AFTER THE PICTURES Copyright Mary Hunt 1997.
Oh, it was good in childhood days
to walk along the Edgeware Road
dreaming of what I'd left behind
in the "Grand Kinema's" abode.
My mind was still among the stars
that sparkled on the silver screen,
and yet - the stars were in my eyes -
thinking of all that I had seen.
I did not heed the milling throng,
the twilight held no fears for me.
my heart still sang a lovely song
that I had heard in Arcady.
But then, a rough familiar voice
awoke me from my rapturous dream
and burning embers, shining bright
recalled me to this earthly stream.
For there the chestnut seller's stand
blazed at the corner of the street.
Twopenn'orth of his luscious wares -
and there was ground beneath my feet!
'Tis ever thus! We cling to dreams
but cannot long in dreams abide.
My childish dreams could not withstand
The empty place I felt inside.
MARY HUNT, A good friend and near neighbour of mine, has
written several poems, three of which have been published. She has also written
a book, "THE SHEPHERDS", published by Effective Publishing and had
several short stories published. She has had two articles featured in "YOURS"
magazine, one of which was about cinema legend Lon Chaney.
THINGS YOU ARE NOT by Andrew Turner
You are not a candle flame that burns
With a fiery light
But the solitary beacon
That guides my path
Dark and lonely night
Not the Sun's rays
That beat down in summer
But still provide
Warmth to me
As could never another
Neither Goddess nor God
From a heaven above
But equalling their power
In your gifts
Of showing me compassion and love
You are unlike any other
That has ever known life
You are magick to me
My beautiful angel
My joy; my lover; my Wife
This was written by my brother-in-law to my sister, Beth, who helped me to put these pages onto the Internet.
Heaven Sent Water
Copyright Carol Sanford Hall (Oregon's #1 Grandma)
The space scientists look for water on heavenly stars,
concerned about life on other cosmic shores afar,
yet we who live daily on earth's surface and below,
strive our utmost to secure water to bestow,
life in cells of living matter daily for all mankind,
conservation of heaven's rainfall every soul can find,
barrels, buckets, containers of all ages example,
giving every race and creed realization of pull,
lifting the burdens cited impossible to assure,
the ever onward demands of exploring our future.
Copyright Carol Sanford Hall (Oregon's #1 Grandma) June 1978
The pulse of life runs through my Oregon,
The hills covered with sentinal giants,
Lifting their arms toward heaven and God,
Oh what joy to be a part of all this.
I scan the rocks and valleys to see,
Life's pattern around and all about me,
The rivers, the lakes and the many creeks,
Become a winding ,coursing, tumblng bliss.
Echoes in evidence of the season's time,
Wagons , to autos, to flights and speculations,
Write my Oregon's history pages and rhyme,
Its people tracking the paths that build nations.
Carol hall with her grandaughter
|AUTHOR'S COMMENT: "I dislike writing for competitions....I like free- verse and heartfelt sentiment the best. That is REAL-LIFE, not words to hurt or slander or be pandered about for snide remarks. If everyone had love in their hearts and spurned destructive thoughts... we could turn the world to construtive activities totally."|
STELLA POLARIS Copyright Tom Riley.
Though moved by the restless circling moon,
To sometimes thorny answers and debate,
And media's hearts and flowers call the tune,
When passion's drive needs more than tÍte-ŗ-tÍte;
Surrounded by world's false-friendly clamour,
And acts inimical, on every hand,
You wear innocence like shining armour,
To comfort me and evil countermand;
Your beauty, which in magic younger days
O'erfilled the mind, and drove the pulsing blood;
With soul's maturing, softer, calmer, rays,
Now shines in lovely, radiant, womanhood.
In love; I give you all I have to give,
Without your guiding light, I cannot live.
SKYSCAPE Copyright Tom Riley.
Far journeys weary traveller, far south of tropic line,
And on his back he feels the weight of equatorial sky,
Dense cloudless blue, of light years depth and universal time.
Brass sun-god hammers down on him from course in heaven high.
And spirit longs; for Sussex and a new born April morn,
And spirit sees the dew fresh light of dawn.
Sudden the tropic sundown comes with strident harmony,
And moonless heaven adorns herself in jet-black velvet dress.
Suspended in the long moment of creations agony
The icy flame worlds sparkle from the universal press.
And spirit sighs; for moonlit calm of leafy Downland lane,
And spirit treads the moonpath home again.
Our traveller, returning now by fabled Grecian strands
Thrills to the light, that once did Dionysian revels bless.
Neath brilliant sky, the calyx shows the proud limbed Satyr and
Fair Maenads writhing in priapic sport and venereal excess
And spirit wings; to passion spent in spring clad Southdown wood,
And spirit smiles, re-treasuring the mood.
This the Aegean vault, cloud wisped, of deepest cobalt blue;
Horizoned Homer's heroes, raging billows to annoy,
Warmed the sweet muse that mothered Ovids verses true:
Was this the sky that wept the smoky tears of burning Troy?
And spirit feels; the soft cloud cloak of windy Ditchling height
And spirit follows skylarks out of sight.
Sea-borne, our traveller sails on Atlantic homeward track,
Heeds the awful warning of the mackerel painted sky,
Senses the sickly overcast give way to streaming wrack,
As gale releases Furies leash with evening drawing nigh,
And spirit quails; before the stormy ending of the day;
And spirit steels itself to face the fray.
Sharp nailed clouds tear shreds from the racing gibbous moon,
Then gather boiling towers of awful immensity,
Whose drumming rain's the counterpoint of screaming gale's wild tune
Whose blinding fingers strike, with thunderous intensity;
And spirit sees; the lighter bar on western sea's edge form,
And spirit tells the ending of the storm.
Now, home at last, 'neath pristine cloud and newly laundered blue,
The fleecy crowds traverse the sky in never ending train,
And mint bright, sun now takes his turn at warmly shining through
The misty castled transports of the flower refreshing rain.
And spirit joys in ambience that smiles upon the Down;
And spirit rests in quiet Sussex town.
And spirit looks with eager heart, to many an Ashdown dawn,
Of red and gold laced fretting, over palest duck egg blue.
Or pearly white December days with frost upon the lawn,
And early evenings drawing in, through firelit windows view
Where magic bars the horizon, in velvet pink and grey;
And hymns a fitting requiem for the day.
TOM RILEY lives in West Sussex and is a member of the same poetry group as MARY HUNT and myself. He has written many poems over the years, including several ballads. The first of these two interesting examples is about his wife. Tom enjoys sailing and this is reflected in the second example.
WEDNESDAY WE WAKE
Copyright Michael Stephens
For love, for yearning, for the puzzle,
the fine blue riddle of Wednesday we wake,
leave behind the mystic realm of moths and mirrors,
the halfmoon strangled night where dreams
take hold and our bodies burn.
Do you dream of me, I wonder: the ragman
haunting halls, softshoe dancing, propped up
waiting with these faded eyes, this strawman heart?
I dream of you. I find you lost in
unfamiliar rooms, your voice a silver song
that heats my blood. I dream of you,
a diamond peach, a broken pear, the taste of time,
of raging sea, both hard and ripe against my
tongue, my cheek, my breath inhaling, breath
inhaling, breathless cry of waking, breathless
flight through unreal corridors and walls.
Do you dream of me? Do you say my name the way
a lover would, with hushed and secret knowledge?
Do you dream of me, of who I am or was? Of roads
and boxcar straw? Of jukebox joints and pinball
starlight love? Or is your longing fresh and young,
like a child's question, a second kiss?
I dream of you, the eternal dream, the delicate
dance; for love, for yearning, the fine blue
riddle of a flame, the fine blue riddle of
Wednesday we wake to empty beds and empty wonder.
Your dreams are like a song.
Copyright Michael Stephens
Take this longing, this stone-heart rawness
this broke-leg puppet dance
this fist of shells I give you
from mythic beach I've walked in time
uneven stiles like crucifixion posts
sand-calloused fingers, driftwood stumble
this twilight ache of bone and pulse.
Take this longing, translucent embers
memories of rooms and strangers
this flint-eyed sorrow
the residue of roaming.
Take it with your kiss
this longing from my tongue
in whispered night, in shallow water.
I've never slept in someone's eyes.
HAUNTING SANTA BARBARA
Copyright Michael Stephens
Oh look, Carrie says
at those... What do you call them?
next to the bananas...
Kiwi fruit, I say, from Australia
or New Zealand someplace
Michael, you're so smart
Yes, but look at the price, I say
Ninety-eight cents a pound
Scrooge McDuck, she says
and places three in the basket
like furry eggs in a nest of cellophane
The sun is starting to set
it's belly testing the cool Pacific
And I am at the window watching it
while Carrie is lost in a photo album
sitting cross-legged on the bed
When I was a little boy
I was afraid of everything
I was afraid that while sleeping
I would forget to breathe
(my aunt who was nine years older
laid that one on me)
And I was afraid
that the world would end before I grew up
or the sun would die of old age
But the world is still here
I'm pleased to say
and the sun is waist-deep in water now
I can hear it sizzle
Or it might just be the wind
hissing through palm trees
or some other sound, some other
Who's this? Carrie asks
This girl dressed up like a witch
My cousin, I say, a few years ago
And this? she asks
Same girl without the mask
And this? Carrie asks
My ex-wife and daughter
my ex-daughter, ex-life
when I was younger
But now, Carrie, I belong to no one
I might even be dead -- who knows?
and haunting this place, haunting
Once, years ago
I sat beneath a bridge near Spokane
with three old hobos huddled over a fire
And the one named Idaho Joe
started calling me El Vaquero
because of the bandanna
and my scuffed-up boots
He taught me a little Spanish
and I thought later on I might disappear
into Mexico, just keep walking like Dean Moriarty
let the sun burn me to a crisp
or find a cave and live there
But that was a long time ago
and forever is upon me now
and I can't even be sure I survived
And who's this? Carrie asks
turning the last page
in shadows on a porch, alone
Good God, it's you
beneath all that hair!
Yes, and I recognize that guitar
must have been ten years ago
you fed it to the Grand Canyon
watched it freefall in slow motion
It sleeps now with the fishes, you said
at the end of the Colorado
MICHAEL STEPHENS is the editor of the Avalon poetry ezine website and lives in Cincinatti, USA, with his wife Heidi and his cats Spot and Betty.
Untitled Copyright Eric J Swanger I cried for you Like the way I cry listening to Sweet Baby James that awful sense of knowing that poetic helplessness and unstoppable abandonment I cried for you Like I wanted to cry for others but could never build up the emotions I cried for you Cried silent and alone empty bedrooms of tears Cried on the crowded streets to the beat of laughing strangers to melt hearts like mine to be met with defeat on every corner to return and cry for you alone I cried for you who caught my eye and has my heart For you who came and went and stayed even though For you the one I love For you who speaks forever but the next day for tomorrow or for yesterday or for it has never happened at all For you who is as confused and scared and in love as I am I cried for you to come back just as I cried for you never to leave and when you left I cried for you as you cried for me separate and alone ĎDo You Remember Those Days?í Copyright Eric J. Swanger Do you remember those august days? the hot ones where (when combined with humidity it felt like Texas) Do you remember that? And when you first contemplated our autumn it was one of those days With sweat and tears (good combination of salts but oil and water are a hard mix) Untitled Copyright Eric J. Swanger 1. we covered most of New England our endless hours driving seem lost now everything 2. let me be your concord memories the awkward meeting in front of the bagel shop me, writing you, dressed up even made up and how I wanted to kiss you on top of the fire tower I introduced you to humus, poetry and a good book store we fell in love and dreamed let me be your Walden Pond memories sitting on the log taking pictures of birds and holding hands we walked to Thoreauís foundation stood where he lived and felt ashamed for not knowing enough to bring stones to place on the pile as Emerson wanted we vowed to make this mistake only once let me be your memories of that nameless Massachusetts beach wind blowing cold and underdressed but stood shaking taking our first pictures of each other then running to the car to keep warm let me be your New Hampshire memories of how it was too cold to stand staring at the face in the mountain hawthorn told us about of the closed Mount Washington the gorge, more cold and more pictures of Portsmouth and the shaker village I never got to see let me be your mystic memories of the motel with the broken heater and candles and pumpkins and how I waited for you and that rain remember the rain? remember the army/navy store the book shop on the corner the pizza and the over-priced seaport 3. D.C. is our town I told you letís get a cheap apartment near the train and learn how to live I wanted to propose to you in the museum while looking at the hope diamond in front of gawking tourists ďno it isnít as big, but itís all Iíve gotĒ but lack of money means to do without so there was no promise begged of you and on your birthday I was broke so I cried and upset you these are your Pennsylvania memories no wonder you canít promise I have nothing to offer but reminiscence and the uncertain future of the struggling couple in love but never quite infatuated
© steve rouse
He shot him, so
The huge space-craft arrived unexpectedly,
In the Car Park of
Power Rangers riding
Ken and Barbie's eyes don't meet,
Spittle on his lips
Not eating, but thinking,
Shadowing it with his eyes
Eating it, when it lands,
Steve Rouse (aka Catfish) is a member of the Monday Night Group of writers in Manchester, England.
He's quite active on the local poetry scene and has been published by Crocus and the AK Press, amongst others.
He writes about anything which comes to mind and has been accused of being experimental, which he confirms or denies as the occasion demands.
THE PERILOUS JOURNEY Copyright Debbie ProwseShe flutters
CROW'S FEET Copyright Debbie Prowse Black shadows
Copyright Julie Damerell
Trees play possum tonight,
still as the starless night sky.
Our two oaks ache for wind
to toss their hundred manes and buck
I pine for their frenzy, too,
gusts to carry sleepless fury away.
Hidden in fixed branches and napping leaves
wait breezes eager to hush the distant noise of engines
Like waves rushing the rocky shore
of Lake Huron
when I was ten
and fell asleep to water's lullaby,
then woke to it,
wishing I could stay
Years before I knew that glassy eyes
hid broken hearts,
when my sight was naive
and I believed
that when things looked whole,
Copyright Julie Damerell, July 1997
shining down my restless eyes
you leave shadows here
in every room,
with just enough light to find
You wouldn't think a person could remove clothes
in so many places
other than the bedrooms, his and hers,
but there they are,
in every room.
Count the toys touched today:
not in any of the four toyboxes,
but where they left them,
in every room.
Books, at home on her shelf and in his basket,
instead visit tables and floors,
in every room.
Evidence of their being here, six and almost-three,
in every room.
Normally I don't mind the trail,
little crumbs I can follow to find
in every room.
But Hansel and Gretel they're not.
Even they picked up their stuff,
only leaving a trail as a last,
This is mine.
A garbage bag full of the evidence
gathered before the judge's bench
in the kitchen.
Shine on, headlight moon.
I can't sleep
and tomorrow's gonna be a mean day.
Copyright Julie Damerell May 1998
in a night garden
barren of sun warmed buzzes and flutters.
this moist quiet of
meandering forward and back
through wordless lips.
Here is the rich dark soil
with mute bodies burrowing
minds worming their way
through midnight tunnels
then sparkling night
with treasures to savor
in days blue blossom.
JULIE DAMERELL is a writer, mother of two, and frequent insomniac living on top of a
hill in rural New York State. She is a high school remedial reading
teacher who spent half of the nineties at home watching the children grow
and trying to place her writing somewhere more public than her floppy disk.
Her poetry can also be found on-line in the
June 1998 Pigs 'n Poets, and Issue 17
of Zuzu's Petals Quarterly Online. Her column for
Ellavon: An Ezine of Basic Culture, http://www.ellavon.com is titled Rural
Route Two. Two of her essays are included in Mother Voices an anthology
published by Rose Communications in March 1998.
Coyright John Holt 18/8/98
All colors to my eye are grey.
My appetite has lost its will.
Thirty hours now curse the day,
existence but a bitter pill
This aspect often brings its dread
as mind with thought is so employed,
and sentiments dwell on the dead
forgetting things I had enjoyed.
I will arise to seek fresh fields,
while I cast off the gloomy things.
Imagination paints and yields
the brightest colors for my wings.
Depressive thoughts are cast aside
as I revive my self esteem.
I had mislaid my errant pride
but in the dark I saw it gleam.
Fresh mental palette with new brush
paints out the noise, paints in the hush,
soft gentle patterns of the kind
that dance, around my inner mind.
Coyright John Holt 18/8/98
On summer nights I hear
the herd at Charlton farm.
Sometimes a donkey brays
over there in some alarm
Now and again I stand
outside and gaze
at that inkiness sprinkled
with stardust haze.
My thoughts race, then falter.
I know that I and
a million I's cannot alter
this staggering scene.
Stop it! I tell myself.
Don't look up and compute
when only a prayer can impute
the meaning of it all.
Oh Lord, in all this universe
I am so small.
Coyright John Holt 18/8/98
if we should never meet again this is our memory:
though time should dull this senseless brain
my thoughts remain of thee.
Capture these sweet moments with your mind
bind them, hold them in your heart, remember,
when the years have flown and we have sped apart
Some day, when you have time and leisure,
recall our evenings, full of laughter,
filled with so much pleasure.
Our paths diverge, we go our separate ways.
Division will not wipe away the value of these days.
if we should never meet again this is my memory:
I found a fortune in the friendship
that I shared with thee.
|"Hi! - My name is John Holt. Until 1996 I was working for a company involved in the financial sector of telecommunications and broadcasting. Currently I am a freelance contract worker in the banking industry. I have been writing poetry for several years now. Some of my poems have been published in an anthology comprising other poets in my local poetry group in Hampshire, southern England. 1998 has been my most productive and innovative year to date in the field of poetry. Writing poetry brings me much pleasure and I would like to share this with you." For more of John's work see the newsgroup alt.arts.poetry.comments, where he is a regular contributor, both in poetry and discussion.|
I asked the night a question
and it answered me with dawn;
I turned to thank the night for its
advice, but it was gone.
I turned myself toward home then,
for my shoes were soaked with dew,
When I asked the dawn a question
and it answered me with you.
"What are you waiting for?" had been
my question to the night-
The answer was as clear as day,
and somewhere near as bright;
I slept that morning knowing
I could ask for nothing more,
For my question to the dawn had been,
"What am I waiting for?"
IN THE DINER
Copyright Chuckk Hubbard
Tines scrape careless teeth
and a mouthful of flapjack
"What your problem is,
is you're thinking about it
entirely too much."
You crush the desire
to flip the bird just in time,
and cede with a shrug.
Later you get home
to find your badger waiting,
and tell her instead.
Sonnet #2 for Stephanie
Copyright Chuckk Hubbard
Two moths, one wont to flit around the flame,
The other leaning more toward flying in,
Soon meet and make an unassuming game
Of dancing round each other. As they spin,
Eventually a wing will thump a wing,
Suggesting to the two a closer range,
And Nature's subtle push will surely bring
The flight to much more intimate exchange...
But evening seeps inex'rably toward dawn,
And Nature's unseen hands release their hold,
And as the wave of fancy passes on,
Regretfully, the pair must soon unfold,
For one must fly on, one day to expire,
And one must once again seek out his fire.
|CHUCKK lives in Pennsylvania with his stuffed badger. Plays banjo,
writes poetry, and is most at home in the diner, where he can feel
comfortable being his usual insomniatic self! He loves to write sonnets
and invites anyone to share/be shared with.
He is also a huge fan of Frank Zappa, The Allman Brothers Band, John Steinbeck, Joe Cocker, and Steppenwolf, among many.
My heart is a winner, a born winner,
wrapped up in the with cream,
just like the cake from my mother,
which she made in true love for my familiy and me.
My heart stopped crying when I met you, my heart !
My heart stopped a heartbeat, by your smile, so nice, of love;
she made me shut up about freedom,
''it's not your fight,'' she said to me.
My heart is living like the new dream of Mars;
must we land and destroy it like the Moon ?
My heart said no ! No more of this pain !?!
itīs not the new dump for us to kill!
My heart is a born winner to this world, like yours too ?
We are loving the enemies in blood and pain,
hand in hand to the living life, in love,
My heart, we are not the enemies,
come again, just like the little heartbeat,
you are more than a number in my little black book.
My world, give me a change ! My girl, do it to me too ?
Give us a love, to you and me.
My heart is a born winner,
be a winner with you, make my love come true !
My heart is a born winner,
just like you and you and you too !
"The Internet has given me the blood to write more in English." Says Frank. "The last 7-9 years I have written about 110 poems about many things: life,
nature, love, in some way it's love that is the thing to write about,
maybe it's because, we all have a love of life, yes ! the meaning of life is love ! To the world, family, kids, just the good things in life."
Frank is an accomplished abstract painter - click here.
Copyright R. Dean Ludden
This class is at an end
and I can stand far off
and understand frustration.
For there infused,
a single-channeled vision, seen
through scopes of vaporous happenstance
and frozen lovingly as honest insight,
n'est ce pas?
This body's sinews tighten;
there is desert all around,
and enemies lurk just outside
the field of sense.
Pure joy unmasked
is evanescent fantasy,
chasing after dawn.
This journey stretches one.
Center-bound, indeed, and to the edge
of truth...where monsters
and angelic messengers invite
the crossing. Then it is
the trembling, eager soul
will cry, "Not yet."
Please check my home page: Bob's Poetry Archives
what do i have to do
why can this be you
why do i have to love you
how's he gonna feel
my life's grown so hard to deal
my feeling i can't feel
i want more than i can steal
i want your help to kill me
here today, it's hard to say
and i still love you anyway
i miss the good old days
the days we used to have
when life was so simple
and there's no reason to be sad
if i could start again
i wouldn't end it all that way
i would turn you inside out
we could run away
i've done it now i led myself astray
and our relationships come so jaded
and now it's faded
out of my mind
i know i'm not good enough
you deserve someone else
you deserve a different way
i've deluded your mind
implanted subconcious messages
for you to never find
and the mysteries all come undone
i loved it, it was fun
but now it's over reposed and done
"up and down and then we fall" copyright blane pucket 1997
in the deepest darkest regions
of the deepest darkest space
all the little angels
must some how fall from grace
it's my deepest darkest secret
that no one must ever know
my deepest darkest secret, well thats for me to know
and when you fall from grace
you too will be erased
oh now i've said it all
we're up and down and then we fall
in our little rage
so take this how you wish
and take this how you might
they're words on a piece of paper
they're windows to her life
with me and you
who ever must have built her
has the right to be blue
i eat the cold breakfast on a rainy night
i'm taken away
i see no light
and my endless poem is come to an end
they're cut off
all the vibes that i send
the angels are all now dead
the apocalyptic battle rages on in my head
as the 13th floor is always missing
in the distance the fat lady is singing
and the reaper is always bringing
my thoughts to an end
no more emotion to write or send
Blane, from the USA, is a fan of NINE INCH NAILS and has friends from all over the world on the Internet. These two examples explore the darker side of love and life.
Back to main page