Issue #11 for October 1997
This is a censorship free web site
Courtesy is offered in the form of a "Strong Content" warning label
Snail Mail may be sent to:
Joe Barby - PO Box 662 Dearborn Hgts, MI 48127
NEW
Amrita's New Heartstrings Romance Page
Click this box to submitt a poem to the next issue
But first; take a moment to read Amritas'
GUIDELINES:
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.
Language of Love
©
Andrew Robert Crow
The ties that bind are
The ropes that burn
Scrape by scrape
Cut through my skin
Bloody drops
Drip, dripping
On my freshly scrubbed floor
The language of love
Is a foreign tongue
The words, when they roll
Off my lips
Corrode my flesh
Like acid on a flower petal
The blindness of love
Is a blessing
For the blind do not see
The shit
They are walking through
Send some E-mail to:
THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
Realisation
©
Andrew Robert Crow
Motionless
Emotionless
As we sit here
I glance
At your wrinkled sleeve
And try to see
What it was
That drew me to you
Attracted me to you
Made me use myself
Abuse myself
Compromise myself
Open myself
Close myself
What was it?
Damned if I know
And fuck you too
Send some E-mail to:
THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
The Cat Lady (of Santa Barbara)
©
C.E. Chaffin
Brown plastic shopping cart
(Von�s or Lucky�s?)
full of blankets, jewelry,
cat food, cookbooks,
brushes, Kleenex,
a purse on wheels
half submerged in sand
like tires along a go-cart track
by the wooden pier
where whale watchers go.
Two cats circle her cart,
lazy as dirt, fat,
one black, one calico.
"Goddam the beach is warm
but you can never tell
when it�ll get cold," she says,
loosening her orange parka.
"Look� some guy dropped a whole dollar"
in her cat-shaped basket.
"The cats help.
They brush against people,
make �em feel loved,
so whoever stops to pet
usually gives.
"Those who don�t
are the biggest cat lovers.
They know cats
are too proud to beg,
I�m not."
Send some E-mail to:
THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
Palms
©
C.E. Chaffin
In a desert canyon I saw
two-thousand-year-old
native palms (Washingtonia)
whose faded fans
hung down in skirts
to their ankles
like hula dancers.
A spring trickled,
yellow jackets hummed.
Swallows darted in shadow.
It was quiet and cool.
I felt honored.
But stuck like flags beside hotels
I don�t recognize them.
Shaved like poodles,
I wince to stare
at their skin�s
secret geometry.
Send some E-mail to:
THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
Predators
©
C.E. Chaffin
Through blue cypresses,
under mint-needled firs,
down the leaf-choked stream
to the dark gray beach
north of San Francisco,
the white fog�s tongues
probe the air
for a dry spot to lick--
there is none.
The sea�s shapeless body
seizures on the sand.
The foghorn bawls
like a drowning cow.
Sandpipers stare
at the slick mirror of sand
beneath them but ignore
their own likenesses.
They see only food
and not-food.
When we stare
at reflections of strangers
in store windows
do we see food
or not-food?
Send some E-mail to:
THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
Resistance
©
C.E. Chaffin
My cat rubs her slippery fur
against my calf,
not to request anything
but to connect.
My legs are less hairy than hers
but we share the static.
If cats are solitary creatures,
why does she sand my shins
each morning so noiselessly,
her black fur wet with sunlight?
Inside her tiny cranium
(a cat�s skull looks so small when stripped of fur!)
she seeks resistance,
something to brush against,
something not her.
Send some E-mail to:
THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
Famous
©
C.E. Chaffin
My daughter watches too much television.
She wants to be "famous."
When I ask her, "For what?"
she says, "just famous."
How can I tell her she will become
a two-dimensional euphemism for herself
if she achieves such recognition?
The hotter the medium,
the flatter the image, the more toneless--
TV preachers look alike.
Basketball coaches all wear ties.
They are famous.
I want her to stay anonymous,
hidden from undue publicity
like Jesus from Herod,
one in a flock of a million
monarch butterflies
perched on the white sycamores
of Malibu Canyon.
Send some E-mail to:
THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
Responsibility
©
Jay T Harding
The future holds no promises in store
That you cannot alone create yourself;
All circumstances you expect, and more
Are placed upon your own home's mantle shelf.
Imagine something, place your thought on it,
And see how rapid that will come to pass;
It may not be your wish for benefit,
But what you need and want may clash, alas!
Responsibility is always there,
Yet only through mistakes are you to learn
That all your thoughts and deeds are your affair,
And every screw must have it's every turn.
So next time thoughts come in, just keep in mind
If it's necessary, true and kind.
Send some E-mail to:
THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
Cause and Effect
©
Jay T Harding
Connecting every action, word and thought,
A simple Law exists for us to know
Upon all life, we reap all that we sow;
Surviving even time, the coin is bought.
Effect and cause is meant for Soul to learn
A lesson in responsibility;
No longer pointing fingers, we can see
Discrimination at our every turn.
Enlightenment will come as Soul matures
Far past the lower states of passion's sleep,
For on the razor's edge the wise will keep
Eyes on the Light, that beacon home so pure.
Causation helps evolve the lumpy coal
To someday know Itself as diamond Soul.
Send some E-mail to:
THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
The Holy Trinity
©
Jay T Harding
The birth of man in misty dawn of time
Helped balance out the perfect plan of God,
Evolving Spirit in it's conscious climb
Here from the Earth toward It's home abroad.
O blessed is the Soul that knows the three!
Love infinite beyond the veil of death
Yields Truth to those who've learned to hear and see
Til Wisdom fills their worlds with every breath.
Remembering at last that you must trod,
Necessitating growth toward the goal
Into the realized state of Self and God.
The Holy Trinity is found within
Your heart of hearts where Love is genuine.
Send some E-mail to:
THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
MY MOTHER
©
David M. Collins
It was the 20th of February of 1979
A very cold morning at that
The snow was piled high 3 or 4 feet
As I started the car to warm it up
For the long journey to work
She sat beside me, very silent, face drawn cold and gray
Her hood covered her head to protect from the bitter cold
I put the car in greer and slowly moved ahead
Pulled out of the drive and onto the road
Still very silent, no words spoken.
Turned onto 81 north toward Watertown, New York
Another 25 miles it would be
Until our destination we would reach
Silence seemed to follow us that morning
Nothing was said.
Looking back some years later I came to realize
That she knew it would be her last ride with me
The last time that she would have to face the cold, cold morning
The last time that she would have to dread going to work
The last time that she would have to fight to stay warm
We were at work for 5.5 hours and then it came
That awful scream from one of the girls
David, There is something wrong with your Mother
As I got up and ran around the corner
I hit the skid that sent me to the floor
The pain was intense, The arm snapped
I got to my Mother and she was on the floor
Men were standing there beside her and over her
Trying to breath air into her lungs
Trying to bring her back
I heard the sirens coming like painful screaming
The men came in and put my
Mother on a stretcher
And carried her lifeless body to the ambulance
The shop nurse and I followed
Close behind
Minutes turned into century
We arrived at the hospital
They pulled my Mother out
And onto yet another stretcher
In through the double doors
They took her
Then that awful moment of truth
The Doctor came out into the emergency room
And said David sit down
Your Mother is very, very sick
Is there anyone else you need to call
I phoned my Sister Besty
I called collect. She would not accept the charges.
I yelled over the operator Betsy it's Mom
She said OK
I said get here fast
She needs you here
But alas too late, much, much too late.
Mother passed away, that fateful day
of February 20th, 1979
And the boy grew into a man.
Send some E-mail to:
THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
Who Knew?
©
David M. Collins
Who knew it would be the last time
I saw his face
His glittering green eyes
His warm dimpled smile
Who knew it would be the last time I embraced him
The last time I would feel his warmth, his strength
The last time I would say "I Love You"
Who knew it would be the last time
We would argue
The last time unkind words would be said
The last time I would watch him walk to his car
And close the door, Start the engine...
Who knew as he sped away in anger
And rounded that curve in the road
So close to home and lost control....
That awful crash, The sound of breaking glass
And that scream.....!
Who Knew?
Send some E-mail to:
THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
The Argument
©
David M. Collins
As I stepped from the car on that rainy afternoon
After the argument had settled
As I walked slowly toward the cliffs that outstretched me
In the afternoon rays
Who knew what it was all about,
I did not understand
All I knew, all I felt was that of being tired, so very tired
Of all the unreconciled threats, threats of leaving
Threats of not being loved anymore
As I stood there thinking of all the unfairness in this world
All of the "I am Sorry" "Please Forgive Me"
Of all of the unkind words and deeds
He caused me in my life
As I stood there praying to God that this has to end.
This intense pain, hurt
Longing for peace within and without
I Jumped into Oblivion!
Send some E-mail to:
THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
Life
©
Lesley Box
I am the devil's valentine
In the depths of hell, together we lie
The heavenly songs I can not hear
The sinners screams filled with fear
In this beautiful place of war and hate
They ask what they'd done to deserve this fate.
Send some E-mail to:
THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
The consquences of war
©
Lesley Box
The old man now prepares to die
above he sees the angels fly
The angels suddenly dissappear
The devil's demons coming near
They grad his arms, his legs, his head
He watches this he's not yet dead.
When he was merely twenty-four
He killed a dozen maybe more
"But it was for my contry and in God's name
Can't you see it's not the same"
An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth
No need to lie, He knows the truth
You did not know them, you did not care
You killed men women children, whoever was there
A life is a life, with a heart and a soul
No matter how young, no matter how old
There is no reason to kill, not even a war
Now we will torture you even more.
Send some E-mail to:
THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
Fruit Salad
BY:
©
AMani
some might consider this poem to contain strong content
Sorry to hear things are hectic for you
Meetings.
Attitudes.
People pulling at you,
unwanted situations,
bad accomodations,
thoughts of decapitation
(OOPS! THAT'S ME!)
Things gettin's insane
too much pressure for the membrane
Sit back, put your feet up,
free your mind and let your thoughts unwind...
Wonder...over to me the african goddess
set free from the titillating fantasies of your erotic mentality
here amani stands
regal
flirting
teasing
lustful
sexy
exotic
provocative
sensual
strong
Luscious lips
Teasing tongues darting from zone-to-zone
skin tone-to-skin tone
moans and groans
Fingers caressing
clutching
coaxing
fondling
massaging
stoking bodies into submission
Words directing
taunting
soliciting
begging calling out
II.
arousing apricot aspirations
precipitating papaya palpitations
sweet strawberry stimulation
mutual mango masturbation
pleading pineapple penetration
climatic chocolate copulation
causing
coconut culmination of kiwi kisses and watermelon wetness
inside vanilla vastness
stroking mahogany molasses
Send some E-mail to:
THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
Walking Along
BY:
©
Allison DeLacy
Walking along the beach at nights,
with you beside me.
Holding my hand as we walk along,
with love in our hearts.
Sitting on the sand watching the
ocean roll in, forgetting everything
that is around us.
Walking along the countryside
with you beside me.
With our arms around each other,
with love in our hearts.
Sitting there in the clearing watching
everything around us.
Listening to all God's creation around us.
Walking along with you beside me,
with love in our hearts.
Not taking much notice of anything that
is around us, just each other
Just listening to each other's feelings.
Nothing matters to us except each other,
the way it should be in this world.
Send some E-mail to:
THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
Soul Dancer
BY:
©
Ginger McBeth
Soul dancer....soul dancer
Dance with me
Stroll with me
Hold me close to thee.
Soul dancer....soul dancer
Take me slow
Touch my soul
Make me whole.
Soul dancer....soul dancer
Caress me tenderly
Kiss me passionately
Leave me lovingly.
Soul dancer....soul dancer..
..soul dancer for love
Make my passion soar like the wings of a dove.
Send some E-mail to:
THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
untitled
BY:
©
Krista Brotzel
My hand wipes gently across your brow.
I run my fingers down your face,
through your hair,
and across your lips.
Our eyes meet,
and we speak to each other;
without words.
I pull you closer to me,
tasting you.
Feeling your lips to mine,
feeling your arms around me.
I look up at you,
your eyes are almost twinkling.
I get lost in them for a moment.
You place your hand on my face,
and pull me back to you.
I am recalling this,
as I lie here missing you,
marvelling in the memory
of that first kiss,
of that sweet innocence.
I am wishing you were here,
for everthing,
for the simple things.
I wish right now that I could
have you arms around me.
I miss you, my baby.
Send some E-mail to:
THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
A Child
BY:
©
Krista Brotzel
A child is a treasure,
who should be thought of as a miracle.
A child is completely innocent.
Their innocence is only gone
once, we as a world teach them differently.
A child does not deceive
until we teach them to lie.
A child does not detest
until we teach them to hate.
A child has a heart,
and we teach them to love and care.
A child should remind us
of how we used to be.
Not what we aren't now.
A child is carefree and full of energy.
We should not try to make them
grow up, faster than they should.
For one day they will grow up,
and we will wonder where the time has gone.
Send some E-mail to:
THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
Without You
BY:
©
Jorge Garcia (Chilango 2)
As my soul slowly drowns
in the darkness of it's own dreams
and a million pointless romantic phrases
demand to be spoken
by my mute tongue
I slowly slip to the edge
of sanity
lost in myself
without you.
You,
who are you?
do I even know you?
My arms ache to hold you
and my heart aches to love you
and my soul will always be half-torn
without you.
Where are you?
I despretly need to find you,
the love of my life
where are you?
Slowly, one by one,
my dreams shatter,
and the shifting sands of time
provide nothing to grab onto
as I hang on to the edge of the cliff
and I know that soon
I
will
fall
without you.
Send some E-mail to:
THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
No Longer You
BY:
©
Jorge Garcia (Chilango 2)
I no longer cry for you,
so why can I not cry
for anyone else?
I'm no longer in love with you,
so why can I not fall in love
with anyone else?
Why does my soul still fly apart
why do my eyes
still try their best to cry
whenever I think to hard about you?
As your memory fades
and I still remember the pain,
As I slip to the end of the rope
and I no longer have your hope,
your afce fills my mind
blurry with time
but I wish for you still,
even as I try my best
to replace you.
It never ends,
It never ends,
I just wish
we could begin, again.
Why will you not set me free,
is it up to you,
or up to me?
As my soul drowns in the dark,
torn in half
without love,
and I know without love
it will die,
but there are no miricles
like you,
waiting to save me
this time.
Send some E-mail to:
THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
We've been publishing the monthly "Anthology of Chat" since December1996.
Click here to browse all the past issues:
Amrita's NEW "Heartstrings" Romance Page
This Poetry Webring site is owned
by Joe Barby .
Click for the
[
Next Page |
Skip It |
Next
5 ]
Want to join the Poetry Webring?
Click here for info.
This page is a work in progress!
Created October 28 1996
Regularly Updated