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CALLLING ALL POETS
Looking for a place to post your poetry. Any kind prose,
poetry, haiku...You are a poet as we read your poetry!
Members are waiting, so spread your literary wings and post
your poetry! :)
Latest group announcement
POtW
Claybo has selected this week's POEM OF THE WEEK, and his comment follows:
"I'm choosing "Malaprops: 9 a.m." by April38 for its (and her) keen evaluative observation and marvelous, fascinating sense of mood:"
"Malaprops: 9 a.m."
by April38
I purchase "The Language of Life" and settle
in the bookstore cafe for a cup of house-blend
sweetened with honey, stirred with wood.
A homeless man peers through the window
then enters: his gait still erratic from last
night's Mad Dog...he’s given an espresso-to-go.
Relaxing, I gaze out the window. Across the street.
A khakied Ms. beeps the alarm on her SUV,
then strides in for her morning brew of anomaly and news.
Laughter flows from the next table as a couple,
in their natural-fiber-foppery, sip decaf au lait
and chatter in French over bagels and mags‘.
“You Go Girl,” I mumble to a crone: her felt tam looking
jaunty over flowing cape as a walking staff and string bag
clearing the way for her wool-socked Birkenstocks.
Urban parents hustle their toddlers in (please God--
let them be quiet). Grabbing breakfast bites and stock
reviews they quickly part to day-care and hi-track jobs.
Ommm...apostles-of-grunge visit among the tables
their tofu-lean bodies swaying under dread-locked
turbans’ and beards too profuse for young wisdom.
Ahhh…New-Age lute and flutes waft
with smells of coffee, sweat, and patchouli
--lulls me in a world of few taboos.
This...is a dangerous place.
For I could spend every dime I have
and never leave this cassoulet
of pastry, bean and print.
"I'm choosing "Malaprops: 9 a.m." by April38 for its (and her) keen evaluative observation and marvelous, fascinating sense of mood:"
"Malaprops: 9 a.m."
by April38
I purchase "The Language of Life" and settle
in the bookstore cafe for a cup of house-blend
sweetened with honey, stirred with wood.
A homeless man peers through the window
then enters: his gait still erratic from last
night's Mad Dog...he’s given an espresso-to-go.
Relaxing, I gaze out the window. Across the street.
A khakied Ms. beeps the alarm on her SUV,
then strides in for her morning brew of anomaly and news.
Laughter flows from the next table as a couple,
in their natural-fiber-foppery, sip decaf au lait
and chatter in French over bagels and mags‘.
“You Go Girl,” I mumble to a crone: her felt tam looking
jaunty over flowing cape as a walking staff and string bag
clearing the way for her wool-socked Birkenstocks.
Urban parents hustle their toddlers in (please God--
let them be quiet). Grabbing breakfast bites and stock
reviews they quickly part to day-care and hi-track jobs.
Ommm...apostles-of-grunge visit among the tables
their tofu-lean bodies swaying under dread-locked
turbans’ and beards too profuse for young wisdom.
Ahhh…New-Age lute and flutes waft
with smells of coffee, sweat, and patchouli
--lulls me in a world of few taboos.
This...is a dangerous place.
For I could spend every dime I have
and never leave this cassoulet
of pastry, bean and print.
1 day ago
Recent Messages
Malaprops: 9 a.m.
I purchase "The Language of Life" and settle
in the bookstore cafe for a cup of house-blend
sweetened with honey, stirred with wood.
A homeless man peers through the window
then enters: his gait still erratic from last
night's Mad Dog...he’s given an espresso-to-go.
Relaxing, I gaze out the window. Across the street.
A khakied Ms. beeps the alarm on her SUV,
then strides in for her morning brew of anomaly and news.
Laughter flows from the next table as a couple,
in their natural-fiber-foppery, sip decaf au lait
and chatter in French over bagels and mags‘.
“You Go Girl,” I mumble to a crone: her felt tam looking
jaunty over flowing cape as a walking staff and string bag
clearing the way for her wool-socked Birkenstocks.
Urban parents hustle their toddlers in (please God--
let them be quiet). Grabbing breakfast bites and stock
reviews they quickly part to day-care and hi-track jobs.
Ommm...apostles-of-grunge visit among the tables
their tofu-lean bodies swaying under dread-locked
turbans’ and beards too profuse for young wisdom.
Ahhh…New-Age lute and flutes waft
with smells of coffee, sweat, and patchouli
--lulls me in a world of few taboos.
This...is a dangerous place.
For I could spend every dime I have
and never leave this cassoulet
of pastry, bean and print.
Pat
in the bookstore cafe for a cup of house-blend
sweetened with honey, stirred with wood.
A homeless man peers through the window
then enters: his gait still erratic from last
night's Mad Dog...he’s given an espresso-to-go.
Relaxing, I gaze out the window. Across the street.
A khakied Ms. beeps the alarm on her SUV,
then strides in for her morning brew of anomaly and news.
Laughter flows from the next table as a couple,
in their natural-fiber-foppery, sip decaf au lait
and chatter in French over bagels and mags‘.
“You Go Girl,” I mumble to a crone: her felt tam looking
jaunty over flowing cape as a walking staff and string bag
clearing the way for her wool-socked Birkenstocks.
Urban parents hustle their toddlers in (please God--
let them be quiet). Grabbing breakfast bites and stock
reviews they quickly part to day-care and hi-track jobs.
Ommm...apostles-of-grunge visit among the tables
their tofu-lean bodies swaying under dread-locked
turbans’ and beards too profuse for young wisdom.
Ahhh…New-Age lute and flutes waft
with smells of coffee, sweat, and patchouli
--lulls me in a world of few taboos.
This...is a dangerous place.
For I could spend every dime I have
and never leave this cassoulet
of pastry, bean and print.
Pat
the Teddy Bear with the Monsters Inside
the Teddy Bear with the Monsters Inside
Today when I helplessly gave in I remembered why.
Memory-dialed your cell, heard an echo of the gratey past.
Same harsh assault on the earbud from poorly loudly recorded
music of aggressive rockin’ mania, out to save the World.
Spreading the Word, Yours, not His, call by call.
Distortion and discord hung me up quickly.
Sadly, in slow motion, hung up, recoiled as from
a hot flame, and remembered Why. The message received
without having to descend into the Halls of Hell.
Alone, hundreds of miles away, years away, hidden away,
I backed away from the phone, carefully, quietly
to a safer place in my heart and mind, away from Monsters.
I had longed again, yearned again, could remember only
the safety and comfort, the love, joy, the warm embrace.
Became desperate for surcease of the longing inside, knowing
your power to release me, soothe me, joy me, gentle me.
How can I live without that unconditional love, that glory
that is Me in your eyes, one Love of Life beholding the other.
That total Understanding Without Telling which mends
my entire being, meets all my needs. I dare not reach out
to you for that solace, that healing, that respite,
for within that Bubble of Perfect Bliss dwell the MONSTERS.
Hidden away until their timing is perfect for desolation
and despair. I will not go there.
That I must live the rest of my life keeping safe is
a cruel sentence, remaining cut off from the warm, sweet,
strong, protection I know waits in your arms and heart.
The Love that is in You is boundlessly nurturing, meant for me.
The Monsters will always eat at your Soul, steal Love away
from me and from you. I cannot bear to see your pain again.
Within the holy madness of music blaring into the intimacy of my ear,
I HEARD THE MONSTERS in the background, chortling, chuckling, clucking,
roaring, growling, hidden in sound, biding their time.
They think I’ll be back and fling the gates open again so
they might slash and gnash at your core,
make you their obedient tool. But I will not.
July 1, 2008 (10:47am) windnsea
Today when I helplessly gave in I remembered why.
Memory-dialed your cell, heard an echo of the gratey past.
Same harsh assault on the earbud from poorly loudly recorded
music of aggressive rockin’ mania, out to save the World.
Spreading the Word, Yours, not His, call by call.
Distortion and discord hung me up quickly.
Sadly, in slow motion, hung up, recoiled as from
a hot flame, and remembered Why. The message received
without having to descend into the Halls of Hell.
Alone, hundreds of miles away, years away, hidden away,
I backed away from the phone, carefully, quietly
to a safer place in my heart and mind, away from Monsters.
I had longed again, yearned again, could remember only
the safety and comfort, the love, joy, the warm embrace.
Became desperate for surcease of the longing inside, knowing
your power to release me, soothe me, joy me, gentle me.
How can I live without that unconditional love, that glory
that is Me in your eyes, one Love of Life beholding the other.
That total Understanding Without Telling which mends
my entire being, meets all my needs. I dare not reach out
to you for that solace, that healing, that respite,
for within that Bubble of Perfect Bliss dwell the MONSTERS.
Hidden away until their timing is perfect for desolation
and despair. I will not go there.
That I must live the rest of my life keeping safe is
a cruel sentence, remaining cut off from the warm, sweet,
strong, protection I know waits in your arms and heart.
The Love that is in You is boundlessly nurturing, meant for me.
The Monsters will always eat at your Soul, steal Love away
from me and from you. I cannot bear to see your pain again.
Within the holy madness of music blaring into the intimacy of my ear,
I HEARD THE MONSTERS in the background, chortling, chuckling, clucking,
roaring, growling, hidden in sound, biding their time.
They think I’ll be back and fling the gates open again so
they might slash and gnash at your core,
make you their obedient tool. But I will not.
July 1, 2008 (10:47am) windnsea
Brand new, may revise yet
Mixed Blessings
Feelings stirred in cyberspace
for good or ill, t'is fact
the time and distance gap
reminds me: think before react
If only t'was as easy to ignore
'real life' difficult folks
like those who hide hostility
behind a veil of 'jokes'
At times i ache in empathy
when another's life is tough
And then words seem to fail me
they simply aren't enough
My soul longs to reach
across both time and space
to firmly hug a shoulder or
gently touch a face
To 'be there' can be
proof, at least, of caring
to sit in patient silence
with a friend: Sharing.
© ebarmore 7/6/08
Feelings stirred in cyberspace
for good or ill, t'is fact
the time and distance gap
reminds me: think before react
If only t'was as easy to ignore
'real life' difficult folks
like those who hide hostility
behind a veil of 'jokes'
At times i ache in empathy
when another's life is tough
And then words seem to fail me
they simply aren't enough
My soul longs to reach
across both time and space
to firmly hug a shoulder or
gently touch a face
To 'be there' can be
proof, at least, of caring
to sit in patient silence
with a friend: Sharing.
© ebarmore 7/6/08
Lost in Space
LOST IN SPACE
Tonight I am watching the sky
regretting
all the shooting stars
I’ve missed
remembering
a young me
laughing away
secret wishes
in false bravery
to find myself here
years and years later
realizing
those wishes…
are lost
in space
forever…
SHANTI SEA
Welcome to this world traveler. May she grace us with images that have been imbedded in her brain.
WELCOME SHANTI!! --PJ
WELCOME SHANTI!! --PJ
Coaxing the Flame
Kindling sets the stage, fills the spaces
and leaves others open for fire to take hold,
to move swiftly upward, flames heating
curls of bark until they, too, burst into their
dazzling dance of light.
Kindling starts it – and can start it again when
the heat has cooled to ash and truth has
clouded over, smeared and dusty with disuse until,
heartsick, you kick it up and toe your way through
lingering bits of charcoal you might burn to guide you
Back to the way you walked gently, with conviction
back to the ways of kindness and devotion
back to the way of unselfish dedication to
a purpose larger than even the fires you’ve known
before could ever fully light.
Blow on it now: kindling carefully laid and
catching fire, coax it back to glory.
Then, in the crackle of its moving shadows
find the core of it, the heat of it, the true and
beautiful essence of it, yourself, again.
and leaves others open for fire to take hold,
to move swiftly upward, flames heating
curls of bark until they, too, burst into their
dazzling dance of light.
Kindling starts it – and can start it again when
the heat has cooled to ash and truth has
clouded over, smeared and dusty with disuse until,
heartsick, you kick it up and toe your way through
lingering bits of charcoal you might burn to guide you
Back to the way you walked gently, with conviction
back to the ways of kindness and devotion
back to the way of unselfish dedication to
a purpose larger than even the fires you’ve known
before could ever fully light.
Blow on it now: kindling carefully laid and
catching fire, coax it back to glory.
Then, in the crackle of its moving shadows
find the core of it, the heat of it, the true and
beautiful essence of it, yourself, again.
Heartsfireworks
Have a GLORIOUS 4th--this may show you how
Have your Mind's Eye adjust all the right-here-and-now
Each one's head that you face, imagine a HALO
Effervescent with Grace--aflame just like Day-Glo
And, by greeting and treating each Madame and Sir
As a genuine HOLINESS--watch--you will stir
Rich, EMOTIONAL Royalty graceful and quick
Raise the civilous bar with this magickal trick
There's a Spark to be lit, a button to press
Treat each soul as an Eminence--watch your success
(Please see the image in Photos for the triple-acrostic effect)
Have your Mind's Eye adjust all the right-here-and-now
Each one's head that you face, imagine a HALO
Effervescent with Grace--aflame just like Day-Glo
And, by greeting and treating each Madame and Sir
As a genuine HOLINESS--watch--you will stir
Rich, EMOTIONAL Royalty graceful and quick
Raise the civilous bar with this magickal trick
There's a Spark to be lit, a button to press
Treat each soul as an Eminence--watch your success
(Please see the image in Photos for the triple-acrostic effect)
Thoughts on Patrol
alkaline taste from a canteen,
a enemy that goes unseen,
breath sucking heat,
blisters on my feet.
Villages of hollow stares,
living in daily nightmares,
knowing you are hated,
worried about being crated.
bone drenching rain,
mosquitoes until insane,
Nights of quietness,
explosions of brightness.
never found lost friends,
new faces innocent grins,
another day on the trail,
one step from gates of hell.
old photos held tight,
peering into a jungle night,
talking to the supreme being,
questioning and disbelieving.
letters from home,
loved one left alone,
an infant never seen,
must keep weapon clean
being lifted by the bird,
remembering her last word,
hoping that it will end,
going out doing it again
By
© Easy-LSM
a enemy that goes unseen,
breath sucking heat,
blisters on my feet.
Villages of hollow stares,
living in daily nightmares,
knowing you are hated,
worried about being crated.
bone drenching rain,
mosquitoes until insane,
Nights of quietness,
explosions of brightness.
never found lost friends,
new faces innocent grins,
another day on the trail,
one step from gates of hell.
old photos held tight,
peering into a jungle night,
talking to the supreme being,
questioning and disbelieving.
letters from home,
loved one left alone,
an infant never seen,
must keep weapon clean
being lifted by the bird,
remembering her last word,
hoping that it will end,
going out doing it again
By
© Easy-LSM
Al Maserik, 1986
Al Maserik, 1986
from EXCUSES TO BE OUTSIDE
poet
at the end of the N Judah line
on a hot summer afternoon
a small girl waits
for customers to come back
from the beach
they will be barefoot
or wearing sandals or sneakers
she waits with an orange crate
some old rags & tins
of shoe polish
written in red crayon
on a brown paper bag
SHOESHINE 25¢
if she had any smarts
she’d be selling lemonade
but there is a poetry
to her stance
how she patiently
waits for the
miraculous
from EXCUSES TO BE OUTSIDE
poet
at the end of the N Judah line
on a hot summer afternoon
a small girl waits
for customers to come back
from the beach
they will be barefoot
or wearing sandals or sneakers
she waits with an orange crate
some old rags & tins
of shoe polish
written in red crayon
on a brown paper bag
SHOESHINE 25¢
if she had any smarts
she’d be selling lemonade
but there is a poetry
to her stance
how she patiently
waits for the
miraculous
Photos
-
One More Tim...
about 18 hours ago
-
Heartsfireworks
2 days ago
-
the Teddy Be...
2 days ago
-
The Wind and...
3 days ago
-
Bicyclist
4 days ago
-
Blast From t...
6 days ago
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