Issue #13 for December 1997
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If
©
Roy A. Henry
If they had followed different pathways
They might have saved themselves much pain.
They might have garnered greater treasure,
They might have known reknown and fame.
They might have furthered many boundaries,
They might have sailed to distant shores.
They might have dined with kings and princes,
They might have opened many doors.
But-
In the realm of "be"
and "might be"
"might have been"
means "never was".
Truth is truth and fancy, fancy.
For what one is, is what one does.
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
RESURGENCE
©
Stephen M. Fine
I mortgaged my future when I became afraid.
Fear and embarrassment ruled my consciousness.
'WHAT THE HELL?," I exclaimed.
I broached my fear with trepidation, caution, anxiety.
Perserverance pays off.
Anxiety turned to freedom.
Trepidation became resurgence.
Caution didn't exist.
Fear can be empowering when you're not afraid.
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
do they?
©
J. Kevin Wolfe
it's the pebbles
that make life insurmountable
boulders
we expect
but too much gravel
we trip on
when
it's so black all day has ceased
when life is as bleak
as bleakest jet
Ilie back
look to the core
of the charcoal night
I gaze deep
into the soul
of the ancient pitch
and ask "do
the stars still shine tonite?"
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
No Tomorrow
©
J. Kevin Wolfe
I have no tomorrow
but I rejoice
I know that life is but a candle flame
that can be snuffed by but a wisp
I live life as "last times"
the last time I'll see a friend
the last time I'll kiss my children
the last time my love and I entwine
each last time is a gift
one more gleaming chance
to hear the quiet groan of a lumbering sunrise
to sip the last drop of a melting sunset
to pocket a falling star
somewhere in the coat of your soul
I've seen fate
and it is but a rice paper partition
between boisterous life
and voiceless death
every conversation final
make sure all is said
every question concluding
ask what you really want to know
every moment dying
cup it tight
and peek in to see the flicker
of a firelfy called life
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
The Fiddler and His Lady
©
J. Kevin Wolfe
He made his fiddle a lady
in the exhaled haze of a Dingle pub
As the drums and strums
danced the clack of Keryl's spoons
the old men scratched their violins
But not Maguire's lady
She cooed and sighed
as his chin so gently rested on her body
His peaceful touch drew across her
like a warm breath through hair of silk
Then the rogue Jim made her weep
til she bit us with her pain
and a drip of tears
seasoned the Guinness
But he knew his lady so well
The instant he smiled and her hopes took wing
She laughed like he'd never made her grieve
Her chorts so loud they drew a curious boy
who jigged on the stains of the floor
She giggled at the jests of Macguire's bow
and the boy floated above the hardwood
his feet occasionally tapping the floor
At closing time
Jim laid his lady in her worn velvet bed
and locked her away
as if she only wanted to sing to him
He hugged her under his arm
protecting his rare lady from the damp chill
of the Irish summer night.
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
The Day Reality Asked Dreams For a Dance
©
J. Kevin Wolfe
On the day Reality asked Dreams for a dance.
But Dreams declined. "You are often
crude and would step on my hopeful feet."
Reality straightened his tie with the fate prints.
"You never take a chance.
This joyous dancefloor awaits us.
Would you let a few
sore toes get in the way
of becoming yourself?"
Dreams folded her arms.
"Today yes.
Tomorrow maybe"
Reality snickered
"You always talk of tomorrow
like he'll walk in the door,
kiss your hand,
and spin you endlessly."
Dreams turned her eyes.
"He will. For I am a passionate kiss.
And you Reality,
you are but a cold fish handshake."
Reality stretched
his neck in the stiff ivory collar.
"Then I shall dance with Yesterday."
Dreams looked Reality straight in the eye
"Yesterday knows only one dance."
Reality tugged his cufflinks
"But she knows it well.
And once again you'll just sit here and watch.
Guzzling up
all the punch of Life."
"Sipping," murmured Dreams,
casually looking away, "slowly sipping".
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
The Bubble
©
J. Kevin Wolfe
All of life
seemed to be in the tiny bubble
he had just blown.
His little breath gave it life
as it grew and lifted
off the wand.
A twisted rainbow danced
in the thin soap sphere
as it rose.
It glided
out a window.
It sheened in the sun.
And floated into the bluest of skies
until it vanished.
I know now for sure
it died
in a sudden burst
not far from the window.
but as a child
you could
never convince me of that.
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
Untitled
©
Ginger Jones
we rise like children
in a preschool of charm
i come in peace
and you mean no harm
your unselfish eyes
sharing looks across my path
staring isn't polite
but i hold no wrath
tender and peaceful
your smile is to say
a long distance telegram
no matter finding its way
into my soul you impale
leave me
with every light lit up in my heart
obvious in your sight......
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
Ode to Ben Folds
©
Ginger Jones
a break in the clock
music is playing
a candle is burning
and i am swaying
as the flame is dancing
to the sound of sleep
a beautiful instrument
soft and no peep
you are speaking to me
free of your cares
the music is ticking
thru the dark it tears
spewing out its words
words of wonder
i bounce to the fire
the waves are heading under
the outspoken lyrics
a freedom of choice
give me a breeze of passion
of your magnificant voice....
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
Tony
©
Ginger Jones
in the eyes of the beholder
I see the wonder
Beautiful and content
yet an interest is no hint
to thee I watch
hesitant to speak
nervously shaken
an uncomfortabe peak
you make me flush
powerful you are
cute and adoring
a rising star
my existence to you
lay obvious and plain
your overwhelming to me
grinds a simple stain
i believe in miracles
such that I demand
my fantasy is foriegn
but your wish is my command
I shift to you
in extreme direction
sparks dance in a path
of our infinite connection
a sense of dominance
as well as my hand
in reaching your heart
I wish to land
like a flower you stand out
beautiful and at peace
and someday you'll accept
these words I had to release.......
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
Mother's Hands
©
Lynette Munnett
As long as I can remember
I looked at her hands.
A beautician in her young life.
She knew how to manicure still.
Small fingers attached to slender hands.
Her nails barely long
Never polished, almost never,
only on that very occasional special occasion.
So much was handled.
Those wrinkles; how can one hand have so many?
Cooking scars; I would have made sandwiches,
and the spots of age marked each year.
Those age spots bothered me
wondering why she didn't get rid of them.
Her hands were too pretty to be so dotted
but she had earned them.
Lines of blue went from her wrist to the knuckles.
I found pleasure pressing them watching them move.
Very easy to squash and moved to my touch.
Easier to move each year I got older.
My favorite place for her hands was about my face.
When I was upset my head would find her lap.
She would touch my hair then look into my tears.
Between her two warm palms, my face, such comfort.
The last time I looked at her hands
they had paled with sickness and old age.
Those veins and age spots
were her badge of courage and my memory.
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
TIME
©
Cherry Kelly
Time marches forward
On second feet
And long armed hands
Stopping for no one
Waiting never.
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
EXISTING
©
Cherry Kelly
Ever wonder who you are,
Or why you seem to exist?
Is what the mystics say quite true?
That you are only partly you
And partly someone else before
Whose spirit rests within your soul;
You've lived before and will live again,
Only partly now and partly then
Part of you exists forever
Yet - at one time you never
Really even exist at all.
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
THE WIND
©
Cherry Kelly
The wind howls and raves like a demon
With it's tail caught by an unseen force.
It twists and writhes and shrieks its worst;
It whistles and screams and tries its hardest
To know over every living creature in it's path.
It rips and tears in it's desperate struggle to be free
Of it's antagonist. It moans and groans then pulls
And jerks and wails, then taunts its captor
All in vain. A lull --- silence and quiet reigns
Then a thunderous roar as it tries for one last time
And then it dies.
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
CONTOUR
©
Cherry Kelly
Contour
Thou great line
That circles empty worlds
And engulfs
The vast array
Of our tomorrows.
Oh you whose
Very grace can show
The slightest curve
Or slice the largest share
Of poise -- in two.
Would that I
A humble moretal
Be embraced by you
And give power
With which to entice
The Greatest Piece
Enchanted beyond
Endurance -- then I
Would be as great
As thee.
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
Night and Day
©
Jay T Harding
A blanket of stars look down on this spring night,
as I muse the concord between dark and light.
The flicker of faraway stars do I see,
when I gaze at the heavens surrounding me,
and warmth fills my being to know in those stars
together form harmony from where they are.
Each sun in itself holds it's planets in place,
as they dance and spin at their own balanced pace.
On some of the planets there's life there, I know,
and they must look up to see our own sun's faint glow,
amidst all the other stars up in the sky,
mere twinkles in otherwise gloom way on high.
From dusk until dawn our face turns from the glow,
yet it still shines brightly on all down below,
not caring the least whether we hate or love,
just shining and glowing from it's place above.
How true this fact is when I think about God;
this love that I feel on this path that I trod!
I know in my heart that the way is so clear -
'tis light that I see and a sound that I hear.
A shadow is merely a less form of light -
the Master is with me in both day and night.
When darkness abounds and I feel I can't see,
I reach out and feel the love come from Thee.
I'm never afraid when I can't see the way,
for it's always darkest before light of day.
So look to the light when your spirits are low,
and you'll find God's love as a brilliant blue glow.
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
Tears Come From A Heart That's Full
©
Jay T Harding
tears come from a heart that's full of pain or joy or both;
cleansing rain that feels the pull of challenge, change and growth.
through the mist of weepy eyes where angels long to tread,
strength is borne amid the sighs with every tear that's shed.
love and longing, rage and shame fill the heart with feeling;
all emotions, all the same, bring with them a healing.
tears come from a heart that's full of pain or joy or both;
cleansing rain that feels the pull of challenge, change and growth.
Send some E-mail to:
THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
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