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1. Post your best poem here (*one poem per person*) in this folder (below as a "comment").

2. Goodreads and I will select five poems each month to be voted on by the Goodreads community.

3. ¡Poetry! group members will vote for the poem they like best (one vote per member). The poem with the most votes will be published in the Goodreads’ newsletter – distributed each month to nearly 2 million people!

Good luck & please post your best work!

Thanks,

Amy King
¡Poetry! Moderator

INSIDE OUT MAN:

Poor and lucky man found himself in a strange arrangement,
Arranging and rearranging thoughts and numbers,
Tracking holes and black dots and upside down things.

And than he found himself a strange frequency,
much higher and lower than the ones previously tracked,
And he obsessed in it with dedication, ignoring all common fact.

The poor man than tweaked unhappy,
Suffering from psychological inside out and unexplainable bliss.
Lucky man, had his inside exposed and his complexes repressed

Thinking in dreams,
And not thinking at all,
He filled his gaps with numbers
And his outside with simultaneous progress.

Oh lucky man
So perfect in every possible way,
Living live inside mind and subsiding decay.

Oh, poor man, you misunderstood,
By understanding black holes
and dreaming divine like Gods should.

Growth

Reach up high,
Reach down low,
And let your little body's grow, grow, grow!

Push through the ground with your stem,
Sprout roots through the under ground,
And let your little body's grow, grow, grow!

Then soak in the rain,
And in the sun,
And let your little body's grow, grow, grow!

Emalie

The age old silly argument, which is better country or city.


Stay away, stay away.

Stay away, stay away if life scares you so
the wild untamed outback,
where drought or beast can deal a cruel blow
where sunsets take you aback,
and stars put on a wondrous show
as you lie with mesmerised stare,
the city’s a place you just won’t go
where the throng don’t give a care.

Stay away, stay away from threatening city life
the hustle and bustle of the street,
where work takes you from family and wife,
then, on the sidewalk you all meet.
Dine in the finest restaurant,
enjoy traffic and trams on track
seems your life is ever vibrant,
you couldn’t live in the vast outback.

Stay away, stay away why is this the call
we’re all the same as the other,
all Aussies standing proud and tall
shouldn’t be brother against brother,
our Diggers fought side by side
be it from the country or the city,
doesn’t matter from where you reside
we’re Aussies sharing Australia’s beauty.

David J Delaney
14/06/2009 ©

To the Best Times of My Life
for W.S. Merwin

To talk to
or even look at you
I find I must turn back
the leaves of you
dog-eared moments

how could I not see you then
why didn’t I realize you were
special, real, something
that I could not redo
nor want to
undo

the spines of your days line up
crooked on the shelf
burgundy
memories clasped in my hand
and I feel your tender turning
returning
and never coming back
again.

© Trish Lindsey Jaggers

Zombie
By James G. Kelly


Once dead he walks again
Bones visible beneath his rotting skin
‘Tis voodoo causes him to rise
Again to see through long dead eyes

The dark red blood for years congealed
The open wounds that never healed
Called from death by an evil spell
A thirst for brains that he must quell

It's the only food that satisfies
Deaths hunger has no compromise
First one then two they’re everywhere
Causing the living great despair

All graves empty a spell gone wrong
The living doomed by the ominous throng
Brains eaten by zombies the newly dead rise
From those still living come the cries

Lock your doors and stay inside
You may yet survive this horrid ride
The only way to kill the dead
Is with a bullet in the head

So arm yourself without delay
As the wave of death comes your way

A Poetic Irony

A dull red barrett
Upon my blonde hair now lies
Wine upon my lips

As the music reaches my ears
Before I knew not of the kiss
Certainty in all that I lacked
Definitely not here to bring mere bliss

Earth...
Mindless people
Telling me so
Touch me... Penetrate me...
Earth...

Now use me as your pen
Teach me all that you know
Treat me as one's great friend
And never let me go

Ready... Look now!
Without sound... fellow novice poet.
Tell me that of what you see.

A Poetic Irony?



Copyright 2009 by Jean Ann Townsend ©

King City Cinderella

To each who drove into the Chevron station,
she lifted a bottle of pale blue cleaner fluid,
smiled hopefully. Window wash?
Long gray hair twisted into a chignon.
Missing left canine tooth.
Eyes bright like pale blue diamonds.

She said she was trying to get the money
for her husband’s blood pressure meds.
Was she whippet thin from hunger or meth?
She wore a heart pendant of fake diamonds,
looked like a fallen princess, smiling
“You’re not from around here, are you?”

She washed our car windows transparent
with Windex-alike and paper towels
that looked like they’d been copped
from the nearby Taco Bell bathroom.
“You’re so beautiful,” I blurted.
“Were you a dancer or a model?”

Small snort of a laugh. She’d wanted to be,
but her father wouldn’t pay for photos.
It was elegant, I said, how she put her hair up.
“Oh this?” She patted the bun.
“I’ve slept on this three nights running!
Hair’s so long and it’s so hot.”

Everybody’s got their story
for why they’re where they’re at.
What’s yours? Have you heard mine yet?
She blessed us when we left.
She came cheaper than a votive candle,
and I’ll take all the blessings I can get.

TIME WARP

My body is aging but my heart lies helplessly in an eternal time warp.
When I close my eyes I see Walt Disney’s Tinker Bell, flying across an
ebony black night sky.Her sparkling wand spews brilliant stars in every direction.
I am young forever, it’s magic!

My body is aging but my heart swims in the warm Gulf Stream. It lives on an island in the Gulf with a beautiful young girl. At night sweet trade winds blow from the south, the moon is always full and coconut star dust falls from the night sky.

Clear azure blue waters lap gently on the shore as we walk hand and hand on moon lit nights. Soft romantic music floats gently on the moist night air from the patio of a restaurant on the beach. Later, her hair falls and her body rises to meet mine. We are one.

Impossible you say?

I think not! For deep in my heart it knows a place like this outside of time. A place where I am one with who I love. Where love is a thousand lovely dawnings’ and never dies. Where the waters of the Gulf are always warm and the trade winds always sweet!

Barry Walshe

Stamp of Essence

The passion of a bird
The words store the wisdom
Sweet pain reins in the mind
Fear takes me away from Here

This song is my burden
Played through my bones
Watered with tears
Rich soil under my feet
Lead me Home

Licked

Dawn licks the serrated edges of the city, threatens to douse the night in lurid illumination. The darkness quivers, and I stir from sleep.

It is the City Of Angels, but only devils brood here. They draw new blood everyday. The dark heart of Los Angeles seeded by baneful demons. I was an angel once, but the devils breathe smoky strife. Their noxious breath infects the plumbing and pollutes the air. I am here; never immune. The infection spreads from one person to the next. As each betrays the other, dystopian angst frisks our bodies - it sets in, a virile mix. Love is lost. Another empty vessel emerges into day from the depths of unrequited love.

We are here; Stripped bare, beaten up, hearts set firmly in ice. We drive in heated traffic, scratching at the walls that surround us, at our isolated existence. Anger sets in. It burrows deep into our flesh impregnating our bodies with unhappiness. LA promised. We were moths to the flame, we never had a chance. I am a remnant, left in the fire to burn to ash. Not knowing what to make of the evil devices against us, we hide in protective crevices, which avail nothing. We are bloodied by the dawn.

Dad

Off he would go before we awoke,
plunging into dark mornings, invisible
as the large trout he swore lurked deep
in shadow under riverbank shelves of stone.

They are mixed blessings, such mythical fish:
catch one and you’re in for the battle of your life.

Dappled day would offer shallow treasures
to be plucked, bartered, hoarded, or spent
until the breathless moment when he opened
evening’s door trailing thickening clouds of night

and hooked us into the vortex of unfathomable storm
that had swallowed him whole before we were born.


(w/a shout out to Rattapallax #4)

BeMused

Name for me your favourite colours,
she said,
Sing to me of all your well-learned lessons,
All those secrets you have heard
In the perfume of night-blooming flowers.

I did not know what to say:
She already knew
I dream in teal
And dark rose
And that dusty sandy black of old velveteen,
cut into acanthus shapes and sandwiched with golden brocade
(the romantic upholstery of Blake and Wordsworth).

I was confused
Because she knew what the flowers taught me.

And the lessons?
How can I teach her what I could only have learned from her?

She has always confused me like that.

-N. Hedge

deleted: double post. I have no idea why it does that. :(

Pet Cemetery

Behind the garage
beneath some rocks
lies our cat names Socks.

Next to the fence
under a fern
is buried Slinky the worm.

Just past the deck
left of the stair
rests little Fannie the hare.

With all of the pets gone
and none of the zoo
who's leaving the poo?

anniversary poem
by r.a.fulco

this thing
that never
was
this
was never
this thing
that
was
was never
meant to
be
this
thing that
never was

FLAG DAY-JUNE 14th 2009

Flag day is coming up on the fourteenth of June
The flag will be carried proudly by soldiers platoon

This day used to seem like any other day to me
Now there are flag burners to the lowest degree

To carry the American Flag should be a privilege
I put my hand over my heart and to thee I pledge

The Pledge of Allegiance has been changed twice
Adding One Nation under God finally made it precise

Francis Scott Key’s Star Spangled Banner refers to our flag
In combat to see the stripes and white stars our flag did not sag

Our flag is a great flag of the USA in red, white, and blue
Betsey Ross did us proud when she made the first with no clue

How important that flag would become over the years ahead
And be carried for so long and hopefully never shred

The Casting of the Die

“I want to make something artistic,” she said, with a gray, disarmingly bold look.
“That’s great, but maybe you should try getting a job first.”
“You never take me seriously—I want to make art of true genius.”
“Okay, so why don’t you write an unusually plotted novel with veiled criticism of society and the direction it is headed, surprisingly ending in some profound, eternal, uncompromising truth? That seems to sell well these days.”
“But I don’t want a lot of people just to think it’s genius, I want it to actually be genius.”
“What’s the difference?”

Jacob’s Ladder
Though merely on the opposite side of the glass,
From my perspective the insect appeared to be marching across the sky,
Clouds be damned,
A sure destination to which he was headed as sure as light,
As sure as truth exists,
Whatever that may be,
As sure as the sky he was climbing was blue and clear,
Imperceptible haze providing a husky silhouette and backdrop.
He climbed up the glass, opposite from my position looking up,
And nearly crawled over the moon on the way to eternity.
I wanted to follow, but once I arose,
I could better sense his position on a pane of glass in the tepid afternoon.

“The difference is that I need to create something real.”
“That’s admirable, but the reality of your creation does not make it genius.”
“Can’t you just take joy in creation?”
“Not for its own sake.”

A Love Song
I want to love you as the crow flies, simple and iridescent,
Straight to you, unbending and even, directed, uncompromising, and without complaint.
I want to see you above the horizon, around the corner, and through the trees.
I want the sun to shine on my path, to turn me around and lead me home.
I need the breeze to caress my wings and whisper to my heart that I am here,
And that I do matter.
Like a silk too fine for my calloused fingers,
Like the added chaos of fingers wiping the strings upon changing chords,
I am missing your simplicity,
Cannot appreciate you and see you for your worth.
Nevertheless, I fly on.

“I’ve come up with some good metaphors, and I want to share them.”
“Well as long as it is accessible, it’s marketable.”
“I think you’re still missing the point.”
“I’m not the only one.”
“Real metaphors shouldn’t have clear-cut interpretation. There needs to be an element of intellectual reprieve and softening, so that the soul can understand the underlying shape of meaning.”
“That’s too esoteric to be profitable.”

Sunrise/Sunset
I am traveling around the heart of the matter,
Eager in my gullibility, but hollow in my melancholy.
In my rearview mirror I can see the sunrise,
It’s reflection causing me difficulty in seeing the road ahead.
It reminds me just how early it is,
And how I wish to still be asleep.
I’m afraid I might be mixing the flames,
But I cannot be late today, for the eyes of my superiors are on me.
I’m not sure I want to know how I’m seen,
But if the eyes of this world are on me, then what good am I doing here?
In the end, the truth becomes as with so many others—I’m afraid I won’t wake up.

“Can’t you see that art is a quest for truth?”
“Everything I see is magnified and reflected upside down on the back of my retina, the guise of truth included. That distortion is what happens whenever a human is involved.”
“Are you denying divinity?”
“No, merely our ability to satiate our pursuit of it.”
“All the more reason to continue searching.”

Kyle Bradford Jones

Don’t

Don’t scratch the surface.
You won’t like what you find.

Not served whole, pop-eyed like one of those fishes with it’s head, tail, and gills
intact, glistening, grotesque in it’s pretty bed of parsley and lemon wedges.

I’d stew it for you if I knew how. Fillet it,
slice it, dice it, bake it, boil it, make it tender and palatable.

Minced with fine words or crusted with sweet brown sugar.

I try, but somehow it always spills out, dreadful eyeballs bulging, angry spines
prickling-impossible to swallow.

Even when I say nothing, somehow it’s there in the silence,
as huge and loud and painful as the love in my heart.

You can’t cook that.

The Rape of Lake Michigan
after Alice Notley

Lake Michigan curls groan when the sun nudges her as Dawn approaches. She said to herself, “Is it that time already” She stretches and the docks creak, aching under her pressure.

The Sky looks down upon her with lust, as the sun turns her body of water into a blushing pink. He sends a message with the Wind, tells her how lovely she looks in the A. M. light and then proceeds to tell the lake how much he wants to sock it to her.

The Lake is aghast at his boldness; she is jarred awake at his crudeness, raises a huge wave in defiance. It is like giving him the middle finger, she thinks.

The Sky hears her thoughts and blows tender kisses and caresses her waves, tells her “I just couldn’t help myself; your awesome beauty overwhelms me. The peaks and valleys of your waves tempt me, the froth of your waves entice me, and the constant changing marine blues, seaweed greens, and gunboat grays cause me to go out of my mind with hunger for you.

The Lake enjoys his praise of her so much, she raises one eye open and responds to him, “The Wind brings your sweet message, but there is no hope for us, we are two of different elements. I see no future for our union.”

The Sky does not take no for an answer. He whips up some cumulonimbus clouds and becomes dark and threatening, working into a super cell.

Lake Michigan remains mute.

This only angers Sky to the utmost, taking the clouds to new highs, he rails and then lets loose with a bombardment of golf ball size hail, frozen hard as nails. The Wind screams of Sky’s passion. The dark angry Sky proclaims, as the hail penetrates the quiet Lake, “Love hurts, don’t it baby?” while he gets his way with her.

I turn to my dog, Apache, and say, “Damn it, stop that, I want to sleep,” as he licks my face. He stops and sits on my head. “Alright—alright I will let you out. God I am soar all over,” I groan. “Did you beat me up last night while I slept? I feel like the girl in the dunking pond who got hit by a hundred baseballs before she got dunked.”

I let Apache back in (its cold outside, in the low teens and he is done quickly, not a stupid mutt,) and decide to nuzzle the covers a little longer, falling quickly back to nod land.

The Lake responds to this cold attack with a frozen face, with not a word to Sky. Lake thanks god it is winter as she turns to Ice. He melts for her. Healing her liquid heart.


Donna Pecore

Repose

I seek though I might never find,
a place of repose from the minds of men.
Whose honor leads to acts of war,
or lust after glory as their only end.
The petty, the greedy assault my soul,
with their clinging to the collective views,
like children who can’t stand on their own,
they throw at all they don’t understand ridicule.

This place sometimes I get a glimpse,
while enslaved in the concrete urban sprawl,
in a patch of grass or a lonely tree,
the residue of Eden before the fall.
Alas, how to find such a garden fair,
where mighty Pan roams the mountain slopes,
when they’ve paved and constructed one big strip mall,
leaving just a few scraps to give me hope.

Oh, to flee the city and the works of men,
the TV screens and contrast of high and low,
some wearing gold and some begging for scraps,
with commerce the only value they know.
To a place the Lord blessed with his hand,
and blend with Nature’s flowing song,
that blooms and fades in an eternal cycle,
a hint that belief in blessed paradise can’t be wrong.

A Pack of Cards



A degree of caution I suppose,
Because half a day passed without us noticing,
That the world has changed.

The wolf at your door knows,
Some rough animal sense of time,
He draws his conclusions.

Yesterday,
I drew a Jack of Hearts,
And I watched the trick get played,
Your slight hands.

David Thompson, February 2009

Vow

We will love like dogwood.
Kiss like cranes.
Die like moths.
I promise.

Larissa Shmailo

Together we stood
With that charismatic vibe in the air
And I realized
That you are the song
That I was destined to sing.
Not only that but,
Just the thought of being with you tomorrow...
It gives me the strength
To put up with the rest of today.
I just want you to know
I need you to know
My world was all black and white
I never anticipated it before
But it was really like that
Until the day you walked in my door
And right into my heart.
They all said we couldn't
But the thing is,
We are
It's the idea that you came by
And never left my side.
So really,
It's when that question comes.
Are you really ready for this?
Am I?
It makes me think..
It makes me wonder...
How I'd live in this world
Without it.
Without love.
I don't know,
Maybe it's just that
Each time, each day,
Each hour, each minute,
Each second
That I spend with you:
The stars shine just a little bit brighter
The music sounds a little bit happier
I feel like living a just a little longer
And I always laugh a little bit louder.
The desires for what I want
Are what I want
Which are all things that I'm not quite sure of
And yet when I'm with you
I know
I don't know how
Or why
I know
I just do.

David wrote: "A Pack of Cards

A degree of caution I suppose,
Because half a day passed without us noticing,
That the world has changed.

The wolf at your door knows,
Some rough animal sense of time,
He draws his conclusions.
. . .
. . .
And I watched the trick get played,
Your slight hands.
"
Oooo, David! Delicious little poem! Love the word play here--subtle, so as not to seem contrived. "Draws," "slight hands" (leaving the flavor of slight "of" hands in my mouth). But I especially like:
"half a day passed without us noticing,
That the world has changed."
for it's the hinge of this poem's gate. And we forget the gate, so caught up in the metaphor of card-playing and the soft syllables (like the whisper of cards), soft, easy rhythm, too. . . .

Nicely done, David. Bravo!

Trish

"Progress"

Even though I know the light bulb
dimmed the small fires of imagination,
that central heating sucked the warmth out
from the hearth, extinguishing families,
and though I know the printed word did more
to erase stories from our collective unconscious
than all the universities combined,

I still enjoy reading a book,
by myself, in winter, in my underwear,
at home in the stone hut inside my heart.

Copyright 2009 Neil Antonio Diamente

Neil wrote: ""Progress"

Even though I know the light bulb
dimmed the small fires of imagination,
that central heating sucked the warmth out
from the hearth, extinguishing families,
and though I know the printed word..."

Neil,
Very good poem! Love the image evoked from your "at home in the stone hut inside my heart."

Lovely!

Trish

I Still Think of You


Stand with me, I will see you.

Walk with me, I will hear you.

Run with me, I will never let you fall behind.

I want to help you see who you are. Who you could be.

I want you to know you can go far. You have the ability within you.

You have beauty all your own, why do you choose to walk alone?

Why do you hide your smile, why can't you show your own style?

I am here for you, lean on me.

Where have you run to, why have you gone?

Why can't you stay here; where you belong?

I can show you where there is peace. I can show you where there is love.

I will stand with you, will you see me?

I will walk with you, will you hear me?

I will run with you, will you let me fall behind?

English is not my first language, and all my poetries are in Italian, by the way. So I decided to publish here an Italian poetry of mine, by providing its translation in English too. Of course, the translation cannot take in account the music and flavour of the original text, and I cannot be sure it will give rise to the same feelings. Anyway, here it is....

ITALIAN POETRY

Alba

Il cielo è un acquarello
di pallidi rosa e persi azzurri
mentre il vento scivola
tra l'umido verde brillare nel sole
a rapire dall'aria
un fresco odore di vita
e portarlo al mio cuore.

TRANSLATION TO ENGLISH

Twilight

The sky is a watercolor
of pale pinks and stray blues
while the wind slips
amidst the muggy green
sparkling in the sun
to steal from air
a fresh smell of life
and bring it to my heart.

For I would rather pine for a distant love than force content with a mediocre lover.

Richness of this entailment,
erasure of anguish and discontent.
Echoes in my visions,
recalibrated by the core.

Subject myself to shrieking winds,
shiver at the perilous edge.
Challenge the plunge of mortal trepidation,
gratification in hell’s cushions.

If I couldn’t see,
I will carry the heart of a lion.
But love is blind,
my work is done.

Sadness In The Computer Age

Sorrow was my only friend as him and I watched you disappear.
The word "Away" my only clue that you would return...but alas...you are gone.
I waited to send greetings and salutations to you..but alas...you are gone.
An eternity has tortured me while you have not been near...but alas...you are gone.
Now I wait again till you are no longer gone.
The eternity continues once again.
Seconds passing like centuries.
Minutes like millenia.
I know one day you will return...but alas...you are gone.
I had smiles and laughter for you...but alas...you are gone.
The smiles they left me as I watched you vanish in a cloud of technological smoke.
The laughter left as you passed behind a mechanical mirror.
Yet they still remain...hidden...until the chime announces your entrance once again.
Yes...the smiles and laughter remain...but alas...you are gone.
So...return to me when you can.
For you must truly know that as long as you breathe you will never have to say...
"But alas...he is gone."

After the Surgery

I brought you apples
sliced thin as wax paper
and Gruyere cheese
because that was all
I had grabbed out of the
refrigerator

The scar throbbed on your skin
between the ribs and hip bone
You showed it to me
asked if it could still
be hurting you, the organ
they removed

and it took all of my strength
not to kneel down with kisses
not because I thought it would
not ease the pain
but because we were already
standing too close

I comfort myself with apples
crisp green ones when the
night is hot and thirsty
I stand in my kitchen
naked slicing apples

communing with Mother Eve
in her skin of defiance
and greed because she wanted
all the Truth, not just what she

could know with her senses
but what she could buy
with her blood,
what she could
use to bargain her way
out of destiny

How to Cope. . .
with the National Economic Crisis, Credit Card Debt, a Failing Heat Pump, Leaky Plumbing, Hollow Personal Relationships, Overwork, and Job Stress


(by Kay Pugh)


Buy yarn.

Buy it in bundles, in bunches,
in hanks, in bags.
But it in skeins.
Buy it in balls, in lengths, in coils in reels.

Buy yarn from Michael’s, from Wal-Mart, from Herrschner’s,
from the Net,
from your friends.

Buy yarn in pastels—
sweet candies, spring mints,
and blue mornings.
Choose neutrals—
wheat grasses, moon shadows and sages.
Select solids and brights—
deep scarlets and turquoise,
Pick rainbow-spun colors—
bleeding into each other.

Buy yarn and store it.
Hide it and keep it
in baskets, in bags,
in closets and drawers.
Stash it for later
under tables and beds, behind sofas,
in benches,
on bookshelves, in showers.

Buy yarn and dream making.
Dream soft woolen yarns, slipping
quietly through fingers;
dream slim needles, clicking
gently together;
dream patterns, intricate,
knitting
and purling.


Dream of caps—
in snug worsteds
to keep out the cold.

Dream luscious scarves—
in bulky yarns,
mohair and fur,
cuddly and warm;
Dream of sweaters, of blankets, of mittens, of gloves.

Forget—
everything—
for a while.

Make something lovely.

Watching
by Ethel Mays

She sits upwind, hidden in weeds,
grinning around a lolling tongue and sharp
white teeth, yellow eyes watching
the roving of lean wolves on the move
through territory she knows well,

Her territory,
her creek banks and marsh
with its fuzzy cattail offerings
to the wind, coyote country
with visitors just passing through,

On their ways
to a higher, cooler clime
while coyote grins at their passage
then snaps the neck
of the rabbit at her feet.

That's really good!!! :)

Ink:

White stretches to the horizon
The textured page before me inviting
The brush of a pen.
Awaiting the creation of words out of letters,
Meaning out of words.

The pen hovers above the jar
Brimming full of black liquid literature
Waiting to be written
Waiting to mark the page

The ink drips from the nip
Splattering the crisp white sheet
I have no words left that can be written
And leave the ink to trickle out
Of my heart
In a red stream of emotion

~E. Lorch

Used Books

I like them dog-eared and lawnsoft,
and savor the character of winestain
and thumbsmudge,

the tear-warp between pages,
scrawl lolling down margins,

x’s, question and check marks
scratched out as anchors.

They kindle affinity with readers
who’ve leafed through before, house

a kinship of signatures, conjuring towns
and streets in states I’ll never visit.

They preach the economy of timber
and purses, while scribbled dates

evoke evenings spent couch-lounging
through past springs and winters.

Though they come off the press crisp
and unsullied, I like them used

for the gust of tinder and sawdust,
the waft of feathers adrift in a hayloft.

I turn the yellow hem of the pages,
a hue half neon, half tubercular,

like the wallpaper of a motel
nicotine-thick with confessions

where with the fray, I find repose
under covers well plumbed
and sepulchral.

Life Is Like A Movie

When you look in my eyes what do you see?
At first glace you are looking into a sea of blue
But when open wide, they’re as black as can be
You may ask why, is this true?
Someone as happy, bright and loved as me
Feeling so empty, so hated, and depressed too?
These constant feelings are like a movie
A drama, a tragedy, everything’s on cue.


My heart is in pain; I’m living a lie
Searching for something that I’ll never find
Every day’s long and a little more I die
Running through memories all in my mind
I sit in my room, cant help but to cry
My journey through life hasn’t been kind
But I will not stop, I will still try
To break the contract that my eyes and heart signed.


Catch me now, for now I fall
Falling from the great blue sky above
Still want to know what’s the cause of this all?
The cause is the wanting and searching of love
I wait and wonder if he will soon call
But there’s no pressure, no push, and no shove
While I wait I stand strong and tall
Soaring and sailing silent like a dove.

Break My Heart

He looked at my tear-stained face
But what I wished he could see was my beating heart race

I know that I loved him—with all my heart and soul—
But all he seemed to do was smile and say “Hello.”

Others say I had it bad (and I know it’s true)
Because I knew that I was falling… falling for you.

Please don’t be afraid, my head broke the fall,
After, of course, you smashed my heart against the wall.

Now I know there’s no one to trust,
And I know I am no one’s object of lust.

I wished to bite back all of my fears
And tried to fight all of my falling tears.

But here you stand, so strong and tall,
Even though you know, of course, my head broke you fall.

You hold me in your arms saying everything’s going to be all right,
But I know these are your lies and find my own way through the night.

But he picked up my heart—the one that you shattered on the floor—
And you’re just a little too late—I don’t need you anymore.

Nor do I want you, just to let you know.
So get your truck off my driveway and find your way through the snow.

Love Forever?

When you said you’d love me forever,
Did you mean what you said?
I lay down every night,
And let it wander in my head.

How can it be forever
since I know there will be an end?
How can we stay together
with so many bends?

As we walk down the road
You ask what is wrong
If only you knew
What was going on

You bring me to town square
Romantic and bright
Kneel down on one knee
And I can now see your fright

You take my hand
So I can’t move for whatever
And then you ask me
Will you be with me forever?

I am taken by the very whiteness of you
About your arms, along your throat
in your hidden heart
I am moved by the redness of you
the sliding of cloth
the hesitation in your aspect
the innocent memory frozen in place
I am touched by the black in you, the unspoken
the wish for things returned to you
the empty rooms you've left behind

I look for your eyes, turned away
hair-hidden as you move quickly, quickly
about your night, I listen for the sounds of you
unique to you, wet and mysterious
hands glistening

I want your art, I want the next door opened
I choose my words in careful turn
each word a key on a ring, this one twisted about
that one rubbed tightly against the knob
I work to make you breathless
to slip upward the offered flesh with two fingers
the latch of your mouth released
released to laughter, the sudden, wordless
thrilling laughter of your child's return
the reunion, the lifting

This is my sex, for you, this is my offering
this is rounding your hips
this is wiping up your body's milky tears
this is holding you firm, firm
leg from leg and your flame's issue
and I call you friend
I close my eyes to your shame
I pull excitement from your pulsing heart
I remember you from my many distant pathways
and I am poet, and you are Muse
and there is no greater joy than a heart captured
f-stopped & proofed
color-corrected for your happiness
shaped into a new life, where you are the one

For this is how it is
Where you will understand this: You are the one.
It is you, and no one else. No one else.
It is your time, of love without fear
of rescinded pain, of pointless doubts

I lift you up from the deep waters
and you sing to me silently with the wetness of your mouths

I claim you, am slave to you, marvel at you, laugh with you, release you, soft-breasted, in airless flight, bright-eyed, newly-minted, singular, fantastical
and alive

Unknown Warriors

Hidden in shadow
the day is now ended.
The protectors gone,
the scaffold defended.

Promise and a Prayer

Winds weaving, grieving rain,
Ship swiftly moving,
Patience proving truth sails home
To return not men, but names.

Slipping silently into view,
Salt waves slapping, trapping sound.
Seven years, yet all recall
Voices, faces of the crew.

Smoothly does she glide to port…
We strain to hear the shout,
A laugh, the bell, a sailor’s song,
Story, glory to report.

Not so—upon this deck we stand,
Searching for a missing past,
Greedily as hungry foxes
Stealing from the hunters’ band.

Sailor’s note aboard the Promise
Tells us, “Hunger and disease
Arrived till nothing has survived
But bones and searing solace.

“Death is now a welcome force
And I, the last, must ask
That to New Haven Promise sail,
Dignity our final course.”

Empowered by a noble quest,
None to steer but time and tide,
Promise sailed upon a prayer,
Host to ghosts, its guests.

Wow!! I'm very happy to see more rhyming poetry being posted. Beautiful! Here's mine:

Poetry

What has poetry come to these days?
Just a mess of words; a jumbled haze.
Poetry isn’t what it was long ago,
A rhyming beauty, words that flow.

What is it now, in this ignorant time?
Words without movement, words without rhyme.
Just a casual thought that came to mind,
With fancy expressions and words entwined.

Beautiful words, yet lost of meaning,
A crazy mess, but poetic seeming.
A style of poem, that’s called a prose,
Has lost the splendor of a poem that flows.

A short little story, with poetic feel,
Without the rhyme that gives appeal.
No meter exists in poems like this,
Has readers wondering what’s amiss.

Poets have lost their loving spark,
And they’re making their poetry bare and stark.
Their creativity has been lost,
Their poems now as cold as a fresh new frost.

Poets now seem like they no longer try,
Poems only need praise from the critic’s eye.
Their poems are not written for people to read,
Only for the poet to take the winning lead.

We can only hope that the poems of old,
Will be thought of always as precious gold.
May poets be inspired by those workings of zeal,
Such heavenly poetry, so beautifully unreal.

~Ivy J. E.

....miss Ivy! I promise you i'll peruse yours.. and I'm worthy perusal... 'twixt you , me and that's beauty!......., let's jusy hope that doesn't start WarReads 2.... If you know what I mean.... (winks)

Donna wrote: "Promise and a Prayer

Winds weaving, grieving rain,
Ship swiftly moving,
Patience proving truth sails home
To return not men, but names.

Slipping silently into view,
Salt waves slapping, trapping ..."

WOW!. I agree with Ivy & I so so like this poem Donna

Ivy wrote: "Wow!! I'm very happy to see more rhyming poetry being posted. Beautiful! Here's mine:

Poetry

Poets now seem like they no longer try,
Poems only need praise from the critic’s eye.
Their poems are not written for people to read,
Only for the poet to take the winning lead.


Thank you Ivy, in my eyes this is the winner.
& it's wonderful to see all the other rhymers as well.

* wonders if the all knowing gods will be pleased *

LEANING TOWARDS MAYBE
I'm leaning towards maybe
and that's as certain as I get
we might be there tomorrow
or not
I can't say yet

I'm just a cock-eyed pessimist
with my chair perched toward the door
I think it's safe to stay here
but you never know for sure

Sometimes I feel so happy
I forget to get upset
but the world is quite unstable
and I haven't fixed it yet

so I observe and feel quite anxious
I observe and feel quite glad
to engage is from my mother
to be cautious, from my dad

it doesn't mean I'm crazy
and it doesn't mean I'm not
on some days I am quite content
and thrilled with what I've got

It's all a contradiction
that plays out in my head
but I'd rather be confused and here
than absolute and dead

DAYLIGHT FADING
I did not know what hit me.
Her shadow crept across me like a veil across my heart.
She was my obsession and my nightmare.
The sun had given up for the day and the daylight was slowly fading.
I could feel her presence in every stark shallow breath I took.
Choppy and turgid, frigid yet a true sense of warmth.
She was an enigma and I was wrapped up within the dilemma.
I was just the latest in a long line of victims, who tried desperately to save her.
In reality, she did not want to be saved, only to live the life of the femme fatale.
To be viewed as the martyr,to be the perpetual bad luck girl was always a rush she could not resist.


A walked three steps behind, trying to figure out what she needed or what she wanted.
The puzzle was missing a few pieces and I did not have the patience to put it together anyway.
I had pieced together all the easy, straight outside pieces but when it came to matching colors and shapes, I fell way short.
She was more complex than my male brain could comprehend.
Maybe that was my big mistake anyway, trying to out smart her when probably my best tact would be to dumb myself down.
That did not work either and as her shadow faded into the night, I watched her walk away leaving only my feelings to fall broken on the ground.

a poem by gary lowe