Issue #14 for January 1998
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Travel On
©
Andrew R. Crow
Work to do
Things to be forgotten...
Glory all
And carry all
Insightful witness
Fly on
Move on
Sidestep the coloured dreams
Travel on the wingtips
Of dying children
Let insence smile
And smoke your soul
'Til the end
Burns us all
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
Release
©
Andrew R. Crow
She hears him say
"I've lost my mind"
His head's intact
So where to look?
A banging sound
He hits the floor
His mind is flowing
Pooling
A puddle
To splash
To drink
To know him
Like never before
The sound of his screams
Like crying lambs
His head intact
His mind is not
It's flowing
Blending
Releases him
From scorching days
From animal plays
To leave and come
To share his life
She and he are one
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
Postcard Pretties
©
Barbara Scrogans (ALady'sHeart)
small wonders
bound and gagged
placed upon a shelf
a dreamers revenge
for an unrealized dream...
boxes stacked in storage
tell a poignant story
in tape and cardboard drama
they hold a life
that exists no more...
picture postcard pretties
pasted in place
upon a bathroom stall
someone elses dreams of someplace
far away from dingy walls
close a book
lock a door
throw away a foolish heart
scrub till fingers bleed
yet, silence is not the cure
small wonders
yes, they do cease
to amaze the world
and me...
yet, no, alone is not the cure...
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
A Storms Kiss
©
Barbara Scrogans (ALady'sHeart)
Storms looming on horizens
darkest silent form menacing sheerest silence
the calm before the storm...
goodbyes said and regretted
hello�s said and tears have begun
no one can hold a teardrop
in a parched desert sun...
frightful sounds are looming
in dusky midnight air as a soul�s mind whispers
that life is so unfair...
half a world away
in a forest you reside
walking, talking, living, breathing
never breaking stride...
half a world away
again in silent plains I live wishing, hoping,
letting go of what I couldn�t give...
storms looming on horizons
a thunder shaken glass
lightening stripping bare the wall
this storm will never pass...
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
PICNIC AT THE PARTHENON
©
Patricia Fritsche
I carry
the philosophies
of the giant thinkers
in my wicker basket
with the feta cheese, olives
and garlic bagels.
The deliberations
that
formed the bridge
of existence
I swallow
with every bite.
Assimilated
then chewed
again and again.
As I sip
each sensation
of new expectation,
what it would
have been like
to feel the
authenticity of
a Spring day.
Why it must be
designed
in ways yet
to dream and achieve.
As I hold
in my lap
the memories of
427 BC and on.
The pillars of
their convictions
introducing
this Humanity
from Athens.
I have drawn
myself to this
illustration
with the
endless sight
of a driven cloud.
Which slowly
introduces the
touch of a Grecian
climate
to my being.
And, yes...
my inspirational
sojourn begins!!!
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
THE DREAMS OF NOW AND THEN...
©
Patricia Fritsche
There ever so soft at midnight
not letting the parade of light
extinguish their names
in a world of kaleidoscope eyes
and transparent tastes.
They take stock
in a preacher's podium
to greet
who may
visit their "neurosis"
or sermon upon sacred clay...
waiting to be exhumed again.
The intensity of the form
to take root
in its asylum, anything goes!
And, yet the dream
of inventions of space and hunger
upon waking to love
in this vacuum...
I hold your hand.
Feel the vibrations of a million stars
come together
as I wipe the inspiration
from your brow,
and the dead sleep
from my weary lips.
Our time to love...
is every "wakening thought"!
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
THE ANNOUNCEMENT HE'S UP!!
©
Patricia Fritsche
the ground hog
unravels
his darkened
silhouette
upon the burrow
of a winter's sleep
something beckoning
to appear
stepping out
from bread basket home
to release
the season in
aromatic majesty
the end
of charcoal slumber
everything
on hold
sustaining for the new coming
all the fresh,
inen thoughts
dancing and practicing
on obsidian stage,
now being open
the pages
of emotional recipes
uncurl
more understanding
giant cups,
please less anger sowed tiny,
tiny teaspoons, if any
let spring
really come forth
announce what the dreams
of winter
brushed on her...
churning out new beauty
it was slate grey
those stone
smile clouds of the season
now you're feeling
a bit Monet
infused, ready and onward.
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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.
LITTLE GIRL IN THE GARDEN
©
jeffrey scott brewster
I
Your beauty surprises me,
for years,
Your depth and your age
and your silences thrill me.
Never really knowing,
and always dreamed,
when dreams are realized,
how to describe?
II
This garden bower is ours
here among such lush greenery,
we can be free,
tickled by your love for
the roses,
and disregard for
the mums,
I laugh, rolling
You are the master
of this garden
the one I want
I can't have
the one I could
have had
I gave away
You posess the power
to cure me,
of this quarrelsome
burden,
I bear it not as
a stoic,
Begrudgingly.
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
Keep the Fires Burning
©
Alicia Foster (aka Strange Tidings)
Watch and wait,
wait and watch,
keep the fires burning bright,
be careful who you allow entrance,
be careful who you meet.
For on a dark night,
when you least expect it,
you might meet the one of little faith,
the one who come to take your life,
the one who come to bear you away.
At night he walks,
wearing the many forms that come with his trade,
the Dark Soul.
Sometimes he stops and talks,
conversing with those that are his victims,
sometimes he even offers candy,
to the children that mark his trade.
He doesn't only take the old,
he doesn't only take the sick,
he comes at night and takes them all,
none can hide from his "grace."
At night he stalks his prey,
choosing carefully,
taking any that he wishes,
taking any that strikes his fancy;
seeping in like moonbeams,
coming through the wall,
none see him without their lights burning,
none see him but the one, his victim.
His beauty is magnificient,
almost blinding in its glory,
silken locks like flax bleached to whiteness,
skin as fair as ivory,
an angel that walks the earth,
the glorious countenance of your death.
The civility that only the killer can afford,
the wondrous wealth that only death offers,
and so he walks the earth at night,
taking souls and lives.
Watch and wait,
wait and watch,
keep the fires burning.
Talisman http://pacific.telebyte.com/~tgfoster
Send some E-mail to:
THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
Music
©
Alicia Foster (aka Strange Tidings)
The beat pounds in my blood,
a never ending flow of sound,
I listen with more than my ears,
I listen with my spirit and soul.
Music is like the ocean,
it comes up on the beach like the tide,
it flows over me and inside of me,
a sensuous pleasure unmatchable.
Nothing matches the feel of music,
the beat fills me,
my feet itch to move,
and my skin warms with something like a fever,
causing me to move and gyrate,
the glory that is music enters every pore.
I leap and swirl,
like dandelion fluff on the breeze,
curving and whirling,
around and around,
my body feeds on the pounding music.
I feel like a reed bending in the wind,
my mind fills will pleasure,
if music is the ocean,
I wish that the tide would roll over me,
that the ocean would swallow me whole.
I dance and move,
I laugh with the glory of life,
the music is the pounding of my heart,
the rythms are the flow of blood through my veins.
I am alive,
I am the music,
even when I'm gone, someday,
a bit of me will be left behind.
Someone will listen to the music that is me,
they will dance and they will move,
they will swirl, gyrate, bend and glorify.
The feeling is the sensation of freedom,
the wonder of beauty,
the wonder of music.
The beat pounds in my blood,
a never ending flow of sound.
Talisman http://pacific.telebyte.com/~tgfoster
Send some E-mail to:
THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
Poem of Love
©
Stephen M. Fine
Hidden in the night.
Quiet and peaceful.
We met under terms
From an agreement
We had reached many
Years ago.
I, for one was
Surprised--No shocked
Might be a better word for
This quiet interlude
That amounted to
A magnificent resurgence
In my hope and spirit.
A renewal of faith, hope, aspiration
Respiration, inspiration, joy, love
All of the above,
Things I had never lost.
Faith in pieces of our soul
Interlocking again.
The decision was based on
Circumstances beyond our control.
This is a poem of love
Tied to an emotion
That can go unmeasured
To be exclusively enjoyed.
My hope for that moment
Is not temporary or elusive.
I want it to be permanent fixture
In the filament of my life.
Send some E-mail to:
THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
A League of My Own
©
Stephen M. Fine
An obstacle course
Was constructed for me
Without my knowledge
But that I was still
Obligated to complete.
I tackled that course
Without thought of
Completion, but rather
I approached it as a
Vast mind game.
I had a compulsion
Not only to beat
This configuration
But lay it to waste
As only a memory of
Physical and mental exertion.
Under the guise of
Stretching my capabilities
I competed against
No one--only my
Self respect and
Desire to outsmart and
Outfool the principals involved.
To my surprise
I ran the course
Beyond the expectations
And predictions of
Even the most talented
Experts in the field.
I had won a victory
With no victors
Only the self-fulfillment
That I had beat
The odds.
Send some E-mail to:
THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
Darkness Now to Hide Me
©
Cheryl Ann Young
Black velvet night, dress of ebony diamonds
spread across your folds, comfort me,
hide me from my errors
blend my rough glass shell
among your brighter jewels.
Let my shame filled eyes be blinded
behind Polaris' piercing halo
I dared to take her name
In greatness she can be generous
with fools, forgive me North Star.
There is no uniqueness in myself
unless it is the lie, the laughing reality
fashioned from the brutal dust of earth
I was spinning momentarily
upon the silken midnight.
Dawn has come.
I wish to join the weaker stars
running to hide from Helios' greater realism
Exposed and falling, I am helpless.
No false hope to help me fly.
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
Snow and White Paper Birches
©
Cheryl Ann Young
It did indeed snow last night
and all day today, so beautiful.
Deep silence comes with snow.
This is its way, comfort despite
the muteness of the magnificent fall.
I love to watch the hushed whiteness
covering its birch mistresses.
Accumulation on branches
bending supple bodies to the earth.
The snow is making love to skin of paper,
blankets each paleness in intimate privacy
trees acquiescent and arching to the will
of heavy snow. Ponderous,
cold hard penetration, gentled.
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
Is It Safe?
a prose © by
C.E. Chaffin
In the movie, The Marathon Man, Olivier asks, "Is it safe?" He only wants diamonds. Now I ask, "Is it safe?"
I don't know how you'll be after work. Will you throw things, weep? Will you be able to cook? Will you blame me or your job?
It must be someone's fault when you feel bad because you give so much and try so hard. How can they do this to you?
You should realize that even if you were perfect, you would be criticized, and that you can't blame others for seeing through their own eyes.
You believe the whole world should share your pain. You are an inverted Christ, making others suffer to preserve your delusion of innocence. But I have reached the end of my charity, my toleration for drama. I won't be the stunt man who drowns for your Ophelia while you towel off for another scene.
My going will hurt, but you're used to that. It may be unfair, but only to someone who believes the world should be fair. I just can't stay where it's not safe. I've used so many black crayons marking the boundaries between us that the air is smudged.
Is it safe? Is it safe? Only, my dear, for you.
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
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