THE LAWS OF COMPASSION
By Amanda Price

Cold, wondering, I am the alien
I am the one under inspection, under the light
Soft voices, kind, wanting to be kinder
Not sure of how kind they can be
Is there an invisible force that sets boundaries on their heart?
If they exceed the limits will their hearts shut down?
Or worse, break in two?
Will caring become a thorn that punctures judgement
Causing wisdom and discernment to bleed out?

My heart beats loudly to answer their uncertainty
I understand, I sense their need to anaesthetise
To withdraw to neutral ground where no man can die of a broken heart
I need them to keep going, I need them to survive
To be resilient, to be strong
But I need them to bleed too
I need them to wear their humanity proudly
Not shed it like a coat that has become superfluous.
I need them to bleed.

To them I am one of many; to me I am alone
Is there a halfway place where we can meet?
A place where it is safe to bleed and safe to be strong?
A place where weakness is not measured in tears
Where my pain does not chase away your vulnerability.
If I could find such a place I would meet you there
And tell you that I know you suffer too
I would let you know that it’s okay to cry
To not have answers and even to die.

In the end, are we more through being less?
Do we achieve a higher level of self by ignoring self’s own instincts?
Can we be safe and productive but still see the turmoil and feel the suffering?
Is compassion a poison that lays waste to our proficiency?
Or is it the anti-venom that heals us from the sickenss of the soul?
I only know that if I cease to suffer with my brother, I cease to be.
I cannot run from another’s pain any more than I can my own.
If I cry because I am overwhelmed, then I am human not broken.
There are no laws unless we make them.

The Princess’s Dilemma


When he leans over and wakes you
with a kiss, beads of sweat drip
onto your cheeks as you look up
into an ordinary face. His eyes,
the color of old pennies, are close set.
His clothes smell of a horse
ridden too hard too long.
He’s overweight. Pressed against
your chest, he steals your breath.
You sit up, call for fruit and wine,
and pray for piquant conversation.

"Do you like dogs?" he asks. He talks
about Stanley, his beloved
English mastiff; his rose garden
with twenty-four species,
floribunda—his darling;
tea with Mother in the afternoons.
She’s teaching him petit point.
He claims you’d never be bored.
Friday nights—bingo with the staff.
On Sundays they hunt unicorns.

You ask about governance, peaceful
coalitions, the well-being of his subjects,
patronage of the arts. He scoffs,
"Let those under me trouble themselves
with such headaches."

You can’t picture yourself married
to this feckless simpleton.
You’d lock your door at night
against his lust. You’d likely take up
with the winsome gardener.

Besides, his kingdom is far, far away,
across rivers and mountains. You know
you’d sorely miss your family
and friends. How to break it to him
without hurting his feelings
and ruining the end of the story…

Jane Ellen Glasser
jegpoet@aol.com

This October marks 47th anniversary of the Cuban Missile Crisis, a critical time in US/Soviet relations when Kruschev began to emplace nuclear tipped rockets that could reach any city on the East coast. It was a critical 14 days and the closest the two nations ever came to a shooting atomic war. It was also a somber and scary time for those of us who were charged to get ready an as yet undeveloped US ICBM system.
I'd like to share my poem:

Cuban Missile Crisis.

I had to go there, to know
the feeling at the very bottom of
a missile silo, to sight along the muzzle
of this unlikely gun that can flatten a city
continents away and fry its humanity.

We called them wheatfield silos,
so pastoral. Who would have guessed
that Kansas and Nebraska were
armed for Armageddon?

One hundred fifty foot-deep holes
in the ground, lined with concrete,
filled with steel structures,
work platforms every ten feet.
At the center, the missile,
silent, shining, loaded, deadly.

We take the elevator down down down.
The foreman tells me men died here,
like the fellow, married, two kids, who
stepped off the scaffolding at the top,
swore a blue streak all the way down.
"Landed right here," he says,
as we reach the floor, a discoloration,
etched in grave gray concrete.

A puddle of water reflects the webwork
of steel above, lit like a Christmas tree.
Compressors chattering, motors humming,
screams of high pressure gas venting.
Such a panic getting all these silos ready
for an impending shooting war.

Looking up, I can see the rocket through
the girders, hunkered on its platform,
silent, shining, loaded, deadly.
I wonder if it will work as planned.
Will it leave marks on the planet
like the workman who landed here?

cheers,

Ed Hujsak

Crying for Shelter By Jacqueline Romero

Hidden in the darkness of her chamber
Everything is falling
The world spins timeless
Her screams are frozen
By the flood of blood draining
Out of her body
Crying but not a sound coming out
Lifeless on the floor screaming for help
The voice of death rushing through her body
And her only desire
Is for this to be a dream
The world spins timeless
The voice of death is laughing
Through blades of blood falling into
Hidden darkness
Hidden in the darkness of her chamber
Everything is falling
The world spins around her
And yet nobody sees her
She's alone crying for shelter

Gregory wrote: "Barry wrote: "Shortest Poem In Arkansas

Thanks a lot
was all I got."

I love it. Short and rhymed. I will remember it forever. Great - real poetry is to remember."

Actually, Levon Helm's father invented it. He was 72 in 1979. He had been a policeman during the 1950's and still slept with his gun under his pillow in Springdale , Arkansas. They did not obtain electricity until 1959.

Barry wrote: "Shortest Poem In Arkansas

Thanks a lot
was all I got."

I love it. Short and rhymed. I will remember it forever. Great - real poetry is to remember.

To be a girl..

You never thought that someday
You'll wish to know
What it's like to be a girl..

To know those secrets
which consumes me
To know the strength inside me
which I never show
To taste the tears that fall
at night when I'm a lone
Or feel the hurt that
fills my heart…

You never thought that someday
You'll wish to sail
inside a woman's emotions…

Ok, then
Let me show you how
we are so comfortable
a bout being Girls

and let you hears
our thoughts a bout
Life, death and
everything in between

Fly high with me
Breath the same air
And look to everything
in my eyes…

Fly away
far away…

BY
Raghda Gamal

Shortest Poem In Arkansas

Thanks a lot
was all I got.

Adam wrote: "No sight of morrow
So trite in sorrow
No light of burrow
So might in swallow

At dawn thy forrest to flee
In minds'eye tis made a plea
My life I take, for god to see
Her life a mistake, can..."

I love this, Adam.

The Silly Magician
By H.O.Ward

Ladies and Gentlemen,
I’ll stand not sit
And with a little bit of whit
I’ll show you a magic trick.
Now, just by habit
In this box I put a rabbit,
Or was it a hen?
I’ll open it then
And let’s find out.
Carefully, so it does not get out.
Sometimes I know lots of things
Sometimes I don’t know how!
Now in that box I put a bird that sings.
As you can see, I could not get a cow.
Now lick your lips and count to ten,
A bird than sings is not a hen.
I wonder what happened to that rabbit,
It’s such a silly habit.
I must remember, quick
And get on with the magic bit.
Now in this box
I put a rabbit
Or was it a fox?
I’ll open it quickly again
As it might have eaten the hen.
Oh, look another box,
What ever happened to the fox?
I’ll not give up on this trick,
So forget the hen
Let’s start again
And get on with the magic bit.

Ladies and Gentlemen,
In this little magic box
Just by habit
I put a rabbit,
A bird that sings and a chicken.
Then I did a dangerous thing!
For in this little magic box
I put a fox
And a big grizzly bear.

Abracadabra

Don’t lick your lips or count to ten
I don’t have a habit
There is no rabbit
Or bird that sings or stupid hen.
The magic box
Has lost the fox.
I do not kid,
Let’s open the lid.
Oh, the Bear!
Look, it’s not there.

The Silly Magician
By H.O.Ward

Ladies and Gentlemen,
I’ll stand not sit
And with a little bit of whit
I’ll show you a magic trick.
Now, just by habit
In this box I put a rabbit,
Or was it a hen?
I’ll open it then
And let’s find out.
Carefully, so it does not get out.
Sometimes I know lots of things
Sometimes I don’t know how!
Now in that box I put a bird that sings.
As you can see, I could not get a cow.
Now lick your lips and count to ten,
A bird than sings is not a hen.
I wonder what happened to that rabbit,
It’s such a silly habit.
I must remember, quick
And get on with the magic bit.
Now in this box
I put a rabbit
Or was it a fox?
I’ll open it quickly again
As it might have eaten the hen.
Oh, look another box,
What ever happened to the fox?
I’ll not give up on this trick,
So forget the hen
Let’s start again
And get on with the magic bit.

Ladies and Gentlemen,
In this little magic box
Just by habit
I put a rabbit,
A bird that sings and a chicken.
Then I did a dangerous thing!
For in this little magic box
I put a fox
And a big grizzly bear.

Abracadabra

Don’t lick your lips or count to ten
I don’t have a habit
There is no rabbit
Or bird that sings or stupid hen.
The magic box
Has lost the fox.
I do not kid,
Let’s open the lid.
Oh, the Bear!
Look, it’s not there.

The Silly Magician
By H.O.Ward

Ladies and Gentlemen,
I’ll stand not sit
And with a little bit of whit
I’ll show you a magic trick.
Now, just by habit
In this box I put a rabbit,
Or was it a hen?
I’ll open it then
And let’s find out.
Carefully, so it does not get out.
Sometimes I know lots of things
Sometimes I don’t know how!
Now in that box I put a bird that sings.
As you can see, I could not get a cow.
Now lick your lips and count to ten,
A bird than sings is not a hen.
I wonder what happened to that rabbit,
It’s such a silly habit.
I must remember, quick
And get on with the magic bit.
Now in this box
I put a rabbit
Or was it a fox?
I’ll open it quickly again
As it might have eaten the hen.
Oh, look another box,
What ever happened to the fox?
I’ll not give up on this trick,
So forget the hen
Let’s start again
And get on with the magic bit.

Ladies and Gentlemen,
In this little magic box
Just by habit
I put a rabbit,
A bird that sings and a chicken.
Then I did a dangerous thing!
For in this little magic box
I put a fox
And a big grizzly bear.

Abracadabra

Don’t lick your lips or count to ten
I don’t have a habit
There is no rabbit
Or bird that sings or stupid hen.
The magic box
Has lost the fox.
I do not kid,
Let’s open the lid.
Oh, the Bear!
Look, it’s not there.

DIANA

(For The People’s Princess)

You walk in the splendor of life
with footsteps of feathers and lace.
Like Actaeon before me
I dare not cross your path,
for I who hunted the wild and free horizon
now beg you for thy love and mercy.
Thus, fear not from me Diana,
for I am not a prince!
The trail my destined past, must not, I pray,
my future smear.
I have felt the ebb of emptiness
and seen the ruin of castles made of sand,
I've endured the illusion of a once charmed love.
I...now can bear the truth
and feel the ripples of a quiet sea.
For you who came to me, and not with fear,
aimed your bow and arrow,
And I winced and spied the mellow rich desire in your eyes.

I sensed...and fell, and in the fall
I arched my spine and reached for you,
but where?

Where are you?
I turn to search for you Diana,
And I beg you; “Are you free?"
And then...I see...
I see you are not there,
No!
You're here...
with me.

Simon Vincent
From Sea Lust C 2009

Tanti wrote: "The Dying Mermaid
by Tanti

Do you search for the mermaid?
She's not here, she's up there
On her back upon the rock
Her hair spread out her eyes steadfast
Dying under the crimson sky
The s..."

Beautiful poem!

The Dying Mermaid
by Tanti

Do you search for the mermaid?
She's not here, she's up there
On her back upon the rock
Her hair spread out her eyes steadfast
Dying under the crimson sky
The sea roaring the sun bleeding
Not another creature to be seen

One final breath and one last pull
She throws her heart of starfish shape
Far to the deep blue depth
Turns it into bright bloody red

She's gone and Neptune sits alone
Not shedding tears his face like stone
With trembling legs he leaves his throne
Retreating to his cave to grieve and mourn

Brian wrote: "The Alchemy Of Co-summoning
For Unforgetable Purposes


Misspellings are fatally distracting to the reader.

Getting My Ducks in a Row

The last few slices usually sit
in the back of the refrigerator
on display, until someone feels
guilty enough to eat them,
or the bread grows green
enough to be thrown away.

But one day, I grab the plastic bag
and head for a nearby park,
and when I’ve got my ducks
all in a row, I break bread
and toss my communion crumbs
out upon the water.

Lately, I have noticed that I
eat less bread, and so
with a little luck, I might
soon be as thin as
a blade of grass that waves
about in the wind, caressed
by the wings of big, fat ducks.

Fire By fiona kirkland
although you think,
dangrous, evil,
it's not.
alouthough you think,
go away, stay away,
remember,
this once warmed you in your time of need,
this knows your fears, friends your foes,
it's consuming fingers know you.
understands you.

although you think,
wonderful marveloius, beautiful,
it's not.
although you think,
come here, my friend,
remember,
these words once hurt you,
tore you apart,
so you spent hours crying over what was gone
it's evil.

i wrote this when me and my groupmates had our first night shift (10pm-6am) duty in the wards..

BORED

By and by
time is passing
Once in a while
at the clock, we can be seen glancing
Rest is what our eyes seek
but our duty requires us to fight it
Expressions blank
and the place is always quiet
Dreams, we know, are calling
but for now, we are patiently waiting

Macramé

A small place,
I call it my corner,
there is hardly enough space
for flowers and decoration.
An empty wall
still waiting for pictures
and a few details
I prefer to keep to myself.

A computer,
the cerulean light of the screen,
on the left, a white desk lamp
with a thin green cord...
a dictionary,
low sounds of music,
...my loyal companions.

It’s almost midnight.

I take off the boring eyeglasses,
rub the traces they leave on my nose
and lean my head on the left palm
watching nowhere,
I smile
and get lost in sweet reveries.
The silence has fallen with the night.
Dreams come in fragments,
no moon to paint lights and shadows
in my modest apartment.
Surprised, for the first time this year,
I see a star
on the dark, clear skies.
It is so cold.
I weave minutes to hours of wait,
and I thread beads of dreams
to the unbreakable string
of my love.

~

The Alchemy Of Co-summoning
For Unforgetable Purposes



Albedo

The Whitening begins with arousal
a flirtation without innocence
our intentions are clear at the outset
The container is two, or three (marriage
being what it is), or four...
Flirtation, then seduction: a melting, liquifactio
so that both the body and heart are unfrozen
and ready to be entered.

Coitus is assured
by means of heat in pursuit, fervor
fruitio, then transport and extasis
What lingers is a nascient edge of sadness
a similacra of wisdom
a concommitant of the gift of knowledge
a complete fulfillment of activity without satiety
“For they that drink shall yet thirst”


Citrinitas

A stem-glass of Edna Valley chardoney
shivers on the nightstand
pulsing in sympathy with our hearts
Serrano's 'Piss Christ'
a mirror of moral opposites
hangs over our bed
a reflection of sulfuric agony
Miraculously, during orgasm, we
shimmer like dragonfly wings
sound like a coyote's yelp
taste like lemon blossom honey

I am hungry for you

Ikkyu, in the 12th century, writes
"Don't hesitate
Get laid
that's wisdom
sitting around chanting
what crap!"


Rubedo

The full moon is crashing loud
we cannot slip beneath the waves
but lie aglow in the dark
minds and bodies on fire
blood singing acappella to blood
Eve’s serpent is alive in our spines
We are possessed of forbidden gifts
We are for the first time
fully conscious

“Taste”, my lover whispers, “Taste”
flooding my tongue with liquid wisdom
Gold, once uncovered, is recycled through the ages
The setting for the ruby between her breasts
was melted and recast from
Cleopatra’s septre, a Spanish chalice, a whore’s ring
So also her juice, her salt
froth from the withers of a Mongolian war pony
spindrift from the Red Sea
nectar of the wet and hairless cleft of a Japanese courtesan
“of tears
the aftermark of almost too much love”


Nigredo

In the Garden of the Hesperides
there grows a tree hung richly
with shining golden apples
the knowledge of past, present, and future

The Unicorn behind his white picket fence
guards the splendor of orgasm
his horn a phallus
the knowledge of sublimated sex and chastity

The Garden of Eden contained 10,000 wonders
but one was forbidden
the knowledge of identity
The sin of Eve
was the murder of God

We sleep at last
fed in the wilderness of dream
as by Elijah’s ravens
and awaken in the bright morning
to the scent of rosemary

FAERY WRITING (a self-parody)
by Michele Kaplan

Here comes that awkward beauty thing
pissing poetry once more with wings!
Tongue tied, stimuli!
A land of voluntary slaves and power play
talking with fangs, hand and finger tips
sick! sick! sick!
compositions deliciously twisted and divine
whimsical liaisons, with characters so odd
sinister and yet enchanting still.
Fleeting affairs documented with romance! romance!
this peculiar temptress gazing...
seething with drama and pompous and impatience and lust
arched eyebrow alabaster,
Bastards! Freaks! and lowmen rise against
aristocrats with crumpets and squid, time and time again
with their immerciful flesh of excess, gurgling greed
obesity and thoughts purging from these spitting lips
my dear, my dear what do you fear
am I the one you fear the most?
Dare you say you know the words before they come?
Let us scream the words that no one dare say
Like penis and Jesus! Genius! sinfully dangerous words, are they?
Do you know what lurks in the mind and imagination of I? of I?
supposed sin and Anything it pleases, growling
delectably sarcastic, Who me? not I? not this faery writing
Verse and word wailing and bursting through this
pressure cooker!
drowning in my own humor I exclaim:
Like a chicken that has flown the coop,
I cluck because I can!

AMERICA, AMERICA
America, America, god, how I love you! How can I ever begin to express my many diverse feelings about you?

Perhaps your true loveliness is seen most poignantly in your constant struggle with your corporate sins.In your many investigations into scandal, your smoke-filled Congressional hearings. In the revelations of your newspaper reporters.

Your Constitution protects the infamous Ku Klux Klan, yet you throw open your sea-rusted portals to foreign merchant ships carrying precious cargoes of blacks, yellows, and browns.

How lovely is the freedom torch of Lady Liberty silhouetted against a dark moonless New York skyline! How sweet and secure is her maternal embrace!

You burned colonial witches and then opted for religious tolerance. You brutally enslaved a million blacks in the torturing hot sun of your Southern cotton fields and then shed your blood to set them free.

During the Second World War you disgraced the Bill of Rights by
imprisoning Japanese-Americans in desert camps. Then, you confessed your wrongs and sought to make reparation.

Always you struggle to be more civilized! How often, though, have you clothed your national interests in the red, white, and blue guise of patriotism and then violated the rights of other nations. But when you conquered Japan you were magnanimous in your victory.

You are one of the wealthiest nations on earth yet thousands of homeless walk your streets and millions more live in your squalid slums and go hungry.The Communists call American social injustice a disgrace, and they are right. But let private industry bid on social programs, and let Presidents negotiate peace to free resources, and American capitalism will surely be vindicated.

Your high taxes and budget deficits are a serious threat to freedom and a heavy burden on the backs of men and women and your thousands of computer files invade every citizen’s privacy, yet you struggle on to preserve your tradition of freedom.

My dear sweet Lady Liberty, I often wonder if you will survive the technological onslaught. What will become of personal freedom when all payments must be made with plastic cards? When the government will know where every person is, at all times. When a simple computer command could shut off anyone’s ability to survive.

No government, not even a democratically elected one, should have such concentrated central power! Lady, how is your vision? Do you see these dangers? For sweet freedom’s sake I pray that you do!

by Barry W

Mixed Messages
by Emily Kilmartin

I can’t write poetry.
I’m aware of how liberating
people find the vagueness
to be. I just can’t.
I want to write a poem
to tell you how you
suck, without saying
“You Suck!”
I could write about
the sunburn
I got last summer
on the most perfect day.
On the most perfect
beach in the Caribbean.
Snorkling, picnic lunch, rum…
lots of rum.
And then the pain.
Deep, searing burn
of skin left baking
on the perfect beach too long.
All the rum on that island
couldn’t numb
the sting of sunset breezes
on my mutilated skin.
But I wore sunscreen, and
I still got burned.
And that memory
makes me sad
because you were there,
and you weren’t burned, and
you applied fresh aloe
to my scorched back.
So now I have a poem
about a sunburn
that makes you seem sweet.
But you suck.
And that’s what I wanted to say.

Gossamer


My arms,
        open wide wings

at the end of the day
        and I,
I am just looking for your hug.
The sun, like an open peach,
is offering me solace
replacing your kiss,
        like an ultimate grace.

Birds of glass
swelled with first stellar light
dance in the air,
collecting the last drops of gold before the summer's night.

From the crystal wings of a sun catcher
slowly settling on my palm,
sunbeams, like soft feathers,
        silent messengers with no letters
touch my fingers with a kiss of plume
caressing me with gossamer perfume.

My gaze upon the horizon, looking for a memory of Almagest,
stars follow their way like a bird to its nest
upon the crowns of trees in sway
to carry all this love your way.

The Sea

The sea is like drifting away.
Getting lost in its waters
The salty taste on your lips
The waves turning white at the tips
As you continuously drown these sorrows
In this pool of words left borrowed
I try and swim away
But the current seems to sway
Me back like a magnet to you
As my lungs fill with this blue
When all I wanted to do
Was leave this sad and lonesome town
That brings my insides out
You shone your light through the clouds
My sunshine in these dark days
My shades can’t protect my eyes
From you rays that shine so bright
Like a star in the midnight sky
But the clouds come back to haunt me
They open a new pack
Of these words left unsaid
And you were about to leave my side
Until I sat and cried
You put your arm around my shoulder,
You held my heart, you are my holder
And even though I can’t forget your eyes
Or the way you made me smile
I swim away from your ship
And find my way to shore
Your anchor didn’t hit rock bottom
And your sail luffed in the wind
As the sun sets on the horizon
Purples and grays mix with the bright oranges and pinks
You set into the ocean
And drown in different waters

I was recently experimenting with haiku, and I'm entering my favorite:

Flamboyant colors,
Rustling folds of taffeta,
Trendy, with style.

~Ivy J. E.

Reason

I sit in the chair with my legs crossed and my left thigh twitches with a nervous tick. I gaze at his shelves full of books—Dante, Rumi, and others I have yet learned to recognize.

I look back at him. Our eyes meet again.

I want you to leave the class, he whispers with a voice more tender than the booms of lecture.

Without saying a word, I ask him why.

Because you’re the girl I want to marry, he says.

And he waits—with Rousseau and Locke and Flaubert—for my reply.

http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/adob...

Alice

Running through the forest
Of a world unknown to me
Wanting to break out of darkness
Wanting to be free
Through the breeze of confusion
Just a girl's soft blonde hair flows
Her blue eyes intently searching
For something they already know

She seems to be comfortable
Sometimes she seems free
But deep down she knows
She knows she has a lot yet to see

She tries to not listen
To those who don't understand
She tries to forget
But finds it is hard in the end
Their words are so hurtful
She tells them to let go
But people keep telling her
Of this world she doesn't want to know

Out of darkness she tries to walk
Into the light of true peace
But where does she belong
In this new world she knows in the least

She finds a past that continues to haunt
Of all the things she has done wrong
Of things she wishes she could forget
From a past to which she no longer belongs
Mystery runs wild
Among these trees she now sees
Obscurity runs rampant
But to happiness she now flees

Copyright 2009 by Jean Ann Townsend ©

Gregory wrote: "David J wrote: "Ocean ─ new life



Cooling breezes whisper
rustling leaves that talk
weathered trees of history
where crustaceans walk

Cry..."

Thank you so much Gregory, there are some wonderful rhyming poems here though.

My Brother

I see you in every sunken face,
longing for human touch, and one break,
to end your hunger of pain.
I want to help, but I do not want the contact,
for I am afraid that your life with permeate through my soul,
and then the two of us will have sunken faces,
and the human touch will disapate into the last one to get the throw out menu of life.

The girl next door.

I still think of you.
I still love you.
You were the epitamy of gentleness.
If I had the power I would turn back time,
and throw this life I have away for one thin dime.
Just to see you once more,
and we'd close the door,
whisper our dreams again,
and certainly make love for the first time.
For one thin dime,
but you were among the dime a thousand that died in the name of the red, white and blue.
So young, so vibrant, and so in love,
with me,
the girl next door,
simple and so in love with you.

For russell: vietnam 1977

My thoughts trickle down,
like raspberry wine on your last tuxedo shirt,
and I whisper, 'if I only had the nerve, I would throw you a flirt.'
The music ends, and the finger food begins,
and I begin to play with one loose thread on the edge of my skirt,
embroidered with grandma's lace,
only for you to head the other way,
perhaps to the locket room for a quick smoke,
if only I had the nerve to tell you to choke.
The music starts, and hearts begin to fall in love again,
too many beauties, and not enough men.
I am the wall flower that no one wants to peel off,
so I sit and watch you,
a passive stalk with heart felt kisses thrown your way,
if only you'd look in my direction,
I could be the one to turn your night into affection,
so with my lenses too thick, and my chest to flat,
I'll sit and watch you dance with upper class,
lenses non-exsistent, and breasts to die for.
If only I could just tell you to take a hike,
but not now, maybe tomorrow,
when I spray paint your whore,
and leave a dead rat at her door,
but hey, it's okay, really.

vledmonds(a)copyright 2009

Jan wrote: "Funeral Speech


The assistant rabbi offered husbands
skullcaps they politely rejected,
refusing to bear false witness.
You lay affably in your box.

You were vague about your work.
We had joked yo..."

Osama Ben Laden and other fascists will like your story.

David J wrote: "Ocean ─ new life



Cooling breezes whisper
rustling leaves that talk
weathered trees of history
where crustaceans walk

Crystal oc..."

David, I think your poem is the best here!

Barry wrote: " Sparrow

The counter girl
in a baseball hat
long white wheat
out the back,
a tan pink bud
sliced ham and cheese
and weighed salad
from nine to three.

Close, one eye saw;
a dru..."

I like your poem, mate. I'll have a hard time to vote.

DISCARDED SOCIAL BURDEN

Faint rays of sunlight
through a tiny window
caught the spinning
prism, rainbows danced ’round
that tin can trap called home

Ha, just think, mobile home,
mobile suggesting it would move.
That old bucket hadn’t moved
in thirty years sitting
in grammies back yard

Feeling trashy was easy
when picking up
food stamps each month
was the high point of life

Even worse, the way
people look when
getting groceries,
some folks look away
others look on in disgust

One step above homeless,
a refugee, a pariah,
unwanted, used up, just one
more name on the welfare list

Finally she heard the baby crying,
so distant, strange, unreal,
all alone, disconnected from all
other life forms

Poverty and neglect
suffocating her;
strangling a tattered
will to live.

Just a little light of hope
would, perhaps, give
enough strength to keep moving

Long ago she had given up on God
or any other type of salvation,
redemption surely did not know
her address but the bill collectors did

If only she could just leave,
yes, leave this ALL behind
She went down to the river
most every day when
the baby slept

The water, sparkling, golden,
freedom soaring where the
sky crosses the water

Streams of consciousness
weave between clouds
birds make multi-syllable
sounds, moving a wedge of time
coded in the seasons

Obsessive blue sky,
an obscure sanctum, hypnotic
reality becoming a
neurotic fixation

Some saintly church spire
taking exception to the view,
casting a long shadow
pointing an accusing finger of
chastisement

Cool winds arched over
ancient sentiments, curl
round brick walls
centuries old

Trickling waters reflecting
a distorted, dull, deceptive
continence, no longer
bright, impish, sparkling

Mother’s acid voice
melancholy, sarcastic,
venomous, stinging, mocking,
washed over her;
“don’t come back to me with
your troubles”

White doves caged and dying
by degree; fulfilling a mystical
prophesy of unknown origins,
too young, at the end of living

Where is salvation?
That too manipulated,
categorized under the
secular umbrella of unity

Eerie, distant funeral pipes,
fantasy rituals,
“for someone so young”;
no concerto, no flames or
Bucolic poems

Where the mourners?
Faces plucked from
ads in the obits.?
Responsible order pushed back
into a box;
a marker, in brass, concealed
in the grass; daylilies comforting
the living;
just another discarded,
social burden in the end
By Junie Moon

(H)edging

Now Columbia
to Vandalia
by auto at night
speeding past
pasture lands unseen
and all my heart's moved
beyond to.

Unidentified industrial plants
hover in orange light glow,
beamed moths fly floppy-winged
and swirl in wind
whirlpools behind me
and I'm coming to you
who are uncertainly
measuring each shy step
attempting to figure
a final destination
on this circuitous trail
you've been on
for years in search
of the open ground
of your heart.

Arriving, I see you in your
desk lamp's dim light
through the screen door
that the moths bump against,
I see you sitting
in your green comfy chair,
waiting, weighing whether.....

copyright Mary Kate Protzman 9/2009

Phone Call to God

I dial 9-1-1
To speak to Father above
And say, “My spirit is dying
Will You revive me…
Again?
I’m losing too much blood
So I need Your Son’s
Transfusion once again”

Repetitive Fortresses

Why can't I pretend
to dissolve for you?
Is the answer creepy-crawling
toward the ant hill in my skull?
Maybe I saw the infestation
you would bring in my place.
A hornet's next where time
has undergone mysterious loops.
Where seconds attach themselves
to wings and stingers, while
minutes build themselves
into repetitive fortresses.
I would be in the void,
still sensing the bugs
in my forehead, wanting
to drill into nothingness.
The gap in my mind
would be one more place
to grab a piece of cerebellum
to add to the century's collection.
You can just carry your insect
circus to another place
worth caring about.
I'm too anchored in this world
to fade away, even if
you have the aeons
I sometimes seek, honey bees
making the sweetest comb
I've ever tasted, existence
dripping out of a bottle,
covering my body so I can't move,
people loving my statue forever.

DAMN YOUR INSPIRATION


I thought about you today
and I faltered at your words
The way you expressed your secret admiration
was enough to make my knees go weak
A dizzy spell in the hallway
as I almost fall on my face.

You're nowhere near me
at the time of my almost stumble
I want to say the phrases back
and watch you swoon in my embrace
A red cheeked flush of color
as I walk the hollow walls.

But you are discreet
and you confuse me in reality
I cut with ink
and leave words burning in your skull
But you don't understand my intentions
and real life leaves me speechless in your wake.

Addmenot wrote: " The One-Eyed Monster
{No painter's brush, nor poet's pen
In justice to her fame,
Has ever reached half high enough
To write a mother's name. --- Anonymous}


The bell rang; my ..."
AddMeNot,thank you for sharing your very powerful poem. I read and reread it a few times and remember it. Real art!

Funeral Speech


The assistant rabbi offered husbands
skullcaps they politely rejected,
refusing to bear false witness.
You lay affably in your box.

You were vague about your work.
We had joked you were in the CIA.
In the temple your kids finally came clean:
you had worked for Intelligence

as a quality control statistician.
Sure. We knew you were
the most unassuming of assassins,
hiding a stiletto inside your Scrabble rack.

We wound through the necropolis.
Topiary spelled out “Cypress Lawn.”
Welcome to Colma, Land of the Dead.
Evelyn Waugh had nothing on this.

Peninsular sun shifted to mist
when we sank you in the ground.
Loud the first shovelful on the coffin,
you cricket-dry inside.

The youngest grandson sat on a wall,
face in his hands. Nearly ninety years,
but you’d miss his Bar Mitzvah.
Words were just words.

I'll no more throw stones at your window-
such assignations are adjourned;
romance, disemboweled, rolls bleeding out its
hushed vermilion flood in half-hearted
light, tormented and sticky at our feet.
Let us then bedight masks of friendship,
contract affected smiles to our faces
and take flight, stoically and well-behaved
from the stifling years in which love has wound us.

Unlace from my own your dear slender hand,
damp from your eye that certain sparkle,
unhitch my heart and leave it on the steps-
our friendship demands this undesire-
and i from your beauty shall castrate my eye,
spurn your laughter from my soul, to make clean
and celibate this foundation and slate,
on which like ice our fellowship will slide
over imbruing fire that washed our blood.

The good days


Back to the days of me and you
Two kids in a small town
We grew up together
Went to the fair
Ate candy, rode rides till we puicked
Life was simple
Around the block
Dreaming of big cities
Where money grows on trees
And ice cream always in the freezer
Walking home from school
Hand in hand
Not thinking of homework
Or chores at the house
Just me and my angel
Side by side.

MEANING OF LIFE

Something fiery in the glooming

ever out there - glowing
always a little farther from our
reach -

We can only glimpse the
streaming silvery rays ...

Try to touch it!

It turns distant as a star

Still there
up ahead

Dancing ...

Grieving Going On
by
Stephen Ludwig

On the bare floor
where I sit
feeling trapped
by the gathering dark,
the golden light
of another dying day
pours through the window
and spills down the wall
to the floor,
where it bathes my outstretched hand
with a warmth I’ve felt only from yours.
And as the light fades,
as you faded,
with dignity, in silence, painfully slow,
(or was it really with awful speed
you went into inevitable night?)
I think of you,
and I think:
If the light found its way in here,
Then I can find my way out.

untold

She stands up in the middle of a field when she wakes,
tragedy clinging to her like grains of sand,
sticking in unexpected places
like the crook of her elbow where there’s
a pale, boring scar shaped like
nothing in particular.

She can’t even remember how it got there
but she knows where the wounds on her otherwise
smooth, white back came from,
fierce and ugly and angry and red. Gaping.
Such stark, new horrors
staining through the light fabric of her shirt.

Her hair unwashed for days, slick with
grease and wild with wandering, with the playing
wind. Grass bent and snapped under her bare feet,
a yellow beetle between her toes. Almost ticklishly
ordinary. But nothing is that. Not now. Not
anymore.

Not with the pain sparking up the knobbly path of her spine,
the ache in her muscles like the dead weight of lead,
the storm always at the front of her mind,
shadowed over all the beautiful things like her mother’s clear
laughter or the way her father used to look at her like he was so, so
proud. Of her. That was real, once.

The scar, that boring scar
probably originated from a mundane incident in
kindergarten, squabbles with other kids in the playground,
some boy’s nail scraped rough across her skin, no story worth telling.
This, right now, would make a good story,
powerfully spun, all the right blend of fear and, well, fear.

But she doesn’t think the words will slip past her lips
that easily. She will tremble and tense up and blink rapidly,
pupils dilating involuntarily wide wide wide taking every single thing in, just like when
it happened. Even though she didn’t want to look anymore,
she couldn’t turn away; it was right in front of her and it was happening to her and and
oh.

It had hurt. It still does. Her legs are frozen stiff and she’s shaking and it’s
so damn cold. Too much blood lost, maybe. She can hear her father now,
his doctor’s voice firm and warm and trying so hard to be comforting but
he won’t be proud of her anymore. She’s nowhere now, too far from home,
and if she makes it back she will never be the daughter
she once was.

That hurts, too. She’s cold and tired and weak and food is an ancient memory
long forgotten by her tongue. She lets herself
lie back down on the grass, her body folding up as tiny as she can, knees to chest.
The lightning strikes of pain continue, but they blur when she
closes her eyes. She sighs and soon, the world just falls,
falls away.

Small Wish

In a pothole, busy intersection
a boy
plants
a snail in the night
with the wish
in the morning
mother would not pack up their life into brown boxes
and the car
would not go far

He

He didn’t know who I was
He only knew me as a friend of a friend
He had every reason to cry but
He gave me a hug when I was crying
He smiled though it all
He makes me smile
He makes me laugh
He sees past the bookworm
He brings out my party side
He asked me for help
He tried to walk me to my bus
He left
He moved an hour away from here and only then did I decide I liked him as more than a friend
Then…
He is in my thoughts all the time
He makes me listen to love songs
He will probably never see me again
He will never know how I feel
He made me cry last night while I listened to that stupid love song
He was in my summer even though
He wasn’t there