Issue #16 for March 1998
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THE PHILOSOPHY OF SELECTION
©
Patricia Fritsche
Doors
chosen
for the many
and one.
Who entertain
thoughts
of choosing
not by
ignoring,
that you
sometimes
must enter
the backdoor
first,
depending
on whose
foresight
or hindsight
of direction
of entering,
breaks
the plot
or not
of thinking
for oneself.
Why
there is
a front
and back
to every situation.
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
GIVE ME A BREAK...WHAT CHOICE?
©
Patricia Fritsche
A hunched,
boney position
a sentinel drooling
on tasteful images
in the working,
in the back burner
of a young brain.
Internal deadness
internal depth
waiting in expectation,
the hunger evolves
inner, saber tooth fangs
constricting any
further thought.
Lightning hits
a dehydrated bush
becomes a pyre
of some kind of concept
of hope,
to fill the
pit somewhere in there.
A gift this
fire coming
coming
from the sky's open door.
A heat that seers,
ouch a feeling depressed on strength.
The army, green
iguana his fate
another story
thrown in,
fat wishes
of a good journey
down mountain stream.
Plunges into the mouth
plucking at something,
from the bronze
and midnight blue flames.
No control to the scorching
eating away at this
internal need.
Is it ready who cares,
savage raw can be good.
Nothing else
really going on, except
prying doors open
on new civilized tastes.
Fingers and hands
learn a mean lesson fast.
Their saliva drowns
the pain any further,
the stomach immediately signals
ok for now.
Another sun
explosion and retreating
in the "adolescence of a beginning horizon."
Staring into the silence
of a withdrawing heat
into the grips of cold.
Will it happen again
this new found sense?
This endless season
on passion
taking baby steps
on a huge survival.
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
THE TRIANGLE.....NOT THE BERMUDA KIND!!
©
Patricia Fritsche
Where was your
uninvested
mind
on fragrant zero time?
To take hold
of dimensional
meaning
that struck you bold,
that struck
the same attached
chord
of baked flesh
wanting something more.
But difference
being
the world of not,
the realm
of going
forward in
inspiration
of one's mosaic path.
Did you know
of yesterday's
surprise
to involve throbbing
heart.
We have met,
we have bonded
in the cosmic juice
of creativity
strengthening the neurotransmitters.
Difference
being
what motivated
you,
to continue
to aspire
even more
above unanswered doors.
That's the poets
job to machete knife
on through,
the denseness of the bramble bush.
Slicing the
sugarcane
to the good
and plenty
sieve through
to the
real stuff.
Find the true
artichoke heart
of unwritten verse.
Those new
portals
open big
and wide,
and hungry
for the smell
and taste
of its aromatic
offering.
If you think
it's easy,
think again
feel again
incorporate,
again.
That one
colored rock
from petrified hands
to secure
its elusiveness,
changes
beat
from tired day
constantly.
Brings on
new meaning
to the forum,
as time waits not.
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
Would I Dare?
©
Katie Vanhoorn
Would you understand?
Would you even care?
If I told you that I loved you?
Would I even dare?
I am a snail to you,
an unseen pest.
Yet sometimes I look at you,
and hope for the best.
It may never happen,
You might never care.
But could I tell you?
Would I even dare.
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
Untitled
©
Katie Vanhoorn
This is a love poem written for Katie VanHoorn by her boyfriend and published with his permission
Love
Look,my darling,look and see,
My eyes so green,
I see your lips so sweet.
You make me so good,
I don't know right from wrong,
And I can sit and think of you,
all day long.
Love me,my darling,as I love you,
You might know,
My eys say that I do.
Now look up,my darling,
I am there.
I can pull you,
pull you into the sky.
I'll always be there,
Watching this world fly by.
Darling,be my valentine,if not now,just this night."
I answered,nearly crying,"I'll always be your valentine,honey."
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
Love
©
Katie Vanhoorn
Love is a flower
Never withering
Always blooming
Under the sun's white glare.
Hate is snow,
Trying to drown the flower,
In it's suffocating coldness.
But the flower will win.
It is stronger.
Life sustains it.
If life remains,so does hope.
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
Killer
©
jeffrey scott brewster
Called out as I
passed by,
You turned away,
not to hear.
An ear full of
Highway songs,
and this green desert
to cross,
I drive into the
waning sun,
and all the stars
evade me.
Vengeful, desolate
wasteland of trees.
The thrum and moan
lulls me.
Sleep is my
Beautiful Friend.
Passengers ask
for some safe Haven
I offer a bed in the
Pines,
of straw and rock,
a Blanket of
stars,
and good long
sleep.
Welcome home,
son,
I am here for you
I am your
release.
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
you, like the sunshine
©
jeffrey scott brewster (for k.s.)
You, Like sunshine,
too early in the morning,
Blind me.
Unexpected, this presence,
a gift from the gods,
thrills me.
Blessed honesty, and
a silver sharp tongue,
cool blue stare,
and icy sardonic chatter.
Who can guess the sins of
this, my seventh season
in a Hell of my own desires,
and who can guess the pleasures
waiting
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
And Still I Died
©
C.Warner
The innocence
sparkling like the morning dew
in the light of a sleepy eyed
rising sun
Naked
in the purest sense of honesty
uncorrupted, untainted,
and strong
and still� I died.
I lived
each moment savored
in the hungry mouth
of youth
and drank deeply
of the dark waters
of forgotten wells
of experience
And I�ve thirsted more
unquenchable desire
And still� I died.
Died
struggling like a fragile sparrow
in a gale of abysmal losses
the breath ripped from
my open chest
my bloody heart
still beating in a steady
rhythm of defiance
and I fought
with the same passion
in which I lived my days
And still� I died.
Here
I stand alone above it all
like an angel with no wings
who is about to fall
broken
no ethereal glimmer
to enchant those who follow
my twisted and angry path
the trail of weary footprints
I have lain fades...
I raise my arms over my head
and bellow in triumph to the
heavens above,
I HAVE LIVED!!!
And still
I died.
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
Never Me
©
C.Warner
crystal whispers
screaming fragile
crystalline breaths
give me a cool
quiet breeze
Never satisfied
Never still
Never me
just a mountain in my way
blessed inconvenience
rise to the peak
and lick the ice from its caps
frozen droplets
cool quiet breeze
and I just want it out of my way
Never satisfied
Never still
Never me
end of the road
where was the road
the whistle
the mountain
cool quiet breeze
at the end of the road
Never satisfied
Never still
� even at the end
Never me
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
Last Request
©
C.Warner
The blood boils under my skin,
my lips parched, my vision a shivering apparition
I lay on my death bed, teeth chattering,
and pass the time with memories
I can't seem to forget
Memories, faces of lovers,
a bleeding collage,
my heart was never full
I always made room for one more
I've loved a lot...
and I will die alone
They always loved
enough in return
though
I never took anything from them
but they gave me this
There is no justice in death,
or the fever-chilled prelude
to the loss of my living
but I loved a lot...
Put that one my gravestone
Please
tell the county to engrave it there
I loved a lot
I nodded, my eyes rimmed with tears,
as she closed her tortured eyes
She grasped my hand, her flesh hot,
as if letting go of life
was somehow made easier
by clinging to my hand
She drew in one last ragged breath and
exhaled
her spirit expelled into the dry medicinal air
her life was gone
Twenty eight years and it was over for her
in the moment of a fevered sigh...
Though I was just her nurse, casual stranger,
I wept for her and the loneliness of her living
and loving and passing
But I remembered what had brought her to this
miserable end... she had loved a lot
Perhaps she hadn't died of aids
after all
but of a broken heart
I had the county put it on her headstone
She had loved a lot
and died alone
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
Final Painting
©
Ron Baron
If I could paint with words and pen
I'd set to paint the very air, And yet it's but a part of all
that God created everywhere. The flowers and streams and warm sunbeams
are all a part of His creation; Hills and valleys and mountain towers
bring our senses great elation. Could my soul - the vast expanses -
of this wond'rus world behold, With pen in hand and chosen words,
I'd paint �til all its' beauty told.
But there's another story told -
of �man's creation' - now unfolding; All the world his greedy hands
have been for many years re-molding! If we look we'll find the changes -
since by God came first creation. . . . . Fast becoming battlefields
and gyms-at-large-for recreation. Mountain creeks and snowy peaks
are full of residue of bombs; Waste and other products hastening
men toward their final tombs. Crops and creatures, fish and fowl,
bear the marks of man's pollution; By his hand and greed he's bringing
tainted forms of evolution. Trees that used to bear amounts
of fruit in very great abundance, Now we find evolving into
forms that seek a strange redundance. Where fertile fields once stood remain
what's left of deadly war and greed; The residue of man's vain folly;
tests and lessons he'd not heed. The land's erosion - man's corrosion -
all have left their vivid scars: Over planting - �fields for killing'-
farmer's plowing - soldiers' wars! God created in �The Garden'
perfect harmony . . . . .and man; Now with haste it seems they race,
to end it by. . . .whose hand???
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
Bub
©
Alicia Foster
What a name to carry you through life,
a simple syllable kind of name,
one that was given to you in affection,
but one that you now carry with only shame.
What happened to that laughing boy?
The one that I used to know,
the one that played jokes,
and was always having a good time?
Now you're too cool to be that boy,
you've out-grown who you used to be,
you changed to fit the space offered,
you changed with all your coming popularity.
I remember all the fun we had,
the way we used to laugh,
but I guess that you've forgotten,
I knew that it could never last.
You've grown old before your time,
though you're still young in appearance,
suddenly you're ten times older than your age,
I guess we'll never be the same.
Once you were a laughing boy,
a happy carefree child,
but suddenly you're too old for fun,
you used to glow as brightly as a miniature sun.
I guess those times have passed,
now you go by another name,
you've raced ahead of where I am,
and we'll never be the same.
I miss the way you were,
the light-hearted comedy,
but that's all right,
it's your choice,
you've always been so free.
Still, I miss you,
I feel like crying,
I remember the boy you used to be,
though now you're known only as Brian.
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
The Vampire
©
Alicia Foster
The darkness parts,
ahd he steps out of the shadows.
He wears the night like a cloak,
he draws it tight around him,
lets nothing break his spell.
He's beautiful and filled with grace,
hypnotizes all with his eyes and face,
has a slow and luxurious stroll,
leaves watchers gaping,
their faces rapturous,
he's stolen their very souls.
They would do anything for him,
they would love him,
worship him,
murder him.
He loves them nightly,
and as they sleep,
their minds deep in slumber,
he slips away,
a memory,
off in search of other prey,
leaving their hearts torn asunder.
He's a vampire,
it's the truth,
though he doesn't drink blood,
he doesn't take the lives of others,
he is a vampire.
He comes in the night,
offering love,
giving and receiving equally.
And yet he leaves before the sun,
confusion and loss his wake.
He is a vampire,
a stealer of the heart,
his victims' losses are his gain,
he takes their love freely,
yet offers nothing in return but pain.
He is a vampire.
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
The African Spirit
©
Tendai Dawanyi
Its mysterious and intangible
But so real and powerful
Like a raging fire across the Motherland
The fever of the African spirit
Unleashing a piercing cry
From deep within the heart
Capturing the heart and soul
of the African spirit
Playing on the bongo drums
With a rhythmical feel
And a fiery fervor
- Making music of the African spirit
How do you combine power with grace,
Explosive energy with rhythm
Its seemingly effortless
For they that have inherited, the African spirit
The legacy of ancient generations
Is passed on from generation to generation
And as for her children, now scattered afar
They too remain bonded by the African spirit
Mighty as the Zambezi
And as proud as a lion
More colorful than a flamingo
With a sense of identity and unity
That is more intuitive than thought
A flame burning from within the heart
This is the African spirit
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
THE SIMPLE LIFE
©
Tendai Dawanyi
When the music floats across the airwaves
Pictures come flooding to the mind
Collages of color, vivid and natural
The wild and the free, the beautiful and the simple
Now only captured in melancholic memories
Education brought much wisdom
And wisdom brought much hunger
For things only money could buy
And now time itself
Cannot bring back the simple life
The pursuits of my heart
Took me to unfamiliar places
Where the cold has pierced many hearts
And the laughter of the simple life
Has dissolved into wishful feelings
Where is the sense of balance
When the agent of progress
Has traded the soul for the world
And there is no turning back
To the pleasures of the simple life
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
The Night is relief to a weary mind
©
Tendai Dawanyi
The night seems to swallow
The problems of life
If only for a moment
Sleep's like a drug
Taking away the pain
Till morning light
Hard days seem managed
By a little rest
Until solutions come
Natural and cyclical unconsciousness
Seems to bring back
Relief to a weary mind
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
You know I just don't understand it at all!
©
Tendai Dawanyi
I don't know the mysteries of life
Why I was born and why I live
And why as the sun sets, I must die
I don't know why the grass is green
And why the desert grows
Under my very eyes
I don't know why peace keepers
Are armed to the teeth
Or why in the name of love
We justify murder with thought, word and action
I don't know why fires can rage so furiously
And yet remain contained
Inside our driven bodies
I don't know the mysteries of life
And I don't understand THE Mystery of life
You know, I just don't understand it at all
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
FAMILY OF TODAY
©
Tendai Dawanyi
Family of today
Where is your future
Without the past
And where is your joy
Without the children
To survive in this uncertain world
You must be 'as wise as a serpent'
But what is wisdom without the elders
Life is a daily struggle
But its the innocence of babies
That softens your hearts
And its their laughter
That brings you back to your senses
Weeping and laughing together
Is all part of the sharing
That keeps you strong
As the village grows
The hope of tomorrow's society
Is not defined by politicians and corporations
It is defined in the foundations
Laid down by you, the family of today
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
FOR MY CHRIS
©
WENDY THOMPSON
You make me laugh,
Because of all the stupid things you do.
You make me cry,
Because I can't have you.
I feel lost and confused
Everytime somebody says Chris.
I have a deep growing fear
When I think of something I might miss.
Like the way you look at me
When you pass me in the hall
Or the way your voice sounds
Everytime you call.
Some think I am joking
And I don't know what I'm feeling.
I DO love you
And I can feel you stealing,
Stealing my heart and running away.
Is there nothing I can do?
Nothing I can say?
To make you come back,
To get you to stay?
Just make you see,
How much you're hurting me?
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
untitled
©
Becky Julian
Here I sit, once again, at some o'clock in the middle of the night.
Nothing blocking my view of the stars above me...except for the tears
that are beginning to form in the cradles of my eyes.
With each breath, my shoulders shake as I feel old man winter's icy
fingers dancing up the length of my spine.
I breathe in the chilly night air and hold it somewhere inside of me
until it spills forth with my tears.
And I watch it drift away from me in the form of miniature clouds that
last for a split second...and then disappear.
A shooting star catches my attention and I make this wish...
I wish to return to five days ago so that I could take back what I said.
So that I could tell you yes...I love you, too.
So that you wouldn't be holding her in your arms right now...
so that my tears would not be falling right now.
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
untitled
©
Becky Julian
I promise that I will try to hold you
in my arms once again...
I promise that I will wrap both arms around you
and not let anything or anyone else in.
And I promise not to let anything get between my heart and my mind...
And I will try to be who I was,
with a little bit of who I need to be mixed in.
And I promise that I will look at you with the same eyes
that cried so many tears over you.
And I will try to love you with the same heart
that you hurt.
And I will try to listen to your words which once shattered my love.
And I promise to try to kiss those lips that uttered
the words which left me alone.
And I will try to hold you in my arms,
and in my life.
But I might not be strong enough to hold you again...
I may not be weak enough to love you once more.
But I promise to try to hold you with both arms.
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
untitled
©
Becky Julian
Both hands trying to block the sun from my eyes,
both of your eyes, looking into mine, searching through my soul.
Both arms, trying to reach for you in the darkness.
Both hands, returning empty.
Everything I've ever known has been wrong.
Everyone I've ever loved is now gone.
Every tear I've ever cried has been in vain.
Everything I've ever done has caused me pain.
My mistakes, my tears,
my lies, my fears...
they all end here.
I clear them away with both hands,
and try to start over.
All I've ever wanted was something real enough
to build my dreams upon...
All I want now is something real enough to fill my heart...
real enough that I can hold in both arms against my body...
real enough that I can feel with both hands...
real enough that I can love with all of me.
Send some E-mail to:
THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
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