A mother walks through bullets for bread
A child through shellfire for a sip of grain
Young girls bleed in corners quietly
Toddlers die in mothers' arm from thirst.
This is the plot, world is writing on,
Poets, presidents, painters even parrots
all scribbling words on rubbles and ruins.
An aid truck hums like ice cream van
drawing children to their deaths.
Graves are homes, morgues have IV drips
beeping machines mourn louder than mothers.
This is the setting, leaders are banking on.
Protestors, professors, publishers even pilgrims
all parading pain for policies and propaganda.
Camera's click as children chase compassion
Aid drops flutter like dying doves
every countable rib is a bestseller,
Prime time feeds on man-made famine.
This is the climax, audience is locked on
Photographers, producers, preachers even podcasters
all packaging pain for premieres and praise.
This is the modern-day Macbeth where power demands
we slit our conscience to wear crowns.
Guilt is a graveyard and every prophecy is screaming
from scorched soil to sear our souls.
The tryer
in short bursts, the quiet expresses
a need to communicate about work
done but not published
Self-critical, raked with doubts
with no connection to the world
of publishing
Offer from publishers is that he will pay
them, is like paying for sex; it leaves
behind self-disgust, this unbecoming
need to see one's words in print
The hard part is to admit to the lack
of talent, what else is there to do
other than collecting old stamps
I’m writing with pen.
Scribbling and doodling.
Writing a rough draft.
Then an even rougher draft.
Falling asleep and knocking coffee all over my pages.
Using up my whole notebook.
Running to the paper store and begging for all the paper in the world.
They laugh at me.
But I look them in the eye and they give me their longest scroll, so I can continue.
My pen is dying, but I’m alive.
I’m scribbling over scribbles.
I tell them it’s a book.
I tell them I will publish it whenever the mood strikes.
They laugh.
I ignore them.
I write and write in peace and madness.
Pens die.
Paper is thin.
A book? They ask.
I show them the scribbles.
I show them the way.
And maybe it is just scribbles…
And maybe those publishers would laugh…
But hey?
They couldn’t help but read it anyway.
Believing is man's real problem
especially concerning God's word
for some reason, it's all denial
why oh why, unbelief is so absurd
God has made it so simple
Jesus died on the cross for you
He shed His blood to set you free
believe this for it's all true
The truth of God's word
encourages real faith seeing
so you also can believe
God's with you to believing
So from today till the glory
the Lord looks for your faith
show yourself as one approved
I will confess my Lord you saith
God is absolutely pleased
when He sees your faith in action
by believing in His dear son
Jesus your saviour be your reaction
(This is written basing my thoughts on the hymn " I do believe, I will believe")
I Do Believe, I Will Believe
1 I do believe, I will believe
That Jesus died for me,
That on the cross He shed His blood,
From sin to set me free.
2 I do believe, I now believe
The truth of God’s own Word;
And from today till glory bright,
I will confess my Lord.
(c) Bible Truth Publishers
Anabel Hernández García is a Mexican journalist and author, known for her investigative journalism of Mexican drug trafficking and into the alleged collusion between US government officials and drug lords.She has also written about slave labor, sexual exploitation,and abuse of government power.She won the Golden Pen of Freedom Award 2012,which is presented annually by the World Association of Newspapers and News Publishers.
My poem was about innocent hearts
not purloined, perfumed farts
'Twas about forever lingering kisses
not everlasting, beer-induced pisses
Verses extoling glaciers' sheer grandeur
no excretions of gooses or ganders
Lines conjuring up treasured memories
nothing about S&M or pederasty
'Course, publishers rejected it out of hand
~ nothing to stimulate readers' trash glands
He learned the trade of punchin' cows
An' silence of the men
He was alone but so were they
Not like it was back then
Not like the days of sweepin' floors
In brothels and the bars
An orphan lookin' for a meal
An' washin' whisky jars
Now he crossed the plains wide and free
An' saw the mountains rise
It was almost, almost enough
'Til he recalled her eyes
She'd been sixteen an' so had he
They didn't know 'bout love
So they held hands an' talked all night
An' counted stars above
Then she was gone, just slipped away
An' he was punchin' cows
He had the world to call his own
With all the heres an' nows
An' so he looked at all the world
An' marveled at its size
It was almost, almost enough
'Til he recalled her eyes
10-16-20
Contest: Have You Published
Sponsor: Line Gauthier
Poem from the book
"Almost Enough, Cowboy and Western Poetry" April 6, 2010
Amazon Publishers, ISBN 9781519762481
Little
may my love sound,
yet a bright star I do love,
Stella,
Who in the center of the sky,
being lulled in her mother’s lap,
does blink and wink on the sly to express her divine love.
To express my mortal love,
I wink and blink slyly,
yet she may not clearly see how desperately I do love.
Tell me a way to say my love, to show my love,
mortal love, to
Stella,
my brightest star.
Are earth and sky so far,
so I can’t send a message of love to my brightest star,
in the place of genuine love,
Stella,
my brightest star?
I have no skills to create a cloud of romance, as
Kalidasa,
a great poet, once did, so I’ll make a little,
so little kite to send my letter of love to my brightest star,
Stella.
I published my second collection of poems: "Love, Lust & Dust" in 2018.
Publisher: Sarasavi Publishers, Colombo.
Oct. 15, 2020
Have You Published Poetry Contest
Contest Sponsor: Line Gauthier
The saddest tale that’s e’er been told
Is that of pencil Sharp
He wrote so dark, so brave and bold
The critics on did harp
Disaster struck one fateful day
As Sharp wrote down a line
His pink eraser wore away
So marring Sharp’s design
Now Sharp decays in health and mind
His purpose now so dull
And as Sharp fails, he falls behind
And publishers are full
No time have they for useless Sharp
A point without an end
So on and on the critics carp
About his latest penned
To greatness go the other pens
And those whose use goes on
To write of mountains and of glens
For Sharp all hope is gone
Not only do I mold vases and bowls from clay;
I also mold myself.
In a random weekend I jump into a muddy river,
and let nature shape me depending on the thoughts
and dreams I carry. Such things can act as texture on the arms
of the Master Potter.
He's invisible but I've seen beautiful works coming out of the mud;
fresh, inimitable and dazzling.
Some find their hands in publishers hands,
while others give you a grandeur spell. Folklore becomes
part of your life's anthem.
Wind becomes an invisible string of cosmic musical notes.
My friend, a mud-fish can tell you many tales if it could....
Date of Entry: 04/04/2020
follow your dreams
follow your dreams
they may some day
come true
they did for me
I dream of meeting
the love of my life
who became my wife
for eight years
she haunted my dreams
then one day
she walked off a bus
out of my dreams
and into my life
becoming my wife
based on true story see my blog entry the world according to cosmos (https://theworldaccordingtocosmos.com) for details or see "dreams and the Unexplainable" published in 2016 by the Chicken Soup for the Soul publishers
NOVELTIES
by Thomas Campion
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Booksellers laud authors for novel editions
as pimps praise their whores for exotic positions.
Original Latin text:
IN LIBRARIOS
Impressionum plurium librum laudat
Librarius; scortum nec non minus leno.
Keywords/Tags: Campion, Latin, translation, epigram, literature, novels, novelties, books, write, writing, writings, booksellers, publishers, authors, pimps, whores, prostitutes, prostitution, exotic, positions, praise, trade, career, analogy, quote, quotation, saying, witticism, bon mot, words
Once, poems on paper.
Books to be marked.
Dog-eared pages,
left open, carried.
Cared for, like a loved one.
All of life in ink.
Poets still write.
No restrictions,
pleading, pandering
or publishers.
Unlimited digital
parking spaces.
Will they be found
in the future?
Hello
Goodbye
IRS you say
Goodbye
We are suspending your Social Security
Goodbye
I WON PUBLISHERS CLEARING HOUSE
I know this is a lie, Goodbye
Your calling me on a recorded line then record this
GOODBYE
This is Linda from your doctor’s office reminding you.............
Goodbye, Crap this one was real
Ode to a Writer
Who will find it?
my consonants of Gold,
and vowels of Silver,
my pearls of poetry,
and rubies of writing,
Who will find me?
So, I can be paid
the Big, Big bucks?,
So I can hob knob
with Who's Who,
and lecture them
on such and such.
Publishers out there,
I got plots to pitch,
ideas to discuss,
Ways to make you rich
But All in All,
I'm tired of waiting
And God,
I've been praying
for that right way of saying,
Sir, would you, Uh
Ma'am, could you, Um.
What if I Uh
Maybe I could Um.
Who will find it?
my consonants of Gold,
and vowels of Silver,
my pearls of poetry,
and rubies of writing.
NoelsArt
Comments: Like many of us, I hope to be discovered, go “viral”. I like the “Sir, would, Uh”, shows my shyness, awkwardness, wanting and fearing fame I guess. FEEDBACK WELCOME.
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