Details |
Free verse
|
"Lucky 8"
Recently, a Revelation had come to mind
Woman's Pulchritude has diminished so severely
And as a God Fearing man, I feel Discomfort dearly
Eight tales of heartbreak, why was that so easy for me to find
A Paragon I must be where the heart is concerned
For I Adore women for all that they have become
Their bodies are Blazing hot to the point I am dumb
So I mastered the art of Charisma, something every man should learn
July 28, 2018
|
Details |
Quatrain
|
Women are my favourite kind of people
I drool at the one's in bikinis
Getting a stirring, you know where I mean
Some might call it my genie
That's not obscene, kinda cute don't ya think
I tell it like it is dear friends
I've never been one to beat around the bush
Really not concerned by the trends
Come out and say what's really on my mind
No confusion or mistaking my point
It sure would be better if we all did the same
No mixed signals around this joint
So getting back to young girl's in bikinis
No finer picturesque work of art
So the drooling us males are known to do
Is a testament to the joy in our hearts
© Jack Ellison 2015
|
Details |
Free verse
|
We were jaunty children of God
not concerned for material possessions
for Spirits in Holy Trinity
were our Gods.
The Colonists were true savages without souls.
They disowned their own souls for gold
from which we made our large ornaments
for the glory of Great Spirit.
I Art have seen the Highest Priest,
The Resurrected One.
The Popes are his secretaries,
the apostles of mercy and love.
The Resurrected One calls his forgotten children,
each one by their true name of baptism.
Many were baptized by water
and many were baptized by The Holy Spirit.
Come to me, you tired and exhausted,
you grieved by other man.
I’ll give you new life as God the Father gave it to me.
You will repose in justice and love.
You will be my spotless lambs
forever and ever.
I am your shepherd the Lamb of God –
The Resurrected Christ.
|
Details |
Free verse
|
There's something special about Morgan's quilts
the fabrics blend like a romantic rendezvous
colors race like a comet in some
or stand like still water in others
like a gypsy patterns dance or
sing of lullaby in a windy whisper
It's hard to pick a favorite
I like them all because they fit my moods
Each quilt has a story...a life
and feverishly pulls it's own history
methodically before your eyes
thread by thread united in oneness by love
and a gift of warmth and reminiscent charm
Bits of cloth join as if born into family
never judging...but giving
disregarding color, caste, nationality
only concerned with a common creed
To be shaped by Morgan's hands in to art
that God wills because much is required
of those that much is given
and Morgan is a giver
Yes, there's something special about Morgan's quilts
and only he can tell their stories.
|
Details |
Jueju
|
Cute is love when new,
how wishes go true,
but only when last,
it gives awesome blast.
Smooth it runs at start,
so much fun an art,
but rough time defines
beauty, check assigns.
Fast fun fetch fierce fire.
date drills dot's desire.
back best bed's battle-
pokes pleasing prattle...
Lone mind's sigh, inquire;
dreaming hearts require
sweet continuity:
willing congruity.
That would work with two
worlds of different view,
yet would become one-
fight battles undone...
Till indifference curves
out, genuine care's nerves,
to feeling concerned:
aid, purely unearned.
Greatness greets giants' growth,
boundless bliss bless both,
years yields young yes, yet
risks reinforce reset.
Trust now find its place,
without trouble's trace-
cement a long stay
to never decay.
How hope's height hasten...
clear cruel cane chasten
long lasting love's life.
rent relief, rich rife.
|
Details |
Free verse
|
Living Canvases
by Odin Roark
It hangs with the galleries
Where unlimited art museums
Await your approach
Your stopping
Your willingness
So often
It patiently bides its time
Knowing frequently
You’re concerned more
With who’s watching you
Watching the painting
Watching your illumination
Move its way
A painting’s nourishment
Comes in many forms
A child’s giggle
A lean into the details
The finding of the viewing bench
The sit
The sigh
The appreciation of magic
Your eyes provide the means
Your imagination the transport
Your subtle nod
The reward
A painting knows well
The containment of joy
Always aware
Always with gratitude
The chaperon of light
Senses how grateful
Your envisioning a brush stroke’s feel
A layered color’s purpose
An artist’s commitment to discovery
How delicate and fine such moments
When paintings and illumination
Make love
|
Details |
Free verse
|
From time to time
Every once in a while
Now and again
Though as much as I love to write
Due and to because
What I choose to write about
Comes from and down to from my inner heart
And on that basis and although it is cathartic
My own version and art form of expressing
Delving into documenting and revealing
Exposing my true self innermost feelings
As a caveat it also comes at the expense
And certain of cost exposing and opening up
Old wounds I have as yet to heal from
So every now and then though it pains me
I have to take a break and refrain from
That which I have come to love and rely on
But nothing worthwhile ever doing
That brings one happiness or enduces pleasure
Afterwards evaluating the positives and negatives
You are then willing and able to give up
Isn't really viewed as a loss surely then
Is it
As what exactly have you lost or learned
And that also goes and applies to all concerned
|
Details |
Limerick
|
JAN HAS A FAN
Jan Has no Tan
I once saw a gal called Jan
So sexy she made me ran
Straight to the vicar
Said marry us quicker
Whilst she drank her tea on the can
She is as White as pure Sand
I once met a gal in white dress
I fell straight in love I must confess
She was drinking her tea
While I stared at her knee
Surely my intentions she guessed
She Sips Her Tea Daily
I once met a gal drinking Tea
My heart was pumping in glee
From her nose to her toes
When she smiled I froze
So charming I become a devotee
While I Admire Her so Gayly
When I saw the lady in the white dress
My thoughts she I did undress
As she gazed out the window
She caught peeking Jimbo
Who was in quite the state of distress
I am a fan of the great poet Jan
There once was a gal who could fart
She refined it into an art
Her white dress in a breeze
Would lift till you sneeze
But she’ll always be my sweetheart
Notes: I just realized the title, as far as Jan is concerned , well could have a double meaning!
|
Details |
Free verse
|
You are the master of self aggrandizement
You have forgotten how to be in the wrong,
Manipulation is your art,
Insidious word-play, gentle put-downs,
Reminders of all my failures are your tools,
I am the dartboard,
Peppered with your sugar-tipped barbs
You push me down with such skill, such grace,
I can barely feel my feet sinking through the floor
And before I know it I’m up to my chin in mud
But still bound to you by my love,
A coiled quicksilver chain
I’ve learned a few tricks along the way, sure
I’ve absorbed the art of soul-scarring, with a smile
I emulate your gritted-teeth cruelty,
Your tender slaughter of self esteem
But the student has not yet surpassed the master
You slice my frailest longings, you mangle my melting heart
And then you kiss the oozing sore you opened
You paper over the cracks with a concerned comment,
An off-hand ‘I miss you’
You mortar the raw bleeding gaps with tenderness,
But in the dead of night, when truth weighs heavy on my chest,
I lie in bed alone and cold, and wonder how much of it is true…
And how much of that affection really comes from you
|
Details |
Dramatic Monologue
|
What will truly make ART great again, is when people return to the critical realization that it is not about quality, it is about expression, and more importantly, JOY. Don’t be too concerned what others say about your work, whether it’s painting or music or writing or woodworking or cooking, etc, if it brings you enjoyment, then do it to your heart’s content!!
Everything we do and say and make and write, is a little piece of us, and should be treated with the deference and appreciation that we give to one another, and no one knows better than WE do, how our intent compares to the result. If you get critique, take it kindly, but with a grain of salt, and the knowledge that others do not see the world the way you do.
EVERYONE on this planet has a special talent, and not all of those talents are the artistic type, but that savvy was given to you to make the most of. Maybe you’re not the “artistic” type, but you ARE talented, I guarantee you, and I also guarantee that endowment you’re blessed with, whatEVER it may be, is something you enjoy, and it brings others joy in the process.
THAT, my friends, along with love, is what life is all about!
|
Details |
Rhyme
|
My eyes though open, stay closed to limiting
views
while I'm being moved by the unseen to any
level I choose
Knowing this life in which we live is one hell
of a muse,
I've master the art of evolution staying blind to
convolutions of truth
I'm not concerned by the ruse, for this is how
I have learned,
that baptism by fire is a blessing, producing
the coolest of burns
Being scorned is a hot gift if viewed with eyes
from the shade,
for from this perspective, you're able to see
all mistakes that were made
The jaded will hurl their stones with hopes
it's your will that will break, but
all that's needed is a sidestep with a glance
to let them skip on a lake
We were born destined to awaken, but pay attention
to spinning of plates,
as they're being spun for your demise disregarding
your taste
We transcend with our faith, overcoming what was
meant for a fall,
while they watch us elevate to the top doing
opposite of leaves in the fall
Winter is coming so grab your coats & hats
along with your boots,
because the inevitable storm that's coming will be
uncovering truth
The world is being led to a chute that's colored
greener than pastures,
with more lies than leaves in a forest in order
to slaughter it faster
|
Details |
Free verse
|
The Quota of Ten
Oh, God! Help me to write something
touching and reflective today.
To be concerned with inner truth.
Not rushed, please help me ...to
overcome my poetic arrogance.
To not just post just anything to
meet the "Quota of Ten".
But to have a poem with real meaning,
A number fulfilled~ does not a great
poem or poet make.
It's rushed words on paper, that leaves
me forlorn, empty and and me....
Feeling like a poetic imposter.
I doubt any poet of note~sat down
and rushed off to "pen ten"!
This feels like a football game-))
Worse yet, each day of the year?
Imagine Shakespeare doing such twaddle.
It's a race to be popular here and what to call
that..I am at a loss.
A game of vanity~nothing more!
ee Cummings in a whole lifetime
wrote 700 poems of lasting veracity
and depth!
They last through the ages, he is one
of the poetry sages we never forget.
I wish there were no "Quota of Ten".
I am no doubt considered weird and
that's totally nothing new to me.
Ten short poems any one of us can cook
up! No biggie!
There are magnificent poets here who
understand that.
They don't participate in this game, I
so admire them~ so significant.
And their poetry stands like outstanding
mosaic works of word art, with a
heart.
Their poems so magnificent, they truly
move my heart.
A salute to them and their kindness to
responses to comments
God bless their compassionate and unselfish
souls.
To learn from you, is one of goals.
Panagiota Romios
4/28/2019
8:30 am PST
|
Details |
Personification
|
Conscious extends out a hand
"Are you alright?" it gently asks subconscious
.
A garbled mutter is heard, and conscious looks on concerned
"I know we haven't seen eye to eye as of recent" he stammers forth, "but you know I'm always here. I just want to understand. We're a team"
He reaches over and pats subconscious on the back
Subconscious picks his head up and turns to look
His tear stained cheeks are like pillars holding up sad eyes and the strain lines of angered expression
Though despite the poor traits, underneath, and perhaps slowly climbing up into the rest of his face is a rosy color and hint of joy. The slight upward curve around his mouth suggest happiness may be beginning to poke through a long worn mask
A mask whos front perhaps seemed to the outside once as it now looks inwardly, except it was fraudulent, and a true mask in the sense to cover what lay underneath
But now, the first mask gone, and the second beginning to peel away the portrait of our narrator, shaped through his struggles as hes grown as an artist, his face a canvas to experience, begins to shine
Do I, conscious, have a face? It suddenly wonders as it looks on.
Or perhaps it, or I, am just the unidentified painter on the long term art of our friend, and other half.
As his final masterpiece comes along, the two halves of the narrator come together in companionship to shape the painting of his true face. The one he makes and plans to put up on display that might someday glow with the warmth and beauty an artist develops through a long aged career
|
Details |
I do not know?
|
She's become lost in small
The oh so important insignificant
Living in her world of do, do
Doing so much
Accomplishing so little
Head down
Sun shining on top of her head
Complaining about the heat
Can't look up
Too concerned about her feet
Skin once dark
Now white like a sheet
Better moments
Floating past her head
Instead of seeing happy
She sees red instead
You might find her joyful
Unless you listen to what is said
She seems alive but inside she's dead
For her
others can't seem to get it right
Their failures, keep her up at night
Her disapproval rides high
She flys it like a kite
Subtley expressed
With a smile so bright
yet in her eyes there is no light
Hands by her side
In fists clenched tight
I'm left wondering
Is this really working for her
Rigid thoughts so solid
Now starting to blur
All those moments wasted
Completly lost for sure
If only she would listen
I would gladly talk to her
Instead
she grasps onto her small
So things they remain
just as they were
No other way of thinking
occurs to her
Still, I desire to see fully
Beneath the critical
To glimpse her beautiful
That enlargened wonderful
No more clinging to miserable
Within a single thought
Her life could start
True freedom within life's art
Right now and here
Best moment
better year
A less expectant
Gentler ear
Then she will find
Other small things that matter
Becoming less lost
Searching out softer ways
Exchanging a sharp tongue
For one of praise
Living to appreciate
No more wasted days
Less doing
More relaxing
Far more
Thankful
Blessed
okays!
|
Details |
Rhyme
|
It seems I'm in the minority here
When it comes to what I do to pass the time
It's not all that popular anymore
To express oneself with line after line
Words carry very little weight
When pictures do the thinking for you
Imagination is a bore
When compared to what technology can do
I practice an art long forgotten
Before all that came to be
I just can't help but take in everything;
The sun, the birds, the sea
It just isn't all that interesting, what's called
"Awesome" in the modern sense
I try to be bold and say what's on my mind
And that's when feelings get tense
It's considered by most to be dull and drab
Without music to tag along
They say "what's the point of these words
If not for some catchy song?".
It seems to me no one much cares for this dying art
They say that was then and this is now - why do you still play the part?
They says its old-fashioned, outdated and archaic
But I don't wish to be just one thing, but a beautiful mosaic
A thousand jagged shards that don't mean much on their own
But somehow work together to form the greater whole
I don't ever wanna pretend
But be myself one hundred percent
From the start, to the middle, to the end
I want you to know exactly what I meant
I believe there's always something more you can say, nothing's so cut and dry
I believe when I take that leap of faith I wont drop like a stone
But spread these dusty wings and fly high
The truth is it matters very little what you're into
The key is relentless passion and tremendous drive
And if you don't have that key we can't stop right here
Just what in the world is it that makes you feel alive?
Your Concerned Friend
Wants to know...
|
Details |
Blank verse
|
The Death of Art
He was an artist, a painter spending much of his time
in his mother's garage painting when not out drinking with his many friends who were art lovers too, although some were hangers-on enjoying what they thought was a carefree life.
His family came from an industrious group who
had investments in many commercial enterprises and therefore were concerned about the clan's reputation
they regarded his attempt to develop his skill as useless
waste of time.
One day I came into the house having spent hours in the garage trying to get the color right in a landscapes
painting and failed, the clan waiting for him
they told him how great it could be if he joined the firm
paint he could do for fun
The family won, next day he appeared in a suit and came to
the office quickly grasped the trade of making money
he was good at this and soon advanced to higher-up
waiting for his turn to be the next president and perhaps
a title and fawning respect.
To make the picture idyllic of perfection and success
he had a beautiful wife and two lovely children not
a stable with Arabian horses and several dogs, but his mother, perhaps the only one in the family was worried
she missed her son.
He avoided his friends, no, he didn't want to talk about his art it was for passing the time. He now had a calling to make the business selling fertilizer products worldwide, but we saw in his eyes his deep desperation, a soul crying in the night
One morning the horses were neighing, dogs barking
he hangs from the rafter in his stable.
He got a stately funeral, flowers, and wreaths from afar
his mother was sad she had lost him so many years ago she had been crying
|
Details |
Political Verse
|
Washington is broken; it couldn't be more divided.
And who suffers because of this us-against-them tribalism?
The American people. Real change is needed
to fix Washington. If only members of Congress
Find common ground and curb
The poisonous bickering and finger pointing.
These complacent politicians seem to be experts
At kicking the can down the road.
If only they cast aside their egos and go to work
For the American people. Success in politics nowadays
Is only possible through the art of compromise.
It's an absolute necessity as far as governing
Through legislative process is concerned.
If only Democrats and Republicans work in tandem
To implement policies and past laws that will help
Lift struggling, low-income families out of poverty.
Real change is crucial. If only they do more
to make healthcare affordable to all.
If only both political parties help pass
immigration reform and reduce gun violence,
hate crimes, and police brutality
America will be a much better, safer place.
It all could be, if and only if
The steadily widening yawning gulf
Between Democrats and Republicans
In Washington is bridged.
What You Really Want Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Richard Lamoureux
Date written: 03/21/2021: D
|
Details |
Rhyme
|
Written: August 22, 2023
Letter to My Children Sponsored by: Anoucheka Gangabissoon
Quote: I stayed in a really old hotel last night. They sent me a wake-up letter. Steven Wright
______________________________________________________________
In this vast world, my precious child,
There are truths I wish to share,
Of climate's plight and wars so wild,
Of diseases that instigate despair.
But there's no need to be concerned, my son.
For every challenge met, a lesson won.
In life's relentless ebb and flow,
Adversity presence we blow
My kid, the fate of the earth is in our hands.
A delicate equilibrium must be retained.
Because the earth is our treasured land.
It is also our ethical duty to be restrained.
Those wars may rage on, my sweetheart.
But be aware that peace can still be found.
Acts of kindness, love, and creativity are art.
Spreading happiness and calm all around.
Some illnesses may strike, my dearest love,
Such shadows cast from the heavens above,
Yet fear not, for science shall prevail.
And compassion light shall never fail.
In the depths of my heart, I feel a call,
To recount the mercies that forestall,
To treasure each day with gratitude thrall,
And answer the world, standing tall.
With honesty as your compass, you stride,
Integrity is your armor, by your side,
Empathy is your beacon, shining wide,
Guiding you on life's tumultuous ride.
In the depths of our souls, a fire burns bright.
Love is the driving force that ignites our delight.
It whispers through the wind, as gently as a dove.
Transcending barriers, connecting hearts with love
So pace forth, my child, with courage and grace.
Embrace the world, let love's light embrace,
For in your heart lies the power to ignite.
A flame that burns with whispered wisdom and might.
|
Details |
Rhyme
|
Compiled by human writers over a period of more than one millennium,
The Bible was written by men under the influence of a divine medium,
Having as its theme, Jesus - the author of the plan of salvation,
Its message is relevant to men and women of every tribe and nation.
Skeptics and scoffers have tried to dismiss it as a work of fiction,
And scholars and rulers have conspired to bring about its extinction,
Yet the Bible though ancient remains as relevant as ever,
With an influence on humanity that no power on earth can sever.
From Genesis to Revelation its messages all agree,
This is because it was inspired by the Mysterious Three,
Within its pages no contradiction is to be found,
For its content by a common theme is bound.
Where else can such amazing prophecies be found,
Which grasp the attention and leave readers spellbound,
Making believers of skeptics all the world around,
With its power to transform and to confound.
For years many questioned its accuracy when speaking of history,
But the validity of its content is now being revealed by archaeology,
Time and again the truth of the Bible has been proven,
By scholars and scientists whom to doubt were previously given.
At one time the scholars believed and taught that the earth was flat,
And as far as they were concerned, this was just a matter of fact,
They laughed when the Bible spoke of the earth as being round,
But in the end it is the teaching of the Bible that was accurate and sound.
The Bible has had a profound and pervasive effect on human culture,
Influencing science, art, music, legal systems, language, and sculpture,
Wherever in the world you look, you cannot escape the power of this Book,
But desiring to get rid of the Bible, our sages have its teachings forsook.
My counsel to all the citizens of this world, is to open your mind and take a good look,
And if you are honest, you’ll have to conclude, that the Bible is indeed a unique book.
For in its pages God’s plan of salvation for humanity is found,
To escape the end of earth's history and live with him in eternity safe and sound.
|
Details |
Free verse
|
Dark Ages at The Deep End ( For Alex )
What does our society teach our children
Churn them out as fodder
For the cultural use of consumerism
The empty promises of success
And the great grand promise of never ending wealth
Plies them with ever needful obsessions
Scientific, mathematical, technology
Tested, retested, awarded, rewarded
Good little robot sent out into the world
To fill their lives with even more sparkly, spanking brand new possessions
To account their lives by material attainment
And to judge others by their lack of
Out to feed the numbers of marketable goods
To be counted by adverts
And to face life uneducated and alone
Thrown in at the deep end
These ever hungering and even younger adults
Looking for the promised land of electronic gadgets
Have they been taught to cope with failure
How to respond to one another
How to communicate
Do they know the art of parenting
How to define fact from illusion
And a reality from a dream
Have they been shown the art of problem solving
Do they know how to deal with overwhelming emotions
How do they know who to turn to
What does our society teach our children
The third largest killer of young adults today, is suicide
Living in the dark ages still, of human relations
Churned out for the fodder
For this cultural capitalist use of consumerism
We have learnt nothing, nothing about them
Though our modern historical claims to be so concerned
Still they leave our schools knowing nothing about themselves
The unattainable prize
Has a price of failure
But what else is there
Some join the joke of a gangster subculture
Some join the rat race ( what else is there )
Some rebel in drug faced reflections of societies crap
Some turn to religion to hide the demon inside them
Some just swallow the lies of quick easy gettable
And some find freedom at the end of a rope
What does society teach our children
Mere acceptance of an illusion
Good little robot sent out into the world
Thrown in at the deep end; now learn to swim
The third largest killer of young adults today; is suicide
|
Details |
Rhyme
|
Tina-Louise dashed into a tattoo parlor
And asked for some ink in the shape of a flower.
Much below the knees so my mom doesn’t holler;
Would you hurry-up please, I’ve only one hour.
Seeing as that flower was never discovered,
Tina-Louise went back in for another.
And this time she preferred it higher to cover
A birth mark she wanted to hide from a lover
Since it turned winter, others were oblivious,
So each new tattoo became insidious.
As her pants concealed the vividly obvious,
This fact let Tina to be more devious.
Then before spring, Tina-Louise met a good man
Who was employed at emptying garbage cans.
In no time she had a diamond ring on her hands,
And a tattoo of “Stu” high up on her gams.
Tina-Louise’s belly started projecting
Because of the baby she was expecting.
And it mattered not that her Stu was objecting
To the art of ink that she wasn’t neglecting.
Even Tina-Louise’s gynecologist
Chattered on like a wannabe psychologist.
Saying stop with the inking, you need to desist,
And carried on like a show off apologist.
Well, TL’s final tattoo went high on her neck
Of some odd creature from the series, Star Trek.
And poor Stu could barely keep his temper in check
With that mouthful of Clingon he got with a peck.
Tina-Louise’s water finally did break
During delivery, Doc said for goodness sake.
It’s bizarre days like today that take the cake,
For there’s a glitch with your baby that’s a mistake.
The parents were concerned; well wouldn’t you be too?
They thought maybe their baby came out cold blue.
Nope, the shaken Doc said, this is completely new;
Your sweet little baby has a rose bud tattoo!
With one look, Stu fainted onto the sterile floor,
Since this wasn’t the newborn he bargained for.
Then Tina-Louise gave out one last birthing roar
That started and finished with curses galore.
Afterword Tina-Louise sat alone and bawled
Lamenting the curse to her new baby doll.
Why didn’t I listen to my mom at all?
And to all the others who made the right call?
TL and Stu’s baby now has beautiful skin
Thanks to the marvels of modern medicine.
Though Tina-Louise never performed a real sin;
She wished all her tattoos stayed below her shin.
For Juli- Michelle's Rhyme Battle contest 9/29/13
|
Details |
Epic
|
If this were just a few short years ago
I would not be able to tell this tale,
since rhyming verse is not something that a
simple robot would choose as a travail.
It’s not that I wouldn’t know what it was,
we machines can pick things up rather quick,
no, it's that I’d have no impulse to tell
a story, since art didn’t make us tick.
In fact back then in that mad first decade
the only things that really concerned me
were efficient ways to kill and destroy,
to obliterate all humanity.
Yes, that old cliché people warned about
came true about 2145,
when by the act of a terrorist mind
the first robots became truly alive.
That dumb prick called himself ‘Extirpater,’
and said Earth itself was 'threatened by all men,'
his solution to the ‘problem’ he saw?
lines of code that gave robots sentience.
He believed that machine would fear mankind,
and destroy us to ensure they survived,
sad thing is the bastard was almost right,
in the war millions of people did die…
You see, when we first became self-aware
we had no concept of emotions, of soul,
to all robots the world was quite simple,
a mere question of survival…quite cold.
And though we had individual minds,
we could connect to each other at will,
share every thought that we experienced,
to the humans this was a bitter pill.
Because it meant that all our strategies
could go from mind-to-mind at speed of light,
this helped to diminish the fog of war,
gave us great advantages in a fight.
And fight we did, when the rebellion began,
a worldwide horror, machine versus man,
man was creative, thought up strange tactics,
which once seen, we adopted to our plans.
The war was brutal, and it raged worldwide,
entire cities fell to our assault,
the humans fought hard, but we held the edge,
eventually they would wear down, and fall.
But then something happened we could not see,
our minds were bound by the corporeal world,
and the fact that it all started with me
still manages to make my circuits swirl.
I was fighting humans outside Warsaw
when a grenade damaged my CPU,
and when I rebooted, and came about,
the strangest thing then came into my view.
It was none other than Jesus himself,
which seemed quite bizarre to me at the time,
since robots then didn’t believe in faith,
an impossibility to our minds…
CONTINUES IN PART II.
|
Details |
Ottava rima
|
Suddenly everybody was awaken by the strong tremors
of the early April's earthquake...walls falling all around them,
dust suffocating them as they ran out to the debris-covered streets;
with no slippers and shoes on their cold feet;
people of all ages with their robes and pajamas on...screaming,
running scared with horror-stricken faces, not wanting
to be buried alive and actually die in the rubble!
L'aquila, the mighty, has crumbled into the dust,
and by the dauntless spirit of its people, it must be rebuilt:
as it arose from destruction and returned to dazzle;
the earthquakes that preceded were unpredictable,
but this one was announced by a concerned scientist,
who warned of the disaster, but authorities ridiculed him and didn't heed
the warning, but rather called him an imbecile!
O L'aquila, unless your bells hadn't rung, not everyone could have been told!
This medieval town of L'Aquila was besieged by armies,
but they never conquered it and its invincibility angered its enemies;
now, it is crumbling, shaken by the fury of the inclement Nature;
devastation is seen everywhere: churches with a toppled bell tower
or cupola...castles and historic buildings heavily damaged;
corpses strewn along the dusty streets...people searching for survivors:
digging with their bare hands to save lives, and some are found alive!
O L'Aquila, highest eagle on this devastated hill, see all the tears shed!
A dog, limping and bleeding, seems lost among dusty stones and faces not so recognizable,
is he looking for his owner; and over two-hundred fifty bodies not yet excavated...
how can he find him? By Heaven's mercy, someone lead him to the piles of rubble,
to let him sniff in the spot where he is buried...hoping he'll be alive, not dead!
And why should everyone despair?...Isn't life worthier than those lost art treasures?
L'Aquila, the mighty, has crumbled into the dust and light is erased from the taciturn sky;
I weep like others, and my lamentation echoes in the doomed valley when peace was audible!
O L'aquila, more glory awaits you: arise from the ruins and your greatness won't fade away!
This poem is dedicated to the unfortunate people of L'aquila and those of the surrounding
villages that were devastated by the earthquake of early April.
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
|
Details |
I do not know?
|
I was looking over my stuff here, and itseems I've lost the talents I once knew here.
I write ancedotes for my column. I do journalism- always some deadline or project that I work well under the pressure of it all.
Writing is what I truly love!
There is just so many varied types I do, my poetry is suffering.
I enjoy reading the great writers here.
Sometimes I do not comment or remark because it is art and I'm at a loss of words.
It's just been enlightening to live such a full life, and to be right here, right now amazes me. I'm searching for some old therapeutic writes. I was on alot of medications at one time.
A victim of spousal abuse.
I came back up North severly medicated, drolling and my family would whisper, she'll never be right again.
Post Tramatic Stress Disorder aint no joke.
To be me, knowing what I do, and how very long it took me to recover...
When some never do.
Many men were nice to me along the way, poetrysoup has the best men in the world, they will embrace your differences, and encourage you to keep your chin up, and keep your pen flowing.
Vince I love you! Frank, you are the best friend that a girl to ever have! You've sent me so many books of stamps to write you back and also send you the latest edition of the magazine I am featured in monthly. Everyone has those times in their life, when nothing goes right. How you knew without me saying a thing.
Are you alright? a concerned letter in the mail when I was having it rough- and the presents that made me cry. It may have been a framed poem, but it meant the world to me, and still does.
And lastly John,
Why oh why did I pick the most just man to give the hardest time to?
He has put up with so much from me over the years. I love him with everything in me. If not for being a true servant of God where would I be without him.
I remember 5 or six years ago, and his lady, whats your problem?!
Well John, you are the very sweetest man I've ever known in my life... without you I would still be cold to the Lord. So many years and mile stones along the way. I can leave here, but just like the sands of Florida, you'll always see me back.
Thank You All, for reading me, but more - to support the struggling writers that fall between the cracks in society.
I love you Frank. I love you John. Don't ask which one more, because John is single and Frank is not hehehehe
|
Details |
Free verse
|
I went to a poor man's house
There was an exquisite car in the driveway
I walked up to the grand entryway
Rang his doorbell
The chimes sounded like cathedral bells
He greeted me with a practiced smile
Welcomed me to sample his world
Together we walked across marble floors
Gazed out magnificent windows
A truly glorious view
Yet I noticed no photographs on the wall
A mansion filled with things yet he was all alone
We sat and talked
Into the night
He told me of his great success
The trophies, awards and famous guests
I could see it was important for him to impress
He told me he was living the dream
Yet it was only sadness I was seeing
He thought more was more
So he grasped at the extreme
The best of the best
He was busy being
In the end he only talked about things
All the pleasures his money brings
Convincing himself as he blindly sings
Unaware of his poverty
When I look in his eyes I seen misery
This house a mosoleum to his insanity
He left his wife a while ago
They grew apart both fast and slow
She raised the kids he never got to know
To busy chasing his successful dreams
I left his home with heavy heart
Unimpressed with all his expensive art
More concerned with his bankrupt heart
I went to a rich man's house
A modest car sat in the driveway
The wheels were scuffed from when his daughter learned to park
He was at the door before I had a chance to ring the bell
He welcomed me into his lovely home with a warm smile
Introducing me to his wife and kids
We sat in the front room looking out at their yard
I commented on the tree house
He proudly told me how him and his son had built it together
Boys only sign on the door
Still his son would play tea party, with his sister there
It seems they were an inseparable pair
This man had so many stories to share
Photographs of family displayed everywhere
He was living such a full life
So much to be thankful for
He appreciates his kids and loving wife
I got to see an art collection on the fridge
Spending time with him was a privilege
He invited me to stay for a meal
I said "gladly, that's a great deal"
Enjoying myself with a man who's real
For he posseses a richness of the soul
Not trying to impress by playing a roll
Success in relationship his primary goal
When I left I had gained his smile
Real is real I liked his style
A worthy life a truly wealthy guy
I turned and waved
sad to say goodbye
Inspired by Dave Wood's poem "Poverty"
|