Ivy wrote: "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 l..."

Lovely poem, Ivy. I personally believe that there is a place for both rhyming and non-rhyming poetry, but I do so agree with you when you say 'their poems are not written for people to read'. The meaning and message of a poem should be accessible to all, not just the writer. Thank you for reiterating this.

Helena
http://www.helenaharper.com

With Wimbledon having just started and having been a tennis fan for many years, I thought I would post a poem about that great game.

THE TENNIS GAME

Eyes lasering in
on the ball,
backspin,
top spin,
side spin,
no spin?
Legs running,
feet jumping,
toes tripping,
arms swinging,
heart pumping,
blood rushing,
lungs bursting,
mouth gasping,
cheeks blazing,
sweat pouring,
ball hitting,
ball missing,
ball in,
ball out,
hands clapping,
mouths shouting,
tongues cursing,
lips screaming,
racquets throwing,
movement thrilling,
endorphins fizzing,
exuberance peaking,
exhaustion winning,
eyes glowing.

Copyright © Helena Harper

http://www.helenaharper.com

111 & 4th – NY.NY

Think of that quaint loft often
And how you filled it that October
As we sat in her window
Looking down on an endless stream of lights
That both of us vowed would never touch us

I felt secure as I loved you that night
And as I reclaimed your eyes
With everything that makes it shine

Read all your letters once again
Almost as if I deserved only thoughts of penance
I must have lit a million candles in my head
Since that fateful August day

I only now understand that it’s the painful things that time heal
While the curse, it seems, is the warmth I can’t forget

Xiang, I believe, could so easily have had
The Turtle bear the Yin-Yang instead of the World
But it couldn’t
Because, for just one moment,
There was no other way…

stillness

In my feet I feel the beauty
Of each step taken
My hands act always
Of loving intentions
I taste the wonder of life
In every yummy bite

But isn't all of this action?
Amy, where is the stillness?

Stillness does not mean inaction
Though it happens that way sometimes

The laughter of the entire world
Rests deep in in my belly
My mind grows quieter with
Shared consciousness
In the center I find my heart
Holding sacred space

Where stillness is

IF WORDS COULD BRING A TWINKLE BACK

By: Mary Susan Vaughn
to my Mother-in-Law, Geneva
May 21, 2009

If hugs could bring you back to us
And kisses bring a smile
We'd smother you with lots of love
We'd go that extra mile

If words could bring a twinkle back
to your eyes so far away
We'd talk and sing about your life
We'd read to you and pray

If holding your hand and touching your cheek
could bring back the memories gone by
We'd do all these things and much more for you
We'd give it our best prayerful try

But your mind is in a distant place
Your soul on angel's wings
Your spirit floats on memories
Your voice no longer sings

You've lived a life so full of love
You've lived a life that's good
You dedicated your life to family
You did all that you should

So fly above the clouds so high
Feel the breeze upon your face
Welcome Angels at your door
Bow down to God's full Grace

Your spirit lives within us all
Your joy and laughter too
Soon eyes will get their twinkle back
But ours will be deep blue

Susan
Over at "RaisinToast"

She Watched Us
By Tony Haas


She watched us.
She was leaving.
We watched her.
We could not.

Like sunflowers,
We turned.
Like scattered chess pieces,
We stood.

Boundaries magically dissolved –
Hers,
Ours.

In the moment,
We were with her.
She knew, and

In the moment,
We were One.

Our golden arc
Slipped effortlessly behind
Water’s indigo rim.

Accepting rocks held
Black pieces in silhouette.

Pieces remained still.
She was gone.
Yet, pieces remained …
Still.

Forms, thoughts, and emotions
Joined.
Pieces awakened at dusk.

Pieces remained …
Still.

Quiet.


From ocean’s indigo rim,
I watched me.
I saw nothing.

From ocean’s indigo rim,
I listened.
I heard nothing.

Empty, silent,
And blissful
Piece –

Clothed in
Diaphanous silhouette –
Master’s peace.

In the moment,
We were One,

Watching,
At Asilomar –
One.

Sitting alone here with the sad-happy state I'm in
I can't help but to keep missing you
Again and again.
Trying to stop thinking about you;
Or not being able to keep you off my mind;
It doesn't matter how I feel at the moment,
Because in the end,
My heart takes the win.

Reminiscing on all the fun we had,
Everything we did together
Good or bad.
Doesn't matter what I do,
'Cause all the time you're on my mind.

You're the perfect girl;
And I'm the imperfect me.
I could search the world
Because some say there are other fish in the sea,
But again and again I find
You're the only fish for me.

To read the rest of my writing go here: http://zrev.deviantart.com/

The Storms of Change


Shy, alone, afraid
Feeling lost in the dark mystifying world
Blown from place to place, never staying in one spot
Being overcast with pressures and demands
Shaking with fear, thrashing with torment
Being flooded with problems and trials
Feeling tears pour down my face
Always being showered with lies, hate, and pain
But as quick as lighting, the storm passes
The cloudy vapors of being lost departs
All the thundering voices feeling my head are silenced
Puddles left behind are the reminders of the passing storm
A ray of hope and love shines through the light gray clouds
A colorful symbol expands across the sky
Calm, beautiful, and new
A refreshing beginning

-Channing Jackson

You can, but Goodreads will not cite original publication source if your poem wins.

Trish Lindsey wrote: "Heather wrote: "A question -- is it okay to enter a poem previously published in a lit mag?"

Good question.

Amy???"

A Letter For You Dad

Daddy I'm dead in my center since you left
I felt so strong and assured on that day
That your lifeless body
Drew us together

I sat in your room
While you lay in a box
In the room that you lived in and
Breathed in and
Made me feel strong in

I miss you so much
And my mother, her tears, and your wife’s broken heart
Seems to break more and more as your memory fights back

And when I looked at my son on that cold lifeless day
I saw through his eyes what my dead body could
do while my daughter, your flower, only saw angels
flying and God softly speaking and Jesus and mommy and
everything clearly except for that cold lifeless box
In your room

Then they took you away.

But I held on like only your strength would allow me
But it pains even more now that time tries to heal

And when mommy asked me to hold on by looking
I knew, like my son and my brothers and mother, that
nothing as lifeless and cold as that box in your room
would deny me my memory of you on that warm Sunday
morning when you looked like I know you and spoke
like I hear you and laughed like we still laugh
around that square table each Sunday forever

Last Sunday I sat with your wife and my mother
And both of us cried in our hearts as our eyes let
us down as we spoke of your right to have been
at that table with us
Not some hole in the earth

You see dad it's alright now, I think, because
Jade knew to tell me that "one day
When Jesus, runs out of people to go home to see Him
He'll find in His heart to “bring” us to you"

Amy wrote: "Want your words to reach nearly two million people?

Goodreads and the ¡Poetry! group have partnered to create a contest in order to select a new poem each month for our newsletter.

1. Post yo..."

blues pantoum: #2

Van G. Garrett

on a street named after a saint
a harmonica player stoops
towering over the pavement
waiting for change to come

a harmonica player stoops
a knitted cap littered with holes
waiting for change to come
eyes and mouth rolling

a knitted cap littered with holes
porous moon-like craters dancing
eyes and mouth rolling
snot bubbles on his upper lip

porous moon-like craters dancing
undone yarn and loosened thoughts
snot bubbles on his upper lip
sound slides through metal windows

undone yarn and loosened thoughts
towering over the pavement
sound slides through metal windows
on a street named after a saint

Hate or Love?

Hate and Love are strangely linked,
More so than you would ever think.
If you hate someone with all your soul,
In your life they could play a different role.
For Love can be as strong as hate,
Please, change your mind before its too late.
Hate is just love that took a wrong turn,
It's never too late to turn back, and learn.
Passion describes both hate and love,
One's a falcon, one's a dove.
With love you win with hate you lose,
Tell me now, which will you chose?
Unpleasant and evil, or sweet and kind,
Which do you wish to have on your mind?
Emotions can change with a flicker of thought,
They are vast, yet cannot be caught.
Hate or love, love or hate,
You must choose before it's too late.

By Becca Tribe

Rainbow

At first a distant glowing,
At the edge of vision, growing;
While clouds disperse and shadows fly,
Her rising fills this morning sky
With light that leaves my surface thrilled
And depths illumination-filled.

Her arc ascending through my day,
Across this sky she makes her way:
A restless star in constant view,
A blaze of yellow against my blue.

Where heat of day meets coolest dawn,
A moving breath, a breeze, is born,
So dew returns to moisten air
And separate her colours there.

Helena wrote: "Ivy wrote: "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 i..."

Thank you, Helena. :)


Becca, I love your entry; it's beautiful!

Well, this isn't much of a poem, but here goes anyway.

THE DREAM
I didn't want to waken,
The dream was so real, so true
I could feel it in the beat of my heart.
He was a poet, of the Irish sort--
Old, scruffy, sometimes rude.
He lived on malt whiskey and words,
Words that shaped a reality, oblique and faceted.
I began to sketch him as he sat on his chair in the street.
Old, scruffy, regal, ragged to the common eye.
Malt whiskey and truth his gods, words his medium,
Poetry his soul.
"Girl." He turned his gaze on me.
I fetched him malt whiskey,
Made myself bold enough to offer him some of my words.
He took pity on me, let me stay by his side
To fetch his malt whiskey, to read his words
That were for me malt whiskey and truth,
And to write words of my own,
Watered down though they were
And only faintly reeking of truth.

Sonnet #10
"Believe," he swore, "believe and it will be!"
"We do believe," we chanted as a crowd.
His belief moved us all so mightily
"Oh, we'll follow you anywhere!" we vowed.

He told us of a place so far away
That enemies would never dare to come.
He held us, enchanted, in his sway,
His voice an ever-pulsing, beating drum.

We left our homes, our friends, our paying jobs.
We knew that he would never let us down.
We flocked to him by hundreds, thousands, mobs.
He judged us not by races, white or brown.

"Yes, we belive you, Jim," we faintly cried,
As upon Africa's far shore we died.

Looking for Lefty
Epilogue/poem in Dialect
By D.L. Cox


Lefty play a French harp
Long and slow and sweet
A driftin, whinin harmony
A dissonance, a dissonance
Accompanies his pallid sheet

Lefty like the spice and heat
Love to laugh n drink n eat
Earl’s hot buttered biscuits
Wid homemade peppersauce

White bread, whitebeans
Dem collard greens

He eat Vienna sausage
N cans of potted meat
He love dem scrambled brains n eggs
N jars of pickled pink pigs feet

Lefty mama’s pretty boy
Tall athletic speed
He pitch de ball
Wid his southpaw
N play de major leagues

Lefty pitch n pitch n pitch
But He a jukin fool
His arm it itch n itch n itch
He lose n lose n lose

He drink Jack Daniels whiskey...black
N roll his own tobacco
He smoke de weed so’s he can fly
Smile n ride dat thermal high
He hit de wall of thick dark night
Know dat he aint livin right
But he don’t wonder how or why
Jus smile n ride dat thermal high

Lefty play a French harp
Long and slow and sweet
A driftin, whinin harmony
A dissonance, a dissonance
Filters through a pallor sheet

Lefty kilt de daddy-boy
Wid ice n revelations
Dem demon shards cut deep
De daddy go to sleep
De mama cry
De child she lie awake
N pray
Dat heaven take him

Lefty kill de Boxer dog
N kill de Christmas bike
He kill de sisters
One-two-three
Den he kilt de child in me
N kilt the mama ‘like

Lefty play a French harp
Long and slow and sweet
A driftin, whinin harmony
A dissonance, a dissonance
Accompanies his misery

Some say Lefty died at twelve
His brother say it be
I say he chose dat certain hell
He stole de light n hid it well
He revel in dat demons spell
He kill, he kill, he kill-de-self
But lived to sixty three

Lefty played a French harp
Long and slow and sweet
A driftin, whinin harmony
A dissonance, a dissonance
Dat he passed on to me....

Shooting Star
By:L.H.Easton

Three gypsies gathered in the town
With no one else around
They waited for the brilliant light
Of a shooting start hat night

This one shooting star was rare
The most beautiful and fair
It's said to give amazing powers
Greater than the princes' towers

Each gypsy wanted to use the power
To make the others fear and cower
The only problem in their way
Was getting past the Himtay

The Himtay are guarding men
Who guard the shooting star garden
And when a shooting star takes flight
The Himtay follow it through the night

When the shooting star lands upon the ground
They guard it in a circle round
Anyone who dares go near
Has more than their life to fear

A single spark gave off a light
And the gypsies' spirits all took flight
They jumped with joy and squealed with glee
And quickly away they all did flee

In a clearing oh so broad
They saw a little starry fraud
'Twas just a spaceship headed for the moon
And had taken off yesterday at noon

The gypsies' spirits were terribly crushed
Their homes to which they would have rushed
If only they had not seen
Another little starry sheen

The ordinary
Khaled KE Mahmoud

Thin and harmless
He has been that boy
Eight, nine, and ten years old
Nothing seems special about him
Sailing in his own mind
Glued to his thick dreams
Slicing the blocks of imagination
Racing for the identity of a grown-up
He starts his maturity in the corridor
Balancing a plastic drug bottle cap
Between his two bony feet
Claiming he is Platini or Maradona
Dribbling through imaginary bodies
Showing flexibility, speed and skills fans die for
When he gets the Ahhhhs in his ears
From the faces hanging on the wall
He makes a double-kick
Elevating his wishes in the air
Landing his bones on the cold tile
Scoring a magic goal into the space between the two sides of the bedroom door
To add more legitimacy to the game
And justification to his legend
He switches loyalty between the two soccer teams
He plays an honest defense for a few minutes
And simultaneously plays offense
He turns the old white refrigerator in the middle of the corridor
Into one of his annoying adversaries
At night they make up when he visits for dessert
He is quick to get the plastic cap underneath the elevated black wooden base
Squeezing his body between the bruised door and the wall
Sliding in the open space falling for glory
He is also the referee...
He decides when there's a goal? When there's foul play?
When an offside should be called? Who's guilty and who isn't?
And how solo games in life should be judged?
He ends the close game as the winner
He continues his journey
By bringing history from the closet
Knotting the blue bath towel around his neck as his cape
And the broomstick as his sword
He is Tareq ibn Ziyad
He is about to conquer Iberia
While peeing he plans the arrangement of his soldiers in the ally
His army should be aligned somehow in the road
Connecting the living room and the kitchen
It seems inevitable that they have to cross the pond in front of the kitchen
Created by his mother while cleaning
He shouldn’t attack on a Friday
They should avoid the passage over the newly washed rug
The shoe marks would be easy to identify
Bringing on a fierce confrontation with his mother
He would end up loosing that battle
He consults his plastic commanders sitting on the floor
While relaxing on his sticky leather chair
He decides to pull back and spend the evening in his camp
He places his sword on the floor and takes off his cape
Convinced it was a strategic move

Helena wrote: "Ivy wrote: "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 i..."

I must agree that it is refreshing to see rhyming poetry(my favorite style). I suppose you would call me "old school" since my love for poetry grew out of my exposure to rhyming poetry.

As You Fight It


All the world's a ring,
And all the men and women merely pugilists –
Some sluggers, some swarmers;
And one man in his time fights many bouts,
His matches being twelve rounds.

Last bell of all,
That ends this strange eventful match,
Is second childishness and mere KOblivion;
“Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.”

Caterpillar

The caterpillar has an insatiable appetite
It's an alimentary canal that crawls
Eating the wings of the butterfly in my hand

As it says, "Pay no attention to what you see
For I'll be a bigger, better butterfly"

I know it's lying, but I stand paralyzed
And the lactic acid burns

A tumor expands which I pretend
Is just another appendage

In the meantime
Not a thread of a cocoon is made
The caterpillar eats, eats, eats
And pacifies with lies

In honor of the wonderful, astounding and sometimes ferocious storms that creep across the desert I dwell in, here is my poem.

Monsoon
by Tracy Keller

You're my love,
my parched Earth.
You've married rivers
exposed like skeletons,
and honeyed the air
with fragrant promises
of an august renewal.

But the land,
it’s hungry with want.
Collecting anger,
howling for a taste of tears.
Sitting stoic, it hurts
for the tall greens and vast blues
to find their way home.

The terra cotta sky,
dripping its soulful lament,
melts with sophistication.
It ink spots my eyes
as I let loose my light,
noiseless and free
leaping through whiplash scenery.

I bend to the drumming rain,
feet bouncing off
the staccato crunch of ground.
I tip toe in circles
whispering to Saguaros
my gratitude
and reverence.

The ground grabs upward,
pulling the sky’s steady song
into its warmth,
giving me reason to dance
in the shared ritual of
unspoken desires and
unexpected abundance.

some people mistook eclipses for ominous omen but i think you can also make a wish and bet your lucky stars.

when we are both wrapped in the blanket of dark by the meeting of sun and planet
between earth and us
we won't have distance between us any more
and i could be standing right next to you.

though....
i'm always tapping right there _ inside your heart
or maybe
i'm just talking about feeling you in mine.

I Wish...

I wish
I could take away
all of your pain
from your past
that keeps you
imprisoned;
in a world
of fear and
insecurity.

I wish
I could
open your heart
and show you
how beautiful
and worthwhile
love is.

I wish
I could
take your
emotional issues
and heal them;
so you wouldn't
drag them
around with you
year after year.

I wish
I could convince
you
to trust me,
to believe in
the truth,
in destiny,
in love;

but,

I cannot reach you.
You have built
walls too high
and too thick;
I cannot
break through.

You are too afraid
to let me in;
too afraid to
hand me your heart.

You have been
burnt
and abused
too much
to ever
trust again.

So,
I remain
locked outside;
watching you suffer,
My heart broken
because
I cannot reach you.

Slow decay of man

by Aksa Bilal

Black wagons with black horses

among the black funeral cars

He walked around wondering

just who we are

He fled from place to place

between the faces he saw that night

were men of clay with ink thick in veins

suffer gently, cause much pain

So he wondered if he too must be

among the black broken souls to be seen

A packet of cigarettes, a bag of weed

Must he come crumbling down too?

Should he have to fall the height they fell?

To commit a crime not committed yet

Some heinous mask must he too wear?

Must he be scarred, black dotted?

Oh then will they see the man within?

The one who’s thin from skin to skin

They saw the man that lived in him

stunned and bewildered, they accused him of sin

They burned his eyes and dreams within

shocked, he stood

unable to stare

no word he spoke, no he would not dare

he opened his mouth and tried to scream

his burnt eyes wouldn’t even weep

In him evil they had unleashed

With rocks and shells buried beneath

arms and bullets in his hand

he walked off under the tent of blue

between the faces which had struck him hard

The thread of his life he had pulled

It coiled and recoiled and it was done.

Scarred he was

and now it was Black

All in a split-second.

Van G. wrote...

"blues pantoum #2"...

Van,

Delightful to see a pantoum here. Always refreshing, but especially so after a month densely packed with doggerel. Well-done, sir! Thanks for sharing your fine work.

Blessings,
Christina

Karen wrote: "Sonnet #10
"Believe," he swore, "believe and it will be!"
"We do believe," we chanted as a crowd.
His belief moved us all so mightily
"Oh, we'll follow you anywhere!" we vowed.

He told us of..."

Karen,

An unusual theme for a sonnet, but that was part of its charm -- and what a surprising turn in the couplet! Nicely done. Thanks for sharing.

Blessings,
Christina

Deborah wrote: "
Looking for Lefty
Epilogue/poem in Dialect
By D.L. Cox


Lefty play a French harp
Long and slow and sweet
A driftin, whinin harmony
A dissonance, a dissonance
Accompanies his pallid shee..."

Deborah,

Great voice! A wonderful approach to narrative poetry. My compliments. Thanks for sharing your work.

Blessings,
Christina

feelings dated 1/19/99 by Karla
You have picked me up from a puddle of my own tears for a number of years
holding me and wisping away the water marks
listening without remarks to my sobs
until I was calmed by your plight to cure
my shaken body from those drenching waves that separated my eyes from my face in a race
to paste my soul back together agan.

Finished, reading a Book.

I’ve seen strong, sure hands of Men
shutting books with a snap
flicking it onto the desk
after reading a book. Quarter of
the dapper wrist watch peeping
out of their cuff sleeves, despite the links;
while they lunge for a cigarette
or a cup of coffee.

I’m sure, women will agree
how lousy they are while trying the same act.
With their manicured hands, they’d caress
the book cover, feeling the length and breadth;
slender fingers with fancy rings on some
will stop by each leaf, touching the papyrus,
the words, the spaces therein,
while the eyes tries to re-read the text
with no restraint.

©2009, June Nandy

Thanks for your kind words, Christina.

Another question: is it okay to put my poem here when I would like to try to publish it in a book someday?

Marissa wrote: "Another question: is it okay to put my poem here when I would like to try to publish it in a book someday?"

That depends on the book, Marissa. If you are wishing to publish a collection of your poems, then any prior publications and awards (even finalist's) look favorable to editors. Look at any poetry collection by most any poet, and you'll see that many of the poems first appeared in literary journals. Again, that sort of publishing shows a potential editor/press that your work has been favorably-received and is likely to sell as a collection. (Remember, in the publishing business, the bottom line matters.)

However, Marissa, if you wish to publish in a literary journal or magazine, read VERY carefully their guidelines. Some say that previous online publication is okay; others say that the submitted poem(s) cannot have appeared in print anywhere. It all depends on the journal's guidelines.

I hope this helps and good luck!

Trish Lindsey Jaggers

Trish Lindsey wrote: "Marissa wrote: "Another question: is it okay to put my poem here when I would like to try to publish it in a book someday?"

That depends on the book, Marissa. If you are wishing to publish a colle..."

All right. Well I think I will wait until the next contest anyway to submit a poem here in order to spend some time learning/improving first. My hope was to get a book published someday, so posting something here shouldn't interfere, I hope. :)

on cue


for Rachel


fireflies don’t waste themselves
on daylight. you move
from dapple to sun skein,
glow on hold. at dusk,
your snapshots trace
a dalliance of hurdles.
you reconstruct a zodiac,
spotlight actors
always in the wings.
nightfall kindles
someone else’s dreams.




~ Daniel Zimmerman

Feel that?

If you become stuck in the mud
entangled in these wild vines
your hair gets all screwed up
your mind hits a state of instability

Do not think for a portion of a moment
any kindness you may have shown
will be repaid in kind

expect, instead, that everything
up to this point
has been forgotten
that people would love
nothing more

than to see you
twist in the wind
from the business end
of a rope
tied securely to one
low hanging branch
of an old oak tree

Let the dead celebrate the dead
*bunch of bitches & bastards anyway*

Laugh when you get kicked under the bus.

Not a crazy laugh
They'd derive too much pleasure from that

chuckle rather...
a mysterious chuckle
to compliment the tires
crushing your bones

PMPope 2009

- Signs -

A hand is writing on the wall.
The hair on my neck stands up in fright.
An eye is spying me.
I am lily-white and Red as Rose.
In the eastern sky a star shines.
Something reverberates in that flame in the sky.
I sit amongst friends, drinking wine, eating bread.
There is a vague pain,
Something that has no words,
My anchor has been cut:
I am poured out, but not poured into any chalice for consumption.
I am a crownless man in a desert land.
I hear no voice,
Just a sad, sad current
that tows me under.

Gasp. Gasp.

The little girl
sitting in the grass,
watching and listening.

Watching
the swaying corn,
listening
to its dry, rustling leaves.

Feeling
the relentless breeze
blowing over
the green, gently rolling fields.

Gazing
at the old, dull red barns,
barns that once proudly
held animals,
now full of musty hay,
playgrounds for young arms and legs.

The little girl
sitting in the grass
watching and listening
knowing that it’s summer
on the old farm.

-Elizabeth Woodburn

The Chaotic Pendulum



in this museum looks like a relationship
to me. One reaction, one abreaction. I think we
were more like the Tri-Zonal Space-Warper

responding to illusion, where something
looks like it’s moving when it’s not.
Like we need these 3-D glasses to see

that rocket shot up to Mars to show scientists
in Houston there really was water once
in the crenellations of these craters. That project

was christened "Endurance . . . " not unlike ours,
though we don’t proceed at 27 times the speed of sound,
but suffer beneath florescent lights

awaiting the Vast Awareness to pass through us.
Like when she says"Let’s take it to the next level"
and he says "Whaa . . . ?" Or she says

"We are so over!" And and he says"Whaa . . . ?"
And the Coriolas Effect bearing down on a plane
where wind and ocean currents curve

is like love, time and other miscellany
expanding or contracting depending
upon how close together our bodies are.

Sometimes there’s disconnected resonance
more serious than this Hyperbolic Paraboloid
when we bow like this rod to slip through

one another’s hang-ups . Or when we attempt
Virtual Volleyball as if we were on some reality show
where the stakes are fortune or death . . .

How we drive and ride one another’s
sensors-all lights and circuit-breakers,
dials and knobs, positrons, negatrons—

making our own human batteries.

Boredom:

Boredom comes in many forms.

It is the cool fingers that caress the stressed mind,
The timeless, dreamless sleep,
The emptiness engulfing a being,
The torment without a purpose.


A young girl sits,
Jumpy and agitated,
Knowing a pain that only children know.
A true torment.
Yearning to be of use,
To run free of the weight of the world,
However, she must stay.
She must remain where she sits,
Deeply immersed with the agony of aimless inactivity.


An adolescent girl flops down,
Vacant of intentions,
Of emotions,
Of any desire.
She is simply there.
No imprints upon the world have been made.
Nothing acknowledges her existence.
No dreams are set in motion.
There is only a being,
Void of anything,
Excepting dissatisfaction,
And nothingness within her.


A sophisticated woman lies in sleep,
Resting from the bustling life around her.
Blackness engulfs her,
A torpid state overcoming her senses,
Replacing vision with nothing.
Erasing the things to be heard,
And felt.
Not a thing is there.
She dislikes it,
The ebony that each night brings.
Yet she lay there for hours.


An aged and exhausted woman rocks,
Back and fourth,
Waiting for death to claim her,
After all her years on Earth.
She smiles, welcoming the relaxation of nothingness.
When mortals are tired,
Worn down,
Weary to the bone,
Boredom comes,
It rids them of their worries.
It creates peace.

Boredom:

Boredom comes in many forms.

It is the cool fingers that caress the stressed mind,
The timeless, dreamless sleep,
The emptiness engulfing a being,
The torment without a purpose.


A young girl sits,
Jumpy and agitated,
Knowing a pain that only children know.
A true torment.
Yearning to be of use,
To run free of the weight of the world,
However, she must stay.
She must remain where she sits,
Deeply immersed with the agony of aimless inactivity.


An adolescent girl flops down,
Vacant of intentions,
Of emotions,
Of any desire.
She is simply there.
No imprints upon the world have been made.
Nothing acknowledges her existence.
No dreams are set in motion.
There is only a being,
Void of anything,
Excepting dissatisfaction,
And nothingness within her.


A sophisticated woman lies in sleep,
Resting from the bustling life around her.
Blackness engulfs her,
A torpid state overcoming her senses,
Replacing vision with nothing.
Erasing the things to be heard,
And felt.
Not a thing is there.
She dislikes it,
The ebony that each night brings.
Yet she lay there for hours.


An aged and exhausted woman rocks,
Back and fourth,
Waiting for death to claim her,
After all her years on Earth.
She smiles, welcoming the relaxation of nothingness.
When mortals are tired,
Worn down,
Weary to the bone,
Boredom comes,
It rids them of their worries.
It creates peace.

Boredom comes in many forms.

It is the cool fingers that caress the stressed mind,
The timeless, dreamless sleep,
The emptiness engulfing a being,
The torment without a purpose.


A young girl sits,
Jumpy and agitated,
Knowing a pain that only children know.
A true torment.
Yearning to be of use,
To run free of the weight of the world,
However, she must stay.
She must remain where she sits,
Deeply immersed with the agony of aimless inactivity.


An adolescent girl flops down,
Vacant of intentions,
Of emotions,
Of any desire.
She is simply there.
No imprints upon the world have been made.
Nothing acknowledges her existence.
No dreams are set in motion.
There is only a being,
Void of anything,
Excepting dissatisfaction,
And nothingness within her.


A sophisticated woman lies in sleep,
Resting from the bustling life around her.
Blackness engulfs her,
A torpid state overcoming her senses,
Replacing vision with nothing.
Erasing the things to be heard,
And felt.
Not a thing is there.
She dislikes it,
The ebony that each night brings.
Yet she lay there for hours.


An aged and exhausted woman rocks,
Back and fourth,
Waiting for death to claim her,
After all her years on Earth.
She smiles, welcoming the relaxation of nothingness.
When mortals are tired,
Worn down,
Weary to the bone,
Boredom comes,
It rids them of their worries.
It creates peace.

With the Sea

At last the sun has woke
The moon has gone to sleep
Flowers greet the day
And spread their many petals
Sweet dew rests on the grass
And birds rise from their homey nests
With eyes to see
And ears to hear
All we need is feet
To take us on our journey
Along the beach
Down by the shore
With the cry of the gull
And the scuttle of the deep sea
This is where the day is
This is where life is new and fresh
By the sea- round the sea- in the sea
It rolls and calls my name
The sweet tongue which calls to me
But I have grown away- far away
To far to hear the call
Or even remember what it sounds like
That language I forgot- or never knew
It was simple and unique
And if I walk back along the shore
It mourns for me to listen
To listen and come down
Live again with it.