Teagans Poetry Anthology

The poetry of his friends



Introduction

Over 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.
That is not to say that the others are the lesser, certainly not, we are all entitled to have opinions.
Occasionally you read one that is special to you and worth reading again and again, and as a result you save a copy of it in your personal archives, and in this archive is the poetry writen by my friends over those years.



Table of Contents

A Prayer to Nature..(Dedicated to Teagan).. Windswept
Return 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



Windswept

"A Prayer to Nature"

Wind

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

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Divena Collins

"Return of a Warrior"

He 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.

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Peter Willowdown

Young girl picking flowers

A 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 a day's release from Time's grey fields.

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!


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Sasha Walker

Rebel Yell

Jettisoned, 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


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Blue Tattoo

Dismal Sleeps

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.

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.


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Gloria Carpenter

A kiss of misty mornn

It 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.


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Debora Bel

Dust to Dust

Laying 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.


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Summerain Poetess

Lunar Inspirations

Somewhere 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.


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Samantha G Kennedy

Pastel Pause

Lower 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.


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Why I don't do drugs

I am a control freak

I am driving home from a poetry reading
Wired.
I wind down by turning the radio loud.

Yes down the winding road.
You critiquing this piece.
Yes you.
Do you have a problem with me using
winding down a road?
Go ahead and tell me it doesn't work.
That it is cliche'.
Go ahead and try to make me lose control.

What? You do not understand where this attitude is coming from?
See that cop parked by the side of the road as we drive home?
See that he is not in uniform?
Driving someplace at 10PM in his Japanese car,
Pulling out the blue and red light onto his dashboard
Pulling out his little ticket book,
Giving a spiel to some kid that maybe forgot to put on his left signal?

Don't you wonder why a cop that is not on duty,
would go out of his way to give a ticket for some misdemeanor?

Maybe today he saw a baby pulled out of a canal.
His mother going through postpartum depression,
decided to kill herself not caring about
baby gurgles coming from the back seat.
Maybe he got to a drug bust too late.
Maybe he got home with a hard on and his wife was in PMS hell.

Or maybe.

He doesn't do drugs either.


Didi Menendez

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Sestina Burlesque (For Teagan)

It has been said solid alliteration
must not disturb the musical modulation,
and that a sure, set iambic meter
should syllabic two-step with rhyme,
providing that the connotation
does not interfere with denotation.

One could look at strong denotation
as supportive of subtle alliteration,
and concentrate the connotation
to amplify the import of modulation;
arranging stanzas to satisfy rhyme
with flagrant disregard to meter.

To use iambic panti in the meter
could elevate the cadence denotation
until it becomes unstable structured rhyme.
Utilize finer points of alliteration
to help emphasize tone of modulation
and try not to alter connotation.

But to rely heavily on conotation
could cause noticeable errors in meter,
not to mention lesson stressed modulation.
And assonance lends flow to denotation
as consonants do alliteration,
swaying the internal, external, substernal rhyme.

And should a showpiece refuse to rhyme,
will the strophes lose positive connotation
or gain distracting alliteration?
If the perfectly marching meter
declines to keep time with denotation,
will the whole thing rest on modulation?

One could selectively scansion modulation
irregardless of unsteady rhyme,
and place the denotation
squarely on the shoulders of connotation,
possibly pull the panti from the meter,
and upset the consistent alliteration.

So one could hope that connotation
will dance in rhythm with meter,
stressing unstrained sounds of alliteration.


Heartstarter

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Yesterday/Today

The day is grey and cool
and wind whispers through the trees
as if to say I know you pray
but this is your today.

And of today it will be
the same as yesterday
when like a leaf upon a tree
not yet is love set free?

As nature changes green to brown
I too have weathered time
and retreated from the yesterdays
I still see in my today.

Oh, wisdom to a fool I see
and the rules are still the same
but like the pain of birth to sons
love overcomes the ache in one.

And love builds bridges over past
with passion as the map
to help us find the time to say
"I love you" now today.

And of love tomorrow it can be
the same as yesterday
for once in love then always so
deep down inside your soul!


Helen Howell

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Butterfly Kiss

Close your eyes whispered she
Wiping an eyelash gone stray
Now make a wish instructed he
And blow to the wind away

She giggled then and softly blew
Watching the eyelash transcend
Rising above in her heart she knew
With he she did not need to pretend

A part of him they had just let go
Nevertheless he stayed around
Singing in her heart she did know
A kindred spirit she had found

I trusted you with a part of me
To her in his arms did he convey
I wanted to know if you could see
The love for you that I display

For an eyelash is more than few
With many others they do contend
Just one was able to break through
A desire for you it did extend

Away to the unknown you let it so
It could have fallen to the ground
But untamed are the winds that blow
Listen close you can hear their sound

She said, your a silly sausage aren't we
I let you go but you did stay
I trusted the unknown to let it be
If an eyelash would float astray

I watched it soar into the blue
Up to the sky it did ascend
But it knew its home fair and true
Upon my cheek it did descend

A love for me you did bestow
A single eyelash in those abound
A love returned is what I show
In the wind you hear so profound

Close your eyes whispered he
Wiping an eyelash gone stray
Now make a wish instructed she
And blow to the wind away.


Michael Dixon

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Cloud Talk

Clouds speed across bright backdrop
a flickering film
we squint to see
not understanding

Darkness encroaches
shadows deepen
daylight shimmers briefly
then disappears

We sleep

Blind but not deaf
still we slide down the volume
turning from the song
witnessed at dawn

Fingers stretch to feel a way
though heart reaches further
a wisp of love unfurling
entwining souls together

Scissors snip

Desperate for freedom
claiming our islands
while beneath the aquamarine
one world connected

Wind speaks in whispers felt
answers etched into aging flesh
from youthful slumber we awaken
to find meaning in the shapes of clouds.


Etain Druantia

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The Blind Mans Prayer

Oh gods, if there are gods,
console me now.
You took the light you gave
when I awoke to this world.
Can you replace the dawn?
The dawn I cherished touching
my window, rising silent
from darkness to sunburst.

Can I forgive you?
Stealing the sight of flowers
within my garden.
Roses, the fragrant violet,
lilacs message of spring,
their scent within my nostrils,
their image strong memory.

No longer breaks the evening sun
to gold reflections on mirrored seas.
Only speaks its late warmth
to hollows of my cheeks.

What solace can you give
for my love?s sweet face,
She died without my vision
of her last tears.

Lend me the mournful flicker
of a dying candle,
and I will sing
your everlasting praise.


Kurt Semel

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To Dad - A Tribute to a Craftsman

Almost ninety years old
He still carves out beauty
Place a piece of rough wood
In his hands
And his eyes
Sharp as an oiled blade on a whetstone
See the piece within
Patiently waiting for his wharncliffe knife
To chisel off ledges
Hollow out notches
Seeking high relief
From stop cuts

Head bent
Curled pieces of cypress
Filling the air and the workshop floor
Never losing the temper of his blade
Pulling the work of art right out of the grain
Finding the lost duck within the walnut burl
Digging through maple to
The hidden soldier
Setting pine horses free

Years ago
I stood before him
A hard block of confused and angry youth
He made the first slice
With love as sharp as a coping saw
Cut to the quick and laid me open
Chipped away my fury with his flat edge
Whittled my chaos with minor blades
Gently smoothed edges roughed in
With his sheep-foot pen
Until I became the woman
I am now


LadyMac

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My Poor Poor Children
(a poem for Yusuke)

I sit with Rain River at side with thoughts of poems;
"jack" and Town and the City Wolfe inspired literary
failure and imagine drunken Kerouac tears floating
like feathers in a broken wind

The Rain was a melodic and beautiful gift read on a
ebon encrusted April three a.m. night of American
madness madness madness

where the news earlier tonight screamed of six children
shot at the Washington national Zoo and I think to myself'
that she, Kwannon, Bosatz; where is love love love
...................................Goddess of mercy

Oh, how the devils(laugh and dance) deaf to the Mexacalli
Blues poor poor children
You have seen Yaksha but as Kusunoki Masashige seven times
Seven times shall your children sing forever graced
I have held the broken wing and wept
I have lived the twilight duel
Thrice have I given and received
Love in rose petal softness
My being holds your being poor poor children
My eyes weep your tears
With the suchness of snow
I am the mother that
Suckled you my poor poor children
And today the red sun rises over love
And the warmth burns over both hunger
And the man and the woman who dance
And lovers touch excited with passion
And the warmth continues to burn as
Children born and aged cease
So my poor poor children
Welcome home
For my tears were like rocks thrown at
The moon
And I, I am only sand and the need for
Love and to be loved which is both my
Greatest weakness and strength under
The flowing of life
And a red rose is picked for a young
Lover's heart while a pink rose is placed
On freshly turned earth and the cycle that
Is forever continues unbroken as life is
Love my poor poor children
The rains flood and feed as I cast my net
On the blue peaceful waters to touch your
Hand my lover on the shore where I first
Beheld your eyes, where our bodies were
Bound together as the stars are fixed
To the sky

My poor poor children I am
The spring from whence you
First arose and today the
Red sun rising brings the
Warmth that burns over love.


Elliott

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Color me love

Why have my thoughts continued of you?
I cannot seem to escape from them.
My quiet moments seem to be violated
by memories of you.

Suddenly I feel oddly shy,
Not that this is a reason to hold back
, in fact, I deem it a sign to press on.

As I walk the long winding roads,
early in the misty mornings of this forest
, you are here.

O' Yes, obliterated by time,
yet you are always here.
A hint of your voice seems to creep in
upon my solace.
Is it my feeble mind?

The sound of your laughter dancing
before my eyes climax's the moment.

Why do we remain so far apart?
Have our spirits travelled to higher places
or is it the European mountains that taketh
our beauty and carry it elsewhere?

Perhaps it is the "wisdom of the old world"
as not to allow us concentrate
clearly and fully on one another.

I sit in my studio as well,
without smoke, a scented candle,
Dimly lit, glancing at the jittering burning pattern
that seems to leave my mind in an untrusting aura.

As I watch the autumn leaves
change, spin, and pattern
themselves after us, they too,
tell many stories.

My hands wish to reach out to grasp a new canvas.
I withstand this half image in my head,
I only know that I will cramp up inside
as I try to super impose a creation of us.

Suddenly I stare at my hands, so worn, so sore,
I bend my fingers slowly as to stretch them one by one.
I feel as if I am about to perform.
This time my piano remains silent.

I know it is time to paint.
My brushes seem not to conform to the
the tasks that they may need.
O' my, I sit on my chair, now brush in hand.
amusing myself with thoughts of you..
I can not endure one single more thought of you.

I toss my brush across the room, watch it spin.
It emulates the leaves in the forest twirling.
I painfully run my fingers through my
freshly waved locks.

What colors does our love depict?
Shall I paint vivid colors of water?
Shall they be faded shades?
Shall I paint the spinning, swirling of the
leaves passing upon my windowsill?

Suddenly I see a flower
purging its way through the leaves.
What would bring a flower to my window seat?
Could it be a bird whom carried
it's way across the shores?

Was he sent as a reminder of your presence?
O' yes, now I reach through my window
the rain is pouring upon my arm
as so much upon my cheeks.

My hands grasp for this flower.
Suddenly it is gone.
The noise of the wildlife,
broke my concentration once again.
Gradually I am entranced.

Here I sit brush in hand,
another brush falls to the floor.
I sit aimlessly.
Deep in thought, in pain.
My head lies upon my forearm
as to relax my perpetuating soul.

I wrap my arms around you
in my dreams only to awake
. I find my brush lying on the studio table.
You seem destined to be an enigma forever.

Will these thoughts continue
to haunt my aching soul?
Do I need to paint an abstract subject of
a heart unsteadliy beating?
or shall it be tear stained eyes?

My eyes are closing, slowly, slowly.
My mind tires from hearing your voice sing.
and so I lie my head upon my pillow
where it belongs and I make certain to
close the door behind me.


Darlene Pringle

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Lucid Chimera

lucid chimera... a flight of fantasy
on new moon to cloud-hidden stars
or a vision of something more or less --
a dream that exists only within me.

does anything I sense make any sense...
resemble the slightest hint reality?
or do I stand perched on the edge
of some sort of insanity...

can I truly exist in this world;
it feels so cold and dark, yet
so warm and light-drenched... where am I?
why do I come to this place?, again...

oh, such a questioning for sages... perhaps
for who else could understand the symbols
hidden in meanings of such thoughts
as I hear again, the echoed chanting of ancient ages?

am I quiescent... motionless, I think
as if I am the suspended air of haunting night
this silence overwhelms the soul,
but still I hear so many voices... are they memories?

or am I in motion?... floating in an obscuring mist
unaware of horizons and solid earth
is it just a repeating futile emotion
that carries me to this other-place?

transparent is the soul, like ebony sky thin air
imprisoned free spirit I am... but do you even care?
could you comprehend images I see within?
the way this world could be...?

looking through those mortal-bound eyes
you may never feel the yearning
for wings to reach new skies --
may never sense the knowing
that is discovered in the mystical realms
of the engulfing sea.

alas....the world I dream of may never come to be...
but it will always exist whenever I think of "you and I"
. a lucid chimera... a flight of fantasy, or
a vision of something more or less -- the dream within.


Uootem


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Winter Dance

Beneath the silent silvery moon glow
Starlight faeries twinkle ginger dance
Frosty crusted meadow dance floor of snow
Two stepping diamonds glitter to romance

Throughout the phase of the full moon they prance
Gleeful in two-part bouncing harmony
From dusk till dawn for mere mortals entrance
Spellbound, hypnotic, frolicking beauty

The howling wind twirls in sweet melody
The boughs of the pines bend with approval
Dawn breaks with a sudden chill reality
This dance was merely full dressed rehearsal!

As the lights come up with dazzling whiteness
Starlight faeries perform in new brightness.


Dulcinea

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Birthday 5th

Jim Dickey turned 51 today
dressed in his
Sergeant E-5 Greens
joined by his bros
in their military best
they always dress up
on birthdays

Sister Judy came by
brought a rose from her garden
and some homemade
peanut butter cookies
Jim don't eat sweats
but she will
while she tells
about the old neighborhood
and then a mention
how proud she is
of her brother
and the other service men
from the "Nam"

Says she met Mary Garcia
married to a Navy guy
down the row
they rode in together
on the bus from 63rd
was his birthday today too

Sis nibbles her last cookie
looks at the soldiers
all grinning back at her
"you have such nice friends Jim"
she whispers with a tear
she leans and kisses
the top of the white stone cross


OWG

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The Fleecing of Mara

Her hands embraced a ruby bloom;
the blood she licked away was sweet.
A thistle replaces her missing arm,
its bloom prolonged by rusty awning drops
collected during summer storms.

She used to have platinum blonde locks,
styled to frame her high cheek bones
until bicycle tires pressed them
into red clay.
Auburn suits her skin tone, now
faded by weather to a pasty wool.

"Maa Maa" she chanted
when I flexed her joints,
louder when I twisted her knees.
I wanted her to dance,
not caring about her blinking protests.
She was my princess and could
do anything I imagined.

She was my confidant
back when she had a good head
and pink, molded lips retained
my juvenile fantasies of the boy next door
who toted acne cream in his hip pocket.

She leans against the corner
of the old detached garage;
plastic eyes, one wide open,
the other dull behind a gapped fringe
of curled lash.
I can see her though.


Little Bird

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Another Season of Love

Like an ancient misty eyed rain from trees
drops of green paint dissolve onto flat hands
that used to wave in summers applause
Now, stout and alone
a trunk with outstretched arms
what was bountiful is now barren
still he lives
and thrives
and hopes
there is but another season of love
as an icebergs force is unseen
so are his earthly impaling roots
half again as much a man
lurks behind what is visible
rattlesnake mottled skin imprisoning a soul
not yet shed; brittle with an aged wisdom
a solitary icon in a wilderness of desolation
each with thoughts of immortality
come take a walk with me he beckons
would you die for me he asks
icy answers are carried in the wind
until another season of love


ShadowRider

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Touch of a human

A bird in flight plunged into the bushlands deep
Nothing heard it scream, nothing heard it weep
Of its pain as it lay there in a huddled heap

Shivering upon the leaves it stayed
Unable to call out, alone it laid
With its hurt not known, the light did fade

Silent cries in the darkness, such easy prey
For ravenous animals, it could not say
Out loud how it felt, its whereabouts betray

A new day dawned, the bird alive though bleak
Warm hands gently gathered its body now so weak
Soft breath blew gently over its open crushed beak

The touch of a human causing it no fright
Only healing, soothing warmth, infused light
Of softly murmured words easing its plight

Though no one was ever aware of its true pain
Kindness from the human made its hurt slowly wane
Showered with this love, soft as feathery rain.


ThunderStorm

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Love is a feeling we all know

Love is melted butter in your underpants,
a warm, creamy good feeling best not fully explained in public.

Love is a fireman's helmet,
a bright red vision of safety everybody secretly wants to wear.

Love is levis fresh from the dryer,
warm, tight and best worn with nothing on underneath.

Love is a battered tin can
that keeps you company on the long lonely walk home from school.

Love is Friday, September 18, 1992,
and any other day you want it to be

Love is a umbrella.
It looks classy on your elbow and keeps you dry when it rains.

Love is a daffodil,
a potato, tomato what you will,

Love is a nerf basketball
soft, squeezable, and comes in every color and lasts forever.

Love is a steamer trunk,
it'll hold just about anything and go anywhere you want.

Love is the first fog of the year.
That takes all the familiar places and makes them mysterious again

Love is running out of gas on a deserted road.
It makes you stop and look at where you're going and how far you've come.

Love is giving a dog a bath
it's wet and difficult, but for the good of all concerned.

Love is sucking helium from a balloon,
It makes you say funny things, and makes children happy.


© 98 Peter Moyes

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If I Could Not Speak The Words

If no voice I had for words
would you still be able to hear?
Would mere actions be enough
to vocalize them loud and clear?
Would those words still flow from me
with every beat of my heart?
Could my eyes then still convey
my wish never to be apart?

With a soft brush of my hand
would I still be able to show,
feelings that are held for you
the ones I'd pray for you to know?
When lips pressed soft upon you
would you feel desire in the flame?
Could you feel the fire burning
as my soul would cry out your name?

If those little words again
I could not be able to say,
would you know that they were felt
if they could not be said each day?
If I could not speak these words
would you know that they were meant true,
each time that my heart whispered....
I am still so in love with you.


~D~

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The Dancer

The dancer died today
stalked by some
dishonest John
who stilled the
very movements
that he loved

The darkened parkway
chalked the sum of
terror that was done
against the one beloved

The dancer's day did end
she must have known
such fear in those
last moments of her life

Discovered by a friend
bullet holes shown
unconscious pose
what caused this
fatal strife

The dancer died today
and there the barman
stood and wept a tear
recalling how she did
not smile like before

Customers did not pray
instead they came again
to order shots and beer
and ask about the sign
there on the door

The dancer died today
the manager has time
he has to fill
and customers prepared
to buy their fun

It says top pay
for any girl who will
do all the things that
babygirl once dared
that pleased all the
lonely men but one
the dancer died today


Emerson Dawson

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Vindication

So, we meet again
(Bastard)
Another six months past
Christmas, wasn't it?
You, your lovely wife,
your son (at least a he)
and she's pregnant again
(God, please, not a girl)
Not surprised though.
never could keep it down.
All the family is here
reunited again - whoopdeeshit

You always act so cool
oozing condescending charm
like nothing happened

I WAS TEN!!

I didn't know didn't understand
how would I?? a child
I admit - it felt good - at first
only later I realized.
tried to push you away then
but you kept coming
bigger, older
threatening to tell
destroy my good girl image
the family
looking back,
would have been better
instead
pain burrowed deep
threatens my Now


Inspiring One

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