the sun is sparkling, the rain rumbling, and we badly need some poetry...

Wednesday, 14 September 2011

Marissa Leigh Dalton - One Poem


 I still feel your touch,
I still hear your voice,
But all you are is a memory,
A memory from long ago,
A time when I was happy,
A time when I was whole.

Now I am dead,
A rotting corpse in the ground,
But my soul lives on,
Hearing and feeling everything from before,
My heart lives on,
Sitting in my rotting chest

Tuesday, 13 September 2011

Sarah Hamadeh - One Poem

Imagine we lived in a castle

So far into the meadows
Where the sun sets into a nearby lake.
Where you only hear the softest melodies
springing from the upper streams.

Imagine we lived in a castle
So huge and so far from our real world
Where the doves hover above the water fountains.
Their purity enriches our castle with pride.

Imagine we lived in a castle
So tremendous and marvelous.
Where the mother swan
swims with her children around the lake.

Imagine we lived in a castle
Where the birds wake us up
with their soft pleasant voices
Fulfilling our eyes with their prismatic colors.

Imagine we lived in a castle
So different from our real world.
Where the imaginary creatures welcome us
to their own wonderland...
Imagine we lived in a castle...

Monday, 12 September 2011

Michael Lee Johnson - Three Poems

Bowl of Petunias
If you must leave me please
leave me for something special,
like a beautiful bowl of petunias-
for when the memories leak
and cracks appear
and old memories fade,
flowers rebuff bloom,
sidewalks fester weeds
and we both lie down
separately from each other
for the very last time.

Inside This World Zipped
I‘m inside this world of silent creative space
within a zipped up tube of  words
within the darkness I crawl
from my vocabulary.
I look on the walls of night
looking for an exit.
I look through the crow in the darkness,
the gray on the bark of the willow tree,
serve as my lantern out of here.
Wayward are the gray clouds
I can’t see I toss my faith upon.
Wild horses of creativity form
lines, stanzas, poems with
and without form.
It’s here I beach the darkness
and the conclusion in the end
and the final lines that allow
you to envelope me between
my screams and creativity.

The Seasons and the Slants 
I live my life inside my patio window.
It’s here, at my business desk I slip
into my own warm pajamas and slippers-
seek Jesus, come to terms
with my own cross and brittle conditions.
Outside, winter night turns to winter storm,
the blue jay, cardinal, sparrows and doves
go into hiding, away from the razor whipping winds,
behind willow tree bare limb branches-
they lose their faces in somber hue.
Their voices at night abbreviate
and are still, short like Hemingway sentences.
With this poetic mind, no one cares
about the seasons and the slants
the wind or its echoes.
I live my life inside my patio window.

Jason E. Hodges - One Poem


Like a whirl wind a whirling
Love gently turns your world upside down
Shakes you a bit
Yourself is a shaking in the kindest of ways
Tossed about by the hormones a tossing
In the darkness two heartbeats are beating
Pounding with speed from their embrace in the night
So lightly a drag from fingernails a dragging
Makes shivers shiver ever so softly
Gently right down my spine
Like a tattoo on the skin of stinging hot flesh
The endorphins rush is almost too much to bear
Like a thousand love lines of a thousand love letters
As much passion drips from the last word of the last line
As the first word of the first line
For the power of love is as blind as the blinded
For it sees no boundaries
No marks scratched in sand
It follows no rules made by the making
For the making seldom feel love at all
So if love sneaks up with tiptoes of quiet
Take it for all that it is
For it might not come back for a long, long time
So hold it tight
Never let it go

Devlin De La Chapa - Two Poems


If you were my heart
then your spirit was my doom.
If you were my soul
then your body was my end.
If earth was our birthing place
then fire were the emotions we bore.
If air is what we swallowed
then water is what we breathed.
If history is what we achieved
then the past never existed.
If the present is all that we have left
then the future must be erased-
the beating
of a heart
is very
after it’s been

Wednesday, 7 September 2011

Laurence W. Thomas - One Poem


I choose between several routes
to take me to the north woods
for a vacation on a river.

One highway is not better
than another, just different,
the cottage in the pines,
the same -- whichever road I take.

Returning home
after a time rafting down the river
or sitting in front of the fireplace
alone or in good company,
I take a different highway,
no less crowded and noisy.
Only the last few miles
remain the same.

Gordon Purkis - Three Poems


Heremeadow –
underneath Mount Sadness
is where I lay
while the wheels keep rolling by

Heremeadow –
where the hush and sway of
limitless life bends a knee to the swell of
afternoon’s countless hours

Heremeadow –
fields of fire where my soul cries,
cries over all the days of yesterday,
days that never were and always are

Heremeadow –
a thread spun of sunlight
and life is a tender thread
woven by miracle

Heremeadow –
where everything lasts forever
but nothing is permanent,
a time when regret is palpable,
how the years seem to have been
wasted on nothing of importance

Heremeadow –
where we put a value on everything
done or said
undone or unsaid
where we learned to judge our gifts
as too cold, too soft, too hard

Heremeadow –
countenance of disappointment
where dreams are a dark and hazy
sojourn into the subconscious

Lady Poverty

To realize I am without means
is the doorway I walk through
to wealth
holding water in my hand
dancing without rhythm
to no music
shrugging my shoulders but not sighing


Not that I don’t love her
but her constant complaints
about her temperature
makes me think of Goldilocks,
vacillating between porridges and beds,
except she never comments
when things are just right


And if you ask me if I’m sometimes troubled
I’ll say I either am or was
and maybe it’s not being a saint that sucks,
not realizing that to be a saint you must
be troubled, poor, starved,
with a constant hunger for the nonmaterial,
playing an empty-handed game that windmills play
and twirl

It will be told

It will be told
like all of the stories that have been told of
how X became Z,
either suddenly or slowly,
how the creature was brought to earth
and how we ended up having to kill it
and what it told us about ourselves.

But that’s fiction and I only want to know the truth –
even though I wasn’t there.
I just want to know one thing
and move on to the next thing
do one thing, know it, and have it be true.

Then there’s destiny
and there’s God’s plan.
Somehow life began once upon a time when I opened my eyes
and it carried on
and it’s brought me here to today.
If there’s something I’m not doing
                                      that I should be
  I need to / want to know what it is

If there’s something I’m doing
                                      that I shouldn't be
  I need to / want to know what it is

Once there was nothing but time
but now there’s never enough.

But it will be told, the story, and it will be true.
It will be told so let it unfold.

Diane Webster - One Poem

Welcome Mat Inside

The rubber knobs on the welcome mat
disappeared from use each day
as I unlocked the door
and stepped inside greeted
by the mat like a dog
expecting supper and so glad
I was home again.

Emma Ambos - One Poem

Where I've Been
as I click my eye
across the plains
and mains
that you fly by
and we cannot
forget the ports
that would be catty
and prudish.

Sarah Gamutan - One Poem

A Pensive Lady
They say I am a loner - a
Loser. I agree with them. Yet,
I am not. They seek my oblivion but
I believe them-senses; hence, I am not.
They say writers are weepers in
The sky and the pens and the papers
Are their friends. I understand them;
Yet, I am not a sad soul. I bet not. Life
Is like a roller coaster. You dump me
But you chase for money; but, I am not
Sad. I won't cry if the root of melancholy is
The heartbreak! I am not moved. I am not!
Then I go back to the room, grab a
Coffee and spill it on my sheets. I drown
Myself with tears for I cannot write because
The COFFEE quickens the beat of my hand- to
Hold the pen so I can start this poem to
End. But, I deny my mirror. A hideous countenance.
A soul can not be a poet just to deny melancholy.
Hence, I write the poem with my hand still holding
The pen. But my mind is still on the coffee. Then my
Temple started to ask, " Why isn' t a simple coffee
Good enough to dilute the sadness?"
The poem started to end. Then, it started
To answer the question itself. I'm not perplexed.