Two poems by Poet, Murray Alfredson

Young bones

Those were still the days when gas was made from coal
leaving a residue of coke, pure and porous
carbon that burnt ashless. The gas was deadly, though,
not merely thinned with air to blow out walls when touched
by careless spark or flame, but toxic through the lungs
and blood to brain.

                                     I do not know just why Anne took
the coal-gas route; history honours, archivist,
but years long punctuated with psychotic bouts
chlorpromazine, that mind-divorcing drug, did not
quite hold at bay. Did her heavy future stretch
too far its terrors? This much I know, that schizophrenics
rarely make old bones.

-- Mindfields: edited by Jude Aquilina & Ken Vincent. Port Adelaide, S. Aust. : Ginninderra Press, 2011

Falco berigora(on the Strzelecki Peaks)

It was no gale
but plumb amidst
the roaring forties
and at seven
hundred metres
on that island
where all the trees
leaned strongly eastwards
the wind bit chill
through summer cottons.

To lunch and talk
we lay on naked
granite, in shelter
of melaleucas
tough and fully
ankle high,
forcing their roots
in narrow cracks
through meagre rock-
crumble and leaf-rot —
when from the east
a bird swooped up,
brown falcon poised,
wings wind-fluttered
scarce two metres
above the peak.

A moment she hung
against the wind,
then turned and in
her turning drew
her wings closer
and stooped down
the northern drop.

We ran scarce twenty
paces to the edge.

That black streak
flattened her flight,
swept out above
the plain beside
the flecked sea-crawl.

-- Ocean, v. 6, 21 (Winter, 2009) ;Visible breath; ed. by Ronnie Goodyer and Dawn Bauling. Stoney Stanton, Leics: Indigo Dreams Publications, 2010.

SOMEDAY - a poem by Paulette Grant

SOMEDAY

Someday.
Somewhere in time.
At this life's end.
When body is no more
And all earthly obsessions
As dust are scattered by the winds.
A soul is flying free.

Someday.
Somewhere in time.
These eyes unclouded.
Ethereal lips sing heart songs from
The mountain of self.

Someday.
Somewhere in time.
All melodies divine
Pour out the living memories
All lived for God
They are.

A final note someday in time.
A punctuation mark.
Will plunge into the timeless hearts
That wrapped themselves to her
In unbearably earthly ways.

Someday.
Somewhere.

The merging cried for like a whining child
Since the beginning
Will come full circle.
The lessons learned at last.

An individual spark.
At times in darkness was.
Will see, hear and taste
In its own measure of perfection
The true meaning of love and peace............Paulette
.............so in the meantime ...I cry ......sometimes.

This Student - a poem by Maggie Kirton

This Student

 

 

she sat at the back of the class

the very last row

where others dared not be

where those whose works

suffered - undone

flunked - incomplete

whose ambitions

and dreams

were born

through a steady stare

into a classroom window

holding within its glass

a bit of light

giving importance

to the impossible

 

she stood by the gate

watched them play

tag and jump rope

slides and swings

their laughter embraced her

although

- in spite of -

she would not join in

 

the teachers taught her

basics

words

numbers

what they could

when they could reach her

but instead she remained

in the back of the room

with a window

a port hole

fascination

uneducated dreams

they shook their heads

wondering

often

surmising

her failure

 

but they pushed her on

the pale child

that stood by the gate

embraced by the laughter

of friends not had

 

her smile was a weak one

easily returned

seldom seen

a private affair

reserved for the dreams

and so she went on

for so many years

with homework undone

and shoes untied

close to the garbage basket

and window

and dreams

for which she could find no words

 

until there was one

a teacher and friend

silently

grandfather

who laid before her

pen

empty paper

a soft and gentle smile

warm hand on her shoulder

a wink

and a whisper:

"finish your dream on this

so I may dream it too"

Silent Thunder ... a poem by Audrey Austin

Silent Thunder by Audrey Austin was previously published in Sylvan Jottings Northern Ontario Poetry Collection, Volume Eleven, 2006, presented by Canadian Authors' Association, Temiskaming Branch and White Mountain Publications.

SILENT THUNDER

He softly speaks of quiet pain
      Then smiles to ease the burden we now share

And deep within my searching soul I find a truth
       To run away from if I dare

His words are silent thunder running scared in
       circles unconnected

He touched me and I'm freezing in a suffering
       warmth that leaves me wanting to
       experience a love that can't be mine

And now I softly speak of quiet pain

His words have left me standing in the rain and
       the thunder has grown deafening

Remembrance of his smile is my umbrella.  His
       gentle touch is my despair.  He is unaware
            that I truly care; no longer there to
                   know he touched my soul and left me
                           bare and wanting.

In One Divine Love -- by Rima N. Jaber

                                                                                                                                                                                                                    In One Divine Love

Fusion of love,
Mixed with the divinity,
Souls of pure glory,
Above the edges of hopes,
Living in the heart of faith,
In a universe of holiness,
In the ocean of tenderness,
Smiles of sunshine,
In the land of Saints,
We drink from the source of eternity,
Two lovers living, praying,
Two souls uniting in love,
Two in God’s blessings,
Darling we are these two, in one,
In One Divine Love..
I love you eternally..
Always Love, Light, Joy,
Peace & Blessings to All of us
{{ONELOVE}}
Rima N. Jaber
© January 23, 2013
~♥☼♥~

 

 

Not Quite There Yet -- a poem by Terry Shepherd

When you are middle aged
Is this the time to begin
To live and discover
Or maybe to sin.

Should we act our age
As people wish us to do
Is it to late to find
A man and say I do.

Is your life half over
Or has it just begun
Has your better half gone
And left you as one.

Do you really want to
Go to bed at ten
Or do you want to go out
And come back when.

It’s a hard thing to swallow
When you reach this point
You have raised your family
And you feel it in the joints.

Not quite ready for the rocker
And not ready to dance
Maybe just a little companion
And a little romance.

Let me live the life
That I once have done
Let me soar with the birds
Until the last song is sung.

Terry Shepherd
01/21/2013

The Only One I Know -- a poem by Rima N. Jaber

The Only One I Know

A tender caress from my destiny,
My God’s mercy,
My heart melody,
My soul glory,

A gift from the infinity,
My endless ecstasy,
My consciousness perpetuity,
My hopes reality,

A sky opening so kindly,
Your eyes mesmerizing me,
Your heart loves truly,
You enchanted me with your purity,

A paradise is our unity,
In your heart you took me,
To your soul you invited me,
My life I offered you eternally,
You and I forever united in love divinity..

I love love you darling for eternity..
Always Love, Light, Joy,
Peace & Blessings to All of us
{{ONELOVE}}
Rima N. Jaber
© January 21, 2013
~♥☼♥~

Richard Blanco -- Inauguration Poet - inspirational and wonderful ..

The following poem was delivered by inauguration poet Richard Blanco during ceremonies for President Obama's second inaugural Monday. The text of the poem was provided by the Presidential Inaugural Committee.

http://www.richard-blanco.com


 "One Today"

One sun rose on us today, kindled over our shores,
peeking over the Smokies, greeting the faces
of the Great Lakes, spreading a simple truth
across the Great Plains, then charging across the Rockies.
One light, waking up rooftops, under each one, a story
told by our silent gestures moving behind windows.

My face, your face, millions of faces in morning’s mirrors,
each one yawning to life, crescendoing into our day:
pencil-yellow school buses, the rhythm of traffic lights,
fruit stands: apples, limes, and oranges arrayed like rainbows
begging our praise. Silver trucks heavy with oil or paper -- bricks or milk, teeming over highways alongside us,
on our way to clean tables, read ledgers, or save lives -- to teach geometry, or ring up groceries as my mother did
for twenty years, so I could write this poem.

All of us as vital as the one light we move through,
the same light on blackboards with lessons for the day:
equations to solve, history to question, or atoms imagined,
the “I have a dream” we keep dreaming,
or the impossible vocabulary of sorrow that won’t explain
the empty desks of twenty children marked absent
today, and forever. Many prayers, but one light
breathing color into stained glass windows,
life into the faces of bronze statues, warmth
onto the steps of our museums and park benches
as mothers watch children slide into the day.

One ground. Our ground, rooting us to every stalk
of corn, every head of wheat sown by sweat
and hands, hands gleaning coal or planting windmills
in deserts and hilltops that keep us warm, hands
digging trenches, routing pipes and cables, hands
as worn as my father’s cutting sugarcane
so my brother and I could have books and shoes.

The dust of farms and deserts, cities and plains
mingled by one wind -- our breath. Breathe. Hear it
through the day’s gorgeous din of honking cabs,
buses launching down avenues, the symphony
of footsteps, guitars, and screeching subways,
the unexpected song bird on your clothes line.

Hear: squeaky playground swings, trains whistling,
or whispers across cafe tables, Hear: the doors we open
for each other all day, saying: hello, shalom,
buon giorno, howdy, namaste, or buenos días
in the language my mother taught me -- in every language
spoken into one wind carrying our lives
without prejudice, as these words break from my lips.

One sky: since the Appalachians and Sierras claimed
their majesty, and the Mississippi and Colorado worked
their way to the sea. Thank the work of our hands:
weaving steel into bridges, finishing one more report
for the boss on time, stitching another wound
or uniform, the first brush stroke on a portrait,
or the last floor on the Freedom Tower
jutting into a sky that yields to our resilience.

One sky, toward which we sometimes lift our eyes
tired from work: some days guessing at the weather
of our lives, some days giving thanks for a love
that loves you back, sometimes praising a mother
who knew how to give, or forgiving a father
who couldn’t give what you wanted.

We head home: through the gloss of rain or weight
of snow, or the plum blush of dusk, but always -- home,
always under one sky, our sky. And always one moon
like a silent drum tapping on every rooftop
and every window, of one country -- all of us --
facing the stars
hope -- a new constellation
waiting for us to map it,
waiting for us to name it -- together

"A Place to Lay My Heart" - a poem by Marlon de Souza

A place to lay my heart

You accept me with all my faults

and everything I do

is watched by you for signs of love,

kind words from me to you.
 

You wake me up because you are

ready to start the day,

the crazy joy you bring to me,

a dog that wants to play.
 

I wonder what I will do

when you're no longer here,

you tell me to enjoy your love

and never shed a tear.
 

And when some days I stop and sigh -

at times you drive me nuts,

you wiggle waggle my sighs away,

my darling mutt of mutts.

© 2013 Marlon de Souza. All rights reserved.

Marlon de Souza is a writer and artist based in New York City. He learns a lot of life lessons from Jules, the dog who lives with him. More of his work can be found on
http://www.JustAnotherAveragePerson.com 

and on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/JustAnotherAveragePerson
 

Warrior Woman - a poem by T.L. Cooper

"Warrior Woman"

I stand short but tall
Shoulders narrow but squared
Armor at the ready
Weapons stowed within reach
Trained for the moment
When you breach
... My defenses
My smile slides into place
Fooling you into thinking
I’m easily taken
My gentle curves
And slight stature
Make me seem like easy prey
To those who would seek to conquer
But when the battle you seek is done
You’ll find yourself bloody and vulnerable
Your weaknesses exposed
Your losses incalculable
And you’ll wonder how you missed
This tiny woman, as you saw me,
Held the strength of a
Battle hardened warrior
~TLC

http://www.writewithtlc.blogspot.ca/

http://www.tlcooper.com/

Happy New Year to Family and Friends ...

At Christmas -- Remembering Dudley

At Christmas

by Audrey Austin

Through multi-paned window\

Brown eyes wishing, praying,

Desire to be inside on carpet near fireside,

To hear what they say,

To watch children play.

The children are happy, Santa has been most kind

Gifts galore on the floor just inside the door

But I feel all alone on the other side,

My feelings are injured and so is my pride.

Then finally it happens

Susan asks where is Spot?

Bobby cries come here boy and share in our joy

It’s not Christmas without you, we love you a lot.

I lift freezing paw tap, tappity, tap

On the window. At last she looks up,

Oh, Bobby, you’ve left him outside in the cold, Susan scolds

Just before the big door swings wide.

Now through multi-paned window I watch snowflakes dancing

I lay, tail wag-wagging. I’m loving my life,

Christmas carols entrancing,

Outside reindeer are prancing,

Let me stay on the inside so there’s nothing I’ll miss,

Another dog’s Christmas and life is pure bliss.

Remembering Dudley

Three poems by poet, Joyce Jones

by Joyce Jones from Marshmellow Softness and Rock Hard Taffy © 2012

Three poems presented below.  Xlibris, pub; Susan Polk, Editor; Cover Art by Tori Egherman.   www.xlibris.com to order copies. 

THE HAUNT   p. 79

 

You haunt me like the breeze

Among the trees softly whispering.

Flashing in my thoughts

the love that was before you

the wide open love that

encompassed, surrounded and

then let me go. 

You haunt me like the flutter of my heart

and the scars on my kneeling knees

the hoarse, dry throat

begging love to stay.

My body shivers

in memory of

blooming love songs

recalling the melody

the sweet harp and lute

a lure to love. 
 

Going round & round & round

tickling and amusing

the harp twinges

taunting and teasing

your fingers play my skin

your tongue wanders deep in

syncopated rhythmns

like a mix of cool jazz

stir the gospels of life

more definitive than Aretha’s wail. 

Along the curve of the flowing satin negligee

tears drop like rain mist

clouding my day with promises not kept.

 

Threatening my tomorrows 

You haunt me with blessed

assuredness

throughout the day and night

In all seasons

You are there

Solemnly

persistently reminding

love will come, but not today.

High Stakes     p.56 

 

Loving you

regardless

of the consequences

has taken its toll.

Already, I prepare

that part of me

that clings

so longingly

to you,

for the sacrifice

of letting you go.

Besides

another woman

can best serve

your need for

total affection,

the kind

that drains and

leaves no room for me

to care for me.

Another woman

too new to know

can love you

regardless of

the consequences.  

Triumph     p. 13 

Corseted passions

 

unleased by Cupid’s charm

leads to

cascades of feelings

that

swirl in fanciful parade. 

We strut to the

melodious tones

that bare once bridled desires.

Both lean on the edge of

anticipation

as the romance unfolds.

 

 

Eleven, Eleven - a poem by Audrey Austin: previously published in Northern Ontario Poetry Collection, "Arising From The Mist" Volume 17, 2012

ELEVEN, ELEVEN

 

Eleven, Eleven dances a polka

Round and round in my head

It's not pizza I crave

Of that I am sure

There is never a nine, six or seven.

 

Eleven, Eleven, it's there again

At once I remember my sister

And others who passed

On their way through my heart

Before journeying on toward heaven.

 

Eleven, Eleven, I feel the connection

No reason but trust with blind faith

And savour the moment

In loving remembrance

Of loved ones so precious

'Til we will meet again.

Merry Christmas!

MERRY CHRISTMAS

 

TO

 

YOU

 

FROM AUDREY

 

AT

RHYMES and TIMES

REMEMBERED

 



Cocoons -- a poem by Marlon de Souza

Cocoons

Cocoons within cocoons

never stirring,

for fear of meeting reality.

Let's go on a ride where the music is fine

and the wind in our face puts a chill in our spine.

We'll stumble along till we learn to walk,

then we'll fly away from our safe little rock.

We reach new heights along the way,

this bold new ride is here to stay.

We see below cocoons on the shore,

washed up memories of a time before

that kept us hidden within the womb,

a safe cocoon that became a tomb.

So on we fly to we know not where,

the path ahead is a fun-filled scare.

Cocoons, cocoons

never stirring, never stirring

never, never, never stirring...

cocoons within cocoons

never stirring.

© 2012 Marlon de Souza. All rights reserved.

Marlon de Souza is a writer and artist based in New York City. More of his work can be found on http://www.JustAnotherAveragePerson.com and Facebook http://www.facebook.com/JustAnotherAveragePerson

The Response ... a poem by Susan Ruby K.

The question:  Is there anything you cannot or will not eat?

 

The Response

 

I will not eat fish heads.

I will not eat mould.

I will not eat dog food.

If it's frozen or cold.....

I will not eat cardboard.

I will not eat paste.

I will not eat drain scraps

Or brown bits of waste...

I will not eat plastic.

I will not eat poop.

I will not eat clothing

Or ink turned to soup...

Other than these

All sound great to my belly

Thank you for asking

Now pass me the jelly...

Susan Ruby K. is a writer/artist/illustrator.  Check out her website at http://yuneekpix.com

Minor Ailments -- a poem by Eva Ruby Austin

MINOR AILMENTS

 

As I was doing Christmas shopping

One bright and sunny day

I came upon an old time friend

Who used to live up my way.

 

We chatted a while on the corner

Then as she turned away

I inquired how her health had been

And then I heard her say ....

 

"I guess there's not much the matter with me,

But I'm not as well as I used to be.

I have the cricks in both of my knees

And when I talk, I talk with a wheeze;

 

My pulse is weak and my blood is thin,

But I'm pretty good for the shape I'm in.

Arch support I have for both my feet

Or I wouldn't be able to go on the street.

 

Sleep is denied me night after night,

And every morning I am a sight,

My memory is failing, my head's in a spin

I spend a lot of money on aspirin.

 

My heart beats fast when I climb the stairs

I take kinks in my knees when I say my prayers;

My teeth are loose, and my feet are sore,

It nearly kills me to walk to the store.

 

But all in all -- I'm not bad you know,

I can walk a mile, if I go right slow,

You asked how I was, so now you know!

Goodbye dear friend, I have to go."

Merry Christmas

Mountains and Countryside ..... a poem by Audrey Austin

previously published in Penpourri: Elliot Lake Writers' Workshop Anthology of Stories and Poems (2011)

                                                          

 

 

MOUNTAINS AND COUNTRYSIDE

 

Close your eyes

Open your heart

Come journey with me now.

Take my hand

Don't be afraid

No need to question how.

The first step is the hardest

I truly understand

So we'll take this walk together

Walking hand in hand.

 

We'll walk beside still waters

We'll rest beneath the tree

How loving was our Father

To provide for you and me

The beauty of this countryside

The river's gentle current

All fears are gone

The Power of One

Encounters no deterrent.

 

And now we face a mountain

No mountain is too high

We will meet the challenge

And we will touch the sky

Earth and Heaven meet

Faithful hearts rely

On the hand outstretched to guide

And with courage we abide.

The Desert by poet, Jose Battan ......

Jose Battan •fine it is! I am sending a piece. Find how :
THE DESERT


FIELDSHOP

After the long story I slept on the hot sands,
Tired, an empty mind and body,
All vigour flown out-
Sweeping winds and hot flesh massed over,
She told her tales,
A thousand nights more,
Long thousand nights:
“I ain’t like your tales”,
And still she told her tales-
A thousand nights more
And on the first, kill her.

After the long story I slept on the hot sands,
I dreamt of hot flesh,
Hiding black mice,
Plaguing black death
Tired, I sleep
My wine finished, the desert remains,
A memory to remain,
As a mirage of the oasis,
Far through time unborn.

After the long story I slept on the hot sands,
In the lap of love,
Strangled by fascination,
Amidst fuming smoke,
Gyrating in space,
Plaguing black death.
And the idiot told her tales-
Of sound and fury,
Of hollow caves and mating dogs.


After the long story I slept on the hot sands,
Tired in mind and body,
A thousand nights more
And on the first, kill her.

***********************************************


JOSE BATTAN
josebattan@yahoo.co.in

Special thanks to poet, Greg Laurenceson, for granting permission to post his untitled poem ......

If it is true
as they say
that passing a stone
is much like
giving birth

(and I have
no reason
to dispute this
statement)

please consider this
as the beginning
of an understanding
and a belated apology

to all women everywhere

for everything

INSPIRATION -- a poem by Audrey Austin

INSPIRATION is previously published in Northern Ontario Poetry Collection, Volume Sixteen, 2011 - Scripted Inspiration ...

INSPIRATION

By Audrey Austin

Inspired to fly above the tasks that make dreams plummet I follow my eyes which do ascend
 to a private place
High above a humdrum habit of living a life that forbids a star to rise above the horizon,
My eyes grow deaf. My ears are blind.
At last I peer with God’s odd look at dirt below and see that secret site
deep beneath the magical hope of being all I am meant to be.

From lofty heights with arms extended I hang suspended staring down at God’s good earth,
That place where mother did give birth to such a one as me.
It’s warm up here despite the cool of lonely being all alone.

No one can see my frightened face that meets the ground,
that sacred space beneath the heights to which I’ve risen with great strain
only to realize I must go back.

I must go home since there are those who do depend
Upon my role which wraps in boxes needful things to hold them close
so that I dare to feel important, bigger than I’m meant to be.

My desire to linger here while gazing down on all held dear is crushed
by knowing that it’s true, yes, I am me and you are you.

Return decreed I teach my reach to draw arms close and stop the flailing.
I must descend, inspired no more, reality opens up the floor,
the drum of hum beats down the door.  I’m going home
To dream once more.

aequam servare mentem ... a poem by Maggie Kirton

aequam servare mentem 

twisted strands

a taste of spit

a single blue egg

in the center of it 

mother sits tranquil

her beating heart sings

to her child in the egg

about wind and its wings 

the warmth of her feathers

genesis stirred

aequam servare mentem

the birth of a bird