Issue # 01 from December 1996
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First Issue for 12-96
I would like to thank the authors of the following poems for their contribution
and wish them much success!

Read and Enjoy

And if you do enjoy a poem,
PLEASE   E-mail the author.
 


Peaces of Eternity
© Kirsten E. Huffman

Eternity: endless space, endless time.
Perhaps eternity is nothing more than that.
Death, where does it fit in?
There is the possibility that eternity
Is what we find when our flesh is dead.

Peace: calmness, tranquility.
Peace, I believe is exactly that.
Death, very controversial here.
Some believe that death brings the soul pain.
Some believe that it brings the soul peace.

I would like to believe that eternity and Peace go hand in hand.

Peaces of eternity: endless calm, timeless tranquility.
Peaces of eternity should be that.
Death should bring us peaces of eternity.
We don't know what death brings us,
So why not ease some fear by believing this?
 

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Emptiness of The Heart
 © Kirsten E. Huffman

Emptiness of the heart is a widely suffered disease.
It leaves the heart fully exposed for depression to seize.
There aren't words to describe the pain it puts one through.
They go on searching for the person, the cure, the one that is true.

Emptiness of the heart is excruciatingly hard to deal with.
The idea of happiness within one's self alone is only a myth.
The heart even though it is empty is heavy with sorrow.
Causing the hate of yesterday and the dread of tomorrow.

Emptiness of the heart has or will plague all.
When it comes upon you be careful not to fall
Into the hands of depression or dejection.
Care not about acceptance and rejection!

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Chat Poetry Intimacy
© Joelle Abruzzo

I'm a spritual bonsai
emotionally masturbating
leading a rich internal life
all by myself
O I'm twisted,
but I'm beautiful..
Don't touch me!
You wouldn't understand.

I'm lurking in the chat room
expose my rhyming privates.
Discharge my burning issue
anonymously.
Do you have a kleenex?
I really have to go now.
I thank you all,
and you can keep the change.

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Crinkled paper, faded words
 © Teri 96

My paper smooth,
                cool to the touch,
                so sleek and glossy white.
To place my pen
                upon the page,
                ink ran in bold delight.

Our world was only
                seen in words,
                as a flower to the eye.
Exchanging thoughts,
                perceiving life,
                the how's, the when's, the why's.

Time now has passed,
                all words have ceased,
                like a flower, it slowly died.
My paper, now crinkled,
                faded words on the page,
                my pen has finally run dry.

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Empty
© L De Miguel

The air dances
to fresh Winter
rhythms,
chilled tongues
lash, bite, nibble
and scribble away
your warmth,
you find your spirit pulled
like the salt water taffy
and you see it leave your body
emigrating, gone in cool misty silk

You remember looking up at it
so bright this night,
consistent as the serial killer
you are not spared it's rage
nay, the craters
delight upon your meekness
and weakness
they laugh and mock every
dimple at your suffering
the whole world is alive
the whole world knows you're dead

Grass blades cannot turn away
your boots, insects too slow
die on the spot, a mini sacrifice
for your sacrifice, or perhaps
just a preliminary round
on tonight's fight card

Worms rise up on thick
sticky stalks, and salute you
they know, they know,
it is in the air
the utter defeat of a man is
rejoicement, for they hunger too
they applaud your move
and you feel it
in the tapping of your bones,
in your laboring lungs,
and your gray white step

You walk the field the last time
hearing things for the first time,
the gun is thick in your hand,
solid in your resolve,
calling you across the sea,
the sirens singing, pleading,
pulling you away,
from this empty world,
and your empty pain.

-end-

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Shadow Whisper
© L De Miguel

I heard you
across the shadows,
conjuring my name,
feeling my flame,
breathing me in

I untangle
my entanglements,
supplicate
my requirements
clarifying
refinements
I can feel you scrying for me
searching for my passing
the wind
chilled, and biting
without me

I hear your voice
it lullabies me,
and magnifies me
polarizes me,
and crucifies me

I am a martyr
and your lover
you know me like no other
all my roads,
curvy, slick
wet and dry
my map is yours
to my heart

We dip our thoughts
from the same well,
bleed the same blood,
live the same tale,
you found me, or
did you hear my call
sometimes the world
can be so very small
so tight
so right,
shadow darkness
whispers night.

-end-

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GroundBreaking
© L De Miguel

Who is that
Following me,
mocking me,
mimicking me,
a wax figure
Hollywood refugee
with my eyes
ear
and bone

You mirror
my every passage
my every retreat
you humble me
with your mockery
sir
seducing and compelling
observing and obstructing
tearing her defenses
assaulting her foundation
making her question
her life, her motives

Who is that
making the move on my girl
my lust
Who is but my ego
sifting my psyche
sand searching
for my start button
doing things
that the spineless me
can only dream of

He who works the joints
loosening bolts
of her capture
WD40
with that
long
long
red
straw
the love
lubricant

I show the
pauper grin
with the thin gold nickel
He is on my side
this time.

-end-

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Address Unknown
© L De Miguel

Forgive us,
For we do not know what we do
We search for truth
Even when we know it's not true

Our sins,
Are like our skin
It covers the flesh and bone
Yet we do not know
Where it ends
We do not know
Where it begins
Same birth
Same death
It's the end that becomes
The true test

Forgive us
For we do not know what we do
We search the caverns
And the cubby holes
Every nook and cranny
Yet we do not know
Where to find you

So we experiment
With reckless abandon
From West to East
And half way back
From Born-Again Christians
To Born-Again Witchcraft
We do not know
Which way to attack
So we cover the bases
Till we find the right track

And still we cannot find you,
We search war torn streets
And enterprising ghettos
Upper class neighborhoods
Stocked with presidential bedfellows
Once in a while we might get lucky,
Find your footprint on a child so small
Perhaps smell laughter, after disaster
When crying should be taking it's toll
But when the smoke clears,
It seems you were never there at all

Forgive us for asking you,
For we do not know what to do
Are you passed, or simply in hiding
We have been searching high and low
Have you forsaken your children
Or have we been lying
To ourselves and our posterity,
We have been told so carefully
You would be here in our hour of need
We've been waiting so long,
In such a corrupt place
Won't you just show us a trace, or even a taste
Of your love?

-end-

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Rubberband and Rubberbound
© L De Miguel

I wanted to write you a love poem
I was afraid though
I didn't want to make a prison of you
Bars, out of verbs, words
And metaphors
Shape shifters, night scrapers
French rapiers
Tongue twisters
all the same
they're all the same

Double innuendoed
dildoes
that fuck us
this way or that
gets lost between
the pen strokes
between love's
hope

I didn't want to make a prison
out of our love
but I did it for you
anyway.

-end-

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OF TWO MINDS
© Michelle Leasure (m'chelebug)


                Taking the hand of the Reaper of Breath,
                I step into a river of a color long past black.
                Stooping to trail my fingers across it's cold face,
                I glance behind me, to the shore,
                where the other self motions me back,
                the self that craves sunshine, hot bright beaches
                and Demeter's gentle embrace.
                Her lips mouth promises I will not hear.
 
                Crossing with my newest lover,
                I sigh with the pleasure of it,
                the bone chill life-deep, caressesing me.
                I skip the stones of my soul
                and they dance the surface,
                and sink to unbearable, lost depths.
                I do not fear to follow them.

                My dark lover smiles at me,
                kisses me with decay;
                his aching fingers slip life raiment
                from my shoulders, to drop beneath
                the mirrored waves of my past. 
                I turn, just once more,
                to the other, upon a shore too distant
                for memory, and too empty for regret.
                She stands, forlorn, her arm draped
                with lilies and forget-me-nots.

                Turning again to the nearer shore,
                I offer my icy love this heart.
                A silent, mirthless laugh escapes
                that lipless mouth and he tosses it,
                still beating, to the hound at the door.
                I step from the water, baptised
                in it's pure cutting current,
                and pat the head of Cerebus,
                who wags his tail in welcome.
                I am home. 

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MEDEA, TO JASON, IN HELL
© Michelle Leasure (m'chelebug)


                In love, the name of which yet slips from me,
                I took the lives of men at your bidding.
                You called me Dark Woman, magic Dream-Witch
                But I was no more than other women
                To you, who asked of me the lives of kin
                And bound in them my guilt and shame and loss.
                In love, oh Golden man, did I annoint
                Your body in my liquid caress to save
                You from the dragon's teeth, reaping what I
                Did not truly sow.  Better I planted
                Them cruelly deep between my bitter thighs.
 
                Oh how you praised my wit and cunning wiles
                Asking of me even my brother's flesh
                So that he now walks to me in nightmare,
                His arms outstretched, his face blank betrayal.
                How you wanted me, more than any fleece
                I thought, I believing, exiling myself
                In stark demon-madness of desire.
                Opened to you as no other I gave
                You sons, the pain of birth my gift again.
                Worship, like sin, has its own agony.
 
                If not a sacrifice, hymen and kin,
                And magic arts, then there are none of earth.
                I gave and gave until emptied, my soul
                No longer free.  That Corinith-bitch was sweet
                To you, sweeter than I, exiled again
                By love, by you.  Now, look!  Our sons lie dead
                And your princess whore is gowned in Hades.
                Now look!  At me, the shaft of Cupid's joke
                An eternal, corrupt diamond forever
                Within my breast, plunged past reason and hope.

                Jason, my broken Love, carry this sin
                Across aching years that chasm, deathless
                In front of you.  I leave you to this doom,
                My own demons I have embraced, knowing
                Behind you, pursuing, the hounds of Hell,
                Baying for blood that stains your black heart.

                Oh yes, my Love, this cast-off enchantress
                Shall dance on sanity's waking edges,
                And curse you to share my cold, fickle Fate.

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STRAIGHT FROM THE HEART
© TR JORDAN

My heart beats yet no blood is spread
through the body too much I've bled
No pulse no beat no place to go
To heaven I hope only god knows
So much wrong yet only i know the tune to my song
So much hatred in the air
People fussing and fighting and saying they don't care
The truth is this before its too late
Make peace find love and spread the word to not hate
Do the right thing not the wrong thing
Theres so much going on
Before its too late
Before you're in your grave
under six feet.
Spread the word and enjoy your life to the fullest
Because tomorrow is not promised to us.

Peace.

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Poetic Gift
© J.E. Barby 1996
A poets phrase of careful thought, are just moments out of time.
They're often put to verse with taste, with rhythm, flow or rhyme.
Some write to free the souls of man, some write to free their own,
Some write to tell of torment or the happiness they've known.
Some inspired of greatest love, and some by deepest fears.
And some inspired by bitter loss, could move a stone to tears.
It's read to warm our hearts, or educate untutored mind.
A verse can show great wisdom, lo the truth can be unkind.
It tells of our emotions, and it speaks to them as well.
Provoking some to anger, as while saving some from hell.
With words it opens ears and hearts and dreams and other worlds.
It sends us on adventures as a tale should dare unfurl.
The poets heart is giving as their lives and souls lay bare.
They put their best and worst to pen and page for all to share.
Some poets are true prophets, and some prophets poets true.
They contemplate lifes questions and they answer them for you.
When man first saw the light of day the poetry began.
They started seeking ways for us to hold it in our hand.
It came to spoken word as soon as language would consent.
The wonder of poetic gift to man was heaven sent!
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Ultimate Weapon - Mortal Words
J.E.Barby © 96
No fearsome force on earth - or act of God has yet occurred,
has ever smitten mankind - quite as harsh as spoken word.
Embittered words of rage were cried - by Jesus on the stake.
And God then felt his agony - and hence the earth did quake.
The power of spoken word - has taken - many great men down.
It's caused the fall of presidents - and kings to forfeit crown.
Nations go to war - on one's maniacal command.
But the maniac - that gives it - never takes a sword in hand.
Words are making children run - to greet an early death.
And as the blackness takes them - they curse God with dying breath.
A mother screams in anguish - but her cries reach deafened ears.
No spoken words could quell her pain - nor sedate forthcoming years.
Our words can be contorted - to discourse the way we choose.
We brandish words as weapons - to protect our livid views.
Concealing words within as lies - does make a man - a sallowed soul.
As truth gets buried deeper - neith a heart that's ever shoal.
Crippled children - bare the scars - from baneful words in jest.
Voices re-echoing through their dreams - stifling precious rest.
Angelic verse of choir - can soothe a child - with lullaby.
But words won't keep - a starving village - from watching their baby's die.
There is no words - in all the books - that man had rare inspire,
will down we evil doers deeds - nor make we less the liar.
A poet's words - does truth inspire - and guide to prudent gate.
But they've still - to coin a verse - that will reprieve man's certain date.
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