Anthology of Chat

Hello And Welcome to Amrita's Anthology of Chat(poets on the internet)!

Issue # 23 for October 1998

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Click this box to submit a poem online Click----> <----Click OR Send it later to: Joe Barby At: [email protected] 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.

Wars Memories © Cherry Kelly

white crosses on a field of dreams,
where war once bound the land in blooded soil,
and man dreamed of freedom's life,
but lost it all to missiles torn
the womens tears, fed flowers torn roots,
and the crosses grew one by one
and once the dream took flight,
and men won back their land
their lives, their loves, their future hopes
and left the field with reminders white
in growing weeds and wildflowers

Send some E-mail to:© THE AUTHOR of this poem.

Cheese Anyone? © Cherry Kelly The cat sat
Coyly at
The kitchen sink.

The rat ran
Quickly by
The kitchen spy.

The cat who sat
Saw the rat,
And then the chase was on,
But lo the rat was gone.

The cat poised at the stove
His tail - it was a twitchin
He didn't want that little rat
Here in his own kitchen.

The rat sat smuggly safe
Laughing 'til his sides were aching
He wondered what was in the stove
What was the cook a baking?

Sweet Swiss cheese?
Would he please,
Oh boy,
You bet he could
And would.

Twas then the cat
He caught the rat,
But rat had ate the cheese
Limburger! Ain't you pleased?

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Butterfly © Robert James Berry

an unshaded bulb

dangles from a braided brown cord

Sweat swills off

The woodcut faces at cards

The strong smell of intense silence

fouls the filth skirtings

In the mirror

Long yellow legs

Straddle a stub bottle

There is

Smoke in the clothes hair

of the one drinking woman

beside the big blue butterfly

pinned in its brown glass case

Send some E-mail to:© THE AUTHOR of this poem.

Milestone © Robert James Berry The daub of cracked colonial paint

points a moonfaced thumb

into indian ink night

into a cradle of snakes

creepers knot nightmare hands

wings murmur like rumour

No provident winter plants,

Tendrils tap at the window

On the bare boards beside her

The gilt mirror

where she mourns

Her age looks in

The tight mouth tells no secrets

breath clouds the glass

She holds her white candle

to the prowling dark

the chattering shanties

She has left her gray woman's soul at the milestone

A hungry ghost

Send some E-mail to:© THE AUTHOR of this poem.

Crows © Robert James Berry

in the bare branches

by the padlocked church

Crows flap

It is dry unbreakable weather

The sky rufous red

standing beneath the

spreading branches

scraping the roof of god

I've a flowerpot full of earth

to plant the unusable years and

watch those negro flowers rise fall

I'll call a wide river of rain

Then smoke among the crows

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Pulse © Dana Monje

Your body, sheeted lightly
with sweat,
tense
and
warm
Your breath, fleeting
My face against
your belly, riding
the rollercoaster
of each gasp.
I am covered in your
scent, taste,
voice
Now I listen at your chest
A hurricane under your
skin, ending
slowly.
This rhythm
I take on as
my
pulse Send some E-mail to:© THE AUTHOR of this poem.

Change © Dana Monje

You leased your love
to the highest bidder,
and all I had
was change.
I arrived
as you were leaving
and you never
came back.
The gutter was good
enough
and
I thought I'd never
leave
but
time shows you, dear one
what eyes
cannot yet
see. Send some E-mail to:© THE AUTHOR of this poem.

Dreaming Like Dali © Dana Monje

Scented winds
cavort around me, spinning
a dusty new
birth.
Tears dig trenches
on muddied faces,
they appear
distant-like
against the
sun.
Your hand, placed
like that
makes me want to
drip to the ground,
sink into
the cracks,
to feed
the dirt, leaving all
rich and
damp. Send some E-mail to:© THE AUTHOR of this poem.

Broken Broomsticks © Janet Buck

Tampons were a broken broomstick,
minus reasons to exist.
Pinatas of a baby shower.
Evasion was a handkerchief.
Coddled joy on rhubarb nipples.
Take-for-granted kinds of whole.
Surreptitious grating done
beneath the tents and shaded trees.
Rattles holding hands with shame.
Sandpaper scraping her strawberry flesh.
Snakes on floors of diaper aisles.
Baby blue and pale pink:
she loved the colors fate despised.

Pressing weights of carry on,
her mother made her baby-sit.
Insisted on the ritual.
Avocado green of woman
blackened by the absent seed.
Shopping for her sister’s car seat
nearly drove her off a cliff.
Lacy booties in a store--
hyenas on a mountain’s neck
screaming for fertility.
Her hatred of a pregnant stork
that wanders with its tummy full--
this another cruel burn.
Tabasco on a canker sore.

Send some E-mail to:© THE AUTHOR of this poem.

Architecture’s Reason Fire © Janet Buck

The doll house was a masterpiece
you stroked and sculpted in the night.
When I was six, its ambiance was
walls and paint and furniture.
You were childless. I was yours.
Holidays would burn the most.
Your “Sunday Brightener” in a ball.
Excuses for a batch of cookies.
Came in blasts, then rolled away.
Stealing weekends back from empty.
Borrowed children--bands of sorrow
snapped at times like soggy towels.

As fertile soil will court a weed,
elbowed fate has razor edges.
Here a woman born of turquoise,
brittle stars of coral reefs
to be a set of golden prongs:
patient, funny, morals of Gibraltar’s size,
recited to the vacant clouds.
Ship-wrecked oars in driftwood scabs
that crusted in the August sun.
Your breasts were huge and so are mine
from having just too much to give.
Thank you notes I learned from you.
They had to be such iron skillets
scorching when they touched your hand.

A hyacinth that roots in darkness,
you were gracious. I am not.
Toilet-training rancor’s cat
to leak upon the empty page.
Some thirty years beyond our bond,
I fathom every empty cave
you had the love to rifle through.
This poetry is sour milk
of sadly silent mommy chimes.
Envy’s smoke rings in the air
around a summer barbecue.

Send some E-mail to:© THE AUTHOR of this poem.

A Treasure’s Base © Janet Buck

Gratitude was always there
like threads on oriental rugs.
To watch you open gifts--
a gift beyond all others wrapped
in glitter, ribbons, velvet bows.
Your thumbs wore every sign of time.
Ballerinas pirouetting in a slipper
turned to dry baguettes in bed.
As you crumbled, I would sweep.
When I read you sonnets in a hurry,
life stopped cold; you winced in pain.
I knew I’d sinned.

You couldn’t see my needlepoints,
but eyes were not the issue here.
Eclectic taste reigned, rained hard:
the old clay pots slept at peace on the polished mahogany--
appraisal wasn’t done in dollars.
Egg-salad with dill and celery stalks,
cross-wise sliced for elegance,
10,000 calories of mayonnaise and salt--
three leagues beyond their caviar.

Red lipstick in your purse melted like
crayons bleeding in the August sun.
We were, after all, planting tulips.
Busy with the life of the earth.
Mirrors mattered little these days.
Those rugs, that art, belonged
with you in immortal tombs,
for you both had the power
of intuiting a treasure’s base.

Send some E-mail to:© THE AUTHOR of this poem.

City Kid © Katie Vanhoorn

I'm a city kid
I live in the alleys and sometimes in my house,.
I own a gun.

I'm a city kid
Jealous of all you town boys
With your little toy squirt guns.

I'm a city kid.
I don't got much fmaily.
I shoot anybody who threatens me.

I'm a city kid
I stay in the inner city
Where nobdy ever feel safe.

I'm a city kid.
I watch them city men and women
Go to their work.

I'm a city kid.
I ain't got no future.
Most likely,I gonna die.

I'm a city kid.
I don't want nobody's love.
Ain't nobody plannin on givin me none.

I'm a city kid.
Ain't much left to say
Cept maybe
Goodbye,

I'm a city kid.
I don't got no life.
I don't have no love.

I'm a city kid.
I gonna wave goodbye
An hope to see you all
On the other side Of Life.

Send some E-mail to:© THE AUTHOR of this poem.

Don't Forget © Katie Vanhoorn

Don't forget to win first place.
Maybe then I will be proud of you.
Don't forget to try a little harder.
You just say your strength is through.
Don't forget that I love you.
Maybe then you wouldn't fight against me.
Don't forget to always be true.
Even when people hurt you.
Don't forget to turn in all that work.
Maybe then you'll get an A.
Don't forget to watch her ride.
Maybe then you'll be safe.
Don't forget to call that girl.
Maybe then she won't yell.
Don't forget to be a good girl.
Maybe then your relatives won't talk.
Don't forget to do the dishes.
Maybe then you can sing those stupid songs.
Don't forget to think like you always forget,
Maybe then you can learn from your mistakes.
Don't forget to obey me,
Maybe then you wouldn't be grounded.
Don't forget to say hello.
Maybe then people won't think you're rude.
Don't forget to ignore your classmates' comments.
Maybe then you'll have some self-esteem.
Don't forget to do your job right.
Maybe then I can think the silverware's clean.
Last of all,don't forget
That you're my daughter. Send some E-mail to:© THE AUTHOR of this poem.

Abuse © Katie Vanhoorn

She hides in the corner,
Listening to them fight.
She hears the sound of a hard slap
And tears sting her eyes.
She sees her momma on the floor,
Daddy smiling at her.
She sees her Daddy walking toward her,
hears his little "I'm sorrys"
She feels ehr heart stop.
She runs.
Tries to lock her door.
But he's too fast.
She cringes as his words fill her ears,
She shivers as his raises his hand.
Like every other time.
Her brother running,screaming.
Sghe screams as Daddy hits him again.
She runs form him as her brother's head
Cracks against a white carpet floor.
He catches up with her,
She feels the sting of a slap on her face,
Again and again.
She feels his fist in her stomach,
But holds back a cry of pain.
Days later,two men come to take her daddy away.
She and Momma watch him,holding
Identical black eyes.
Her brother's in his room,
Laying on the bed.
Eyes still not open,
Bandage on his head,
Daddy hit them all the time.
But now he's been led
Away form the house.
Now her family's safe.
Now he's really gone.
So why does she think of a harmless little gun? Send some E-mail to:© THE AUTHOR of this poem.

A Diner Waitress © Andrew R. Crow

this has got to be
the worst service I've ever had
he thinks
grey and coagulated meatloaf gravy
and where is my fucking water?
she dilly dallies
rice paper apron
with patterned snowflake holes
he sees the greasy stained soul beneath
this is not where she belongs
he muses as he pushes his plate aside
and picks filthy cotton balls
from his socks
that much boredom and apathy
deserves better exposure
a pedestal from which to
show off such degeneracy
will she notice if i don't leave a tip?
i hope to god not
or the illusion will shatter Send some E-mail to:© THE AUTHOR of this poem.

What I Said © Andrew R. Crow

I said I would write in stone about it
The dark, sweaty groping
With a boy who shaved his legs
But not his cheeks
I said I would remember
To think about it
As I packed and drove away
Seeing my reflection in the polished dashboard
I said I would never do
The things I had done
I should learn
To keep my mouth shut Send some E-mail to:© THE AUTHOR of this poem.

Angels Grave © Gregory Allen Taylor

Dare I sit this land of mortal passing,
and hunger for their glory.
The innocence of their play..
The joy in supple rest,
Quite the anguished.
Let the fallen rest unquestioned..
And I sit on cold stones
"Here lies a dead someone."
A scripted verse that whispers softly on the brush of my jeans,
and I muse at the thought of these angels,
kissing whispers in my ears.
Pulling on my sleeves,
   combing fingers through my hair.
I watch as fog does gather dew,
tender,
so gently,
   and lay its lips upon the dead.
Up I look and to the night sky,
then away and to the trees.
Watch them wander and in peace.
   Without the misery..
    Unkindly man...

I look now to these angels tender,
young.
So full of light..
And being angels,
Unremembered.
They are dead..

They ask me once,
though I shall hear their words a thousand fold.
A thousand years..

"Can we play with your hate,
but to fill this full of light?"
and I this first night without memory become delighted,
this strange theory.
That I could be happy..
   Smile this light of life...
I spread apart my velvet shirt,
and reach within my ancient soul.
And I for once pulled apart my sullen heart,
I gave to them my tears.
Release the burden of my lives..
   The anger of my mind...
And my smile is of silver,
the light reflects my eyes.
I stand my height,
can breath so free.
I feel the angels play their love,
and fill my hate with light.
But these visions of grandeur,
they never held me long, and as the fog does lift,
and the light does dim.. I see now,
great heavens angels,
ripping in terror, my hate filled heart.
   Licking the blood of my sullen tears..
Their faces turn to horror,
perfect features.
Twist..
   Contort...
and they seize each others silken wings,
tear them bloody and to shreds,
their feathers fall like knives.
   Sharp and jagged..
    Slicing through now wretched feet...

Their eyes once brilliant stars,
so full of light.
Turns now gorged of blood..
I stand in horror of their skin,
now acid, running off.
Burning the grass..
Melting golden bones in explosive wrath...
And the stench of what remained,
spread through this land a thousand years.

And my tears were curled gently,
as a babe did wish the womb.
And my hate did laugh,
to chill the bone.
Beating the graves to crumbling stones..
The horror in my face,
the wrath within my mind. Could not surpass at all,
the confusion in my soul.

And I fell to my heels and let fly my poisoned voice,
and I did wail through the winds,
My angered Curse to God.

Then I stood again to my feet,
took my hand to my shoulder,
and did brush the misery of my burden.
As it were dust upon my shoulders..
And rubbed my hands through my face,
to kill the confusion in my eyes.
And crushing sadness under my feet,
I lifted my tears.
And anger hate..
Did place them within the cradle of my heart...

I walked through the dew,
the grass.
The stones..
And through the gates of one familiar mark,
"Here she does lie, the world is dead."
and from there I did walk..
..Ever and on...

Send some E-mail to:© THE AUTHOR of this poem.

My Love, The Beauty of Death © Gregory Allen Taylor

The rain came down, fast, hard, beating the streets
swift and clean.
Violent, this street and angry to,
dark,
decayed and over worn.
The only light to name was a reflection from the moon,
dancing,
and dancing
   playing in the swirling gutters
angry to this light that played,
dance the sullen swan.
And the pain it is to hear,
this sound that does come near.
The tap.
   The tap..
And straining to see, the darkness ahead,
A blur to me.
Coming, coming, closer to my end.
Now I see, the hair is long,
does float so free.
The eyes are sharp,
So wide and dark.
The skin so pail.
so it glows..
Love the snow...
Very tall.
Very lean,
now I see,
   tis, A she..
She is beauty,
She is death,
and I love her,
    as she to me.
She is come now that I have called,
as I have for so long, in my pain.
In my tears..
She looks to me now,
these reddest of lips ,
do smile a glow.
Death does love me now,
on my endless life can I be so honored to know,
what every mortal soul is so wishful to hold.
   Once...
Electric pain,
does threaten to break my peace.
No.
   Not now..
    Not ever again...
I shall not turn from the glory of my angel
my deliverance.
Her touch..
   My majesty...
And on the edge of my sight, brings me the silver of the moon.
Of the rain so dark,
does glow the light of this moon.
More beautiful now than of all of my wanderings,
ever I have seen.
And in this light
this silver of the rain
I see my self as I lay.
I see the flooding of the waters,
swirling in the gutters.
And the softly glowing lanterns did layer me now in gold
as if to claim innocents to my marble heart.

I cannot help but to turn my head,
and away of her smile.
On the ages perhaps I have learned there is always beauty.
these visions of the light.
So now I see the reality of my horrors..
The swirling waters are the gushing of my blood,
fragments of my flesh,
   I see them as they float.
    Now they sink..
     Anger, the parting of my soul...
      Life!
In anger and my horror,
I face the angel,
Majesty.,
   Loving death..
And smile she does still,
Love me.
Take me she will..
And I am happy again,
my pain is gone, and my times are clear.
And now A blur..

And I am going.
To rest..
My darkness..
Tis, gone.,

"I am sorry!" such sweetness is her voice
"No!." I do rage.
for this I do hear and thru the fog of my mind,
and I do I open my eyes,
and thru the rage of my soul,
clear again, I do see,
that my lover,
has yet to venerate my heart.

So now I again do know my mind,
and I see her tears,
I can feel her weeping through the length of my hair.
and the pain in my head,
yes I can feel my body,
alive again.
and through the reflection of my tears
I watch her whisper as she crys

"I've loved you forever my long time friend"
and she touches me dearly,
the silence of her voice..

"And there is pain within my soul,
for so long it has been now- in this passing of the times,
that your love I have desired-.
   The texture of your skin..
    The love of your embrace..."
"But alas my love I cannot,
for as I am to you,
   so you are to me,
   Taboo.
    We are forbidden...
     The forever fruit..."
With tears in my eyes,
and my blood all around.
I plead and I beg,
for her love,
and her, touch..
   Mercy...
    Delivering arms.

She smiles once more,
she whispers a kiss.
And then she stands tall,
helpless in misery.
" And once before time falls,
I pray I feel your burn.
Your kiss..
   Your love..."
spoke her tears as they touched the ground before me.
"Please love me my dear
hold me,
   and help me.
I love you.
I want you..
Dear lover stand me tall" I did rage of such pain
   sick of life after all.

I feel her kiss now, and the love that she gives.
and in her eyes I know, that she hides not far,
Immortal.
   The angel..
    My Death...
     Walks me by .
      Love is gone..
And now I feel her smile,
not the pain.
Still I see the rain..
Flooding my eyes.
My body..
My mind...
And the last that I see,
in the regret that is remaining.
Is Sorrow coming fast..
    "Forever I have lived,
      and ever and on..."

Send some E-mail to:© THE AUTHOR of this poem.

Sorrow My Dear © Gregory Allen Taylor

Tears rolled down my face in a flood of anger,
of pain,
and sorrow- being closer to me in love than the
light and beauty of death- seemed to lead the march,
for what seemed an eternity,
but caught within the grasp of the infamous moment.
When my eyes did clear of this blur of my misery,
so then did the rain,
and I pulled from my heart the pain that it held,
and did toss this to melt within the thick blood of my wounds. Beginning to dry in the clot of tears,
which seemed to sparkle
as they hung from the rust of the grates,
threatening to drop to the bowels of the gutters.
And only with the strength of my will did I sit up,
and feel the sickly pull of my blood from my skin
angrily straining to hold me down to the mother forever.

In front of my face,
was a hand pail and long.
no need to touch,
so smooth was to see.
He was my companion on every year.
The torment of every tear.
He is the one that I hate;
to love;,
   to hate.
    Sorrow my dear..
"I have missed you my love." he said.
The fluttering tempo,
his voice.
   So beautiful..
"The moon has been filled as she will burst time and again
for nearly a year since last we met."
"So long it does seem that you have felt joys."

Then on the brow of Sorrow,
very round and super black
came something so rare- that I never before,
or to see again-
   was anger ripping through.
And on Sorrows lips;
"such a frosty pale they are, the color of dew,.
   were there as such."
came these words of such wrath,
and the pain he does bare.
"And now you beckon me for my tears,
and you've tossed away your heart in misery,
now I again am to give you mine."
"Then I lay on you now the burden of my strength
so that your eyes never dry,
   and may your hate never rage.
Without death you are and always have been,
immortal I know..
And I decree now,
That never from hence..
   Will you not feel..."

And with the strength of some shadow, grew larger his hand,
and pointed at me all the while he was speaking.
I looked up at him now to see his perfection
and the beauty that surrounds,
though to hear his voice only,
does vision the mind well to grow.
His skin was so smooth,
without a hair to trace strength.
And this was so fair,
as the wind that does race..
And the moon it did gleam,
from his head as was bare...
The eyes so very dark,
no white could dare show.
and the lips fat of blood,
the silk of the touch..

So tall that he is,
he could touch the night sky...
And if the dew showed the light,
a ream of souls it would show,
   collected, unremembered.
-Only with the might of the gods;
and he is-,
   was burdened on his shoulders..
And with more tears in my eyes,
that I feared would never end,
I stood to my feet tall and proud;
For I am the Gray.
   And I must..

I looked to Sorrow,
my friend.
   My dear.
For I have known him forever,
   and then ever I will..
His threats didn't harm me,
   never could for who I am.
"For I am the Gray;"
Keeper of these Gods,
   and it is I who burden Sorrow..
    And with a whisper that he loves me,
     ancient Sorrow walked on...

Send some E-mail to:© THE AUTHOR of this poem.

Clueless But Then Again!! © Patricia Fritsche

On the morning
of the fifth, or was it the third
at fifteen past whatever,
on the mind's, uncloaked solar dial.

Those darn wheels fell off from keeping the rhythm,
and momentum going.

And taking much-needed
cover from the flash flood
of discontentment,
and very clingy vines of deceit
densely populating the truth.

That
came on again
out of nowhere.

Hiding backstage
from words on cue
only a puzzled, escalating feeling
coming through.

Or not having a clue not even cookie crumbs
from a favorite label of yours.

Left around
leading me
to some sort of lead.

Not bloodhound style
manner
or a Holmes predominate
demeanor.

Making our simple conflict of interest
into a major unfinished lost,
and more lost scene.

Closing the night
with a questioning heart
of who will do what
and when again,
in this Jack-In-the-Box surprise turnaround
game.

And perpetuate quantity time
not quality presence
the uncertainty of its shallowness.
Drumming it up maybe into some sort
of primitive resolution.

Send some E-mail to:© THE AUTHOR of this poem.

Each day begins with a new vision
A time to look forward not back
I try to play my part
On a stage with different players
But the expectations wear you down
Trying on someone else's shoes
But the blue eyes remain the same
Time becomes a kaleidoscope of circles
You end where you begin
The best of you never changes
And happiness becomes a moment in time Send some E-mail to:© THE AUTHOR of this poem.

The Sun shines forever,
magically,
In the blue and ageless sky,
While Stars sparkle eternally.

There is a reason why.

Because you stand before the world,
Together side by side,
There is a magic in the Universe
That always will abide:
The magic felt in finger tips,
The magic seen in eyes,
The magic taste of tender lips,
The magic heard in sighs.
The magic of a moment
To kiss away a tear.
The magic of a special feeling;
The one that we call Care.
…
Therefore

Let all who you may ever meet
And friends that you will know
For all time bear witness to
That shining magic glow
That gives the stars their meaning
And brightens the sky above
The eternal magic
Of your special love.

I remember winter walking with you
Along tree-lined clean cement paths
Back when everything was what you called
Perfect.
There was one direction and we were all headed in it
Wrapped in our comforting coats.
Before the cracks eroded the pavement.
Before the trees burned down in July.
Now winter wanes, withers
And we walk alone,
Along a thousand different, dirty paths
No protection from the hot summer sun
Trudging along, shedding sticky shirts.
Melting
Imperfect
Apart
Born Send some E-mail to:© THE AUTHOR of this poem.

Wan, white Lily. . .
Lonely in her dark moon garden
Lit up by the reflections
The stars cast on stones.
Tried to escape from you
Time and time again.

Lily, made of moonbeams,
Pure as the glacial water.
She cleansed you. . .
And when you wished her disappear,
The sun rose up,
And burned her tears.

Those were the days when I was a lad.
Second hand clothes were all we had.
Holes in our socks, holes in our jumpers.
Make any more an' dad would thump us.

From a hole in the end of my undersized boot,
My big tooer sticks out like a sprouting root.
In a soccer game I hit the ball to scooer.
I hit the ball not with my boot but my big tooer.

For Sunday tea all we had was bread 'n jam.
But she can still cook our mam.
Then there's our dad coming home late at neet.
Drops in't easy chair and says "I'm dead beat".

In t'old tin tub dad first sticks his hairy legs.
His knobbly knees sticking out like chapel hat pegs.
First time his bum touches hot watter,
"It's too 'ot mother" and throws soap at 'er.

I said to mum, "when I get older",
"I'm goin' on't dole", that';s what I told 'er.
Well, she gave me such a whack across the ear.
Sent me across the room and spilled dad's beer.

Yes, those were the days when I was a lad.
But things can't always stay that bad.
Now I've grown up and learnt a little more,
Now I pull back my big toe before I score.

As I soar with the swallows in halowed enclosures,
I see dreams floating on billows of tawny snow.
They dance with petals of crimson roses
As if the songs of silence are all they know

With a whisper of agreeance and arms astretch,
Forcing wide procrastic hands of the beseecher.
Faint hope's fingers caress but barely touch
These tender dreams that seem never any nearer.

Tis of mind, body and an imperfect soul
That I grimmace in battle with the pain and sorrow.
Only my love's enchanted words help solace a goal.
That yesterday is the past and the present now tomorrow.

Miniscule commotions of flame taunt the ideas of progress.
Miriads of inner voices choir poignent bliss.
For all I give her today, tomorrow I cannot give less.
All the joy it brings this day, the promise of tomorrow an everlasting kiss.

On fragile wings of love,
Faint hopes and tender dreams doth fly.
Dodging demons and javelins of fear,
Carressed by a whisper of wind up high.

In the solitude of once abondened heavens,
I offered a prayer for the day that I die.
Witnessed by angles and all god's creations,
Let her be the one to wipe away the last tear from my eye.

Once in that night so dreary,
Amidst my thoughts, so weary,
I saw him in a vision clear,
In a puddle of my tears.
Sadly, he gazed at me,
With more sadness than I could see
Treasures so, so true,
Now had to go, I knew.
Loses were always there,
Deaths were always hard to bear.
Perhaps forever in my lifelong unhappiness,
Perhaps forever in my misery of richness,
But I had chosen this path for eternity
And I control my destiny Send some E-mail to:© THE AUTHOR of this poem.

Sometimes in the books I read,
I see some amazing creatures,
Doing deeds both good and bad,
With pretty and funny features.

A unicorn popped into my mind,
And a vision of that charming horse,
Up into the clouds, it could run,
In weathers calm and coarse.

A horn so silky white,
A mane of a dazzling hue,
Fighting against the breeze,
In a calm and graceful view.

So does it really exist,
these legends that I see,
But are these truly just folklore,
Or maybe they could really be.?

Under the blue green sea,
Buried in the sands,
Is a long lost city,
Tumbled off the lands

And here under the sun,
Never knowing what it was,
I know that we were originally one
But with our paths now lost.

I don't need a map to know the places,
Nor a painting to see its beauty,
I already know of its sunlit grace,
And its metalic creativity.

I know I used to live there
A long time back with my friends,
But something we couldn't bear
Brought us to our ends.

I do remember my history
And turning back upon its yellow pages,
I see that devastating memory,
Of my childhood and its stages.

A thought is with me,
Bringing me into the past,
When it was above the sea,
An island huge and vast

Yes, I recall it well,
When happiness was in my mind,
But that homeland,
I can tell Is a place that I won't find.

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Created October 28 1996