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Teagans Poetry AnthologyThe poetry of his friends |
IntroductionOver the years it has been my pleasure to read a lot of poetry. Some of it you read and think,
"That's nice" and pass on to the next one and quite naturaly, some poets you look forwards to
reading more than others. |
Table of ContentsReturn of a Warrior Divena Collins Young girl picking flowers John Willow Rebel Yell Sasha Walker Dismal Sleeps, Blue Tattoo A kiss of misty morn, Gloria Carpenter Dust to Dust, Deborah Bel Lunar Inspirations, Summerain Poetess Pastel Pause, Samantha Kennedy Why I don't do drugs, Didi Menendez Sestina Burlesque, Heartstarter Yesterday/Today, Helen Howell Butterfly Kiss, Michael Dixon Cloud Talk, Etain Druantia The Blind Mans Prayer, Kurt Semel To Dad - A Tribute to a Craftsman.... Lady Mac My Poor Poor Children, Elliott Color me love, Doll Angel Lucid Chimera, Uootem Winter Dance, Macena Maginity Birthday 5th, OWG The Fleecing of Mara, Little Bird Another Season of Love, ShadowRider Touch of a human, Thunderstorm Love is a Feeling We All Know, Peter Moyes "If I Could Not Speak The Words, ~D~ Death of a Dancer, Emerson Dawson Vindication, Inspiring One |
WindsweptWind Breathe into us your spirit of adventure Keep us asking questions and searching for answers Carry us safely to our destinations, guiding us always to the right path Rain Cleanse us of impure thoughts Bathe us in love and tranquillity Sun Keep us warm in times of bitter cold Melt our hearts so they bind together as one, but allowing each to be whole within the other Moon Light our path when the darkness threatens to engulf Let us know there is always light in those darkest hours Sky Open to us freedom to be who we are and the confidence to explore those freedoms Earth Be the foundation for us to build upon, steadfast and reliable Mountains Challenge us to achieve our goals Make us understand and appreciate every step along the way and all that we see when we reach the top Clouds Cover our eyes when we try to find faults in others Help us always to reflect inward and grow from our findings there Storms Keep us alive with your strength and power by teaching us not only to endure but respect those times of trial in our lives that make us stronger for having survived them AMEN back to list |
Divena CollinsHe who arose upon big bear mountain Within the rising of the morning sun Brave warrior of the Cherokee plain Awaits the sound of the enemy's gun. He who survives shall gain with pride The warriors gift of inborn wisdom That inherits within him far and wide Freedom upon his natural kingdom Loud the earth drum beats of lore Cast in a spell of an inborn desire Territorial rights like never before Through flames that flicker of fire. This is the land of the wild and free Where the buffalo herds shall roam Within rights of the tribal Cherokee With freedom of spirits back home. In time once more the sun shall rise And the storm of the past shall fade Sacred words from the old and wise Had spoken from the past decade. Let not a man cast this tribe aside For the spirits of battle remains Nor must they ever destroy his pride For you shall lack for what he gains. back to list |
Peter WillowdownA young girl picking flowers does not count the hours - to her the passing minutes have no end or limit... But in the bank and in the church the minutes and the hours lurch and 'though he tries, the priest or clerk cannot make time flow in reverse. At bus-stops and train stations throughout Time's censused nations, young children skip and pass between the prison bars of Time's regime; a young boy has no notion of life's grim forward motion but gaily plays with golden things within the court of deathless Kings. Yet Time is father to the man and holds life's key and masterplan - or so we trust and so we hope, else all men's lives are but a joke. But what grown man cannot but dream of freedom from Time's dull regime? and fondly he can still recall the wooden toy and golden ball... What fortune can such treasure buy? Let merchant risk his soul to try - his toil and effort will not yield Yet, penniless, the children play and own the world and all the day. The boy that climbs the chestnut tree partakes of some great Mystery and the young girl with her flowers is Queen of all the passing hours! back to list |
Sasha WalkerJettisoned, from foreign soil, the pain of steel-fire reverberated through his tired and blistered desperation, and at that precise moment, through the bestial uprising of malevolence came the gate keeper's beckoning an unfathomable horror lay behind him now, deep in the fox holes of his previous moments, as the craven, in power, hide behind the convenient camouflage of his selfless sacrifice, and in prayer, we sing our disdain yet, in his ascending smoke-like transition through the veil we are blessed in the knowing of him, in the honouring of the fallen, and in the lighting of candles in requiem of their repose they always said that he was on the fast track to the other side, always racing against the time we knew, would catch him, never knowing that far beyond his rebel yell, he was a hero of love's making... the love for his country and it laid him out a new home of green leafy blanketing, that plowed its path through long white rows of stone teeth, grinding on the lost moments, of what could've been back to list |
Blue TattooThe Dismal is quiet in that hour before dawn, when the sun is not here or there but suspended; a faint breath of light caught on the edge of nothing. In that hour she sleeps, and tucked within her gnarled arms sleep all that name her mother; otter and coon, bear and bobcat- gray fox, red fox, white-tail deer; mink nestle their pelts deep into moss beds spread like comfort along bank and bough. Even the cottonmouth lie still beneath rock and log, copperheads lie above; their night-damp skins shimmer like new pennies. I alone am awake, but I am not awake alone. In the Dismal silence ride the voices of time; they travel years in a whisper, hiss at my ear in the low tones of the damned. They speak with dead tongues, spin memory from dust and it settles- kisses my sweat-wet cheeks and drapes my conciousness in webs of what was. Outside my window, swamp bleeds into delta as night becomes day. Listen: Cicadas, slow to wake, rub their legs together and I hear clackers popping through razor grass; my fists clinch, I wait for the dull thud of claymores to follow the din. I can see foxfire blooms in the peat, but my mind sees arc light through the trees; airbursts over Albany- and the voices hiss "run, run..." I reach for an aid kit that's never there. A Pileated woodpecker drills his perch and M-60's rattle my teeth in mad minutes without end. Tracers fire above the ledge of my sill, their red tails trail smoke like drifts of fog. Along the rim of reason, concertinas trip with pings and snaps that nails my flesh to sheet. The Dismal comes alive by degrees; her children wear paper shoes that slide through brush and leaf with deadly ease. Squirrels rustle their nests, warblers call for their mates, and somewhere inbetween the voices pull away- threads of their goodbyes knit tight stitches down my spine. Morning brings life. Otters slap the river in search of brim, they break surface in pairs. Coons scuttle the deadfall in search of snakes, snakes take to the flats in search of sun. Deer circle the cypress, stretch long and lovely necks to prune moss from their canopies; black bears sing to their cubs. My hounds edge their run on anxious feet, their hungry howls echo in the trees. Somewhere in the swamp's heart, mink skirt my traps with skilled indifference- their pelts stained moss green. When the wind is low I can hear them laugh. And I am awake, alone. The Dismal is quiet in that hour before dawn, when the sun is not here or there but suspended; a faint breath of light caught on the edge of nothing. In that hour she sleeps, and tucked within her gnarled arms sleep all that name her mother; otter and coon, bear and bobcat- gray fox, red fox, white-tail deer; mink nestle their pelts deep into moss beds spread like comfort along bank and bough. Even the cottonmouth lie still beneath rock and log, copperheads lie above; their night-damp skins shimmer like new pennies. I alone am awake, but I am not awake alone. In the Dismal silence ride the voices of time; they travel years in a whisper, hiss at my ear in the low tones of the damned. They speak with dead tongues, spin memory from dust and it settles- kisses my sweat-wet cheeks and drapes my conciousness in webs of what was. Outside my window, swamp bleeds into delta as night becomes day. Listen: Cicadas, slow to wake, rub their legs together and I hear clackers popping through razor grass; my fists clinch, I wait for the dull thud of claymores to follow the din. I can see foxfire blooms in the peat, but my mind sees arc light through the trees; airbursts over Albany- and the voices hiss "run, run..." I reach for an aid kit that's never there. A Pileated woodpecker drills his perch and M-60's rattle my teeth in mad minutes without end. Tracers fire above the ledge of my sill, their red tails trail smoke like drifts of fog. Along the rim of reason, concertinas trip with pings and snaps that nails my flesh to sheet. The Dismal comes alive by degrees; her children wear paper shoes that slide through brush and leaf with deadly ease. Squirrels rustle their nests, warblers call for their mates, and somewhere inbetween the voices pull away- threads of their goodbyes knit tight stitches down my spine. Morning brings life. Otters slap the river in search of brim, they break surface in pairs. Coons scuttle the deadfall in search of snakes, snakes take to the flats in search of sun. Deer circle the cypress, stretch long and lovely necks to prune moss from their canopies; black bears sing to their cubs. My hounds edge their run on anxious feet, their hungry howls echo in the trees. Somewhere in the swamp's heart, mink skirt my traps with skilled indifference- their pelts stained moss green. When the wind is low I can hear them laugh. And I am awake, alone. back to list |
Gloria CarpenterIt was the kiss of misty morn that drew my step toward a call ~ a lonely gull adrift on sleeping waves, a gentle lull ~ as herons met my sight ~ not one, but two. In silhouette they stood apart, in wait A sudden dip of beak, and shake of head, a break in tension, as small circles spread ~ an unsuspecting morsel meeting fate. The shift of morning clouds would soon be done in herons' wake, slow motion gliding by. A mesmerizing scene to patient eye, I stayed transfixed, until I felt the sun. I smiled, and turned to go. With shoes in hand, I left light footprints on the timeless sand. back to list |
Debora BelLaying her down on the mountain T'was her last wish to place her there. We sang to her on that mountain As t'was our wish for one last prayer. On that mountain we wept once more With promise kept and laid with care. By the mountain we prayed once more One promise kept to one so fair. back to list |
Summerain PoetessSomewhere past midnight I wander lost among the star formations and hang around with the moon looking for some lunar inspirations. We have such long talks the wise ol' moon and I In hushed tones,like secret friends together we ponder every Y We talk about eternity and the momentariness of dreams, the mysteries of the ancients, and God's secret schemes. Sometimes we talk for hours, and so it came to pass that we started to talk about things that never truly last. I was deeply humbled and saddened to the core by everything I loved for a moment then was gone forever more Like the song of summer that beauty sings the glow of a firefly with imprisoned wings. The diamond patterned frost on my window pane, and the hush and wonder of a summer rain. Shimmering silver etchings dancing on a midnight wave, and the shooting stars that wishes couldn't save. Memories pressed between pages these precious bits of time. tender keepsakes all-- in this human heart of mine Then the moon reminded me in his soothing, quiet way not to yen for the sweetness of the past lest I miss the beauty of today. back to list |
Samantha G KennedyLower than the moons smile, I shall kiss his sorrow to stare upon a star, or two, away; The ground insinuates that I pace forever parched, it sips my tears perpetually arranged. On memoirs of a 'tomorrow' supper I'll call his name to a broken sky, but he shall apply his appeasing sleeve and mop my weathered horizon goodbye. The syrupy breath of twilight will loiter, and elevated grasses shall crave, with a whispered moan. A rebelling blaze in my breast will glimmer guiding him further, a signpost to home; The terrain will emit Daises, a formation of white that reflect and swell my perception this night. Oh! I shall soak in the Jasmine that grapples my pane an aroma, inducing, a ridding of shame, yet while the dawn kisses tenderly, my thoughts to the day he will fade on Golden pastures, my outline in grey; His eyes, penetrating mistreated membranes, imprinting my substance and through earths powder, I shall collapse, without much resistance. I will link my imaginings and tie him to elation composing oaths of deep-seated love, for my soul is his creation; I awoke on disguised pledges, and I drove them all about an anthology of scar tissue, tossed and hurled out- My Poet sings unmoving, to a hushed, but hungry sphere And my colours fall fading, a pastel pause tear. back to list |
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