1
Bright shadows ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ shoots of bliss,
¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ world's gladness ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
A day to seek;
Eternity in time; the steps ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
We Climb ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ Lamps that light
Man through his heap of dark days; ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
2
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ Paradise; ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
The Cool ¦¦¦¦¦ day;
The Creatures' _Jubilee_; God's parle with dust;
Heaven here; ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ hills of Myrrh, and flowers;
Angels descending; ¦¦¦ Returns of Trust;
A Gleam of glory, ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
3
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ love-feasts; Time's Prerogative,
And Interest
¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ home of rest.
The milky way chalked out with suns; ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ and in full story
A taste of Heav'n on earth; ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦
¦¦¦ a full feast: And ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ glory.
(Blackout of Son-Days by Henry Vaughan)
SCHOOL
the desks,
chalked blackboard
Beside a friend
Pretend to listen
Lulling teacher's sharp gaze
As we whisper together
"A place where minds and boredom meet"
SCHOOL
the desks
a chalked board
sitting with a friend
pretending to listen
to lull teacher's attention
"A place where minds and numbness meet"
The Selfish Egos of War Poetry Contest
Craig Cornish
It's a normal day in LA's Westside.
Shots fired. Another homicide.
Police, EMTs, and coroners predisposed
to the front lines of the disposed.
A shower of bullets, another blood bath,
yellow-taped, chalked outlines mar the public's path.
It's a war out there, the games are in overtime,
and sudden death is just a passing crime.
Drug Lords crawling out from the gutter
in search of their bread and butter,
driving a low-riding Mercedes,
carrying 14-year-olds dressed up as ladies,
peddling their crack,
and shooting turf invaders in their back.
Homies' power trip lights the dark side of the city,
without any regard for life or showing any pity.
The crib's manifestation, filled with a rat's infestation,
where egos fly to the nests of damnation.
It’s always there, right by the window, in which I sit everyday for hours, watching cars drive to and fro, kids and parents standing outside waiting to send them off to school.
I take my seat as I sip slowly on my coffee, the house is barely lit, no need for brightness, after all it’s just me. The squirrels outside tuning about, perhaps stocking up on acorns for the long winter cold.
The tv sits off as nothing to watch, only the sound of my air diffuser lights up every color you can imagine, lavender scent fills up the house, calmness scent fills my senses, the sun has risen in the sky, shining brightly on fall leaves in the grass.
My favorite spot in the house, is a big old Rocking chair, gives me a safe place to sit, catch the outside world roll by, families waking by, give their best try in my hopscotch I chalked awhile back, a smile of joy as brief as it was maybe I made their day, but to no avail, I’m still inside my cocoon no longing to go outside.
My book of poems sit upon my bed, my emptiness still lingers in my soul, who knows when I’ll open them back up.
Kids with their families walking up and down the hill, dogs barking, cars going up and down past our home, hopscotch chalked into the sidewalk, come on you know you want to get it a whirl.
Kids gather at the bus stop, trying to stay warm in the cool autumn breeze, dancing and talking amongst their parents neighborhood friends, thus is what I see each day outside my window.
Birds squirrels, even a red fox are the many sights I see on a daily basis, sounds of birds pecking on our roof, fall is here, so many colors of yellow and red leaves brighten up the night trees across the street.
A swift fall cool breeze, the trees branches Dance in unison, a lightweight coat you might need as you step out to take a walk, smells of pine cones, hot apple cider from angel food, something sweet..
A monarch butterfly just landed on my native milkweed plant, its wings of red and orange open wide to reveal is a girl, praying she leaves a few eggs behind.
Evening has come, as the golden sun has begun to set, it lowers ever so so slowly, as not in a hurry, the moon lights up the sky, another sky has ended, perhaps tomorrow will be the same.
What I Love
A nice long winter's night to rest, sleep, and dream
Sweet dreams of love so dear, with you holding me
Loving; feeling loved helps build our self-esteem
I believe that most would totally agree
Elderly lovers under dreams' soft, gentle veil
Where souls sail in an endless stream of stars' trails
As moon cast its glow 'pon life's last journey's grace
We'll be joined together in new life's embrace
~~~~~~
~~~~~~
~~~~~~
What I hate
Oh! How hard are restless and sleepless long nights
Sleep won't come and dreams in flight, tomorrows loom
Dreading a day filled with foggy thoughts in flight
Because my nice, dreamy sleep-filled night fled the room
Three sleepless nights, how will this night's sweet sleep go
I hope it won't be one more chalked up in a row
I know I'll take a melatonin from stash
I'll sleep; dream poems which a rested brain will hatch
I’ve kept the bone-ash circle open—
chalked in wax traced from your last reply,
the one you coughed out sideways
between a mirror and an echo,
Just to reiterate, it read.
(Though you’ve unsent it now—
the smoke still mouths it back.)
The salt forgets which door to guard,
whether you're enemy or friend.
My tea leaves knot themselves
into nooses. The knife won’t keep
its edge unless I say your name
with my mouth full of soot. You know
who you are.
We only spoke three times—
I still remember your laugh.
I burned your coat—
the one already nicked at the cuff,
lined with lint and one of my hours.
The smoke limped east,
then circled back.
I still leave the latch loose.
Not for you—
just in case
some ghost with your gait
remembers how
my spine once knocked
like a drum left running.
The world is a small rural village.
Each nation is a household
Sometimes one runs out of salt
but never worries for a neighbour will offer
expecting nothing in return.
Communal hands
Clear each other's farms.
When pests strike one, the rest respond
because no rain ever falls on just one roof.
Children are raised by the village
whether born of wealth or want.
Every father is a father to many
every mother is a mother to all.
Lessons are not chalked on blackboards
but told around fires, where wisdom glows with every flame.
The world is a small village
my grandfather once said
where kindness is currency
and no one eats alone.
They gather where the signs hang crooked,
under gaslight glare and broken clocks,
where the barkeep’s eyes are twin shot glasses—
fogged, but watching.
Gin Lane rolls in on tired boots,
her laughter sharp as shattered glass.
Beer Street hums a fatter tune,
slumped in booths of sticky leather.
They meet at the hinge of last call,
where poetry is slurred and prophets mumble.
A jukebox wails old revolutions
to a crowd too drunk to notice.
The walls are graffiti'd with regrets,
phone numbers of ghosts,
and chalked-up debts no one will ever pay.
Outside, the world is coughing up history,
but in here, time stirs with a muddler.
The bar is a church with no god,
only spirits, and the faithful who sip them.
Some come to forget,
others to remember louder.
A woman in red sings with her back to the room.
A man orders another round
and trades his name for a tab.
Everyone claps when the glass breaks.
Midnight hits like a bottle to the head—
the bouncer shrugs,
Beer Street staggers,
Gin Lane pirouettes into the dark.
Written: December 11, 2024 For contest Sponsored by: Constance La France
Quote: "Cheers to a fresh new year and a fabulous opportunity for us to flourish!"
_________________________________
In the forest where the trees glow,
Shimmering stars shine, a stunning show.
Mesmerizing marvels in an idyllic, calm flow,
Cheerful gifts gathered gently in a row.
Blanketed children in wonder and cheer,
Gingerbread cookies, sweet flavors near.
Iced in crimson, green, festive atmosphere,
Sprinkles of joy as Santa draws near.
A sleigh with bells that jingle and run,
We gather as families, our hearts are full of fun.
Celebrating traditions, our spirits as one,
In the warmth of the holiday, we bask in the sun.
Shimmering ivory pearls in moonbeams,
Gentle lullabies that soothe all our dreams
Chalked memories drift in a crystalline stream,
In hopes that our love will forever gleam.
Though jaded vials may drip with despair,
We find elixirs of hope in the air.
Sick veins may quiver, dreams still ensnare,
As impending fate reminds us we care.
Funny how independence
Can blind lack of choice
The feel of wheels
Silencing the roaring voice
Yellow, plain, drab
But it got me to my destination
Blaring the AM radio
While I chalked my delineation
Finally, graduating my goal
So I got myself a present
I wanted roast duck
But the dealership gave me pheasant
My partner wrecked my present
And took my decision power away
Every body I got was good for a time
Then turned to clay
Finally, free to be me
......WHO'S THAT......
Blindly I walked onto lots
Expecting care and compassion
They just wanted to sell, me,
A body decked in the latest fashion
Upside down, Topsy- Turvy
Became my new way of existence
No wrecks to report
In my system resistance
Finally, my wheels were given back
My name swiped with black ink
All that I tried to build
Now with dirty dishes, in the kitchen sink
I'm left with ME
Without deceit running about
The journey is arduous
But I'm finally finding out
.....I'm worth loving
Written by Trudy Schrader on 11-24-2024
City life, for kids, before the onslaught of helicopter parents and mandatory parental involvement in every aspect of growing up. We played baseball, no umpires, the bases pieces of cardboard, scratched in dirt, or chalked on the pavement. Four neighborhoods abutted each other. We, the children of the game, formed teams, formed an impromptu “league”. On one of these occasions when a game was “scheduled” team A came up short of the mandatory nine. Team B would allow one of its players to play for team A. The proof that this did not hurt team A’s chances of winning became evident the day Billie, (we’ll call her Billy to protect the legend), came to bat in the last inning and singled home the winning run for team A.
After the game Billie walked home with the rest of our team. She looked a bit sheepish and we did sort of give her the business. We all knew it didn’t matter which team you played for because the game demanded you play your best and hold your head high in both victory and defeat.
These streets are where the devil lives —
Where temptation breathes,
And nightmares don’t sleep.
No room for doubt.
No space for pessimists.
To survive, you need the heart of a man
Ready to conquer Everest.
Behind bright lights
And sleepless nights,
Truth bleeds through
Even the blindest eyes.
Stay on the straight path —
Or watch it turn black.
Knives don’t whisper;
They scream when they crack.
Cuts don’t heal,
They stain through the years —
And mothers drown
In their children’s tears.
These streets will steal your style,
Your charisma,
Roll you in tobacco
And spark you in a Rizla.
All for what?
For your name to fade,
Your presence dismissed,
Just another statistic
On an ever-growing list.
Stop. Think.
Before your life becomes part of the payment.
Before you’re fifteen —
Cold,
Alone,
Dying on the pavement…
Streetlights hum like a funeral hymn,
Your blood runs black, your future dim.
Another name chalked on a curb in red —
These streets don’t mourn,
They just count the dead.
CHILDHOOD GAMES
bouncing a ball against a wall
conkers bashed as Autumn falls
the swish of a skipping rope
hop skotch chalked in the dry
nearby swings swung high
five-stones on a roll
tin-can tommy in fading light
pooh stick streams
homespun childhood - a delight
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