord
I shattered a thousand locks
Now I’m back on this side of the rainbow
And every thing’s looking bright
My Guinevere is here and I love her dear
She is such a lovely sight
Trials come like waterfalls
Flooding though our life
I truly am a lucky man to face them with my wife
Well let’s gig the frog and fire up the log
We’ll roast us a pig tonight
Life is good in my neighborhood
Nary a single vice
The other side of the rainbow now seems so very far away
I guess that is really about all I have to say
Copyright © Michael Jordan | Year Posted 2009