I
i remember it like it was yesterday, that incredible
day in the sun,
with a cooler of forbidden beer and smiling faces
on new licenses
we sped towards the river.
the girls were already there...with their mother-sent
chaperones,
8 year-old tattle-tales who'd giggle behind hands
as we tickled their sisters,
the water was so clear...like the air.
holding big river rocks, we'd meet at the bottom of
the pool,
and stand together, just digging it, until someone
laughed or farted,
sending all shooting upwards in explosions of bubbles.
exhausted, we'd flop on the rock...a perfectly-sculpted
granite sofa,
and as the chocolate-bought snitches caught craw-dads,
we'd whisper and drink and smooch,
a sunny, sunny, day
II
new made marriages sitting in lawn chairs,
sipping jug wine, still flushed with each other
and the reality of love, nudging, playful grins
back and forth as the water bugs
like jesus walked the water, a metaphor
for joy. Our arms around each other,
hugging the slow, sensual sunshine
to our lives, reveling in the feel
of the moment, the comfortable companionship
of friends known lifetimes and lifetimes again.
we celebrated ourselves well, sundays,
daring the day into warm, firefly lit evening
and the joking dispersals toward home and lovemaking.
III
soft fingers against gentle palm,
linked caress strolling through ancient fragrance
settling on a wooden bench, love in silence
rendezvous in a pastel garden
touched by the sweet scented breeze
singing an intimate lovesong in green
through sun sprinkled leaves
while jeweled butterfly wings brought past remembrances
fluttering against our smiles
we plucked the present, alluring pink rose from it's
thorny bed
wondering together at it's solid beauty
and we knew future sundays through glimpses
of shimmering, elusive dragonflies.
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Jo Taylor THE AUTHOR of this poem.
I've been loitering again,
Over hills and valleys;
Of my own creation.
I wander....
Over the blue waters of the ocean,
Untouched by storm or gale;
Over swaying palm trees,
Which shelter those winged crooners.
I wander...
Over mangrove swamps, wherein dwell death in hiding.
Over peaks and ridges
Which astound the bravest;
Over firs and birches,
Which crave to reach the stars.
At night I ride the crescent moon,
From one end of the horizon to the other.
I flirt with the luminous stars
As I pass them by;
I go close to that scorching ball of flame,
So fascinating, So awe-inspiring.
I slide down the Raindow,
That revels in its multi coloured glory.
Yet Im no winged bird
Nor do I possess manmade wings;
I am just a rider;
In the chariot of my dreams!
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AUTHOR of this poem.
The moonless night...
That played around with my imagination,
Making me see scary visions,
And leading to the accident,
The moonless night - the trickster.
Death..
That came so close to me,
But who backed away,
To stalk another victim,
Death - the traitor.
God...
Who protected me in my hour of need,
And saw me unscathed,
Through my cerebral surgery,
God - the Saviour.
Fate...
Who got immense pleasure,
Seeing me paralysed and helpless.
Fate- the sadist.
Willpower...
Which saw me regain.
The strength of my arm and leg;
Which helped me hold on,
In the most difficult of times,
Helped me smile through my tears...
Willpower- my companion.
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AUTHOR of this poem.
The City once so dear to me.
The nucleus of my existence.
Now transformed into an alien world,
By the departure of the one so beloved.
No soul awaits my arrival here,
No smile greets me back;
No hand leads me on,
All alone and desolate, I try to survive.
The city that moulded my dreams,
My hopes and my aspirations;
Promises me now, the gift...
Of a stream, of unending tears...
My city-- changed from a Paradise green...
...to a polluted dump;
By the ever increasing populace.
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AUTHOR of this poem.
Miss World,
No indoor rose Will ever be kissed
By the first morning dew.
Then how Can the most Gorgeous of beauties
Exhibit their true beauty, And real personalities,
When imprisoned behind the gates of the Windsor Manor.
The real Miss World Lives happily in her paradise;
As true beauty knows no bondage,
Freedom knows no cage,
And true beauty speaks no language,
Except the language of freedom.
And the real `Miss World'
is judged by the sun, the moon and the stars.
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AUTHOR of this poem.
Is laughter always mixed
with tears?
Is love always mixed with pain?
I seek answers...
As pain sears through my heart.
Love is a thief...
That robs me of my freedom;
That snatches my soul away from me,
My treasure trove is empty.
Love is pain...
Of a magnitude unknown
Love demands more than I possess;
Do not spare me sweet love,
Let me revel in your splendour,
Let me reflect your glow on my cheek,
Let me drink the pleasure in pain,
And devour the pain in pleasure.
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AUTHOR of this poem.
Love is like the burning
candle,
Kindled by two hearts;
Hearts that find their fullness,
In oneness.
Hearts that are bound
By the golden threads of love,
Are hearts that are inseparable;
Pining for each other in separation.
Love illuminates the way ahead of you,
Rendering true worth to every moment of your life;
Imparting warmth in the chilly winter of your
life.
Love is the sun that melts the snow,
To reveal the beauty of the snow-clad mountains;
Love is the rock that smashes the shell,
To reveal the precious pearl that lies within.
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AUTHOR of this poem.
If you listen closely, the desert can speak to you
and will tell you of times gone by when very few
people walked on its skin of sand. The only sound
that could be heard is that of a snake slithering
around
or the cry of the eagle as it swoops down on its prey.
No white man drove a car, no roads wound their way
across the desert floor, no loud music could be heard
from boom-box of adolescent's rebellion stirred.
It was a quiet age when only the animals and red man
roamed its floor on soundless feet, then only for
survival ran.
The sound of modern invention was not there to interfere
with the stillness of the air; the eagle would revere
the reverence that was the sky, his hunting ground
he shared with the clouds that softly rolled around.
If you listen closely you might yet hear the voice
the desert speaks to those who listen to its choice.
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AUTHOR of this poem.
What a rampant rat race the world is in
Everybody hustling and bustling around
No one stopping or even slowing down.
So hurry and drive your car to death
you might just have ten seconds left.
So don’t be nice or let anyone through
if you do that, then no one will have a clue
because most of them are just like you.
It seems the younger generations are crazy,
careless and without regard for others
so what happened to “love your mothers,”
“yes sir - no ma’am”, “care for those in need,”
now days most everyone is centered in greed
or “let’s see how many folks we can con.”
Jail’s overcrowded so let those felons go
back to society, where there’s “more rows to hoe.”
The world’s morals are in a constant state of decay
and that is due largely to parents’ lack of concern
for the kids they brought into the world, they spurn
not caring where they are or what property they burn.
The world’s society needs to care enough
to take hold and see just where so fast we are going
so bold,
helping the younger ones to not let their heads swell
before our entire civilization is led straight down
to hell.
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AUTHOR of this poem.
I have grown and learned to be the protector,
the watchman, who can see a very long way,
who will watch over the younger, frail generation,
the one who knows of impending danger.
Now I am a father, the protector,
the evergreen, the father tree of the forest,
the guardian of the younger, frail generation
who grow, relying on the wisdom of their father.
I watch, ever vigilant, for the dangers in the world
calling upon all my years of experience
watching over the younger, frail generation
they must have the chance to grow and protect.
I must teach them to watch for the dangers
to be strong and vigilant, to be the protector
while watching over their younger, frail generation
who grow, relying on the wisdom of their father.
Now they are the evergreen, the father tree of the
forest
watching over the younger, frail generation.
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AUTHOR of this poem.
Fragments float through my mind, shattered bits of
mirror.
No sense of order here.
The pieces drift unbidden into consciousness,
then twist and slide away into the darkness.
A leftover picnic fork, lying forgotten in the grass.
My eyes focus on the missing tooth, and I pick it
up.
The empty space mocks the empty finger
which recently bore a wedding band.
Knees turn to water, fingers numb, I drop the fork.
The fragment tilts and slides away.
Whistling breezes pirouette around me, gusting up the
sheer cliff .
One lilliputian step forward and the pain will end.
The tears will be past, the echoing emptiness gone
forever.
Sweet deliverance!
The choice is made, the step is taken--backwards.
Slide away, fragment of pain, slide away forever.
Body frozen in mid-air, glasses flying away, the blow
not yet felt.
Riveted by the acid red rage in his eyes.
I'll have to be a better person so he doesn't have
to hurt me.
Wear sunglasses, and coverstick so nobody will know
how bad I really am.
The car is overheated. I pray it will last until I
get home.
My heart is dark. Speedometer reads 95, and the old
car shakes.
I must reach home and take the children away before
he gets home.
The agreement to move out came too easily.
His guns are loaded--what is he planning?
Take the dog too, quickly.
The shower is steaming, cleansing, penetrating.
He wants the rocking chair.
I'm hanging on to it. Why?
Hanging on to him?
Understanding jells in my stomach,
knees turn to jelly and I sag against the shower wall.
Phone him to come and get the rocking chair.
Sitting at the piano playing an old hymn from memory.
Hard to see through the tears.
The chilren are at school.
Court begins in less than an hour.
Nearly out of control. "I take, Oh cross, thy shadow
for my abiding place..."
Control starts coming back.
Before the judge, "I take oh cross thy shadow for
my own hiding place."
The judge is kind--the waiting over.
Let me rest in the shadow just a little longer.
Red, boiling anger.
You walk just like your dad.
I can't stand it when you act like him.
He hurt me and rejected me and now you act just like
him.
Will you reject me too?
You are deeply hurt, not understanding my anger.
He could be charming sometimes.
He could give a smile and a hug that could turn on
the sun.
It's Ok for you to be like him in the good ways.
You are very wise for your thirteen years.
You understand and I understand.
The red cools to blue.
Beautiful golden child standing so still ,
Bottomess pain in your golden eyes.
I cannot bear your pain.
Step aside and wait.
Healthy anger now creating distance from him.
Scalding tears for what should have been.
Healing is begun.
A black door.
Inside is blackness.
No light at all, just emptiness.
Shoved inside, the door shuts behind me.
Inside I grope in panic.
A tiny speck of light appears far in the distance.
Too far to reach, no strength.
What traps lie waiting in the darkness.
I turn and beat on the door.
No answer.
Why, oh why won't you open the door.
I trusted you.
Turn again, a small step.
It is agony, bones aching with the effort.
A presence moves in me.
The light grows faintly brighter.
I run towards it, willing it to be brightest, hating
the darkness.
The light becomes an open archway.
Beyond it a cool garden awaits.
Rest quietly in the garden.
In the alcove beside me hangs a mirror.
It reflects grey , black, gold, with dots of red and
blue.
I recognize the fragments, melded together,
Woven into the tapestry of a life,
And as I move toward it,
the mirror grows ever smaller.
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AUTHOR of this poem.
My sister
is a mermaid.
She called to tell me
in sea-foam words
that she had lost her tongue
and that the prince
never saw her
at the ball.
The glass slippers
sliced her feet
into elegant ribbons;
some tuxedoed-beast
lapped her reddened toes
with his black tongue
and gave her a rose
with thorns of ice
that pierced her heart.
My sister,
the mirror-queen,
told me
that she had slept
for a hundred needle-years
upon a pea
in a coffin
with a waterbed mattress
and she told me
there were only
three matches left
against the winter
settling in her soul.
She asked me
to help her find a new dress;
the ragged newsprint
of her flesh
reading like a crucifix
of naked desire
and she really thought
that if she could
stop the frantic dancing
she might get Hansel
to push the witch
out of the oven,
out of the gingerbread tower
and she could let her hair down
for once.
My sister
cannot sing
the lark-lyrics
of her life
she cages those songs
with golden apples and bars
so she asks me
to sing them, instead.
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AUTHOR of this poem.
Nuclear Vampires
wear rags of ice,
caressing blue memories from stone
and laugh over Bing Crosby movies.
They are stealthy
on their bony, linear toes
breaking gospels
into toast-points sans butter.
Nuclear Vampires
have pale pink anemone hearts
in varied arrhythmias of insane,
and toothy smiles.
They are transparent
with tundra-needs,
vast chasms of friendless
cable TV dreams.
Nuclear Vampires
serve pheasant-under-glass,
the shards prick like feathers of flesh
in the most delirious tango.
They are lonely,
these atom-bombed remainders
from some smarmy suburban jyhad,
they are piss-empty and so alone.
Even Nuclear Vampires
drinking cream ale commercials
need the occasional-ness
of someone who knows their middle names.
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AUTHOR of this poem.
She sees far beyond the cloudless ceiling,
Past neon-lit skies of naked barb-wire.
There is more to her dreams than Hell yawning.
Her bruised eyes salt swim in hope's unveiling,
Forever tastes of delicious cross-fire,
She sees far beyond the cloudless ceiling.
The westwinds blow with phantoms prevailing,
She waits no more, beside her last watch-fire.
There is more to her dreams than Hell yawning
She disrobes her heart's possessions to sing,
Unfettered, the melodies of wild-fire.
She sees far beyond the cloudless ceiling.
The hurricane blood stirs, she is hard coming,
Gales of laughter free her prison-empire.
There is more to her dreams than Hell yawning.
She is night-bold, starry and unflinching,
Pulsing with the rhythms of life-entire,
She sees far beyond the cloudless ceiling.
There is more to her dreams than Hell yawning.
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AUTHOR of this poem.
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AUTHOR of this poem.
I can't let you see
the real me
hidden deep
where fears creep
a place thats cold
in darks stronghold
I can't release
or find peace
can't break down that wall
it's just too tall
just let me be
let my fear run free
it's for the best
to journey alone on my quest
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AUTHOR of this poem.
Standing alone in the dark
waiting for the angel's hark
listen patiently for Gabriel's horn
a sound non-believers will scorn
a single light you will soon see
your time has come to be free
sing praise as you shed your mortal coil
this is your prize for being loyal
joy and love are soon at hand
for at GOD's side you will stand.
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AUTHOR of this poem.
Hunched over, typing like a student,
whose paper is due in an hour,
I type out a story, it's title made unimportant,
by the fact that no one will read it but me.
it's plot practically non-existant,
it's characters linear and predictable,
more boring than an infomercial,
the story is typed out,
page after page,
until it comes to a predictable end,
my death.
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AUTHOR of this poem.
My life flashes before my eyes,
as the end comes near,
and if it were a t.v. show,
I'd change the channel.
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AUTHOR of this poem.
Chain smoking
into a grey haze
red eyes
sore throat
black lungs
lighting another
to feed
an endless addiction
the walking dead
and loving it
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AUTHOR of this poem.
she sits alone among
the garbage littering
the linoleum floor
picking up random objects
and plunging them deep into
orifices
both natural
and newly opened
the ripped plastic bag
testifying
its incompetence
if you want a job done right
you've got to do it
yourself
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AUTHOR of this poem.
she lies still
for one precious second
savoring his closeness
feeling his love volcano
inside of her
and she is happy
for one more precious second
making believe he wants her
forever
waiting to hear those magic words
the ones she never hears
then helping him climb off of her
pulling his shirt
on over his
thin, young shoulders
then lying back down
to wait for the next
in line
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AUTHOR of this poem.
feeling sister kiss
flaccid lips
I can feel you, Princess
I wish you'd go away
the Ultimate
awaits my disappointment
no light
no angels
nothing
family closes the
ebony door of my
new home
eyes staring
at a slowly molding
infinity
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AUTHOR of this poem.
I feel as if I'm going to die
When I look into your eyes
And I know that one day
We will go our separate ways
And that is too much of a price to pay
For falling in love with you that day
When the lights go out
And I find myself without
You my love and life
It's like rolling the dice
You win or lose
And you don't get to choose
They ask me why I love you
For that I can't explain
It's a force inside that won't answer before I lye
slain
I hope that when we part
You will not forget that you are always in my heart
I hope that you will forgive me fo what I have done
If not I could not live without you my love
Words could not begin to explain
What goes on inside my body when I'm around you
I sit up at night and ask my self what to do
For it does not feel right the I alone should have
you.
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AUTHOR of this poem.
I don't know what to do
I sit for hours wondering
If I should tell you
The fear of your rejection
Sends tears down my checks
I keep trying to forgive you
But I'm just too weak
I sit here depressed
While you're out having fun
It hurts so bad
I wish I could run
Run far away from these feelings
How can you be my best friend
And yet my worst enemy
Why won't this all end
I tried to build a wall
But all my emotions leaked in
And the wall began to fall
I just want to be happy
But I know I can't trust
How do I know
If this is love or just lust
I try speaking to you
But how do I explain the way I feel
Would you listen
Would you be real
I doubt you'd really casre
Even if you felt the same
There are so many problems to work out
The pain is slowly making me go insane
I set my pride aside
And let you back into my heart
Sometimes I feel so close to you
And others so far apart
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