electric lady land

I met love at electric lady land
her words of steel dynamited my soul
she flipped me forward in time
I watched life bend and sway
lady closed my eyes, opened
my mind, through lives of
candy coated dreams of places
I have been, through dream states
long ago and far away and once
once upon a time there was this woman
her eyes shined bright with the knowledge of
the mission
a world to behold of life in the heart of things
come to see my lady, listen to her steely words, so
just, so mighty, so filled with love, lady
take me by the hand and fly me away to the place
the place I want to be
love is a blessing, it's always a joy
life is to be lived for everyone gets to see
the beauty

Meiya wrote: "Crimson
I loved this poem!! It gave me chills as I read it. WOW



Rip out my heart and throw away,
all that grief and pain
tear at the edges of my life
pull the threds undone
linger near the violent ways.
Speak of horror and guilt, you must?
Lo..."

Face

As I look up at the dark sky
I jump back
The stars are winking
At ME
Wait
The aren’t winking
They are blinking
Trying to hold back the tears of sorrow
The eyelids are a dam
But it can’t hold forever
It starts as a drip
Then a drop
Each tears a diamond
Sparkling in the moon light
Drip drop
Faster and faster
A river swirling around me
Then,

It stops
I look up
I know who is there
I’m the one braking
Shattering like glass
I crumple to the ground
Sadness surrounds me
CRACK!
I cry
Until no energy is left
I look up the face is smiling
I look away
And shut my eyes
I hope
Maybe
If I am lucky
I’ll die

UM STOP POSTING HERE>>> IT A WASTE CUZ THIS THREAD CLOSED FOR CONSIDERATION<<<<< I DONT KNOW THE MODERATOR POST A MESSAGE IN BOLT UP THERE READ IT!!!!

I'm fat,So what?
By Evelyn Rosario


I'm fat because i used to eat when i was depressed
I used to be depressed because of all the terrible things that people use to say about me.
And you know what, we are in the year 2009,
And i love myself just the way i am,
And all you haters who have been talking about me,
I'm here to let you know
That I'm fat and I'm proud.
You can say anything you want
Because i appreciate the way my body is.
I'm still going to get a man who cares for me,
Not for my looks,but for who i really am.

when a painter and poet meet
by Namita Krishnamurthy


I


mid-September - we're walking, lost
in rumbles of today's street. some men are talking.
some are not.

suddenly, your voice is a room I can walk through,
every syllable, a resonance aching
through my body;

I know
I am already smiling


II


walk slow I say
so that I can rest somewhere in your voice
and read Cummings, or maybe
just watch your hands paint poems into me

a vase of van Gogh's sunflower, a host of starry skies


III


i do not want to stop walking, but somehow we do.
all around us, the noisy crowd of a street.
your fingers within mine, are as obvious as them all.

everything is loud, everything is silent

and our hands, a metaphor to every poem
I haven't written:

just too simple to resolve

In the silence of the night
by:Estephanie reyes

In the silence of the night
you talk and give me light
you some thing i cant fight
you help me fly like a kite

your some thing i cant bare
your love is in the air
when i look at you i stare
glare
your something i cant share

you and me are a pair
you can fuck me in a chair
when you done
you done and you leave ma with 'dis spare
and i know you care

Expectations

Cuffs and Shackles
That never let go.
Answer their Riddle,
Give them what they want.
Solve the riddle,
And they only Tighten.

Why can’t I be Released?
Why is the Binding
Only Tighter?
Why can’t I break away
From these
Cuffs and Shackles?

I cry.
The weight and
Their Plaguing Nonsense
To Solve their Riddle
Never Ends.
They don’t stop.
Only more and more
Arise.

Each time,
I grow more able,
Stronger Against them.
By Biding my time,
They will no longer
Hold Me.

One Day,
They call to me,
To solve One more Riddle.
Their Cries are louder.
I give them my
Final Conclusion.

Again they Constrict
As they are satisfied.
Whispering,
They ask another
Riddle.

No More!

I leap. I pull
And struggle.
They break.

They have broken.
I am free.
No more Tighter and Tighter
Bonds.

Sweet Words of Thanks
Escape my Mouth.
I have now
Made Flight from
The Terrible Things.

I may Live Life
As I will.
No more
To Stop Me
From What I
Want.
Dreams and Hopes
May now be Fully Fulfilled.

I know the chains
May Never Truly
Leave.
The Riddles still
Echo.
The Marks of Binding still
Show.

But as of now,

I walk away,
Savoring my
Freedom.

to mama, with love.


From the time I remember until date
Not once have u been able to hate;
You’ve always been there for us
I can even remember you crying just to save us.

Together we’ve joked, cried and fought
I miss you more with every thought;
I prayed that you may soon be fine
Just so that you could get everything back in line.

What you meant to me I can never tell
You picked me up, whenever I fell;
You spoke with love to everyone
Without a thought that when needed, they may be gone.

We slept together every night
Though you’d not sleep unless you held me tight;
I’d tickle you then just to have you yell
But that was fun, I must tell.

“Take care of my garden” is what you’d say
For so much love, is this the price you should pay?
Without your touch the plants seem to be dying
Thinking of you, I can just start crying.

I wish I could apologize for the times I’ve hurt you
And then have u hug me and say “its okay Gonh”
The touch of your hand, the love in your eyes
I want to tell you, its all been so nice.

Memories of you waiting for me at the door
Makes me want to cry all the more ;
I wanted to just hug you so tight
But the tubes, the ventilator and needles just gave me a fright .

Mama, come home, I can wait no more
Staying at home has become just a bore;
I love you mommy, I’m sure you know
Your little baby doesn’t want to let go.

To God u went a little too soon
I guess he’s playing a different tune;
Up in heaven, you’re happy I hope
Without you now, I'll try to cope.

Birdie



They lived as married
For so many years.
Now she lives in a bucket
filled with her own tears.
She gave him everything
That she had to give
Then she took his life
so that she could live.
Now she spends all her time.
In a five by seven cell.
Still, it's better than a love
That was a living hell.
Though her tears flow free,
She has no regrets.
She contemplates her fate,
But she never forgets.
And she does her time
Without a wail or a moan
Because she knows a prison
Has always been her home
And no matter how deep
Her bucket may be,
Sometimes being locked up
is the only way to be free.

A green blue beach is before me
True Blue moon energizing me
The sea sky is calm just for me
My heart so in Love blazing me

Love I am here with you in mind
I'm done with all that's left behind
And now nothing but You I find
Just Us 'n Stars united bind

Footsteps in the Sand
Molly Torgerson

You needed music
To hear.
Voices
To talk.
Footsteps in the sand,
In order to walk.
You needed kisses
To grow.
Heart
To see.
That the music in you,
Is the music in me.

As the stars kiss
The sky
And the rain
Pours down
My love calls to you
From across town.

You needed music
To hear.
Voices
To talk.
Footsteps in the sand,
In order to walk.
You needed kisses
To grow.
Heart
To see.
That the music in you,
Is the music in me.

You needed music
To hear.
Voices
To talk.
Footsteps in the sand,
In order to walk.

Gone

I asked for it to be taken away
I hope you don’t mind
It just couldn’t stay

It doesn’t mean
That I love you less
Or even that
I’ll ever forget

But how could I hold on
To what caused so much pain?

Of course this won't mean
You’ve gone on in vain

I have to move on
I’ve brought it to light
I’ve lived here too long now
Without putting up a fight

I’ll take what you gave me
I’ll make it alright
I’m yours after all,
I’ll keep you alive.

My Immortal(c)
By: Katie Irwin

Feeling the cold rush through me
Like an angry blade of steel I lay here
Awake, afraid, and seemingly alone
My mistakes run through me, too many
Too fast to grasp
But still I reach for solidity in the mist
At what point will I know I have made it through this nightmare
Kicking and screaming I am pulled
Two directions or maybe three, none of which seems right
A hand reaches toward my withered form
Unafraid of what they cannot see
I shrink away, I am not worthy of this
But, surely, this hand, attached to a warm heart, has pulled me from this darkness
Together we struggle, fighting together, fighting apart, towards the surface
Someone has found my darkness
As I reach for the light I am seen
This hand, this heart, this light, were all in you
I am free, I am unafraid, and I,
I am not alone

You are swimming around,
in my liquid head.
First you splish then you jump,
and then you land in my bed.

I'm drifting in your beauty,
you are my last hope.
Weave for me the length of your love,
and from it make me a rope.

I just set my boat on fire,
and lit my last flare.
The moment that I saw you,
I used my last prayer.

It doesn't matter you're in the distance,
and off trajectory.
I will swim with endless persistence,
but only when you command me.

~My Silence~

If life could be thought out
Before it was lived
If everything you desired
Was mine to give
If mistakes are truly things
Which belong to the past
If second times around
Are the ones that last
If hopes were little bricks
What could we build?
If your heart was a cup
Could it ever be filled?
If love and understanding
Are one in the same
If you thought we could work
Would you call out
My name?
If the future
Was now
And dreams
Reality
When you held out your arms
Would they be reaching
For me?
And if no words
Was a language
Only the souls
Could understand
Precious love
Please tell me
Would you long to hear
My Silence

By Chase von
tlp
The Last Panther
All rights reserved

Author of 'Your Chance To Hear The Last Panther Speak' and 'Pink, Blue and Green' available at Amazon...

TESTIMONY
Eden Victoria

PART I

I was born twenty-four hours ago
And twenty-four hours before that
I was born
Though my mother gave birth to me
Years and years ago
Decades before this day
My death began then
The very moment
I made my first departure
Exiting my mother's womb
Perhaps my first scream
Knew her protection of me ended at that moment
The day I entered the world
And began the first
Of a series of deaths.

I died the first
And every time
My father's treachery
Brought my mother's scream
I died at age nine
the day the bathroom door opened
And I saw my big brothers head hanging
A bloody needle in his arm-he was my hero.
I died at eleven the day my mother told me
That I was my father
And she hated me all my life.

I died on each of those four days
Four rapacious predators
Invaded my most intimate places
And molested my body and my soul,
I died at thirteen,
Drunk on Spanada
On the roof of the downtown YMCA
I died before that at twelve
When my mother threw me out into the night
On the street
Where I sat on a wall
One block away
And realized
She wouldn't come for me.

I died the day I threatened my father's life
For murdering something precious
In my little sister's body and soul
I died the day I planned my stepfather's death
For my mother
Calling me a liar
When I told her what he did to me.

I died on those days my friends
Betrayed me
With thefts or lies or usury
The days my family ostracized me
The day four police officers beat me bloody
Before the ambulance came for me
And before it took me away
One of the four stepped inside of the ambulance
To present me with a ticket and
I died.

I died the days I knew I hurt my children
I died the worst deaths
Gut-wrenching ones then.

I died so many times
Before I could reach out and touch
What I knew that life was...
I died by murders and suicides
By toxic people and substances
Circumstances and situations
I died
I died
I died
Yet a tiny light inside
Lived through it all
Watered by my tears
Nourished and nurtured
By a power greater
Greater than me and all of those
Who murdered me and helped me
Kill myself
And after all of those deaths I died
I cried
And cried
And cried
And I washed the pain inside
By the grace of God
Did I decide
To give Him all of that hurt
Poison
I used it for fuel
To carry me from one hell to the next
And you know
All of the many deaths I died
Could not prevent
One new birth
And every morning
I awaken
To another new day
Into life renewed
Fueled by God's goodness
Bright light of my days
Every one
Lit by God's Son.


PART II

I was born
Under God's Son
A fully grown and physically mature
Woman with a purpose
To glorify my Father
In all of my ways
I was born.

I was born
When I forgave my mother
And myself
When I allowed myself to love my father
In spite of.

I was born
When I blessed those who persecuted me
And when I smile
At a child of God
And when I say to an unbeliever
That
GOD IS
I am born again
And I am born again
And I am born again
Into life
Into life
Into life.

Eden Victoria
10/12/2004

I'm new to goodreads, but feel like I'm with a room full of friends...such a wonderful discovery of words.

Here is a recent poem for consideration...

Piano Astronomy
by Laura King

I remember sitting there outside the paperwhite door,
Hearing her soothing voice within
speaking over ill-played keys
while I dwelt on how little I practiced that week,
worried that she’d know
I did everything I could but
practice “Brisk Winds”
with its triplet phrases, sharps and flats.
I remember how she'd always opened the door, smiling,
letting the girl with the bouncing pony tail out first,
under her human arm bridge,
with a shiny lilting reminder that
“with a little practice, she’d be a star!”
and then, turning to me, announcing,
“well, there she is…my next star, ready and waiting! Come in, come in!”
And I would,
and I’d play my wrong notes and wobbly chords
pretending sincerely it had to be the keys’ fault,
that somehow they didn’t know what to do for my fingers,
“it’s alright, just play that part again,”
she’d say, and I would,
knowing that the braces boy had probably arrived by now, and he
was sitting on that bench, listening to
me, while his nail-biting mind made up excuses for his
practice-free week,
knowing that any minute the redhead would walk out the door,
and he'd hear her call me a star,
and it would be the new star’s turn to enter
this celestial kingdom
of make believe behind the angelwing door,
where we would all become
astronomical virtuosos
just for her.

When I Was Ten I Learned Hate
by Kate Knolls

Abel was sick
While Momma bussed dishes

For a family who could afford medicine

I ran down the streets

In the sweltering heat of a Georgia summer

My legs almost giving way

I tried to remember the house number

But I knew that

I could not miss the big white house

Offset from the street with its perfect rows of trees

Round the back to the kitchen

I found Momma

Eating her lunch from a tin pie plate 

A mason jar to drink from

And the white folks lied to themselves 

That she preferred it that way
She knew

They would rather die

Than let her eat from their china

"Abel has the fever"
I choked to my mother
As I watched her face

Go pale as the linens she had to clean

Knowing full well

That her employer's stern face was watching

Wouldn't let her leave

Unless it was his own son dying.

Whenever
You
Want to bring me a Latte
I
Am Yours.

Love’s Masterpiece (about Alice Garlock as seen by Rick Garlock - co-authors of SPIRIT UNBROKEN; THE TWO SIDES OF LOVE...)


I am canvas,
parched and plain,
stretched out taunt
to a boarded frame…

Awaiting brush to kiss my skin,
to bring life and beauty from outside in.

You are brush and bristle
and paint so fair,
you blend and match
colors rare…

And bring life, with your eyes of almond and passion strained,
to your porcelain look and my canvas plain.

Now, blended together
we two as one,
are so wrought with life
and love last long…

Poet's Haiku

We are the voices
the angry ventriloquist
throws against the wall.

the tragedy of the hamletesque

funny how a bit of water
refreshes
and a little more
enmeshes
the body with a
friend
called calcified cold

but better than to go
bluntly bludgeoned into
embodied disanimation
and yet
perhaps
better a blaze of
brutality
than
the mere formality of so many
drownings

a baby died in a bathtub

shake your fist
but that is all,
impotent barely being

the sickle is too sharp

Valentine's Day

Roses bloom as love.
Blossoms that lovers exchange
To show a heart's love.
Swearing their love eternal
Graced by the flower's promise.

Let Go...

Stop pulling on to me, pushing me where you want to go.
You are not my top prioroty, just my friend, a close one.
Stop begging me to call every moment of the day.
I have other people I care about also, deeply...
I don't want to lose you, but this, this is not the path I want to take.
We are not glued tight like siamese twins.
Stop complaining when I coroperate with other people.
Just let go, stop sqeezing me so tight, set me free...

Three Days In

Nothing is longer
than these twenty-eight days, not
waiting rooms, not pregnancy tests,
not the moment when the brakes
will not save you. In four weeks
I will die, find my own grave,
pull the earth blanket over
my grateful eyes. In four weeks
I will be born, white-hot
from the belly of a meteor,
shooting feathers and sparks,
burning every bridge I come to.

Wart Buddies

Is that a wart on your leg?
Don’t hide it, it’s true
It’s a wart on your leg
And I don’t think it’s new
‘Cause it’s blue
Oh it's weird
With a beard
That's oozing with puss
It’s disgusting
And busting
And crusting
And over flowing
Again with the puss
It has warts of it’s own
And they’re starting to groan
I’d say get it removed
But I just can’t approve
Of the death of a wart
That can talk about Locke
In retort
For it's property rights
It’s revolting I know
And insulting to you
But I only brought it up
Because look
I have one on my leg too.

A profile of my first love
By Pesh

My first love is a portrait of paper and print
Words, lines, texts and chapters
An outline of cryptic brain-rousing hardcovers
And cinematic dark characters that you love to loathe
Satires that leave me in stitches
Or wallowing in self-reflection

Graphic descriptions that send chills and thrills down my spine
Classic paperbacks with yellowed pages
And tall tales of tragic love
Speedy thrillers
That keep me awake into the dead of the night
Lest I close my eyes and relive them

I plunge into feathery romances
And turn sixteen again
Winding classics steal my sleep with suspense
The world’s famous reveal too much, or leave the important unsaid
I launch into their life stories
An astronaut’s debut into space

I swim across murky streams
Traverse ghost valleys
Lodge between jagged cliffs
Clutch at the edge of monstrous boulders
Above abysmal abysses
And hike and duck with anecdotes of adventure

Love and We

Empty shoes climb the stairs
elevators, box-in the silence
cubes divide, who they hide
endless chore ever more
collect your pay at the door
cities never see the trees
nor the fish that swim the seas
tolerant, selfish, liberal abash
apartments, tall above the streets
self-contained, life within
All the same, day in, day in
from beginning, end to end
then you die, feeling no pain
symbols mark your grave
no one passes, no one cares
shall we continue to stay...
as there is nothing in this life...
climb the stairs in empty shoes
silent ride the elevator
sit in the cube and hide
collect your coin, for cores of pride
live a life self-contained
only to then die without pain...?
I think not.... not for me
for I shall live... live with pain
see the trees and fish at swim
and I will bring you with me there...
Yes, Love and We....
Let us leave this sightless place
find the sun, warm the sole
run free with the wind
and for ever more be happy within.

by Willie, the wonderful
11/14/08 8:10 AM

I Danced Alone...

I danced with myself,
I know my partner well.
We've been together for a time;
how long, I wont tell.
I’m not ashamed.
I’m more carefree.
Dancing liberates me.
Rhythms vibrate within my ears…
I feel measured movements
over take me without fears.
One step to the left…
one to the right…
my soul arises with this guiding light.
A flow, a cadence, a slide to enhance -
practicing steps, leaving nothings to chance!
I laugh and speak words that flatter -
For me, who’s voice would matter?
Like mirrored objects, we see one another…
Chasing shadows on distant walls …
auditioning footstep echo in yawning halls.
Windows open, admitting waltzes of air…
drapes parted, neighbors invited to stare.
Twisting my torso, arms float air -
Liberating my spirit, my mood without care
I danced alone….


by Willie, the wonderful
1/12/09 7:43 AM

A Valentine Mistake!

I wrote my sweetheart a Valentine
I sent it by way of the net.
It’s not as personal as post
but I hope its meaning is close.
The flowers were pictures;
the candy's the same.
The words were pink,
with hearts I think?
Not smart you say?
Boy, will I pay?
Not romantic -
even for Valentines Day?
What was I thinking?
I wasn’t drinking.
My sweetheart's worth more
than just a "click."
This gal's my favorite sidekick!
I'll call the florist
and ask them to be quick.
Send her a dozens roses,
a box of candy -
Ya, that should do the trick.

by Willie, the wonderufl
2/4/09 5:38 AM

LOVE

what is love?

love is something magical
love is sweet and everything nice
if you look hard enough you'll find that guy or gal

that is your soulmate
who you will forever love
they are your other half

love can be found in where you least expect it
no matter what; your match is somewhere
in the world searching for you

just listen to your heart
and it will guide you to them

love is your other half
it is your guide in the world
you will know when you find that specail someone
love is the one thing in life that will help you through your life

The flame of mine, nearly forgotten momories, begins to light, like a
firefly, it makes you seem so precious to me, how will that nostalgic
scent burn in my heart? Flickering cherry blossom bonfire, please
convey my longing, though we choose different paths, my heart is still
calling for you.
Slowly now, pale moon-light, shine through your
gental eyes, trust all my love for you. I wanna be stron

golden book




hot wet terry cloth on ice white porcelain
explains what words cannot say
myriad meals with meager means at
lotus restaurants, jasmine tea
on the tip of our tongues crowd the
secrets we share between bites
with two you always get egg roll

on the way home there is more canvas
more gesso, more pigment with which to paint
the wordless between us
a fullness that is not calculated by what
we had for lunch

father-death and taxes cannot change that
a continent I couldn’t reach and you would
just as soon leave didn’t stand between us
the brain is mightier than the words that tumble from it
small red frames with baby clothes images inside
took it to another level
my carpenter, my decorator, my friend

we stand together
unable to pretend it away this rock beneath our feet
feet that know the way home through polyethylene
and brick walls, haircuts and Saturday afternoons
sun streaming through car windows
chasing us, always catching us
rubber band bounce us back to the beginning
it was all in the finding out

nice poem

HERE IS A PETER HANDKE POEM "SINGULAR AND PLURAL" FROM HIS "INNERWORLD" THAT I TRANSLATED MANY YEARS AGO":

On a bench in the park sits a Turk with a thickly bandaged finger: I am sitting on a bench in the park next to a Turk with a thickly bandaged finger: We are sitting on a bench in the park, I and a Turk with a thickly bandaged finger: A Turk with a thickly bandaged finger is sitting with me on a bench in a park.

We are sitting on a bench in the park gazing out on the pond, and I see something swimming in the pond, and the Turk is gazing out on the pond:

We are gazing at the pond, and I see an object swimming in the pond, and the Turk is gazing at the pond:

We are gazing at the pond, and I see a tuft of grass, propelled by swimming ducks, making its way to the shore, and the Turk is gazing at the pond:

We are gazing at the pond, and I see a tuft of grass swimming shoreward, propelled by swimming ducks, and then I see the tuft of grass floating away from the shore, propelled by ducks swimming in the opposite direction, and the Turk is gazing at the pond:

We are gazing at the pond, and I see a tuft of grass that, propelled by swimming ducks, was about to be washed ashore and then, propelled by ducks swimming in the opposite direction, was about to be washed back into the middle of the pond and now, propelled by ducks intersecting the two groups of ducks that are swimming in the opposite direction, float suspended in place, and the Turk is gazing at the pond:

We are gazing at the pond, and I see an object I took to be a tuft of grass or something I took to be an object that I believed was a tuft of grass suddenly disappear after it had moved in place, and I stop moving my head in time with the object on one and the same spot: that is to say, I am startled or, I am startled, that is to say, I stop moving my head in time with the object on one and the same spot, and no longer move at all, and the Turk is gazing at the pond:

We are gazing at the pond, and I see a duck surfacing with a tuft of grass in its bill, and I am tired of gazing and am satisfied, and the Turk is gazing at the pond:

We are gazing at the pond, and, without seeing anything, I remember the sports writer who talked about death, and the Turk is gazing at the pond:

A Turk and I, we are sitting in the park on a bench and are gazing at the pond: I am sitting in the park on a bench next to a Turk with a thickly bandaged finger: I am sitting on a bench in the park next to a Turk with a thickly bandaged finger: next to me on the bench in the park there suddenly sits a Turk with a thickly bandaged finger, which he is extending away from his other fingers: in the park on a bench sits a Turk with nine unimpaired fingers which he presses to the palms of his hands: on a bench in the park sits a Turk with a thickly bandaged finger and gazes out at the pond."

http://www.handke.scriptmania.com

Thanks Paula, the poem is from a book entitled, appropriately STEEPED IN SEATTLE
http://www.roloff.freehosting.net/

Paula wrote: "Michael wrote: "Since the weather is so miserable in Seattle, freezing foggy, another Seattle Weather poem, with links to weather sites!

Northwest Weather Poem # 5, with Links
Puget Sound regar..."

nice poem and here is a nice one:
GRANDMA

what could be more
precious than a grandmother's
specail love?

she has an understanding heart
that encourages and cheers;

the love she gives so freely
grows deeper with the years.

her wisdom and devotion
are blessings from above

nothing could be more precious
than a grandmother's
specaial love

Amy wrote: "* DO YOU WANT YOUR WORDS TO MEET 1.6 MILLION PEOPLE? *

The Goodreads’ editors have invited us to participate in the selection of each poem that will appear in the Goodreads’ Monthly Newsletter.
..."

From : Cj_ (Jakarta, Indonesia)
Poetry title : parents is just a parents.

they said that they can be a bestfriend
if we have a problem, wa can free to talk.
but, when we share about our problem,
they just says if, "you just a kid"

they said that they can be a democrasi parents.
if we need to compare something, we can free to talk.
but, when we talking and compare about something,
they just says if, "you don't know anything yet"

Parents is just a parents.
can't fair like God.
just dictation us like a doll.
they just thinking, if we only a kid that always laught without any problem.

But, some still said that parets is just the best parents.
can be a bestfriend perfectly.
can be a democrasi parents surely.
And can fair like god without dictation us.

if that's true.
i'll be waiting a parents who will be not just a parents.
Amy wrote: "* DO YOU WANT YOUR WORDS TO MEET 1.6 MILLION PEOPLE? *

The Goodreads’ editors have invited us to participate in the selection of each poem that will appear in the Goodreads’ Monthly Newsletter.
..."

KEEP THEM IN YOUR PRAYERS
DADDY S POEM

> > Her hair was up in a pony tail,
> > Her favorite dress tied with a bow.
> > Today was Daddy's Day at school,
> > And she couldn't wait to go.
> >
> > But her mummy tried to tell her,
> > That she probably should stay home.
> > Why the kids might not understand,
> > If she went to school alone.
> >
> > But she was not afraid;
> > She knew just what to say.
> > What to tell her classmates
> > Of why he wasn't there today.
> >
> > But still her mother worried,
> > For her to face this day alone.
> > And that was why once again,
> > She tried to keep her daughter home.
> >
> > But the little girl went to school
> > Eager to tell them all.
> > About a dad she never sees
> > A dad who never calls.
> >
> > There were daddies along the back wall,
> > For everyone to meet.
> > Children squirming impatiently,
> > Anxious in their seats
> >
> > One by one the teacher called
> > a student from the class.
> > To introduce their daddy,
> > As seconds slowly passed.
> >
> > At last the teacher called her name,
> > Every child turned to stare.
> > Each of them was searching,
> > a man who wasn't there.
> >
> > 'Where's her daddy at?'
> > She heard a boy call out.
> > 'She probably doesn't have one,'
> > Another student dared to shout.
> >
> > And from somewhere near the back,
> > She heard a daddy say,
> > 'Looks like another deadbeat dad,
> > Too busy to waste his day'
> >
> > The words did not offend her,
> > As she smiled up at her Mum.
> > And looked back at her teacher,
> > Who told her to go on.
> > And with hands behind her back,
> >
> > Slowly she began to speak.
> > And out from the mouth of a child,
> > Came words incredibly unique.
> >
> > 'My Daddy couldn't be here,
> > Because he lives so far away.
> > But I know he wishes he could be,
> > Since this is such a special day.
> >
> > And though you cannot meet him,
> > I wanted you to know.
> > All about my daddy,
> > And how much he loves me so.
> >
> > He loved to tell me stories
> > He taught me to ride my bike.
> > He surprised me with pink roses,
> > And taught me to fly a kite.
> >
> > We used to share fudge sundaes,
> > And ice cream in a cone.
> > And though you cannot see him.
> > I'm not standing here alone.
> >
> > 'Cause my daddy's always with me,
> > Even though we are apart
> > I know because he told me,
> > He'll forever be in my heart'
> >
> > With that, her little hand reached up,
> > And lay across her chest.
> > Feeling her own heartbeat,
> > Beneath her favorite dress.
> >
> > And from Somewhere in the crowd of dads,
> > Her mother stood in tears.
> > Proudly watching her daughter,
> > Who was wise beyond her years.
> >
> > For she stood up for the love
> > Of a man not in her life.
> > Doing what was best for her,
> > Doing what was right.
> >
> > And when she dropped her hand back down,
> > Staring straight into the crowd.
> > She finished with a voice so soft,
> > But its message clear and loud.
> >
> > 'I love my daddy very much,
> > he's my shining star.
> > And if he could, he'd be here,
> > But heaven's just too far.
> >
> > You see he is a soldier
> > And died just this past year
> > When a roadside bomb hit his convoy
> > And taught brave men to fear.
> >
> > But sometimes when I close my eyes,
> > it's like he never went away'
> > And then she closed her eyes,
> > And saw him there that day.
> >
> > And to her mothers amazement,
> > She witnessed with surprise.
> > A room full of daddies and children,
> > All starting to close their eyes.
> >
> > Who knows what they saw before them,
> > Who knows what they felt inside.
> > Perhaps for merely a second,
> > They saw him at her side.
> >
> > I know you're with me Daddy
> > To the silence she called out.
> > And what happened next made believers,
> > Of those once filled with doubt.
> >
> > Not one in that room could explain it,
> > For each of their eyes had been closed.
> > But there on the desk beside her,
> > Was a fragrant long stemmed pink rose.
> >
> > And a child was blessed, if only for a moment,
> > By the love of her shining star.
> > And given the gift of believing,
> > That heaven is never too far.

Volcano of Love By Leslie Ann Lindsay
________________________________________
Tall mountain
reaches to the sky
a big dome
grows by and by
earth shakes
a fissure forms
crack shows
steam it warms
another shake
the lava bubbles
heat and air
no sign of troubles
Tender love
a mountain seen
bubbling over
hills of deep green
Tall mountain
reaches to the sky
a big dome
grows by and by
(could be love, or a double fudge volcano cake...)

FROM THE MODERATOR - PLEASE READ!

DO NOT POST ANYMORE ENTRIES! PLEASE NOTE THAT THE FIVE FINALISTS WERE SELECTED A WEEK AGO. I HAVE ANNOUNCED THIS FOUR TIMES NOW! THE NEXT OPEN READING PERIOD FOR THE CONTEST WILL BE ANNOUNCED IN EARLY FEBRUARY. WE WILL READ ENTRIES FOR THE MARCH NEWSLETTER THEN! THANKS TO ALL ENTRANTS. SEE BELOW:

VOTE IN THE POLL ON THE POETRY GROUP'S MAIN PAGE! (CLICK THIS LINK TO VOTE! --> JUST SELECT TITLE OF POEM YOU LIKE BEST!

* Please note: Your vote is now anonymous and the titles appear in random order each time the page is loaded.

~~~~~~~

Roots & Wings – by Wendy Brown-Baez


It is a spring-time ritual. To feel
the stretch, tiny crackle of bones

hollow for expected flight. It is
a way to shed winter, the beary

coat of hunger and sleep. It is
lifting a face to sun, to shiver

with velvet tips of green, the
tingle of sap as it begins to sing

its way up from the bulb. It is the
expansion out deep into earth

wet from snow-melt, delirious
with nutrients, learning green.

It is ancient as the first day of creation,
new as the hatching of love in the

compost. It is a fever as it unfolds
in the pulsing of blood, a lift to the sky.

It comes to earn our seeded trust,
it brings us back to kneel and sing.


~~~~~~


OxyContin – by Steve Harris


From this false shore I think I see differently,

in a new light that wavers in and out. I call

for Bird but hear nothing: I tap my blue arm

with its blue veins. I try to remember:

everyone is gone and outside the dog howls

at the trailer door. The poor, the suffering,

and messed-up women, this thought moves

through the butter-light and into my head.

Bird says that isn’t in his red-letter edition.

Or does he? Bird walks now out of sight,

on his mountain top from where I’ve hurled

myself time and time again. I say I’m sorry,

I say it to Bird, who’s on the floor, a mound

of melting ice on his chest, his own blue arm

cast high, like Ahab on his whale: goodbye.

Again, I say I’m sorry and listen Bird, listen

to the winter wind in the trees—I look

into the night, through a cross-hatching

of branches: I see Jesus in the trees.


~~~~~~


LIVING IN THE CANDY STORE – by Leonard Kress

On wild trees the flowers are fragrant,
on cultivated trees, the fruits.

Philostratus


The scent still rose from the cellar’s cold marble slab,
large enough to lay out, sponge down, and re-dress
a dead family, years after the last butter cream
cooled down on it. Strangers still knocked on the grated door
even after we trashed the sign and displayed
our own kids instead, in the huge plate glass window.
Where’s old Elsie Ness, they said, that old German Lady,
whose father played the thundering organ? We sold the pipes
but it didn’t help—others came. The man whose pee
trickled in each day from the alley, the Belfaster
who bartered guns for whiskey and passed out
on our stoop, the lady who peeled off her shirt
and revved to the swerving cranked car radios, her nipples
like stogies. She came too, pressing them up
against our window. All that sweetness,
noxious as sewer gas, we wanted it all
for ourselves—the infrastructure
of our longing. Out back, in the bricked-in
walled-up garden, the barren nectarine tree went wild,
overloaded and drooping, dark ooze scaffolding
its branches, and bushels of flaming globules
uncontained, supersweet, inedible.


~~~~~~


Diasporism – by Evan Willner


Consider the fetus in my wife since say E
gypt, which is Jewish for the moment a lady egg is touched
with the pornographic secrets of cellular division,
differentiation and smooth operation – then come ducts
for the circulation of blood, then bones, blood, lung bags, textbook
and the sonogram cute gilled animalcule grows a face – then
the hungry and the weeping at 3 AM and a firstling
child that learns to remember and think fondly of itself. But
first, this fetus will lean back into mommy’s spine, around month
8, and press her small intestine up into her diaphragm
because that’s what it knows how to do. So you can just go on
with your “continual conceptual rebellion,” Leslie
Scalapino and Leslie Scalapino and Leslie Sca
lapino; the remainder of us and our more or less de
pendable parts are jewlocked into Egypt and leaving it.


~~~~~~


post-lung -- by David Fernandes

the synchronism of the tongue

the palate of shoe and shout
the lips of power
teeth in itself
and the acidity of the saliva
not only in blue and block
but always before each one
and after the synchronism of the tongue
matter of idiom
if not you

post-lung
many appear made of steel
stainless one
but few of glass
fragile as uncorrupt
if not you.


~~~~~~

Great poem.

Michael wrote: "Since the weather is so miserable in Seattle, freezing foggy, another Seattle Weather poem, with links to weather sites!

Northwest Weather Poem # 5, with Links
Puget Sound regarded as a huge sink ..."

Great Poem you are an original thinker

Here's a poem for consideration. Many thanks for all your work on this effort.

THE SUICIDE BLONDE FOR WHOM THERE’S ALWAYS TOMORROW
I
There is nothing so compelling
from the top of a parking structure
as the comely beckoning black of pavement,
my lighthouse home,
six stories below
reminding me of just how easy
it is to embrace the inevitability
of headcrack, heartsmash, bonesnap,
such soft release,
an ending only dreamed of
until now.

II
Pavement is the little brother
of glorious, wild, implacable abutment,
seducing to the point of distraction
this driver, this point of pain
seeking the explosion
of front bumper, crumbled hood, crumpled windshield,
crushed forehead, knees reversed into ruptured hips,
my smile barely recognizable, but steady
even hours later.

III
Nothing moves me like a height
with its promise of immediate,
effortless flight punctuated
with the drop of bone, skin, blood
into nothing, into metallic air,
into dirt immobile and to die for.

IV
Knowing the end is possible
makes me salivate
more than a man in my mouth,
more than the kiss of a newborn;
makes me breathe deeper
than the scent of hay and horses
mixed in sweaty comfort;
makes me sip deeper
than the drift of coffee
or ambivalent bacon on a morning
when nothing is on my mind,
nothing save the pleasure of the end
calling me, my lover, my one.

Browse

She clatters through the back door,
scowls at the librarian’s puckered shush,
scrapes chair to table, grabs a book
that falls open to text ticked and bracketed
by anonymous hands. She clucks softly,
angles the spine away from policing eyes,
searches each margin as if she had struck
the marks first, worried that some point
might be missed if not underscored yellow.

The girl sees impressions of her fingers
on the pages, hard evidence that books
are changed by readers they change.
She slaps covers closed, slides the volume
into the shelves and walks away empty-
handed, reverent, her mind roaring open.

Amy wrote: "* DO YOU WANT YOUR WORDS TO MEET 1.6 MILLION PEOPLE? *

The Goodreads’ editors have invited us to participate in the selection of each poem that will appear in the Goodreads’ Monthly Newsletter.
..."

For your consideration...

SEAMSTRESS

she needs something to
smooth out the wrinkes
increase the chance he will find no lapse in face
when he runs his fingers past a point she will
play games with sandy creams and lectures on the
nature of elasticity watch
documentaries on how
a ball bouces back
in her court
yard she
divides duties with ashes and
vines and
borers
which:
of you will do
the bleeding the
seeding the
spreading of dieing she
waters posies wilting
it is
catch-up or
let-go but
no chance of gauzy growth on her
fingers pruned no
apptitude for
height worth trellis training a
bird to
sit still she had
no span of
wing and sought
cultivation in
journals the
medical profession re:
sense of touch
it is
one of five basic
like writes with her toes and prints
the same sketches over
over so there is more and
puts blood on her hands he will think
there is more.
if it seems

Since the weather is so miserable in Seattle, freezing foggy, another Seattle Weather poem, with links to weather sites!

Northwest Weather Poem # 5, with Links
Puget Sound regarded as a huge sink to slide into
and Seattle as the not so small drainage pit, the sinkhole's drain
by which I do not mean to say that it is a dump in many other respects thanthis!
A sink wide open to all sides, to the Northsoutheastwest sire, especially to the South West, West and North West Pacific... only to the occasional incursion from the East, from Montana..
even from up North it occasionally pours a sack full, it drops down from Canada. -
Just the other day:
Ah! It looks as though we will have a good day [you detect that tad of uncertainty in the stated proposition:],
the jet stream is swooping up from the sou-west, no baggage on its train, so it appears, nothing but clear blue on the US milirary Navy Sattelite's Photo site,
http://www.nrlmry.navy.mil/sat_products....

nothing that might drift over from the West or North West, and the entire, rainless, apparently cloudless air mass, it's all moving east, why worry, leave that Bumbershoot home....
and then, you are downtown, and you step out
downtown at Paul Allen's 600 Plaza at King Street Station...
why, it's raining, it starts to pour: your eyes travel up the length of the campanile of the station, doggonit, there's a mess of clouds and its coming in from the North! I don't believe this. How did this come about? I didn't see anything of the kind coming on the Navy's photos?
I can't get on line. I look at the Times projection of the nation's weather: there it is, a ribbed rubber, those small scallop pencilings on all sides of the condom, penceled in, amateurishly, by whoever draws the projections of lows and high on the weather map for the Times, this shaft wrapped in a condom full of rain that some Canadian prankster is dropping straight down on us, where it will break, ha ha ha,
it's tip right over Puget Sound, Seattle its drain hole: that nails my paranoia, displaced on to the weather patterns, onto the board of truth. That prick up north, found an opening, just for me! I don't believe this freak of a weather shaft shooting down some hundreds of miles, what weakness in the so-called "prevailing high" allowed it through?
I'm wet, I'm fucked. I had confidence in going out sans Bomber Schutz, bumbershoot in Skandi, they even have a festival by that name hereabouts. That's it, wet as these Skandi buggers are, these Nordic Seals, they keep praying for more rain, and to their yelps, their prayers the Sound responds. If you want prayers answered, say for rain, those prayers, hereabouts, rarely will be in vain.
Like a voracious harvester open to all sides, voracious for rain,
a suction pipe, huge vacuum tubes... ah, there's something wet down Hawai way, why don't you suck it up. In the Gulf of Alaska, come on down. The rains never say no. The, a conspiracy of rain, the rains conspire, they commune in the sky, let's meet over Puget Sound where draining is easy.
They follow ten thousand year old sky grooves, the jet stream highways, moraines of the sky, scraping off the shiny metallic blue, leaving those dull streaks of an old worn out sink...
... and once whatever big wet soaking dog has passed through, well if that dog hasn't a thousand mile long tapered tail, the faster the storm passes the wetter its tail... the up-front rain can be slight, your heart lifts at its misty whiskers, but that tail needs to be wrung out, over Puget Sound, with Seattle as its drain, a thousand mile long tapering tail can mean days and days of off and on rain, it could wag, couldn't it? it could waver... but no, it remains true and straight as a Lab's tail, and that comma at the end, that tail spin will spend for another day above the drain and rain...
And no one ever cuts off that dog's tail... it is never a sprightly Aussie sheep dog that bounces in and bounces out, no it is a Lab with the worlds longest tail, a blonde lab that shows up yellow with spots of brown on the Navy Site... indiscernible as such on the Jet Stream prognosticator with all those little arrows like magnetic indicators pointing to the rain magnet, Puget Sound. Dirty dishes to be serviced at the dish-wash duty... marching in formation, on the conveyer belt from all sides...
the storms and their counter swirl...
that seem to drive march in chiefly from the southwest,
the wildly gyrating jet stream
http://squall.sfsu.edu/crws/jetstream.ht...
after all its wonderful north-south acrobatics, its splits. Where does it land? it lands here! at least one part does.
The "Northsoutheastwest" sire...
that sires oh how that sire sires..
Small storms, large storms, rich in moisture at all times of year, rich in dank from the forever cold and clammy north Pacific,
the last waters of the world to warm... a mean mean temperature in the low forties, 41 to be precise, permanently raw, making for that hideous post nasal drip Northwest nasal drawl.
The original, now dispossessed, used red cedar bark to protect... from the dank the Inuit who wraps... now mallard duck REI...
even El Niño's last birth failed to warm, have much effect, what a disappointing child it was... now and then the surface warms a bit, but the deep-welling deep-dwelling, dank cold persists... at all times of year...
Consider the jet stream a conveyer belt
that moves more or less rapidamente,
if occasionally frayed, gets stuck, gets frayed, but near invariably hits the spot... the wide open sink... and then pours from all sides, but chiefly... into the drain... for six months, sometimes nine months at a time...
Trickling gliding droplets down into the drain.
Everything appears to have cleared out, but there
is always one drop left, somewhere, to slide down the sides of the sink into the drain, one last fat drop it looks like on the photo, one last drop, one last dollop is a lake by the time it dissolves itself to the ground...
Everything looks peaceful, navy blue on the navy site
if there isn't that one drop, that vapor veil, that mist, that low-lying set of clouds that the camera fails to find or that are too thin too low to the ground to register, that haze that coagulates, drops that slide down the side to materialize as mist... mist condenses... into poetry...the Seattle drizzle-fizzle... as fine an example of ex nihilo as it gets.
=====================

The Blueberry Seasons
for Ben

In December, the sky its varied palette
of white, I dream of August, the drive
along the lake, past trailers and 4-H
camps, wineries and cabins, you

in the back seat, telling stories of cousins
and rope swings. We are the only ones
who wanted to come, the others
content with their lake-side lounging.

Long past when I think we should have
arrived, I spot the sign, turn and climb
the hill. The farmer gives us buckets
and we head up the rows together,

then you rush off ahead. Every year
I am astonished by the plenty, the excess,
the sheer purple weight of each gathering
as the berries fall to our greedy, tender

fingers. They yield their sun – as if love
were packed into their purple bodies –
easily, without complaint.
We will take them home, our sacks heavy

with the sun. Your grandma will make
pie and everyone will admire our handiwork.
I can’t stop admiring you, how you run
like that, toward life, bring your bucket now

to show me. Sometimes praise is all I can
give. Sometimes blueberries, their warmth
in our fingers, against our waiting tongues.
A few seasons, a few seasons.
Whiskey in the Garden of EdenSarah Browning

Trina wrote: "==On the Way

There are many routes to work.
The hilly one, through fields,
precipitates its scenery in random bits
as my attention lingers on a ruined barn,
a schoolbus burned and liste..."

Great poem!