| To Lie by Marsha Cook |
| Words Running Free |
| Art by Mj Gillot |
| Shapes |
| LOVE CHANGES by Marsha Cook From novel Love Changes |
| Taking Wings A Poetry Session with Poet Jeanne Ripley |
| SUMMER EMBERS |
| The pool of your genes |
REFLECTION © Christine Bode |
 |  |  |  |
FROM THE NOVEL SALA, MORE
THAN A SURVIVOR
The question is to be curious
To be curious is to care
To care is to love
To love is to forget
But if we forget
Who will answer the questions
Who will be there
To make sure
The deaths of our loved ones
Will have not have been in vain,
So please don’t ask us to forget
The pain and the sadness
The outburst and
The tears
They belong to us
They are dreams,
They are the sparks of light
That survive in us
To remind us
Of love and honor
And of being who we are
We have been spared by G-d
To hold in our hearts
All that is dear to us,
For we as a people have
Survived
We are not just Jews
We represent honor
And courage
We are the inspiration
We represent love,
We are not only survivors
We are teachers
We are friends
We are the assurance that
The Holocaust did happen
We are here to repeat
The facts
So it can’t happen again,
Yes, we are the reminders
But you my children
You are the future
You have the power
To say no
We didn’t …
Love changes as does life
Like the seasons come upon us
A gift may appear
We may not notice it at first
Maybe a few words are spoken
Maybe a whisper or a smile
Maybe a laugh or two
Something happens to make us wonder
Why we feel different
We feel alive
We smile
We whisper sweet words
We laugh
Something is different
We have changed
We feel wonderful
We feel special
We are alive
We have found the perfect gift
We have found love….
jump
stuck in a tree, a million feet high
inches from finding her own way down--
mother's voice telling her
one more inch, just go forward
and you'll be free--but she cries
for her daddy's rescue, though he isn't there.
fearful and tiring, aching arms, craving release
she knows soon she will not be able to hold on
and will fall, seemingly forever--
she hears a familiar voice from below
"jump," he says--and she does,
into her daddy's waiting arms.
stuck in a hospital bed, for months on end
moments from leaving this earth--
doctor's voice telling them
it won't be long now, a few more days
and he'll be free--and she cries,
for her daddy's leaving, and it isn't fair.
fearful and tiring, aching body, craving release
they know soon he won't be able to hold on
and will go, forever in heaven--
and she remembers that familiar voice long ago,
"jump," he said--and she did,
and with that memory, she'll never be alone.
stuck in a loveless relationship
months without finding her own way out--
mother's voice telling her
that's enough, just move on
and be free--but she cries
for her a love like her daddy's, a life to share.
fearful and tiring, aching heart, craving release--
she knows soon she will not be able to hold on
and will fall, seemingly forever--
though the voice is unfamiliar
she jumps, headlong
into a new love's waiting arms.
Amanda James Dill
stuck in a tree, a million feet high
inches from finding her own way down--
mother's voice telling her
one more inch, just go forward
and you'll be free--but she cries
for her daddy's rescue, though he isn't there.
fearful and tiring, aching arms, craving release
she knows soon she will not be able to hold on
and will fall, seemingly forever--
she hears a familiar voice from below
"jump," he says--and she does,
into her daddy's waiting arms.
stuck in a hospital bed, for months on end
moments from leaving this earth--
doctor's voice telling them
it won't be long now, a few more days
and he'll be free--and she cries,
for her daddy's leaving, and it isn't fair.
fearful and tiring, aching body, craving release
they know soon he won't be able to hold on
and will go, forever in heaven--
and she remembers that familiar voice long ago,
"jump," he said--and she did,
and with that memory, she'll never be alone.
stuck in a loveless relationship
months without finding her own way out--
mother's voice telling her
that's enough, just move on
and be free--but she cries
for her a love like her daddy's, a life to share.
fearful and tiring, aching heart, craving release--
she knows soon she will not be able to hold on
and will fall, seemingly forever--
though the voice is unfamiliar
she jumps, headlong
into a new love's waiting arms.
Amanda James Dill
thank you
i'm writing today to people i've never
met
(may i never have the displeasure)
to thank them--yes, thank them--
for being the stupidest people i've
never
known and giving up
the crooked half-smile
that brightens my every day,
the ever-changing eyes
that see through all my defenses,
the softly curled hair
that wraps so easily around my fingers,
the perfectly bowed lips
that feel so right against mine.
you'll never know how grateful
i am that you, you were so quick
to dispose of something
so brusquely beautiful,
so perfectly imperfect--
no, you--you never will.
Amanda James Dill
i'm writing today to people i've never
met
(may i never have the displeasure)
to thank them--yes, thank them--
for being the stupidest people i've
never
known and giving up
the crooked half-smile
that brightens my every day,
the ever-changing eyes
that see through all my defenses,
the softly curled hair
that wraps so easily around my fingers,
the perfectly bowed lips
that feel so right against mine.
you'll never know how grateful
i am that you, you were so quick
to dispose of something
so brusquely beautiful,
so perfectly imperfect--
no, you--you never will.
Amanda James Dill
Ellipse, evolute, vertex and curve, Humdrum circle or ricochet swerve Astroids or cusps, arcs or sectors; What have those got to do with vectors? Curvature, cone, Cartesian plane... Oval, deltoid... what’s in a name? Geoid oscillation, pedal, radial, rose... What on earth do I know of those? Hypocycloid, cruciform, Sierpinski carpet... Inverse tangent or Apollonian gasket? Snowflake, hypercube, space-time dimension Pressured, gauged, or under tension? Trammel of Archimedes, planes, rotations - Congruence, right angles, equivalence relation; Conchoid curve, Orthoptic, Lemoine hexagon, Triangle, star or good old pentagon. Crescent, rhombus, magatama, square, Caustic curves, salinon, ying-yang or sphere! About whichever’s the shape that you talk, Basically, it’s taking a line for a walk! Tanja Cilia |
| The Dove Look at all Gods children fighting in the fold Arguing the meaning of His word Why can’t they just take the time to open up their hearts? And let God’s meaning rest upon it’s worth. The gift that is so close at hand the gift from God to all of man It’s meaning lost and slandered by the world Why can’t they see the needing souls reaching out to those who know? Confused by actions louder than our words And another day the Dove is asking why Another day the Dove has cause to cry Standing on a mountainside gazing down below Wondering at the beauty of Gods work My heart is filled with peace and hope; my soul with joy and praise God’s blessings and assurance makes me whole Yet still I see the needing ones they have not yet the battle won The emptiness they feel that brings despair The messengers God sent their way; disputing even how to pray Forgetting to ask God to guide their way And another day the Dove is asking why Another day the Dove has cause to cry The call is to God’s children to gather on our knees Become the tools God needs to light the way Together we must join as one and open up our hearts Preparing for a new and brighter day Please take your brother by the hand He too has part in God’s great plan And our work here on earth is far from though United we must take a stand and spread the news throughout the land The joy of peace and hope that are Gods truths Make a day in which the Doves not asking why A day the Dove doesl not have cause to cry…. by Stuart Lawrence |
It's lonely here inside of me.
Hopeless dreams of what can never be.
In this sad and melancholy place
Live only the memories of you warm embrace.
Like a lonesome garden deserted at dusk,
With an old metal swing, its poles of rust,
Here there are no trees nor vines well tended --
Just a heart full of passion so gently mended.
Emotions once planted in the garden's bed
Still await answers to questions better left unsaid.
If you could only enter the garden and feel what I feel,
You would know for sure, after all this time,
Man of my dreams,
I love you still!
Aloha,
Evelyn
HomespunHonolulu.com
Hopeless dreams of what can never be.
In this sad and melancholy place
Live only the memories of you warm embrace.
Like a lonesome garden deserted at dusk,
With an old metal swing, its poles of rust,
Here there are no trees nor vines well tended --
Just a heart full of passion so gently mended.
Emotions once planted in the garden's bed
Still await answers to questions better left unsaid.
If you could only enter the garden and feel what I feel,
You would know for sure, after all this time,
Man of my dreams,
I love you still!
Aloha,
Evelyn
HomespunHonolulu.com
| SPRING by Karen Elizabeth Rigley |
Nature buds with promise of life, beauty and renewal. |
DESERT NIGHT Stars sparkle like sequins spilled
acrossblack velvet skiesaboveflatlands stretching
foreverDesolation broken only by scatteredsilhouettes of cactus,
greasewood and sagebrushharsh reminders ofsurvivalas a hawk
swoopsdown towardan adventurous prairie dog scamperingback
home.
Karen
acrossblack velvet skiesaboveflatlands stretching
foreverDesolation broken only by scatteredsilhouettes of cactus,
greasewood and sagebrushharsh reminders ofsurvivalas a hawk
swoopsdown towardan adventurous prairie dog scamperingback
home.
Karen
FAREWELL WINTER by Karen Elizabeth Rigley |
Exploring tulip pokes shoots out
of melting ice and snow frosted ground,
daring winter dangers to scout
promise of springtime coming ‘round.
Proving to be one brave fellow
crocus blooms purple, whiote or yellow.
Sunshine!
Snowmelt! Birdsongs! A thaw to last.
Earth liberated from arctic blast.
Jonquil unfolds her lemon skirt;
leaves bud on branches too long bare;
March showers splatter garden dirt;
hyacinth blossoms scent the air.
Azure skies romance cloud puffs high
while all nature is heard to sigh,
Sunshine!
Snowmelt! Birdsongs! A thaw to last.
Earth liberated from arctic blast.
| DUEL by Karen Elizabeth Rigley |
Naked trees shiver quivering skeletons silhouetted against a flaming sunset Frigid air painted shades of blue and violet mock fiery colors of dying sun Gradually smothering each burning ember until only a defeated glow announces sun’s surrender to winter night Starry points of ice sparkle in celebration of temporary victory |
| EAGLE WISDOM by Karen Elizabeth Rigley |
Imagine an eagle circling the sky zooming up flying high Soar above cliff soar above mountain a symbol of strength a spiritual fountain Born in a nest hungry and weak right from birth determined to seek promise of destiny Rise to succeed rise to fulfill plan of the Almighty Gliding toward heaven the eagle soars through the sky inspiring my spirit since even an eagle must learn to fly |
KITTEN Nature’s
young uncuddly
soft furgolden
splotchedpatcheson creamy
whitefiercely battles
agrasshopper
Karen
young uncuddly
soft furgolden
splotchedpatcheson creamy
whitefiercely battles
agrasshopper
Karen
SECOND CHANCE
On a hot depleted afternoon
ears flick in parched yellow grass,
nostrils quiver as teardrop-eyes
fix on the eland calf.
Upwind, the spotted cheetah
on long highway legs
springs and blurs with dust speed.
Spiral horns swivel and toss
on the neck of the big tawny bull
hoofing uneasy, facing off
the panting racer.
Fearless with hunger
her teats hang empty
tingling with memory of toothless gums
as she takes a chance.
Her speed and hunger is no match
for the bull’s size and anger.
He stands between cat and bawling calf,
lowers his head as the cheetah leaps
and strikes her
a crippling blow.
The herd stampedes across the _veld_
as she drags herself through prickly grass
to reach her cubs.
Two days later the park ranger finds her
broken, half-dead with thirst and pain.
He darts and moves her to the animal hospital,
where a surgeon pins
a titanium plate to her leg.
She will not hunt again
yet has a second chance.
In the long-shadowed evening,
rangers hunt for the cubs
over scrub and dry sand,
under bone-shade of thorn trees.
Fingers point
life-saving hands reach
and grapple small gums and mewling fur.
Their mother is too hurt to rear them,
but with bottled milk they too
have a second chance.
On a hot depleted afternoon
ears flick in parched yellow grass,
nostrils quiver as teardrop-eyes
fix on the eland calf.
Upwind, the spotted cheetah
on long highway legs
springs and blurs with dust speed.
Spiral horns swivel and toss
on the neck of the big tawny bull
hoofing uneasy, facing off
the panting racer.
Fearless with hunger
her teats hang empty
tingling with memory of toothless gums
as she takes a chance.
Her speed and hunger is no match
for the bull’s size and anger.
He stands between cat and bawling calf,
lowers his head as the cheetah leaps
and strikes her
a crippling blow.
The herd stampedes across the _veld_
as she drags herself through prickly grass
to reach her cubs.
Two days later the park ranger finds her
broken, half-dead with thirst and pain.
He darts and moves her to the animal hospital,
where a surgeon pins
a titanium plate to her leg.
She will not hunt again
yet has a second chance.
In the long-shadowed evening,
rangers hunt for the cubs
over scrub and dry sand,
under bone-shade of thorn trees.
Fingers point
life-saving hands reach
and grapple small gums and mewling fur.
Their mother is too hurt to rear them,
but with bottled milk they too
have a second chance.
Bio note:
Marianne Saddington is a freelance writer,
book-binder and artist living in McGregor, a
village in South Africa. She has worked as a
graphic designer, book illustrator and editor;
and exhibited as a multi-media and book artist.
Her book ‘Making Your Own Paper’ (Struikhof
South Africa 1990) was reprinted in several
countries around the world
Marianne Saddington is a freelance writer,
book-binder and artist living in McGregor, a
village in South Africa. She has worked as a
graphic designer, book illustrator and editor;
and exhibited as a multi-media and book artist.
Her book ‘Making Your Own Paper’ (Struikhof
South Africa 1990) was reprinted in several
countries around the world
LIFE’S REMNANTS
When I die
what will my children do
with the flotsam of my hoarded life?
Treasures from far-off places
carved love-spoons from Ireland
green cloisonné frog from Taiwan
Indian bowls, Japanese paper purses
and carved wooden apples infused with the
scent
of cherry and sandalwood.
My library of books from Rumi to Rothko
hand-bound travel journals
filled with sketches and paintings
of castles and churches on green hills,
memories of echoing footsteps
in cobbled streets and cloisters
pasta and clams and shouting Italians
at a restaurant below my window.
The heart-pull of van Gogh’s
yellow-sunflower house bombed in the war
in bullfight-arena Arles.
Will they finger through
my files and notebooks,
laying bare my mind and secret dreams
like autopsies?
Will they find my manuscripts
or poems written about them?
Will my quilts cuddle their children at night,
my paints and brushes release a latent talent?
Will they want keep-sakes
or call Hospice to bring in trucks
to clear clutter of cupboards so they can walk
away
and cut the tentacles of family and history?
Will they light a bonfire to end my life
or fireworks to blaze the skies one last time?
When I die I will neither know nor care.
We come in with a gasp and
go out on a sigh.
When I die
what will my children do
with the flotsam of my hoarded life?
Treasures from far-off places
carved love-spoons from Ireland
green cloisonné frog from Taiwan
Indian bowls, Japanese paper purses
and carved wooden apples infused with the
scent
of cherry and sandalwood.
My library of books from Rumi to Rothko
hand-bound travel journals
filled with sketches and paintings
of castles and churches on green hills,
memories of echoing footsteps
in cobbled streets and cloisters
pasta and clams and shouting Italians
at a restaurant below my window.
The heart-pull of van Gogh’s
yellow-sunflower house bombed in the war
in bullfight-arena Arles.
Will they finger through
my files and notebooks,
laying bare my mind and secret dreams
like autopsies?
Will they find my manuscripts
or poems written about them?
Will my quilts cuddle their children at night,
my paints and brushes release a latent talent?
Will they want keep-sakes
or call Hospice to bring in trucks
to clear clutter of cupboards so they can walk
away
and cut the tentacles of family and history?
Will they light a bonfire to end my life
or fireworks to blaze the skies one last time?
When I die I will neither know nor care.
We come in with a gasp and
go out on a sigh.
| Let us Maunder by Patrick Ocampo |
Let us maunder each other
In the warm morning sun,
And let the perplexing
Whorls and labyrinths
Of ourselves
Confound ourselves.
Let us stumble over
The pathways of
Our eccentricities
And trip upon
Our brambled
imperfections,
And happen upon
The unexpected
Quirks and queries
In the sunken ponds
of our souls.
Let us wander
over each other,
through the rocky
bleeding terrain
we dare not cross
alone, and in
the places
we both fear,
We will lose
ourselves
and find each other.
| The Music She Makes by Patrick Ocampo |
Her body is moving
in personal ways
as she gives birth
to notes
and melodies
and you are afraid
to make eye contact
because what she
is birthing
with her body
and her melody
is as intimate
as sharing
the scent
of her,
or tracing
notes
along the ridges
of her back,
and taking
the lyrics
from her lips
with yours.
You try not to engage,
but her eyes catch you,
and for a moment,
you know everything
and want everything
in the spaces between
the music she makes
and the music she is.
DISCOVER BEAUTYBeauty radiates in the silver spill of moonlightupon
undulating ocean waves.Beauty radiates in the delighted ring of children’
slaughter as they play hide and seek.Beauty radiates with a night-blooming
jasmine’s soft haunting fragrance drifting through the air.Beauty radiates in the
shimmering peace of snowflakesblanketing a sleeping landscape.Beauty radiates
with music of a songbirdwelcoming the iridescent dawn.Beauty radiates as a
scarlet rose blossoms,revealing velvet petals one by one.Beauty radiates with a
hushed lullaby as a mothersings her baby asleep.Beauty radiates in the luminous
reflectionsmirrored within a sparkling lake.Beauty radiates as a glowing sunset
flames the horizon ablaze with color.Beauty radiates in the warm accepting
embrace of brotherly love for all mankind - by Karen Elizabeth Rigley
undulating ocean waves.Beauty radiates in the delighted ring of children’
slaughter as they play hide and seek.Beauty radiates with a night-blooming
jasmine’s soft haunting fragrance drifting through the air.Beauty radiates in the
shimmering peace of snowflakesblanketing a sleeping landscape.Beauty radiates
with music of a songbirdwelcoming the iridescent dawn.Beauty radiates as a
scarlet rose blossoms,revealing velvet petals one by one.Beauty radiates with a
hushed lullaby as a mothersings her baby asleep.Beauty radiates in the luminous
reflectionsmirrored within a sparkling lake.Beauty radiates as a glowing sunset
flames the horizon ablaze with color.Beauty radiates in the warm accepting
embrace of brotherly love for all mankind - by Karen Elizabeth Rigley
by
Karen Elizabeth Rigley
Glowing embers of summer fade
growing dimmer with autumn’s approach.
Daisies, roses and sunflowers
drop petals
onto carpets of grass.
Tiger lilies fold their bright blossoms
defying dull browns to come.
Scarlet, gold and russet kiss September leaves.
Crispness creeps into breezes
ruffling meadow grass,
nature transforms to glowing gold.
Summer unwraps Earth’s blanket of warmth
allowing autumn stealthy access.
You stared
at me
for a long while from your bar stool in
The Pale…
Silky raven hair
caressing your shoulders
You kept sweeping it from your
eyes,
dark and wild as a
Connemara pony;
I thought you the most beautiful
creature
who had ever caught
my gaze
and marveled at how I could have
possibly deserved it.
You heard me sing
after several pints and
shots of tequila
the theme song from
The Mary Tyler Moore Show. I turned
your world on with my smile,
seasoned and stoked
with memories of
Bob Geldof
at Vicar St.
earlier
that evening.
You sat next to me,
spoke in your
soft
whispered hush,
and the next thing I knew
I was in your living room
watching the ever
brilliant
Pearl Jam. You played
Yellow Ledbetter
and my soul has
never been the same.
More than four years have passed
and I still recall your
passionate words,
furtive glances,
gentle touch,
Scorpion tattoo,
fine patch of soft black chest hair,
the way you loved me,
for that moment and with your heart
held up a mirror
to reflect my beauty
that which I have only ever understood
through your eyes…
Me, your Hartley; You,
My own Black Irish
Johnny Depp.
| DROP DEAD BEAUTY You couldn’t tell With those glasses And disheveled hair And the white grape of a pimple Ready to burst A flimsy T-shirt Rarely washed And the jeans Baggy and low And the sneakers torn Certainly smelly And she sank in her chair Or flopped on her desk Chewed on her pencil Her nails blue with ink And reluctant she was To answer my questions Or go to the board To illustrate equations She flipped And she flopped Very poor posture Not to mention attitude One I’d correct After an essay on aesthetics I called her to my office And asked her What’s this mess? I can’t read a thing I started upon her handwriting Illegible and gooey And this Young lady? Reflects a mindset I don’t approve Did I invite you to sit down? Straighten up Clean your act Don’t talk back I’ll set you right Be your Pygmalion When we wed Our roles reversed. SITTING ON A BENCH Song from McMonty's debut album: Snake Crossing. I’m just sitting on a bench Daddy’s pushing a baby carriage Mommy’s smoking dope Nanny’s bawling in a miniskirt Sister’s cooking up a storm Who on earth Wrote this In the sand? In fact I love you Toujours Now who’d want that? A plane scorched white Bled the azure sky With pilot zeroing in On a hit While pusher flips a coin Hooker a trick And I’m just sitting on a bench Reading the paper Or a book Well-read And well-informed Glance to watch the show Of parents Lovers And teens All out strolling by the light Of the moon The pond is lapping ashore And turn to the book Or the paper You can’t read Your eyes clouding With tears Help me remove myself From this Trap My self And I’m sitting on a bench And mommy’s smoking dope with the nanny And daddy a trick And I’m just sitting on a bench Wondering about love Yes, I love you Toujours Now who’d want that Toujours? MY BOY A lot goes on around here Before my boy heads off to school Across the street Dinah’s serving pot Dino’s flipping pills Hanna’s churning eggs And Java’s brewing on the hot plate Anchor’s flippant Delivers the news Reporter on the line: here’s the scoop Weather’s scratching his head: We’re in for something mighty Snow removal’s on alert Ogles the working class chick On page three Sammy’s milking the alley twins For a kiss After the harmony In sleaze I’m home this a.m. With wholesome bread And hot muffins And a lot goes on around here Before my boy heads off to school What with grandma wearing shorts and espadrilles And carrying a bucket of wax fruit on her head And mother pouring brandy in her third cup Cigarette ash on the floors She only washes at work With a Ph.D. Can you imagine? And me knocking Softly At the bathroom door My boy inside I-I- don’t want to go And me serving the fib C’mon son Don’t be afraid Look at the bright side! My fingers perennially crossed… by Luigi Monteferrante Canadian poet & composer |
Entering this- the ocean of your thought, of the extensively flourescent ways your mind expands, contracting only at exotically, spasmodic corners The regions reserved for divine inspirations, melodic, gestational thought encompassed by cashed-in rainbows filled with light and golden encanvassed in papyrical ancient hidden rolls A glory envisioned tilting at the chances to see to look inside to just be and believe The free have not known this much liberty You are levels tumbling down one upon the other salvations like nets made of clouds drizzled in the cleansing rains of the mystical times when knowledge in all its abundance filled and rested here upon you Lissette Gaytan 2010 |
| An Empty Stage By Kathy Stemke Coiled torso frozen on an empty stage, a living sculpture trapped in place with no gown of tulle to hide her age only weeping knees below her waist. Framed in light, her insides groan with pent up passion poised for release, she now waits long and alone for rhythm to carry her to peace. But I remember her unencumbered prance, so light for one held down by unfulfilled dreams remembered, floating above her tattered gown. http://educationtipster.blogspot.com |
PC BLUES
I
sit here
and stare at
my monitor.
Warnings flash onscreen
with electronic gleam,
laughing at my small mistake.
Blinking and ignoring commands,
it smugly digests files it ate.
Please, nice computer, give human a
break?
Karen
I
sit here
and stare at
my monitor.
Warnings flash onscreen
with electronic gleam,
laughing at my small mistake.
Blinking and ignoring commands,
it smugly digests files it ate.
Please, nice computer, give human a
break?
Karen
TELL ME A STORY
by
Karen Elizabeth Rigley
Fly me away on the wings of dreams
Weave me sounds of laughter or screams
Scorch me with fire of dragon breath
Haunt me with tales of impending death
Introduce me to people I’ll never meet
Transport me to a distant or imaginary street
Thrill me with legends of brave young souls
Frighten me by evil spells, witches and ghouls
Entice me with magic of a lover’s kiss
Excite me with blaze from a laser gun miss
Enchant me with myths of lost jewels, genies and
gold
Challenge me by ancient mysteries; puzzles of old
Tease me with shadows flickering in candleglow
Intoxicate me with joy, passion or woe
Whirl me toward heaven in a tornado high
Blow me like stardust across violet sky
Whisk me away to worlds, future or past
‘til my eyelids drift closed and I sleep at last.
by
Karen Elizabeth Rigley
Fly me away on the wings of dreams
Weave me sounds of laughter or screams
Scorch me with fire of dragon breath
Haunt me with tales of impending death
Introduce me to people I’ll never meet
Transport me to a distant or imaginary street
Thrill me with legends of brave young souls
Frighten me by evil spells, witches and ghouls
Entice me with magic of a lover’s kiss
Excite me with blaze from a laser gun miss
Enchant me with myths of lost jewels, genies and
gold
Challenge me by ancient mysteries; puzzles of old
Tease me with shadows flickering in candleglow
Intoxicate me with joy, passion or woe
Whirl me toward heaven in a tornado high
Blow me like stardust across violet sky
Whisk me away to worlds, future or past
‘til my eyelids drift closed and I sleep at last.
| My World By Fran Lewis If my Mom could tell you about her world. In my world everything stays the same I see your face but cannot recall your name You have been in my life for many years But, when you look at me why so many tears? I am still here and I am glad you came to see me Don’t worry about what I say or do I can’t help it you see My world stays the same and the days run into each other you know I get up and they feed me and then I watch television with the aides but their favorite show I eat when they feed me and then I sleep on my chair I will not sleep in a bed my habits won’t change this I share My world revolves around decisions made by others I know There is nothing I can do about it but hope for the best before I go My world is so dull but I am glad that I am here I may not understand you but I still make a difference and I have a fear That someday I will get worse before I can tell you how I feel So, understand that I am grateful for everything and to you I appeal Work hard as you have done to help find a cure to me For others who have this illness and whose voices cannot be heard you see We are the ones who have been dealt a hand that nobody wants or needs It is a hand that you get whether you have done good or bad deeds My world is my own and no one can take that from me No one can see into my heart and learn how sad I can be But if you look into my eyes you will know what I feel That if there is a miracle from God to him I do appeal Find the source of my weakness and the reason my mind has gone Find a medicine or cure that will let me be restored before I am too far-gone My world begins and ends with the same thing each day Someone comes into my home and cleans me and feeds me in her own way My world changed without notice and I had no control of it I know It is a world filled with no hope and no future where I sustained a hard blow Although I have a hard time expressing my feeling to you Remember my heart is yours and I love you through and through. Dedicated to my mom: Ruth Swerdloff If she could tell you about her world these are the words she would express. Alzheimer’s |
| If Everyone Stood Still by Fran Lewis What would happen if we took the time to learn a stranger’s name? What would happen when we realize we are all the same? Outside appearances are just shells to cover protect our bones from harm What would happen if we held a good friend’s arm? Imagine what the world would be like if we didn’t hate anyone Imagine all the things we would get to do without the strife for one Imagine a world without fighting and bloodshed to endure Imagine what great things we’d have and so much more What would happen if everyone in every country chose one minute out of his or her day To turn around and say good morning to someone they pass on the way As they are going to work or completing an errand that they must do you see But, how long is a minute just 60 seconds to your kindness to me What would happen if all of a sudden all the people who hate us came to realize That they are looking at the world and thinking through someone else’s eyes Without any thought of how they really feel or how they really want to be They choose to hate people because they are programmed don’t you see? What would happen if on New Year’s Eve at exactly 12 midnight People in every part of the world will stop and decide not to fight Imagine what would happen if our men came home and knew that they Could stay with their families and never have to leave them and go away I know that I am dreaming because I see it everyday as I walk alone I see it where I live when everyone hangs their heads down and they moan As they walk to work and never look up to say a word to me I feel sometimes invisible and I know they can see me But, wouldn’t it be nice if for just one second, one minute or more we all stood still and asked someone their name If we would realize that we are not so different and we have some much about us that is the same Maybe, we would learn to understand each other better And the world would be free of guns, weapons and maybe to my nephew overseas I would not have to communicate by writing a letter. |
Rachel Payne |
Mirror Mirror Staring at the mirrors in her mind She wonders which turn she should take But the reflections are blurring
her vision Her consciousness is lost in the wake Of thoughts that bounce like light Off of the bright, shiny glass surfaces
Her dreams are knocked loose and take flight With a shower of sparkles that blind Her minds eye, and she wonders
Whether or not the colors could bind Her within the locked closet of Hopes that she can no longer find. Aztec I left my
heart to tread the moor But I can’t say that I miss it I left my mind out of doors I do hope the owls don’t mind it I left hope
soaring on the wind Left the eagles to care for it I left my way around the bend I guess I turned my back on it I left my
voice locked in a tree I wonder if you can find it? It never meant that much to me But if you want, you can keep it I left my
love out in the field Dancing through the golden rice beds I imagine it’s gone by now Gone the way of the lost Aztecs
Follow Me Follow me to the end of the earth And we’ll have a grand adventure. We can chase the clouds ‘till nightfall
And fall asleep to peaceful dreams Follow me to the edges of my imagination And we’ll sip tea by a fire that burns blue.
We can run in vast purple meadows all day And I promise you, it will be a thrill. Follow me to the bottom of the ocean And
We can light up the depths with our hearts We can find out the secrets of the sea And dance with a giant squid at
midnight. Follow me into the pink twilight And we’ll ride on cotton candy clouds. Oh, the stories we’ll have to tell at home
They’ll be so jealous of all that we’ve found. Free I’m sitting in a room with a bathtub And the water is spilling over the
edge Superfluously running down the porcelain side and pooling In the crevices in the tile. The constant dripping echoes
in my mind Consistently reaching the barren corners of forgotten thought The startling colors are pounding on my
eardrums While the reverberating sounds are blinding my eyes. There’s a thought that I’m missing Somewhere in the
filing cabinet of my mind It’s scratching at its walls and pulling on its doors But the water has it covered. It must be lonely,
floating along in the sea Spilling over the edges, but never breaking free. Rain at a Funeral The sky started falling In
the middle of the eulogy. Pitter pat, pitter pat. Tiny drops of water Falling, falling. Umbrellas are forming A rainbow of
muted colors. Black, blue, and gold. Protecting the outside. Covering, covering. But there is no umbrella for the soul. The
loss of loved ones … It is always cold. Their death leaves a hole. Ripping, ripping. The umbrellas are failing, The faces
are still wet. Tiny crystalline drops are Streaming down porcelain cheeks. Falling, falling.
her vision Her consciousness is lost in the wake Of thoughts that bounce like light Off of the bright, shiny glass surfaces
Her dreams are knocked loose and take flight With a shower of sparkles that blind Her minds eye, and she wonders
Whether or not the colors could bind Her within the locked closet of Hopes that she can no longer find. Aztec I left my
heart to tread the moor But I can’t say that I miss it I left my mind out of doors I do hope the owls don’t mind it I left hope
soaring on the wind Left the eagles to care for it I left my way around the bend I guess I turned my back on it I left my
voice locked in a tree I wonder if you can find it? It never meant that much to me But if you want, you can keep it I left my
love out in the field Dancing through the golden rice beds I imagine it’s gone by now Gone the way of the lost Aztecs
Follow Me Follow me to the end of the earth And we’ll have a grand adventure. We can chase the clouds ‘till nightfall
And fall asleep to peaceful dreams Follow me to the edges of my imagination And we’ll sip tea by a fire that burns blue.
We can run in vast purple meadows all day And I promise you, it will be a thrill. Follow me to the bottom of the ocean And
We can light up the depths with our hearts We can find out the secrets of the sea And dance with a giant squid at
midnight. Follow me into the pink twilight And we’ll ride on cotton candy clouds. Oh, the stories we’ll have to tell at home
They’ll be so jealous of all that we’ve found. Free I’m sitting in a room with a bathtub And the water is spilling over the
edge Superfluously running down the porcelain side and pooling In the crevices in the tile. The constant dripping echoes
in my mind Consistently reaching the barren corners of forgotten thought The startling colors are pounding on my
eardrums While the reverberating sounds are blinding my eyes. There’s a thought that I’m missing Somewhere in the
filing cabinet of my mind It’s scratching at its walls and pulling on its doors But the water has it covered. It must be lonely,
floating along in the sea Spilling over the edges, but never breaking free. Rain at a Funeral The sky started falling In
the middle of the eulogy. Pitter pat, pitter pat. Tiny drops of water Falling, falling. Umbrellas are forming A rainbow of
muted colors. Black, blue, and gold. Protecting the outside. Covering, covering. But there is no umbrella for the soul. The
loss of loved ones … It is always cold. Their death leaves a hole. Ripping, ripping. The umbrellas are failing, The faces
are still wet. Tiny crystalline drops are Streaming down porcelain cheeks. Falling, falling.
Unwanted Intellect by Morgan Lawrence |
Everyday he sits in his cave and watches in
amazement At the world as it goes on in
circles of debasement He feels the pain of the
victims who suffer and cry He is sure he could
help them if they would let him try
His inquiries fall on deaf eyes and ears His
anger and confusion drive him to the point of
tears Any puzzle he can solve with the
greatest complexity To a heightened level of
great perplexity
But the answers are silent because he is
unused His rebuttals get sent back and he is
quite unamused So he continues to sent out
inquiries for positions And receives very little,
if no recognition
How long can this vigil be unrewarded?
How long can his inquiries continue to be
thwarted?
Patience is weaning as his searches slow His
need to be encompassed continues to grow
Patience and prayer are his only tools
To the deafening ears of the corporate fools
When they finally hear him and make him their
own They will find the keys to questions
unknown.
amazement At the world as it goes on in
circles of debasement He feels the pain of the
victims who suffer and cry He is sure he could
help them if they would let him try
His inquiries fall on deaf eyes and ears His
anger and confusion drive him to the point of
tears Any puzzle he can solve with the
greatest complexity To a heightened level of
great perplexity
But the answers are silent because he is
unused His rebuttals get sent back and he is
quite unamused So he continues to sent out
inquiries for positions And receives very little,
if no recognition
How long can this vigil be unrewarded?
How long can his inquiries continue to be
thwarted?
Patience is weaning as his searches slow His
need to be encompassed continues to grow
Patience and prayer are his only tools
To the deafening ears of the corporate fools
When they finally hear him and make him their
own They will find the keys to questions
unknown.
| Kenneth Weene Fruits Of Winter |
| Old man: impotent bent mumbled giant, agitated stirred memories unrecalled peppermint ribbon days. Remembered not nor visited all these years left in hallways: incoherent, toothless tiger gone to age, no dignity left no combative death. Diapered, restrained – disregard too many battles, too many drinks, too many tears foregone. The fruits of winter – bitter, yet preserved. |
Homesick Far. It is not long since the moon crept in And broke a few silver paces across the deck. Not Far Since the light held your eyes, As a lonely crystal flew Across your face. Liquid. It is not far. Since the day waved goodbye to morning Welcoming politely the afternoon. It is not far, Since the earth jumped to caress you, Warm its kiss upon your face encased in nevers and not evers. It is not far To walk to hear your laughter. No, It is not far. The Earth Will Catch You I remember, the earth would say, I remember the songs you have sung, I remember the sound of your voice, The smell of your tears, See how beautiful I am, the earth would say. I remember, the earth would say, Each time you have fallen, The promises you’ve made to the sky, The days that have gone before, The soul you have shown, See how beautiful you are, the earth would say. I remember, the earth would say, I remember the way you fall, And the way I shall catch you, With my hope and your dreams... We are one, you and I... Earth and soul... See how beautiful we are, we shall say. Dying Eyes⋆ Little boy with your shiny white teeth You are smiling In the heat of the afternoon Arms outstretched You have nothing But your dying eyes They say to me “Have you seen my dying eyes? My crying eyes, When none shall see They are brown and yours are blue I speak so different to you My dying eyes are your lying eyes.”
are the orphans of Zimbabwe, hungry and starving and often when they ask for food, or sell their wares they are often told “I don’t have any money.”. This poem represents that exchange. |
Catch a Broomstick to Heaven It's the little things, so my momma would say. Her face coloured with red African soil. In a world of lions and antelope, The grass was our game. Growing up is unfortunate, but cannot be delayed. In a world where we had nothing, We had everything made. We rode broomsticks to heaven, In my old world of youth, The cooking pot was full. But in this brave, new world, The fires are out now, the food is cold. The pots are empty, the broomsticks are broken. Bread and Jam The sun has cracked a golden egg across the sky. Full and round it beats larger and larger; Like a giant gooseberry pie. We are picking in the garden, Eating white bread and jam. Our feet are dusty as we return. Our pockets filled, our stomachs swollen, We cannot be happier with our bread and jam. Past Years⋆ There was a year we had no water No running fresh or biting cold We bathed in tin pots In the vanishing daylight We watched the sun go down There was a year we had no food No pepper or grated cheese We ate what we grew With our earth coloured hands We saw the days pass by There was a year We did our homework by candlelight We cooked on a fire outdoors Oh what a life we had ⋆This poem represents the many years of drought in Zimbabwe when I was a child.
Hear the west wind fall, Hear how the mighty call, As the green leaves hush me coming home. Their embrace is wet and sweet, In their dark shadows our eyes meet, I am welcome here Where those have past, Through melodies and lightning fast, Sighing in the waters pool, This is home and not forgotten, Memories brought like seeds of night. |
On a hot depleted afternoon ears flick in parched yellow grass, nostrils quiver as teardrop-eyes fix on the eland calf. Upwind, the spotted cheetah on long highway legs springs and blurs with dust speed. Spiral horns swivel and toss on the neck of the big tawny bull hoofing uneasy, facing off the panting racer. Fearless with hunger her teats hang empty tingling with memory of toothless gums as she takes a chance. Her speed and hunger is no match for the bull’s size and anger. He stands between cat and bawling calf, lowers his head as the cheetah leaps and strikes her a crippling blow. The herd stampedes across the _veld_ as she drags herself through prickly grass to reach her cubs. Two days later the park ranger finds her broken, half-dead with thirst and pain. He darts and moves her to the animal hospital, where a surgeon pins a titanium plate to her leg. She will not hunt again yet has a second chance. In the long-shadowed evening, rangers hunt for the cubs over scrub and dry sand, under bone-shade of thorn trees. Fingers point life-saving hands reach and grapple small gums and mewling fur. Their mother is too hurt to rear them, but with bottled milk they too have a second chance. by Marianne Saddington |
When I die what will my children do with the flotsam of my hoarded life? Treasures from far-off places carved love-spoons from Ireland green cloisonné frog from Taiwan Indian bowls, Japanese paper purses and carved wooden apples infused with the scent of cherry and sandalwood. My library of books from Rumi to Rothko hand-bound travel journals filled with sketches and paintings of castles and churches on green hills, memories of echoing footsteps in cobbled streets and cloisters pasta and clams and shouting Italians at a restaurant below my window. The heart-pull of van Gogh’s yellow-sunflower house bombed in the war in bullfight-arena Arles. Will they finger through my files and notebooks, laying bare my mind and secret dreams like autopsies? Will they find my manuscripts or poems written about them? Will my quilts cuddle their children at night, my paints and brushes release a latent talent? Will they want keep-sakes or call Hospice to bring in trucks to clear clutter of cupboards so they can walk away and cut the tentacles of family and history? Will they light a bonfire to end my life or fireworks to blaze the skies one last time? When I die I will neither know nor care. We come in with a gasp and go out on a sigh. by Marianne Saddington |
| Allen Manning Assignments Editor KTVT/KTXA CBS 11/TXA 21 News WAM 4/4/09 |
| Allen Manning Assignments Editor KTVT/KTXA CBS 11/TXA 21 News |
| Allen Manning Assignments Editor KTVT/KTXA CBS 11/TXA 21 News |
Poetry Writing Tips
During my featured presentation on Red
River Writers Blog Talk Radio on Feb.04th,
2010, I read a love poem in an early
celebration of Valentines Day. I also shared
two poetry tips as follows:
After writing and/or editing your poem, read
it aloud. The way a poem reads and looks
on the page is quite different than the way it
reads aloud. Listen to your own voice ... you
will be reading to others one day. Where do
you want the emphasis? Are you reading
slowly enough?
In addition, watch and listen for areas where
you may hesitate, the words do not flow or
you have used too many of the same words.
Is there any musicality or rhythm within the
line?
Ask yourself if you have allowed the reader
inside the message, to know what you know.
And a poem about relationship:
Who You Are
You are you … not who I dream you to be,
just to meet these aching needs. You are
behind the face in the mirror.
Love that reflection, acknowledge her
kindness and inner beauty. Learn from her
wisdom.
He is generous with his love; he knows his
value. Do you believe that he is tender,
adoring and also strong?
You live as if you are the face you painted
on your mask. The many masks hide your
fear. But, you are the heart and soul
beneath.
Be as approving and loving to the reflection
as you would to your best friend.
Your best friend could be the highest part of
you.
(Please click to complete your Session.
Ms Ripley is expecting you.)
During my featured presentation on Red
River Writers Blog Talk Radio on Feb.04th,
2010, I read a love poem in an early
celebration of Valentines Day. I also shared
two poetry tips as follows:
After writing and/or editing your poem, read
it aloud. The way a poem reads and looks
on the page is quite different than the way it
reads aloud. Listen to your own voice ... you
will be reading to others one day. Where do
you want the emphasis? Are you reading
slowly enough?
In addition, watch and listen for areas where
you may hesitate, the words do not flow or
you have used too many of the same words.
Is there any musicality or rhythm within the
line?
Ask yourself if you have allowed the reader
inside the message, to know what you know.
And a poem about relationship:
Who You Are
You are you … not who I dream you to be,
just to meet these aching needs. You are
behind the face in the mirror.
Love that reflection, acknowledge her
kindness and inner beauty. Learn from her
wisdom.
He is generous with his love; he knows his
value. Do you believe that he is tender,
adoring and also strong?
You live as if you are the face you painted
on your mask. The many masks hide your
fear. But, you are the heart and soul
beneath.
Be as approving and loving to the reflection
as you would to your best friend.
Your best friend could be the highest part of
you.
(Please click to complete your Session.
Ms Ripley is expecting you.)
| Like Water by Hayden Ross |
Where water moves - relentless as the face of god; unstoppable as the flight of stars; untraceable by any but future generations staring at the desiccated land where once water flowed, but now is gone - Where water moves, so move I, eager to see the face of god; anticipating the flight of stars; staring back at future generations as a bleached skeleton eroding in the sands of that desiccated place. Silent to the history that surrounds me. Lost to the winds that move like water. |
| Against The Tide by Hayden Ross |
| Progress by Hayden Ross |
As the tide returns the green water fumes and hisses about the etched base of the rock. Children and Mothers move back, drawn away by the same invisible force that brings on the water. But Fathers stay, and older sons stop their retreat, having been given a lesson in manhood by dad, who refuses to give way against the tide. |
In a dream we returned to the trees, despairing no more. The furthest reach of progress was finding a comfortable position for sleep while in the branches. Predators hunting below were not us. |
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