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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!

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Thanks,

Amy King
¡Poetry! Moderator

Routine is my sanctuary,
the calm boundaries I pace.
This familiar place is bound by madness and strife.
Let me wander for a time longer,
head down and breathing slow.
Let me ignore this life and time for a moment to breathe.
Give me another calm moment before I must face the cliff.
Let me claim my moment to decide if I must jump or be pushed.
The fall is freedom and peace, such release.
Let me breathe, the climb is always so much harder.

VACATION
A dusty lifeless ocean has become habit for a congested old man. He collects dead weeds and broken sea glass inside the woman’s hull. Through two snot holes the old man's nostrils attempt to capture the memory of the her bosom blossom scent. A warm breeze comforts the man’s body as his heart and palm can only recall the feel of his woman’s soft golden flower bush.
At one time he was a young woody creosote. She a vibrant shrub. Both sweating in the hot sun like dutiful forms of art. Together each morning the man and the woman prayed for the day they would sail away from that unforgiving dead sea. Survival was not easy living in constant heat. Over time the harsh elements took it’s toll on the man. He eventually became brain washed and delusional.
When the woman would say: “One day I will swim away from this ghetto mirage.” The man’s brittle leaves would coil and shake violently.
“Woman you’re crazy. This is life. Shut the F up!”
Now the lonely man wears a lost broken hearing aid and wipes his nose with a used crusty napkin. His eyes confront the powder blue sky. The man’s ear facing a cotton white cloud. He pretends he can hear a soprano signal. A wind song to only himself.
She whispers: I wait for you. You will be safe. I love only you.

Pure fantasy,....Well... most of it is

by Jim McMillen the man within

A SINGLE FEATHER IN HER BRAIDED HAIR


She awakes to a cool breeze caressing her skin
Opening her eyes surprised she's no longer in her bed
But lying in a field of delicate purple flowers
A deer startled by her appearance leaps back into the dense forest
She's no longer in her gown but a beaded buckskin dress
And a single feather in her braided hair
Before her is a path that she feels she's walked many times before
Rising she walks with eagerness , excitement in her soul
She approaches a clearing of breathe taking beauty
The rising sun has painted a sky of orange and yellow
Majestic snow capped mountains disappearing in the clouds
Splashes of brown and green adorn the mountain face
The sweet scent of pine and jasmine fill her lungs
In the distance she hears Indian drums beating softly
Above her an eagle circles her head as it screeches
Announcing the arrival of a large gray wolf
There is no fear her only emotion is serenity
A metamorphosis as the wolf changes
And in it's place a smiling Indian brave arms open to her
She knows him they have been one in a past life
She begins to walk to him her heart pounding with need
No longer able to wait she runs to him feet bruising on the rocks
She reaches out to him just as he vanishes from sight
Closing her eyes with tears streaming down her cheeks
She feels empty ,shattered by the loss of her love once again
Opening her eyes, her face wet with tears, heart in pain
She's again back in her bed, what a strange bizarre dream
As she rubs her aching feet and removes a single feather From her braided hair

As the chilling northern wind blows , A young brave awakens.
Finding himself alone in his tee pee .
startled by the absence of his Indian princess he looks outside .
something has drastically changed , the air is stale and lifeless
there is only the existence of objects ,
In panic he faces the canyon to call out her name LOVE! LOVE!
suddenly he realizes even the echo refuses to return to him!

What type of world has he awakened to ?
Weak and trembling , he searches for the medicine man.
Surely he will know!
Suddenly the medicine man appears to him ,
saying only one thing before he too disappears
ENTER THE SPIRIT WORLD, SEEK AND YOU WILL FIND

Anxiously he runs for the mountains .
They are ancient , surely I will find knowledge there!
He steadily climbs with purpose ,
Seldom realizing the struggle each step entails
for he is driven by determination to reach the mountains peak!

Season upon season changes and still he journeys on .
Until he comes upon a pond of his Oasis .
Looking at his reflection in the stillness of the water , he realizes .
he is no longer the once young brave that embarked upon this journey
so many seasons ago!
He is now accompanied by three wolves , they are symbols of his character

Suddenly he hears the screech of an eagle above,
It is alerting him , there is a bright but gentle glow in the distant horizon.
Heart pounding like the young brave he once was , he runs!
Even the wind cannot catch him now! Faster and faster he goes
For suddenly he can feel her presence .

As he approaches he becomes mesmerized by her beauty , her innocence, her purity !
Until he realizes this beautiful young princess with the purple violets in the braids of her hair
Is much too young for this old warrior, though she is fully a woman!
As their eyes meet they can both feel the passion of their two souls now becoming one
but knowing it is too late, for time has played such a cruel joke upon these two .
Gently he takes a single violet out of the braids of her hair .
Unable to resist he gently strokes her precious face with his hand.
knowing she will surely feel his love for her , as he replaces her purple violet with a single feather !
One that fell from the sky as his eagle scout alerted him of her presence .
driven by purpose once again he swiftly leaves his new found love in search of father time
for a love this deep cannot be denied he has found the other half of his very soul
sleep well my young princess as my wolves safely guard you !
I will surely return to you again and again in the peaceful stillness of the night
I have left you my feather of promise , and all the love I have taken a lifetime to obtain

but keep with you also this Indian braves song of protection



NATURALLY


I,-------a leaf from a once mighty oak ,
Blowing to and fro , from the storms of life.
Until the gentle breeze that you are, lifted me,
Carrying me safely , to the solitude of your stillness.

YOU-------a weary traveler,
Endlessly striving to replenish , that which others depleted.
Until I became a pillow for you to rest your head securely upon,
And a blanket to warm you , until purpose softly whispers,-------come !


I-------a torrential rain,
Pouring down upon the mountain tops
Washing down, that which does not belong.
Back to its rightful place.

YOU-------The mountains majestic peak.
Guiding me through the crevices of your very being.
Giving me the power of momentum,
Flowing into the lakes of your valley, as you softly whisper-------stay!

JIM MCMILLEN
FROM MY COLLECTION
THE BENEFIT OF LIGHT
COPY RIGHT 2007

A Signal To A Coast

A single smoke to a signal, an earthquake exchange to a bang, snap crack and coast to a clock, all this which is a poem, which has forest, which has redwood and night, all makes an insane parking lot.

Persephone

The ground heaved –
Great mounds of earth and rock rose up before her.
She made her way through the rough terrain,
Gingerly stepping here and there.
The mud sucked at her ankles and held her fast.
A mighty chasm yawned before her and up from the darkness
He rose.

His chariot of twisted roots and hardened clay flew high above her.
Sinuous vines wrapped around her and lifted her up.
Up beside him
Where he pulled her to him and kissed her with his sour mouth.

Down into the abyss they dove
And blackness surrounded her.

A thousand hands were on her.
A thousand mouths devoured her.
A thousand cries to Zeus she wept.

Hades slept at last.
Slowly she slipped the vines from her body.
Slowly she forced the hands away.
Inch by painful inch she climbed.
Up.
Up – was light.
Up – was home.


With measured pace and careful step the darkness fell away.
Encased in mud
She stood upon the edge of the abyss
And spat into his eye.

kc mcauley

Tears for Toro

A dance of death, upon this year’s day of the dead:
Bull with capote de brega in cold blood red
Under the Volcano and colour blinding sky
Lustful for sangre onlookers ask: who will die?
Llanto por Ignacio Sánchez Mejías,
For a dead bull, where were poet Lorca’s tears?
Infernal machismo’s death in the afternoon
Gallant glory or gutted, gory: blood pours soon.
Horror of a bull fight, The Disasters of War,
Toro defenceless against the armed Matador;
Endeavour to ban this bloodthirsty so-called sport
Remember the dead torito: spare him a thought.

Looking Down
By Cassie

I have not stood on the stars
Just to fall
I’ve seen each glowing moment
Lighting up the sky
But you barely notice
The very thing that makes this earth
And I have yet to discover why
Not only did I shout your name
But I stood in front of you
And wept
You laughed in my face
As if I were unimportant
Look at me now
As I nap on the moon
And look at the planets
Out in the horizon
I have seen beauty
That cannot even compare
To what the human eyes see
I watch you all
As you grow older
And see things I will never get to do
I am in my heaven
And yet I still feel pain
Pain that does not belong to me
And it will not leave
Until I let it go
The real heaven won’t exist
Unless I stop asking the question with no answer
Why was I killed?

Lynette’s War

My cousin Lynette says she’s tired from cleaning
East Main houses of rich bitches. They don’t even shit
like us, got toilet seats that float to the bowl,
never make a sound, & she hands me the baby
over the front seat. Days off Merry Maids
we like to drive her ’97 Trans Am to Atlanta—
kd lang over eight speakers.
I’m tired too, tired of being the babysitter.
Leah grabbing my earrings, covers me in crumbs.
She bites off the heads of animal crackers.
Only eats heads.

Don’t know why I hang with her.
She’s like the girl who cut my hair at Cinderella’s
saying I had the ugliest strands she’d ever seen.
I kept going back for more till Lynette blurted
you don’t need to pay for that kind of shit.
But Lynette says outright
she’s sexy & I’m not. We both know it.
Junior high she called me a mutant. "Boobs
like raisins on a fifteen-year old’s wrong."
Mama took me to the doctor & he shook his head.

At least Lynette is a good mother.
When the kid has fever, Lynette won’t go
to work. "I’d rather lose my job
than leave a sick baby at daycare."
Guess that’s why I hang with her.
She might call me names, but let somebody else do it,
she’d scratch their eyes out. At the Sonic,
some boy from Crossville leaned in the window,
"drop the fat chick & let’s go driving."
She clawed his left cheek & screeched away,
tray still on the car, cokes & fries flying.
"Son of a bitch thinks he can dump on you and have
a good time with me. Stupid bastard."

I thought Lynette would always be the one to leave.
Good looking. Smart. She never let anybody
walk on her, or me, though she did
what Cochran girls do after getting their
driver’s license. She got knocked up.
Wouldn’t tell a soul who the father was.
We all thought it was Sonny Cruz.

He went to Iraq in August & emailed Lynette every day.
Like they were junk, she’d hit delete.
He started writing letters she stacked on her dresser—
unopened. "Keeping in touch with soldiers
is talking to the dead." Sonny could come back,
I say. Lots of boys make it. Lynette turned away,
"he might, but he won’t be the Sonny I knew."

After homecoming she carries his letters out to the grill.
They catch on the third match.
Every last word.

articulation of epiphany
Blinkypoet

pick up the tools- play awhile
and the demon sucks you in
we make what we make
precious by thought alone

give shape to this-
impossible thing in words
lives, even so
in this, Making rage-

take from memory and build
reaction to was and now-
speak of self in saying nothing
say everything in curve and twist and turn

turn about the downers
use it or lose it and drift-
take ennui and make starlight
take broken and make beauty

in mending echoes
time and space
blinded by choice
in Making rage

focused so, creation's flower
hours flying, matters not time
only twist and knot of emotion
written in ripple-grain color-change

speak in silence
taker's ending
self-revealence
Maker's finding

NEW WORLD
In these happy lands
rockets and submarines
lie buried at the bottom of the ocean.

Cathedrals and mosques
have been dismantled
to make homes for the weary.

Mecca and places like it
are archeological curiosities
in the desert sands.

The Vatican is preserved -
we have made it a museum
for false gods.

Cern is the center of our universe.
Higg's boson (the god particle)
turned out to be the same as love.

The internet has brought
all people together.
Notions of class have been erased.

In the evenings, when work is done,
poets read their words
to tell how things are.

Musicians arrive,
unpack their instruments
and everyone dances.

When the Dead Were Young


Walking through a city cemetery
I stopped to read every one of

the hundred or so weathered headstones.
The names were real and so was the history.

A small four-seater airplane buzzed the horizon,
tickled the armpits of someone’s god.

I picked up a stone and threw it towards the sun,
poked at the eyes of a decomposing bird.

The gravediggers watched me while drinking beers and
smoking cigarettes on their lunch break. A station wagon

drove up a gravel drive to a wooden fist that had a sad lean.
A woman and a small boy exited the parked car.

They brought flowers and a goat’s head to the wooden fist
which had no name or dates. I remembered that one

because I had almost tripped over it walking to the outhouse.
The boy removed toy soldiers from his pockets,

positioned them on the banks of a mud puddle.
The woman cried. She looked deep into the sky above,

made the sign of the cross. The boy spotted me, smiled and
jumped into the puddle. The woman felt the splashes of water

hit her, drip down her bare legs. I looked around,
but the gravediggers were gone. The two got back into

the station wagon and headed to the road.
I was left there, living alone.

Waffles



I’m listening to Beethoven’s Eroica on my CD.
I’m finishing a poem on the rehab computer.
Even here, I seem to do whatever I feel
like doing except for the thing that brought me here.

I think of her all the time, although the counselors
caution me to focus on myself. When I focus on myself I think of myself with her or I want to get high, so instead of focusing on myself I simply shut

down. Then I think about getting out
of here and asking her to a movie. Then I think
about my favorite restaurant, what she’d order,
and whether or not she’d be satisfied with her dish.

Then I think about planting a wet, sloppy kiss
on her, and later, carrying her into my apartment
and into my bedroom then turning off the light.
Then I think about getting up while she’s asleep

and serving her breakfast in bed. Then I think
about scrambled eggs and the color of her hair.
Then I think about strawberry jam, toast
and waffles, maple syrup and butter pecan

with a scoop of whip cream. Then I think about my favorite Columbian Roast coffee, the rich aroma
of those percolating grounds, the feel of warm
china in my hands. Then I think about the first

perfect long drag from my cigarette and how delicious it feels to slowly inhale while sipping from my Columbian roast.Then I remember she doesn’t smoke or drink and has never done drugs and I think

about how wonderful and strange life sometimes
seems when one simply engages in the usual
day-to-day pleasures, how all one really has to do
is be attentive to the weather and feel of things,

to be awake and responsive and to say yes,
it’s a gift, all of it, life, as Albert Einstein noted, should be looked at in one of two ways:
One, as though nothing is a miracle.

The other, as though everything is a miracle.
So I suppose this poem is about gratitude,
or the way it feels to be typing a poem
while in rehab on borrowed time

since most of my friends are either dead
or in jail and I’ve lived harder, longer
on less food and creature comforts than most
of them. Yes, I am writing a poem about gratitude

while in rehab, and come to think of it,
I’m late for group and will probably be written
up for sitting here at the computer instead of shaping up and not getting with the program.

I wonder what she’s doing right now?
How can I focus on myself when all I want
is to be myself with her and to do what couples do
once they’ve finished breakfast?

Walls
By Jon

Inside the prison of my mind, I feel an aching, as crying deep within my heart is breaking.
When I long to see the face that I remember; the clouds have hidden all your features.
I cannot stop the tears they keep on falling, and all the wasted years in me are crawling.
Close your eyes and dream of me, try to stop the night so I can see,
all the love we shared came crashing inward crushing all my dreams to dust and splinters.

I reach for you only to grab air, feeling at every turn that I will see you there.
This crushing weight upon my soul, my heart is aching more than you will ever know.
A pile of ash where my heart used to hide; and from this death new life begins to grow.
From the darkness, a plant begins to show.

Where I thought that new life was shining through, there was only a rose with bloody thorns
fed by all these thoughts of you…
Watered by my tears and fed with all my fears, it grows inside these prison walls of mine,
and every attempt to break free results in loss. My life has become pit of regret and dross.
　
I built these walls to keep myself from harm, and now I'm only trapped by my own arm.
The floors are made of memories too sad for me to dig through.
The walls I created from the anger burning throughout my mind,
and a cloud of poison tears keeps me blind when the light still shines.
Maybe someday I can return to love again, but then that would be the greatest sin.

Forest of Descention
by Lama Milkweed L. Augustine

This old chain saw. What I like to envision myself.
A heavy heart and a head full of priceless wealth.
I wander back to the forest land I once knew.
A place of trnaquil beauty.
Trees that tower in an abrupt majesty.
The sky empties of life sustaining rain.
The place of my innermost needs are never in vain.

Heavy work boots at my feet.
Laden with the damp, mossy soil of knowledge I can forever keep.
Keep within the presence of God; all He has forgiven and all of His boundless wisdom, infinate and supreme. Yet, I must come home. My poor battered soul I need to redeem.

The life that I was promised; voidful and full of shallow lies. Never were ttuly granted.
Therefore I am sent again away to die.
This old chain saw-the one hanging at my shoulder.
It tells me of how much I have grown.
Older, and ever older.

But the chain saw "within";the one I pretend is atop for a head. Will never forget what evil things the world has done to me and said.
I've only tried to do my part.
To be a good human being.
Warm and pure in heart.
Body too.
These caregivers and such, deceive and condemned.
'Tis all they will ever do.

I enter a place deep under a cover of trees.
Their branches feather softly downward.
Protective of the dyiing "tennent" sitting here below.
Spirits of the forest plead to you Lord, "say it is not so."
Birds sing to greet each new day.
Oh, if they only knew of the many plighted souls who fly away.
So filled with grief, sadness, and dismay.
I too, this old chain saw, will soon go away.
Although I have long known the truth, I pretend it will never be.
But, oh the day cometh when I will no longer have to see. To see the pitted souls who claim to know.
To feel the wrathful Hell, ya know?

Condemned at birth.
A life filled with merciless and no mirth.
The spirit that is without life's offerings and things, can inwardly break free, and find the presence of the Heavenly King on high.
This poor, old chain saw once more asks you, "Why?"

My greasy hands once more reaching out to you, "You're Holiness, I beg you. Please tell me why the world is doing this to me? What have I done?"
He answers, "Thou has done nothing, my son."
He knows it is my time.
His presence is infinate, and it can be mine.

Yes, "mine." A rusty, greasy, old chain saw whoes hands accompany that of my heart.
Raw and bleeding; from a lifetime of crawling and pleading.
Pleading for aid; simple, and so unafraid.

I feel the presence of death all around.
It is something I know of so well.
A friend I am long tired of; containing a bitter and rotten smell.

The suns sets behind this towering grove of trees.
This is what this poor old chain saw will always see.
Because my soul has always been free; free from the merciless grip of man.
It is in Him and Him alone; I know where I stand.
Next to the "Son of man."

Filthy, rusted.
Covered with old oil and grease.
Still I a loved, and taken into His world of sacred peace.
As my heart slows and my pain no more, it is in these eyes of the inner self-the soul-who can see the way to go; for sure.

For why I am constantly condemned lately, I do not know.
When I go abck to Heaven...He will know.
God, forgive me...This old chain saw.
I was able to see the "forest for the trees," perhaps this is why they never let me be.
To just be alive, and to merely see.
See what everyone else can.

The moonglow rises now.
So tranquil and new.
The chain saw now leaves this physical place of peace.
To another land it loved.
The land of promises unbroken, and supreme love.

The ground below secretly hidden where the "roots of faith" grow.
Emerging from a blanket of moss and leaves, my emaciated ill body is happily received.
The rusted, neglected chain saw, now sadly left behind.
Embodying my "Godhead"; infinate and sublime.
I am at peace, and at last.
This old, unwanted chain saw is no longer a thing of the past.

I wonder what it could ahve been like.
If people and things could ahve been like before.
When the terrible burden of proof didn't mean we must settle the score.

Still despite the peace I've been given, my soul has long ago plundered into an oblivion.
Not a respite, nor a calming sea.
But a mere innocent victim caught in a cycle of vicious mediocrity.
I tried not to kill, I did not hurt.
Sickly and feeble since birth.
Still I tried to live, I tried to help.
Regardless of it all; I am still by myself.

"God help me, this old chain saw.
What will become of me?"
If only I could ahve been "allowed" to live.
I do know, I would of myself, still freely give.
To give of my gentle love.
Because, though I am a chain saw, I am still able to inwardly see God's messenger dove.
A dove of peace.
Promise and hope.
No one has ever granted me these things-I'm such a dope!
My beautiful, sweet mother has.
She being the only exception.
So, now I enter the "forest of descention!"

This old chain saw.
What i like to envision myself.
A heavy heart, and a head full of priceless wealth.
I wander back, back to the forest land I once knew.
A place of tranquil beauty.
Trees that tower in an abrupt majesty.
The sky empties of life sustaining rain.
It is the very place where my innermost hopes are never in vain.
from ETERNAL I.V. POLE CO. 2003

Neil wrote: "When the Dead Were Young


Walking through a city cemetery
I stopped to read every one of

the hundred or so weathered headstones.
The names were real and so was the history.



A small four..."
Absolutely BEAUTIFUL!
From a dying author known the world over, I apppreciate you're wondrous work.
Lama Milkweed L. Augustine Ph.D

The Nightmare
-------------



In the darkness
In the night,
Beneath a waxing moon.
I awoke in frenzied fright
With visions of a Shadow.

Black He was,
Cauldron Spawn;
And still as
Death itself.
I shuddered with unholy calm;
The eye of the storm
where spirits dwell.

It stared at me
With burning eyes,
Reflecting the fires of Hell.
I turned my head to avoid the sight,
But the specter invaded
My soul.

Silent movements of shadowed hands
Encrusted with the age of time,
Spewed forth vicious,
Bitter winds;
The Fury was not kind.

Wind-whipped and quite afraid,
In vain I tried to pray
Of all the things both
Great and small
Evil could not sway.

Hopelessly, I uttered a cry,
For I feared the
Nameless One.
And in despair
Buried my face,
And whispered
Names of Gods.

The Ghoul cringed
At the murmured words,
Hid its eyes
From mine.
The wind in the room
Screeched to a halt;
It wailed an eerie cry.

All was quiet
In the blackened room
As it began to fade,
Grandmother’s power
Has whisked it away-
To the bottom
Of its tainted grave.

Julie Edwards

Marked Days For to Understand the Contrast Made by a Two Dimensional Living
---------------------------------

I have been. Days to mark
Found that stomach falls to grip thirst first.
It is a lie that it is painful
The entire time. To die I died just fine, just fine.
Been days to dragging feet.
This manner of love steeped.
Smoke wrangled with all my southern parts
And from across some titled distant land,
to mention resolution it is just land, discovered. Has grass and sky, And is contrasted to wood
burning: By burning

Mark one: a slant made with thick graphite
I know that moisture traps the odor
of smoke better than anything else.
My daughter had visions of the world on fire
Could smell it on her clothes

Mark two: With crayon in some made up color, Something like “Smiling Cheeks Pink”
Or “Sunset on Water Orange” pausing to look up
She said that my shirt had a hole in it
And that I couldn’t go to work looking like that.
Said, “Fix your eyes, they are dark and set and deep And sad and I don’t want to see them.”
They weren’t the color that one would use
For smiling, or sunsets.

Left footprints in the carpet

Mark Three: In charcoal perfectly black
But when touched.
Have you ever smelled the odor of “hot” and “Sun” that gets into sand?
Ever turn to look behind with only half of your body. Tongue starts to dry.
Wind leaves waves of uncut fields folding
Upon a shore that we made with allegory.
Told you that I would never leave our childhood
With out you

Mark Four: Pastel, Pastel, Pastel
I am a liar

Mark five: A monochromatic theme dies into settling: A slash!
Smoke will still rise upon acre, upon acre.
Our love tastes like blackened bark.
While we are green and moving although
In wind still having contrast to wood
burning; by burning.

Starts in the throat to take the stomach
The stomach has three parts
And they are slowly traveled.
I forgot that I had not had a drink for hours
For more, for days.

My daughter uses acrylic to paint
The night settling into its themes.
Scenes lighted up with flame Pink and Orange.
A love that will take and leave waste
The hillside

DAYBREAK
The first yellow light of dawn hurries across rich brown fields. Rice shoots cast faint shadows on irrigation water. A cock crows.

In the small mud hut a shivering Chinese woman lights the morning fire,dried rice bundles crackle, their bright yellow flames illuminating an infant’s face. The woman’s soft maternal eyes glisten, her heart is full. Savory odors of green tea, fresh pork, and brown rice finally rouse her husband. She smiles at him tenderly.

High in the Alps an ancient monastery nestles in the snows, its weathered tower bell tolls morning prayers. A crystal clear metallic peal dances on the thin icy air, echoing back and forth among the jagged peaks. In his cell a solitary monk contemplates the freedom that Christ has given him, he is overcome with feeling. His body shivers like a man witnessing a lovely sunrise from a wind-blown, early morning peak.

On the Russian frontier a young couple awakens, their big feather bed is soft and warm. Outside the window of their wooden farmhouse the prairie is an ocean of wildflowers stretching for a thousand miles.Larkspur, red Indian Paintbrush, Bluebell, and yellow Wallflowers sway slowly in the early morning air.

The young woman is lovely. Her hair is long and pale yellow, her eyes the clearest blue, like the sky mirrored in prairie pools after a cool spring rain.Tenderly he caresses her soft warm body. She yields! Passionately they celebrate their troth, their youth, and daybreak.

By Barry W

COLD SILENCE

By: Natalia Laverde

I’m alone the whole night,
wishing that in the morning,
the sun doesn’t rise again;
that the moon,
the cold moon dominates my existence,
and this way, no one can see,
that last night when I loved you,
with a knife I made that sprout from you,
Blood.
And you slept calmly,
but you never woke up,
last night when I loved you,
without knowing you,
under the moon and under some others,
Which have seen me to do the same thing.

Brú na Bóinne and the Builder of Newgrange
by Susan Schwan

I
My heart is pierced as light wakes on
Winter’s Solstice morn, bathes Sliabh Rua
in the blood color of its name,
dazzles over that mountain to fill
the valley and crawl through
a tiny rectangle above the door in the wall,
just as you planned. Light seeps the length
of cruciform passageway
and cuts the center chamber in two,
illuminating, for brief minutes,
exquisite spirals and rhombuses.
Across a valley of time so deep that
I cannot fully grasp how many
generations have lived and died, I witness
the work of your weathered hands.

II
Wolf howls to a new moon
where wolves no longer prowl—
I see you, Builder, standing on this plain
long before the Celt ever came. Your keening
carries across a well of centuries.
You suffer the chisel of the earth
upon your face, while you wield
a tool against the rock—
a tongue that even deaf and blind
may understand. Small concentric
circles carved in stone show
the poetry of your life, the art
to which you gave your years.

Peace is not found man to man in your
valley, but in the yielding of the soil
to seed and sun and harvest,
in the small grunts of surprise and pain
before the sudden deaths that feed your family.
You struggle hard for life. Peace
lies in enough and more, and so
you fight man and earth for
every second you can get, and then at night
you rest.

By firelight the stories come.
They carry the past like patterns of moon’s
movement and starlight. Waterfalls of
memory flow over you, and on
the curling mists that rise from them
ride the gods, slipping through the walls
of history to the reality of the hearth. They speak
with scratchy voice of raven,
thlock-thlock-thlock of owl’s flapping wings.
Under aurora borealis you dream
the future in past tense and mysteriously upend
in circles great stones to mark
the places of visitation and augury.
You celebrate with abandon
and sacrifice with blood.

III
Now I am lost in the curve of your
unlettered language. The universe lies
coiled on a stone at the door, captured
on the walls of man-made caves.
Five hundred years before the pyramids would rise,
you engineered and built a ceiling, proof
against the rains of three thousand more.
You scribed signs and wonders upon the facings
of your temple-tombs, and then
you hid your art, exposing it only
at sun-laden moments.

IV
In Ireland there lies a valley.
Tread softly there.
The stories, the art endure, a quiet
web that underlies our everyday technologies.
The ghosts of kings and commoners,
Celtic warriors, ancient saints,
hearing the flood of cars and lorries,
may softly turn their backs to us
and only murmur their complaints.
Holding my breath, I wait for more:
thunder and earthquake and star-fall,
a shattering of invisible restraint as
Earth thrashes off its human fetters!
Worse, these dead may rise from
the dust that we’ve disturbed,
sever all that holds them here,
and leave us in this land, alone.

Sister Friend ©

When I call you sistah friend
It comes from my heart
No jealousy, no competition
No thoughts that are darts

When you are down
Just do what you can
When your light shines
I’ll be your biggest fan

Because I believe
That everyone has their time
To be center stage
You will have yours, and I will have mine

The love between us
Will be full of truth
Our bond for each other
Will outlive our youth

So when I call you sistah friend
I want you to know
That my heart is in it
And I want you to grow

So don’t ever question or spend time in worry
My feelings are sincere
And I will not make you sorry

Just sit back and relax
And enjoy the sensation
Of a true friendship
With no decimation

You look at me
With doubt in your expression
You question my statements
As some type of regression?

Well I do believe that with hard work and prayer
That true sistahship is possible
When each person is aware

That everyone has their time, their turn, their season
That another’s success should not be the reason
To look at yourself and feel bad or compare
Yourself to another
And begin to fear

That you’ll be overlooked
Or left behind
I believe you’ll get yours
And I’ll get mine

So when I call you, sistahfriend I want you to know
That my heart is in it
And I want you to grow

by Ron Roseborough

Frozen Tears

Frozen tears fall to the ground,
Spun sugar world stained with brown.

Snow like mold on window screen,
Distorts my view of taunting dream.

Wish I could have kept you near,
Stemmed the flowing of your tear.

Dawn, the darkness soon will bring,
And gone my love, my broken ring.

Banish darkness with the dawn,
In light of day these thoughts be gone.

Soon our souls will greet the sun,
Then once again they will be one.

MISSING


No heartbeat.

No pulse.

No brain activity.



Something made me snap.

Something just gave out.

Something got ripped out of the side of my heart.



The chunk is bloody and dark.

And the wound wide gaping and red.



Pulsing.

My heart.

I carry it in my hand.

The blood, vessel of hope, drips out through my fingers,

Futile barriers trying to hold on to what has already passed.



I don’t want to let go of my bleeding heart.

I need it.

For living,

Breathing without the chunk of my heart.

The chunk of my heart that got ripped out.

Out of the side of my heart.

The chunk where my soul used to be.



There is nothing there anymore.

Two gaping lips.

Trying desperately to close.

To be whole again.



My heart, that I gave away with a piece of my soul.



It came back bleeding,

With a chunk missing,

Like a broken heart

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.

SILENCE
by Roos

Down to earth between hurt
Can't touch by human light
Even with a simple heart
Still hard to forget

Angry face may not describes
Sad in the heart can hides
Can't look from my eyes
Won't drop the tears

Change my mind continously
Keep down in my head deeply
My silence so devastating
Pain is part of learning

About who am I ?
About how strong am I ?
About how brave am I ?
About who really I am.

BIRD LEAVES THE CORNICE

so,

that was the final line of a long poem

are we
collectively thinking it “flew away?”

nevertheless, i did not say that, if
i were to say, no, it lift-

ed like
an old film revolves—stop-motion effect. we

regard film, delicate blink: speckled eggs,
hatch eggs, regurgitating,
flap,
a flapping & now wish—

we wish, the least of even us
it is

‘flew away.’

They Used To

Ideas used to flow like
a steady stream
a rushing, gushing river
full of life and wriggling with joy.
My foliage was lush and sentinel trees
reached up from the undergrowth
to the azure skies
with puffs of clouds marring it.
Creatures came to life
off the pages I wrote upon.
Villains I despised
as much as my reader did.
Heroes I wept for when they died.
Dragons whose scales gleamed;
not just at their touch;
but to see too.
Like I said, this is
what my ideas used to do
all the time.
Some nights, I’d be awake
with them chattering away
like a dozen conversations
all at once.
However, ideas dry up like rivers, lakes and dams;
it’s unfortunate but true.
And when they do, I wander
around my unit complex
surf the internet
shop and spent too much.
Ideas used to jump out at me.
but now, I have to go hunting
into the overgrown foliage.
How do I know where they are? Because,
that’s where they’re hiding.

by Mozette

Shade

I reach down inside myself,
right down to my appendix.
I rummage among the ridges of waste,
in pursuit of pure snow,
a wispy expanse of cotton balls,
tinted by blue shadow,
to find soft innocence,
to attain a form of rescue
from who I might become,
stock still among the street sleet,
charcoal and mud homologized
into a wriggling mass.
My muscles writhe in agony,
their view of the world
surrounds the harmony
that might come from inside,
with ruts and folds of a
malignant tumor, bred with disgrace,
wipes out the last of the blue and white.

Remember to wipe your feet on my welcome mat.

By Samantha Noble

A Tanka Poem


the monster
with his skin turned
inside out,
begging for money . . .
breathes the same air

©2009 robert d. wilson

I Am the Flower Girl

Downhill I came, hungry
Trying to look somewhat more sophisticated
Than the grouchy child
I felt like.

Was it obvious to anyone else,
My stomach yelling "feed me, feed me?"
So tired last night
Only a glass of cold milk would hold me over
To say hello to morning.

I have eaten!
Ah, the flesh is weak!
I wanted only to satisfy my cravings-
NOW!
If I were stronger
I would have dressed and gone to that little cafe
Instead of eating cold meatballs from the fridge.

So, here's me, calmer.
Sated by leftovers,
I'll make coffee now. An after thought,
A chaser, so to speak.

While it perks
I scatter second thoughts, regrets,
Embarassed chuckle -
All strewn upon the kitchen floor.

Right now, I am the flower girl.

Margaret D.

A Tanka Poem


the monster
with his skin turned
inside out,
begging for money . . .
breathes the same air

©2009 robert d. wilson"</i>

Grady Harp wrote a Self Portrait

SELF PORTRAIT

Memories rattle inside time’s
can and tumble out
on the lawn especially
in summer especially in
the hour when light dips
behind the edge of the yard
and trees and what’s left of
the barn at the end of the
dirt driveway,
a bangle of moment
held loosely by evening
breezes until the stars stop
being shy to the
gloaming. Little lights of
blinking fireflies pull
the space between the lawn’s
dewy covering and the
ink that is night hiding behind
a waning white moon
into worn pages of yesterday
tales. And in all of that
there is no grandpa left
and no crickets and no
prairie parades, charades
or even shards of a boy’s
life or beginnings of one
that could hold tenderly and
say it was okay that
I never became and artist.

Grady Harp

purity

the lotus
glows in the morning sun
for a few hours
untouched by the slime
on which it grew
then falls back
to become part of the slime

daya dissanayake

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its lovliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness;
John Keats

Love can be Madness
A Form of Insanity

Wrong person
Wrong race
Wrong religion
Wrong culture

Decision Time: Stay and pursue or go away and wonder what the outcome would have been. Worse yet loving someone who for whatever reason cannot love you back. StarCrossed Lovers. Distant Lovers. Passion, the unspoken words in a room where we are together that surrounds us in a bubble no one else can understand.
I have loved and made love with my Lover only through dreams, wishes and notions. Unspoken desires. Imagery of his arms around me. Ours is a love that is pure, chaste, and holy. Infinitely beautiful, but infinitely frustrating.
Lovers only in the hidden rooms, recesses and canyons of your beautiful mind.

Initially Inspired by the following quote:
"I have loved to the point of madness;
That which is called madness,
That which to me,
Is the only sensible way to love."
F. Sagan

DeBorah Ann Palmer

I Could Have
I Should Have
by Dennis Gelbaum

As I sit here alone
I remember us being together
the wind blowing through our hair
the grains of sand
slipping through our fingertips
splashes of purple and blue
and the reddish hue from the setting sun
the cool breeze off the timid water
the absence of a crowd
We were comfortable in each others presence
sitting closely holding hands
enjoying subtle glances.
I wanted to kiss you
but I didn’t want to spoil anything
so I didn’t.
And I could have. And I should have.
But I didn’t want to spoil anything
so I didn’t!
And I could have. And I should have
But I didn’t want to spoil anything
so I didn’t!

Under the array of threesteps


Behind the green mirrors,
she buzzed rakish singing,
envious Affinity.

Feeling immoderate motions
she wished to bid with commanding tongue,
what she desired.

However, what happened was something,
with what she completely disagreed,
with what she won’t put up, with what she fizzles!

But Beauty still kept circling around,
scarped by noone,
beautifying her beautiful wings.

And so quacking Affinity,
pondering about the world,
still and all had to find another mirror.

THE MEN O' FINNE
by Michele Kaplan

I see the men o' Finne!
I saw with my own eyes- with this flapper in flare.
worse then the tyranny of the marmoset
worse then the swallow trapped in the thick tartar swamps
worse then the disembowelment of the romping platypus!

These druids, enslaved to the bulbous bouffant
slaved to the crustacean trollops
with their torso backwash squirming into
the crevi of their existence and strife
searching for the creature they called Somniferous
to add what he can to their .. bouillabaisse de resistance!

take one spoon and you too shall be doing the Charleston-
the coochie coo with a skexsis eating gefling tapioca,
wondering if there is a delicatessen that only serves croissants

and what of the squid and crumpet marching towards you?
their feet like fate! Screaming sphincters!
they will surely ask :
"are you the barracuda? The lupus who watooseyed into the buttocks with your cutlery, and ever sassy glob and charm?"
"No, I am the rump of a dustbunny, mortal and vermilion
I am the frolicking wastrel- the brujah in the rough!"

and you remember an ephemeral sphinx that once told you
it was spontaneity and lies that broke
the asparagus tall like trees-
or was it Nietzche and his temptous spleen,
spewing philosophical hairballs,
like an hysterical weinersnitchtzel, pickle and spam?

no matter
the squid and crumpet are marching closer with their
Celtic leiderhosen wiggling with persnickety!
Their anti feetbed weaponry,
swinging like a giddy orangutan and knoosed swine!

and the fantastical zeppelin
funded by the river Styx,
wiggling through the clouds of Macadamia,
through it's highlandic gazeboes and refined rutabaga cuisine
struck every heart of the enslaved druids
as it crooned the bubonic anthem " Oh plethora! Oh plethora!"

"The crumpets and squid are marching closer
can anything help you now?" screamed the flapper, aware
"this must be THEE large and pendulous haunting fauxpau the Dali Llama spoke of!"

No, in these times of Pneumatic renaissance
these times of iconhood and the dying rococo
where the cannibals eat the lovecrafts - the toboggans and try to copulate-
it is all a mistake indeed

Schenectady! Infamy!

the squids and crumpets attack you
like the epidermis that smothers the bones ,
And so you die in the arms of the flapper
who slowly whispers "Mered..."

strip poetry


one poem for each piece of clothing
she says so i read her some carver
the first poem is short but poignant
off comes my shirt tossed to the dogs
i count the many poems she requires
i quickly pick another poignant piece
and i am curious about socks after all
they are identical... now two poems
she says this is harder then you think

J.A. Spahr-Summers

RECYCLED

Fold me like paper
Rip me from every end
Throw me into waste baskets
Poke me with ball points
Make me dirty
Then crush me against your palms
And throw me away
Or maybe I was dropped
Fell upon the floor
To be trampled on and rained upon
Caught up by gusty winds that knock me around to and fro
I am eventually picked up and thrown away
After being exposed and read aloud
All my private things tossed away
Made into an airplane to float into someone else’s mind
Will they bully me some more or let me be
Unfold me, smooth me out and fix my flaws
No….. I am spit upon
Spilt coffee stains me
Tears smudge me
I am used up
Tossed from hand to hand
Punched with holes and bruised with ink
No one hears me cry
I remain silent to everything around me
I slip to the floor and drag myself away
I am worn out

Debra A. Suba

Ocean ─ new life



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

Crystal ocean rolling
shades of blue or green
vibrant coral colours
paint a living scene

Mother oceans stories
moonlight shadows swell
gentle waves are speaking
hidden tales they tell

Vessels, rocking, thrashing
stronger winds now wail
drawing closer daily
ancient people sail

Virgin sand now they walk
in this morning dew
feasting seafood’s freshness
starting life anew


David J Delaney
26/08/2009

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 drugged wow
didn't turn her hip
body half around.
A blush didn't stop
from her pubis
but opened and dropped
her lip and eyelid.

Candle ankles
and her heels rise.
Hickory lanterns
swell left and right.
The way to her house
multiplies,
elbow out
shoe turned aside.

"Soon," she called,
he asked the other.
She faced her phone
with him before her;
went back to her post
when he crossed the street.
He wrote a note
but couldn't deliver it.

She flies at the sun
like a glint that's gone
and lands on a bough
but sings no song.
She shakes her wings
in the shadow.
Her ruffles hurry
quick and slow.

I am


I am your dream
Where love arouses
Our shared senses


I am your life
Together we 'oft dally,
In craving, human arms


I am within you,
And never without
Our fire of sensuality


I am your passion,
Giving all of myself
Whatever you demand


I am the ever constant
Light in your existence,
The flame of all desire


I am your heart
Beauty in great joy,
Holding in flesh pain


I am your sorrow
When you watch
My dying body


I am your spirit
Now you weep
At my grave


I am still there
So speak to me
In my eternity


I am yours alone
So do not forget
My love was real


Che Dee

Beautiful and passionate poem.


Che wrote: "I am


I am your dream
Where love arouses
Our shared senses


I am your life
Together we 'oft dally,
In craving, human arms


I am within you,
And never without
Our fire of sensualit..."

The Ritual

We stand in a circle, our minds at rest.
Our energies gather.
With Athame in hand I begin...
"Guardians to the Watchtowers of the East..."
The ceremonial blade passes to the next.
Our energies gather.
The ritual begins.
Around the circle we pass.
The Maiden becomes the Mother.
The Mother becomes the Crone.
The Crone passes.
Such is the Wheel.
Such is Life.
The Veil thins.
We commune with the Dead.
We speak to those that have left us to journey to Sumerland.
And we remember.
We bid our farewells to those that have passed.
Glad we are to know that even if they are not with us they have never left us.
With Athame in hand I begin to open our circle.
"Guardians to the Watchtowers of the East..."
The blade passes Widdershins.
We journey home.
The ritual complete.
Cakes and Ale!
Cakes and Ale!

Reading After Midnight


Hour after hour, they watch the tube.
No one in the rehab reads.

They remind me of bored household pets.
Perhaps it's self hypnosis.
I almost envy their rapture, their zombie gaze.

The mad house fills
The shelters fill
The graveyards fill
The crack house is full again

There will always be a void inside of me.

The counselors advise me to read steps 2 & 3 from the AA Big Book.


Came to believe...

Someone changes the channel:

It's a show about a brother on parole who ends
up in the joint again
is sprung, hooks up with a beautiful mobbed up crack head:

Together, they're a sort of inner city Bonnie & Clyde
ripping off drug lords
while gaining insight
about themselves without the benefit of middle class psychotherapy

It's a show about growth

It's the one time in rehab where everyone is silent, reverent--
...believe that a power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity:

Before sanity, sleep.

I weep for the simplest pleasures:
I want myself, to be by myself.
I want to hear myself think.

Consider the body

How vulnerable it is.
Without food, clothing, shelter,
why does anything exist?

There's a void inside of me.
There's a void inside most all of us.
I've come to believe that no one thing will ever

change that.

Copyright 2009, Stephen Russell

CONTRASITY

Nothing i can do,this feeling
Try to shout what but my mouth is tightly shut
My anger, my revenge, those filthy words
Come at the dusted desk with the ringing telephones
So bored when can't be alone

The rain dancing,moving by the melody of the sky
Writing a message on my scratched wall with the lightning lullaby
Is there any secret? or just a mask of an abstract consciousness?
Like a thick fog make all reality goes blind

Nothing more than a painful headache
To the left to the right,nothings more could be alright
What are they saying? just a crisp of potato chips
Singing a blues and a song of nightmare crying

But all just back, from the dusted desk and the ringing telephones
While the dogs playing dumb with the bones
Saying yes and no from the usual stupid question
And from where i could find nowhere everywhere

i'm sorry, Amy. Could you delete message 13. As usual, the tabs didn't hold. I don't get it. The document is protected on Word. I've submitted a different poem.

AN AMERICAN BEAUTY

What you notice first is how small and hunched over she is.
A big hump rises up between her shoulders, and
her head parallels the ground.
Yet her neck and carriage are strong as she peers up, not missing a thing.

Her mouth forms a natural grin,
a grin she has generously shared with the world
for 93 years.
That grin subsides when she’s focused on you.
That’s when her twinkling eyes stare intently,
and her lips purse together,
listening, remembering.

Her hair is what you notice next,
long red hair that’s now mostly white,
a deep, rich color that’s not ephemeral
and can’t be dismissed.
I gaze enraptured as she braids it every morning,
using 2 long hair pins to keep it in place.
When she’s done braiding,
she casually flips is over her shoulder
like a young school girl,
immune to her own beauty.

When she walks, she scurries,
quick, solid, and strong on her feet.
She has a walker she scarcely uses.
She holds it up in front of her as she firmly moves
forward, all 93 years of her, moving out.
Her legs are strong, determined.
I long to touch them.

I spend the first day wanting to explain her—
create my own story on why she never married.
“She’s secretly gay.”
“She was unattractive and gawky.”
“She loved and was burned.”

None seem to fit.
I give up explaining and enjoy her.
If there’s a story it’s this one:
She was so open-hearted and bursting with pure joy
that no man could contain her in 1924.

People like her.
They say, “You’re doing all right, Thelma”
and ask her how she stays so pleasant.
Everyone knows her,
or perhaps I should say, she knows everyone.
All day long I’m introduced to all within range,
as we gallivant around this small Wisconsin town
where she’s lived her whole life.

She talks, not noticing when people are rude
or too busy.
She continues on, asking questions, conversing.
“Can you imagine that?” she’ll say to me.
Or she’ll tell me to look at the birds
for the fifth time.
“I wonder why that one has a red beak?”

I soak in her light-hearted wonder,
and feel the joy of being alive and happy
with the world.
I want more of her.
“Wonderful you,” she says, ending every encounter
with, “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

I want to touch her, hold her.
I want to breathe her in.
I want to swallow her.
When we watched the Grammy awards,
I sat 3 hours at her feet.
I couldn’t sit in my own chair.
I couldn’t sit close enough.

She was jump-center on her high school basketball team
1920 to 1924
Maybe basketball is the key
to open-hearted joy and powerful beauty
at the age of 93.

From the Outside …

{ A Poem for Alicia Lavatai}

From the outside I have seen you,
An average lady, I guessed.
Nothing remarkably different
About the way you spoke or dressed.

In fact, from where I stood sometimes
It didn’t even show,
The pain that you’d been feeling
The hardships you had known.

To think that you had cancer,
Endured such suffering
To think of all the pinned up anger
You must’ve been buffering,

It breaks my heart wide open
Reaches right inside of me
But mends my spirit back again,
Opens up my eyes to see...

That though the world may knock us out
Laying down is our own choice.
We choose to fight or fail, my friend,
To laugh or cry… rejoice.

I’ve heard the others speak of you,
A sob caught in their throat,
They talk of your brave countenance
The inspiration you evoked.

Whenever I had come to call,
I wondered if you could guess
How many lives you’ve touched out there
With your gentle stalwartness.

Mother Theresa said one time
That God puts burdens such
That the worthy ones shall bear them…
That’s why he trusted her so much.

From the outside looking in I’ve seen
A life that’s full of light
Touching others with such ease
It makes the rest of us feel slight.

If we lead by our example,
Then I wanted you to know
That though our paths have rarely crossed
Your strength has touched me so.

It takes great strength to stand up strong
When you really want to fall
To consider your effect on others
When it shouldn’t matter to you at all.

From the outside I have wondered
How someone I’ve rarely met
Could change my take on life so much;
Help me forget regret.

So I wrote this poem with you in mind
Because I cherish you my friend,
Even though I’m just a stranger,
On the outside… looking in.

The End