tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-58636712024-03-13T06:51:34.088-04:00Poetry 360Periodic poems for the masses.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger114125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5863671.post-18112914838273489902019-10-18T19:21:00.006-04:002019-10-18T19:21:48.555-04:00Dark indigo sky<div>
<span id="docs-internal-guid-e4b40fad-7fff-75ab-d4c9-b13f9d0ab7e5"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Merriweather, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Everything was silent </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Merriweather, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">for while. I stared </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Merriweather, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">out the window,</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Merriweather, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">the sky a dark indigo</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Merriweather, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">and the further up I looked,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Merriweather, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">the sky was fading to black,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Merriweather, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">then the moon</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Merriweather, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">bright and white.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Merriweather, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<tt><em>By Henry Stinson.</em></tt><br />
<tt><em><br /></em></tt>
<tt><em>
Copyright 2019 by Henry G. Stinson</em></tt><br />
<tt><em><br /></em></tt>
<tt><em>All rights reserved.
Reproduced by <em>Poetry 360</em> with permission of the author.
</em></tt><br />
<hr />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5863671.post-71921203078878552552009-05-19T22:10:00.000-04:002009-05-19T22:10:00.363-04:00FredListen to me<br />
My dear dear friend<br />
Listen to me<br />
For I have this to say<br />
<br />
I need you to know<br />
I will always be here<br />
I will never leave you<br />
I will never fade<br />
I want you to do<br />
These few things<br />
So that you may have<br />
A happy life<br />
Fred...<br />
Fred you must try<br />
Try to forget<br />
those who hurt you<br />
Try to forget<br />
those ones that broke you<br />
Try and forget<br />
All those bad things<br />
Because life has not ended yet<br />
So don't give up<br />
You say you<br />
"I wont love again"<br />
You say<br />
"I have no heart"<br />
but if you dont give up<br />
and you never look back<br />
Then one day you'll see<br />
That you do have a heart<br />
And you can love again<br />
Fred...<br />
I will always be here for you<br />
I will always protect you<br />
I wont ever hurt you<br />
Never ever, will I dare<br />
So Fred...<br />
Dont give up hope<br />
<br />
<hr><tt><em>By Kelly Pagan<br />
<br />
Copyright 2009 by <a href="kellypagan@gmail.com">Kelly Pagan</a>.<br />
All rights reserved.<br />
Reproduced by <em>Poetry 360</em> with permission of the author.<br />
</em></tt><hr>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5863671.post-35606520932131171882008-06-20T10:53:00.001-04:002008-06-20T10:54:55.946-04:00who needs a dog?my carpets are stained with the muck<br />children bring into my life<br />sunshine and smudges upon my walls<br />painted with little finger marks trailing the banister<br /><br />once golden, now brown the carpet gleams<br />colors of red, yellow and green grace my fridge <br />on a tattered piece of construction paper<br />stickmen tell the tale of my life<br /><br />men I cannot understand steam the dirt away<br />while the children watch in childish fascination<br />plotting a new way to bring color to the world<br />the smallest stands on the table and pees on the cleaned floor<br /><br /><br /><br /><hr><tt><em>By Jennifer L. Stinson<br /><br />Copyright 2008 by Jennifer L. Stinson.<br />All rights reserved.<br /></em></tt><hr><br /> Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5863671.post-74088321030973422322008-06-10T20:35:00.002-04:002008-06-13T19:17:05.806-04:00The world is on fire, babyIt's time to come inside.<br />The smoke is thick as a deep Indian tea,<br />The southern sky aflame with orange and red<br />As you call up honey<br />A smattering, a glitter, in <br />The evening's candle light.<br /><br />It's time to come inside; the<br />Hearth draws near and the<br />Air shimmers as if alive.<br />Too often, have I felt the love<br />Upon my neck, a shuttering,<br />Even in sooty air.<br /><br />It's time. It's time for something<br />other than the melancholic moans of<br />Dissatisfaction lingering like<br />Smoke on a barbecue, the coals white<br />Hot and desirous of fat and meat<br />Drips into the smoldering ash.<br /><br />It's time to come inside; the<br />World is on fire, baby.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><hr><tt><em>By Peter A. Stinson<br /><br />Copyright 2008 by <a href="http://www.peterstinson.com/">Peter A. Stinson</a>.<br />All rights reserved.<br />Published by <em>Poetry 360</em> with permission of the author.<br /></em></tt><hr><br /> Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5863671.post-30718589006101517402008-01-07T16:12:00.000-05:002008-01-07T16:16:04.087-05:00Not Today5 am. Light breeds optimism. New day. Changes are eminent.<br /><br />Alarm shrieks the reality of responsibility. Snooze always a possibility.<br /><br />Purring friend delights in your presence. Warming acceptance.<br /><br />So many possibilities to make the day great.<br /><br />Noise fills the room. Unnotable occurrences broadcasted by smiling, lineless faces. Murder, robbery, celebrity this, celebrity that, flood, death, fire, car wreck, celebrity blah, celebrity blah.<br /><br />530 am. The pure smell of coffee beans invaded by Glade. Starbucks always wins.<br /><br />Smiling at strangers met with blank eyes and half nods. Misanthropy sets in.<br /><br />Brake lights, my kid is smarter than yours, roadkill. Coffee – cold.<br /><br />700 am. Cubicle window overlooking downtown. Phillip Morris, an eyesore in my view. Suits in big chairs, smoky windows killing my hope.<br /><br />When will the day begin?<br /><br /><hr><tt><em>By Renee Newman<br /><br />Copyright 2007 by <a href="mailto:renee.newman@gsa.gov">Renee Newman</a>.<br />All rights reserved.<br />Reproduced by <em>Poetry 360</em> with permission of the author.<br /></em></tt><hr><br /> Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5863671.post-46862080015289694302007-07-20T18:36:00.000-04:002007-07-20T18:44:27.248-04:00Preventable Epidemic?<span style="font-style:italic;">Inspired by and dedicated to the Youth<br />(especially Adam Smith of the Unitarian Church of Norfolk,<br />Unitarian Universalist).</span><br /><br />Yes, education is the remedy<br /> To cure the malady called ignorance;<br />But hatred and deep-seated bigotry<br /> Can build rock-hard impregnable defense<br />Against known facts as mighty as the sea.<br /><br />So racism and fears of difference,<br /> And festering, phobic longtime bigotry<br />Surround the hater with a shield that's dense<br /> Enough to render vain the pounding sea<br />Breaking in vain against the rocks of ignorance.<br /><br />Education grows vast like the ocean,<br /> With ideas coming in with every tide;<br />Facts and attitudes, even emotions<br /> Expand and grow, becoming deep and wide;<br />But bigotry arrests all growth, all motion.<br /><br />Therefore, it behooves the School of Light<br /> To shine its beacon beams upon the youth,<br />And teach them to seek out the good and right,<br /> To explore various routes toward the truth<br />that makes us free to fight the righteous fight.<br /><br /><hr><tt><em>By William "Bill" Carroll<br />First published in <em><span style="font-weight:bold;">Songs, Scenes, and Sentiments</span></em>, 2003.<br />Subsequently published in <em><span style="font-weight:bold;">The New Journal and Guide</span></em>, 2003.<br /><br />Copyright 2002 by <a href="mailto:thelma@macs.net">Bill Carroll</a>.<br />All rights reserved.<br />Reproduced by <em>Poetry 360</em> with permission of the author.<br /></em></tt><hr><br /> Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5863671.post-54546910801587738412007-07-08T21:37:00.000-04:002007-07-20T18:36:09.660-04:00Sowing Seeds to Succeed(<span style="font-style:italic;">The Garden Sonnet</span>)<br /><br />A serious gardener, I like to think that I<br /> Have faith enough to trust in Power Divine<br />To bring a fruitful end to most of my<br /> Attempts to grow a veggie, tree or vine.<br /><br />Likewise, I tell myself that through my years<br /> Of teaching, writing, mentoring and speaking,<br />I have assisted person, lives, careers,<br /> And helped some students reach some goals worth seeking.<br /><br />I plant the seed, with hope that it will grow,<br /> Producing fruit that's wonderful to see;<br />I plan with faith, and faithfully I know<br /> The sweetest fruit is called Sweet Charity.<br /><br />The harvest that comes forth from class or sod<br />Is all the proof I need that there's a God.<br /><br /><hr><tt><em>By William "Bill" Carroll<br />First published in <em><span style="font-weight:bold;">The Virginian Pilot</span></em>, 09/14/2003.<br />Subsequently published in <em><span style="font-weight:bold;">The New Journal and Guide</span></em>, 2004.<br /><br />Copyright 2003 by <a href="mailto:thelma@macs.net">Bill Carroll</a>.<br />All rights reserved.<br />Reproduced by <em>Poetry 360</em> with permission of the author.<br /></em></tt><hr><br /> Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5863671.post-20678602781317713162007-06-19T21:29:00.000-04:002007-06-19T21:34:11.687-04:00Catch On The FlyFull barrel up 53 north,<br />heading to Lake Zurich, IL,<br />Christian talk radio 1660<br />on the radio dial,<br />crisp winter day<br />sunbeams dancing down<br />on the pavement like midgets.<br />85 mph in a 65 mph zone,<br />just to aggravate the police,<br />black Chevy S10 pick up,<br />shows what a deviant I am<br />in dark colors.<br />Running late for a client appointment,<br />creating poems on a small hand held recorder<br />knowing there is not payment for this madness<br />in this little captured taped area of words.<br />Headlights down the highway for a legacy<br />into the future, day dreaming like a fool obsessed.<br />Working out the layout of this poem or getting my ego in place,<br />I will catch up with the imagery when I get back home.<br />This is my life, a poem in the middle of the highway.<br />Scampering, no one catches me when I'm speeding<br />like this.<hr><tt><em>By Michael Lee Johnson<br /><br />Copyright 2007 by <a href="mailto:promomanusa@gmail.com">Michael Lee Johnson</a>.<br />All rights reserved.<br />Reproduced by <em>Poetry 360</em> with permission of the author.<br /></em></tt><hr><br /> Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5863671.post-29505707209359139762007-04-03T15:50:00.000-04:002007-04-03T15:59:12.457-04:00NorwichYou and I walked arm in arm through<br />Yawning streets-- warm evening light<br />Reflected off sale signs and dowsed us both.<br />Light like the heater I kept turning off and<br />You kept switching on. I pulled at your arm<br />Interlocked with mine.<br /><br />You moved in that loose limbed way<br />Like unformed bones.<br /><br />What is this thing the English<br />Have for tea? The teapot steeping, the thimble<br />Cups staining like teeth. From all this tea,<br /><br />From all this coffee, from all these cigarettes,<br />There's no wonder why teeth here remind me<br />Of little gold pips.<br /><br /><hr><tt><em>By Chris Abraham<br /><br />Copyright 1994 by <a href="http://www.chrisabraham.com/2007/04/norwich.html">Chris Abraham</a>.<br />All rights reserved.<br />Reproduced by <em>Poetry 360</em> with permission of the author.<br /></em></tt><hr>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5863671.post-1164399147713598932006-11-24T15:08:00.000-05:002006-11-24T15:12:27.726-05:00BananasWe all need to eat the bananas<br />That are sitting on the counter<br />In the kitchen in the white bowl<br />With a delicate filigree of blue<br />Pinstripes, two of them, on the<br />Rim where the tips of two of them,<br />The bananas I mean, are jutting<br />Over<br /><br />And starting to turn from pure yellow<br />To brown and yellow with a cluster<br />Of spots on each flat of the fruit<br />That tomorrow will be connected<br />With a fine filigree of brown lines<br />Linking them, and, after that,<br />Well everyone knows what happens,<br />All the fingers will be pure brown<br />With the hidden, soft pulp under<br />The skin jutting out and swollen.<br /><br />Isn’t it strange how the one who<br />Buys the bananas eats just one<br />After she comes home from the<br />Market with a load of other things<br />That do not so quickly turn brown,<br />Even in the refrigerator, though<br />Putting bananas there won’t make<br />Any difference, and how she adroitly<br />Avoids the bowl, the blue one with<br />Pinstripes right on the counter where<br />Anyone can see it as he enters the<br />Kitchen, even for breakfast when<br />The lights aren’t on yet. But she<br /><br />Remembers the bananas when he<br />Comes in, and after a few days<br />Begins to ask why he isn’t eating<br />Them, doesn’t he notice they are<br />Turning brown and soon will be<br />Too soft to eat although he says<br />They are best when the brown<br />Spots are all one, and he will eat<br />Them tomorrow at breakfast on<br />Cereal, if it isn’t too dark to see<br />Them, and he doesn’t maybe<br />Forget<br /><br /><tt><em><small><br />By David King<br /><br />Copyright 2006 by <a href="mailto:dking9@hotmail.com">David King</a>.<br />All rights reserved.<br />Reproduced by <em>Poetry 360</em> with permission of the author.<br /></small></em><small></small></tt>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5863671.post-1163009011345968962006-11-08T13:01:00.000-05:002006-11-08T13:03:31.363-05:00Lazy DaysLazy days on the boardwalk;<br />plodding along; distended belly bouncing <br />as my body sways to the beat of music<br />drifting from open shops.<br /><br />Finding a shaded spot,<br />I settle between permanent vendors,<br />melding into the backdrop,<br />oblivious to all who stroll by. <br /><br />Elderly men and women stroll <br />along the wooden walkway,<br />a salty ocean breeze <br />lifting their shirts and skirts.<br /><br />Triumphant yells pierce the air as a man grasps his kill <br />from the jaws of the claw machine;<br />both exhausted at the hunt and capture,<br />victorious he waives the flopping animal.<br /><br />My unborn child lurches at the scent of pizza and fries, <br />so I purchase sustenance as<br />dogs walk their owners and <br />wheel chairs squeak.<br /><br />Sighing contentedly, I prop my feet,<br />ankles resting on a vacant bench;<br />a pathway beneath me<br />for scavenging birds of the day.<br /><br /><br /><tt><em><small><br />A memory poem by Jennifer L. Stinson.<br /><br />Copyright 2006 by <a href="mailto:jennyg8277@yahoo.com">Jennifer L. Stinson</a>.<br />All rights reserved.<br />Reproduced by <em>Poetry 360</em> with permission of the author.<br /></em></tt></small><br /> Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5863671.post-1159388122878995292006-09-27T16:12:00.000-04:002006-09-27T16:15:22.890-04:00childhoodPrison bars of childhood<br />against false promises<br />in the morning sun,<br />against the moon<br />who never warns<br />about the lies<br />the sunset tells. <br /><br /><tt><em><small><br />By Pete Freas <br /><br />Copyright 2006 by <a href="mailto:mailto:themindworm@yahoo.com">Pete Freas, <em>The Mindworm</em></a>.<br />All rights reserved.<br />Reproduced by <em>Poetry 360</em> with permission of the author.<br />See <a href="http://www.themindworm.com/POEMS.html">The Mindworm's website</a> for more of Pete's poetry.<br /></em></tt></small>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5863671.post-1149393634343469852006-06-03T23:57:00.000-04:002006-06-04T00:00:34.356-04:00Bus MeetingIt could have been one day <br />When the salt spray blew across <br />The road from the boardwalk, smelling <br />Of creosote and taffy, or the <br />Wind just carried a swell from <br />The rolling of the sharp Atlantic, <br /><br />But, waiting after her job at the Albion Hotel, <br />She notched her coat tighter and held <br />The lilac scarf more firmly about her face, <br />As he, stumbling at the curb in the half done <br />Twilight, lurched at her. <br /><br />So they met in apologies and found <br />The loneliness in their faces like the <br />Emptiness of the great hotels across <br />The way, in the gray solitude of long <br />Winter nights, sparkling with indifferent <br />Stars that wheel in false patterns. <br /><br />Perhaps they went to the boardwalk the <br />Next night and bought stringy sweet taffy <br />From the only open shop or just watched <br />The strings of lights blaze on the joints <br />Of the creosote ties bending light <br />Far out to ocean where the waves <br />Unsteadily, yet predictably, wander. <br /><br />The next night, he took her salt fishing, <br />She wearing her best mauve <br />Dress, he smoking an old pipe, <br />And casting into the clear water out from <br />The boiling of the surf with sure eye <br />And steady arm, for a time content <br />With nothing. Then she talked him into <br />Going to the Asbury Pharmacy <br />For coffee and a sandwich, <br />And they gazed in each others' eyes, <br />Full of their oneness, <br /><br />But they both remembered how the <br />Bus, warm with sticky diesel fumes, <br />Felt that first night while they stood <br />Holding the straps hand on hand <br />For the longest time, and how <br />Her fingers, pressing the hard flesh, <br />Left a faint dimple on his. <br /><br /><br /><tt><em><small><br />By David King<br /><br />Copyright 2006 by <a href="mailto:dking9@hotmail.com">David King</a>.<br />All rights reserved.<br />Reproduced by <em>Poetry 360</em> with permission of the author.<br /></em></tt></small><br /> Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5863671.post-1137626649803623032006-01-18T18:20:00.000-05:002006-01-18T18:24:11.260-05:00Grandpa's WarsThere was no Verdun with rows on<br />Rows of bodies, neat as sacks in a<br />Coal bunker, or Battle of Jutland<br />With ships blazing into<br />The sea, entrails half exploded<br />And half drowned,<br /><br />But only the heat of a greasy<br />Boiler in the pipe thin hull of a<br />Sub chaser hissing through the solidity<br />Of the near Atlantic.<br /><br />There he tended<br />The shells, fifty caliber and<br />Five inch, handing them<br />To the gun captain in staccato bursts<br />As the barrels pitched or fell silent. Between<br />Shots, he cleared the deck by rolling the<br />Empty casings over the side or pitching<br />Them into a can by the bulkhead to save<br />The brass, when full lowering them bucket<br />By bucket into the nothingness of the<br />Magazine or etching the ship's name and<br />Dates on the side of the shells after cutting<br />And brazing them into ashtrays.<br /><br />They patrolled from Sandy<br />Hook to Portland in lazy circles,<br />Listening to the staccato bursts of the<br />Marconi set and rushing from longitude<br />To longitude looking for invisible<br />Things under the surface. Once they<br />Saw a conning tower with a Maltese<br />Cross and fired until a wound of<br />Oil rolled on the sea. He lowered the<br />Shell bucket until it filled with debris<br />And splashed the contents on the<br />Deck.<br /><br />The surgeon picked through<br />The few brass casings, still hot from<br />Firing, pronouncing this kidney<br />And that lung, finally holding upright a stingy<br />Pink rope he concluded was fresh entrails.<br /><br />In age, after the stroke, Grandpa showed<br />Me the ashtray he made of those shells,<br />Brazing the smaller ones along the cupped<br />Bottom of the five inch rifle, so they<br />Made a convenient rest to hold pipe<br />Stems in, but by that time, he had forgotten<br />The story, so we had to help him by<br />Filling in the details he didn't remember,<br />Since the date and ship's name etched<br />On the brass were so thin that they<br />Could only be known by feeling.<br /><br /><tt><em><small><br />By David King<br /><br />Copyright 2006 by <a href="mailto:dking9@hotmail.com">David King</a>.<br />All rights reserved.<br />Reproduced by <em>Poetry 360</em> with permission of the author.<br /></em></tt></small><br /> Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5863671.post-1133472761884132072005-12-01T16:30:00.000-05:002005-12-01T16:32:41.893-05:00Jetty FishingGrandpa would fish on the<br />L-shaped jetty at Shark River Inlet,<br />On the north side where the<br />Rocks calmed the sea summer nights<br />As the moon faded out of the<br />Flat horizon.<br /><br />He’d walk the mile of boardwalk<br />From Ocean Grove in the dusk<br />With the same chipped rod he’d wrapped<br />And varnished on the kitchen table,<br />Clamped to it the one decent piece of gear<br />He owned, a twenty-year old Meek reel,<br />With new line each spring and a small bucktail<br />Lure at the end of the leader, waiting<br /><br />For the water to clear after a tide-rise<br />That rolled the water clear from tip<br />Of the jetty to the north tide-pool where the<br />Summer flounder feed in the flat sand<br />Just near the boulders.<br /><br />He’d cast out from<br />The breakers and drag the line in staccato<br />Jerks again and again, saying nothing to<br />The others except Al who’d not fish but<br />Come with pipe tobacco and a dry match.<br />If there was no action in a half-hour or so,<br />He’d add a piece of pork rind usually<br />Used for the blues earlier in the season<br />And swear it’d draw em like laughing gulls<br />Chatter at the shadow of Venus<br />Reflected on the sea’s inconstant surface.<br /><br />Once, in a low tide of spring,<br />When the foot of the jetty was dry and<br />Open, he took me walking across the sand<br />Ripples and troughs where salt water still<br />Pooled, and showed me spots where,<br />In such-and-such a year he’d hooked<br />A flounder, always remembering the exact<br />Conditions of tide and weather and<br />How the fish had fought, he following<br />Its capture line back to the jetty leaving<br />A trail of confused foot prints in curves<br />And swells across the untouched sand.<br /><br />Then we’d walk back the jetty, and<br />He’d show me the spots from there,<br />Pointing to each as if it was<br />The one sure thing in the world, even<br />When hidden below the savagery<br />Of the tide pulled by a pale moon.<br /><tt><em><small><br />By David King<br /><br />Copyright 2005 by <a href="mailto:dking9@hotmail.com">David King</a>.<br />All rights reserved.<br />Reproduced by <em>Poetry 360</em> with permission of the author.<br /></em></tt></small><br /> Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5863671.post-1128685271011480062005-10-07T07:39:00.000-04:002005-10-09T23:14:37.303-04:00Midlife Chrysalis<center>When you were just a babe<br /><br />(you still are, but you know what I mean)<br />lying around in a crib<br />the mobile over your head<br />was like a fan,<br />going around and around,<br />about as exciting as life got those days.<br />You got a little older<br />And to fan changed meaning.<br />You ran around in the yard<br />Flailing your arms over your head<br />You were “fanning” around.<br />Life was sweet<br />Before long, <br />Boys had caught your eye<br />And a fan was something <br />Used to dry that nail polish. <br />Had to keep yourself looking good<br />(what’s that you say . . . still doing nails huh?)<br />Next stage of a fan-<br />Music groupie<br />Hard core<br />Dyed in the wool<br />Music groupie,<br />Be it Elvis, <br />Dave of the Monkies<br />Or Manilow…<br />Pretty soon<br />College came<br />Hot dorms<br />No air in sight<br />You came to naturally <br />Dry your hair<br />And you bought a fan.<br />That helped some. <br />Next stage in life<br />You became a wife<br />You got a house<br />And a spouse<br />Mantel there with fireplace<br />Now your fan had a different face<br />One of floral décor…<br />But oh, there’s more…<br />Now fan means <br />To make a dash<br />And grab a magazine<br />For hot flash<br />means fan like crazy. <br />Fan away Miz Daisy… <br />And get the oxygen tank<br /><br />There’s a boa ‘round her neck.<br /><br />Is it constricting?<br /><br />Can she get air?<br /><br />Get an ambulance<br /><br />We’re all a nervous wreck.<br /><br />She’s passing out-<br /><br />Does anybody care?<br /><br />What’s that you say?<br /><br />“There’s six snakes now-<br /><br />all red-“ Great day-<br /><br />Save us all somehow!<br /><br />Train those snakes<br /><br />Don’t make ‘em too tight<br /><br />Look, now some are purple<br /><br />Oh what a fright.<br /><br />Loosen that thing<br /><br />Drape it on your chest<br /><br />Let it just swing<br /><br />Yeah, that feels the best.<br /><br />Take a deep breath<br /><br />Now exhale- ahhhh.<br /><br />Isn’t that better?<br /><br />Yeah, better by far. <br /><br />‘Cause word was<br />that like me…<br />she walked on the wild side<br />This former PTA mom<br />The one who always baked cookies<br />Kept everything all neat and clean<br />Kept her feelings on the inside.<br />Must have been that midlife thing<br />The one that had her buy a Mustang<br />A convertible, red to be exact,<br />It matched her hat… <br />Such change her age did bring… <br />You’d see her coming<br />Purple boa stretched out in the wind<br />Hat beside her on the seat<br />Usually with a red hat friend<br />Both of them smiling… sunning… <br />And maybe just to be wild<br />A pair of dice hanging down<br />In utter rebellion against good taste<br />Besides at fifty, she dared anyone<br />To denounce that smile… <br />Especially on the romance aisle<br />We like those books<br />Both her and me…<br />One day I felt a lust for lust<br />And found a lookout I could trust. <br />No one around the romance aisle<br /> ‘twas there a frown replaced my smile<br />When wandered my friend from lookout post<br />‘Twas her betrayal that hurt the most.<br />Just to browse through one or two<br />Or three or four<br />Heck, before I knew it<br />It was even more.<br />And my friend back there<br />With the eagle eye<br />Had seen some shoes<br />She had to try<br />To my dismay, <br />My pedestal got lowered a bit<br />When I turned around <br />I had a fit.<br /> “Reverend Thomas,” I stuttered<br />as my face turned red.<br />I closed the tome of bath and bed.<br />He had the tact and blessed grace<br />To help a woman save her face.<br />“Comparison shopping today I see,”<br />then he looked and laughed at me.<br />“The subtle ones are over there,”<br />with sweeping hand, he pointed where.<br />“My wife reads ‘em every one.”<br />My face glowing like the sun.<br />Then came friend with shoes in hand<br />Ready for the checkout stand<br />I smirked at her with hint of malice<br />“Just don’t work at Buckingham Palace.” <br />Her face turned red <br />As the hat on my head<br />But I shook it off instead<br />Cause I’m <br />Living life to the brim,<br />I’m full of spunk and desire.<br />My red hat runneth over<br />Ready to set the world on fire<br />Hobbies to try, places to go<br />Classes to take<br />New folks to know.<br />My nest is empty<br />My mind is not<br />A busy calendar<br />Is what I have got.<br />Fill it to the brim with enthusiasm,<br />fill it to the brim with fun,<br />fill it to the brim with compassion,<br />Until my days are done… <br />And when I die,<br />please don’t wear black<br />Put some purple on your back… <br />Play some jazz<br />Eat some cake<br />Don’t just cry<br />For heaven’s sake. <br />Or better yet<br />You can wear red<br />To celebrate my life instead. <br />Just like I’d wear on girl’s night out… <br />When I’d even circled the date<br />Making sure he wouldn’t forget…<br />He did anyway.<br />“It’s girls’ night,” I laughed<br />as I put on my feather boa<br />adjusted my hat – fixed my face,<br />pushed my worries away…<br />“A frozen dinner’s in the fridge.<br />I won’t be home ‘til late.”<br />He glanced up from the classifieds<br />And then had this to say…<br />“You go charge your battery dear.<br />Have fun with your friends.<br />let down your hair and chill a while,<br />Go enjoy your stay…”<br /> “I’ll stay home with Sara Lee.<br />She makes a mean cheesecake.<br />Go off in that bright red hat<br />And celebrate the day.”<br />He knows when I come back home<br />With batteries all charged up<br />The Energizer Bunny’s back<br />And sometimes wants to play…<br />After Girls’ Night Out. <br />So wouldn’t you say…<br />That fifty is the new thirty<br />Sounds good to me<br />I’m just getting my second wind<br />How about you?<br />Fifty is the new thirty<br />That makes sixty become forty<br />And seventy is fifty girlfriend…<br />Do you agree too? <br />So look out life, here we come<br />A force to be reckoned with<br />Each and every one<br />And our numbers aren’t few.<br />No fading into the woodwork for us<br />Invisible we are not<br />Gaining the attention <br />To which we are due…<br />How about you?<br />Cause you’re One Hot Mama-<br />There’s a song by that name<br /><br />You’ve heard it before<br /><br />But ain’t it true<br /><br />You’re one hot mama.<br /><br />Reading romance books<br /><br />You brought home from the store<br /><br />It stokes your fire<br /><br />You’re one hot mama. <br /><br />Wearing shells when it’s cold<br /><br />Almost nothing when it’s not<br /><br />Yeah ain’t it true<br /><br />You’re one hot mama.<br /><br />Who cares if you’ve got lines<br /><br />Yeah maybe one or two<br /><br />But what lies beneath<br /><br />Is one hot mama<br /><br />who remembers periods<br />When they weren’t just<br />Something at the end of a sentence,<br />Punctuation like a dot or a dash-<br />Now my life is punctuated <br />By fanning myself from a hot flash.<br />In younger days, we studied<br />Dangling participles and split infinitives,<br />Now there’s something quite definitive <br />About my taste-<br />It’s for dangling earrings and banana splits<br />And I don’t give a rip if it’s good for my shape.<br />The bigger the fish…<br />The bigger the SPLASH! <br /></center><br /><br /><br /><tt><em><small><br />By Phyl Johnson<br /><br />Copyright 2005 by <a href="mailto:PJwriter7@aol.com ">Phyl Johnson</a>.<br />All rights reserved.<br />Reproduced by <em>Poetry 360</em> with permission of the author.<br /></em></tt></small><br /> Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5863671.post-1127092317467779742005-09-12T04:01:00.000-04:002005-09-20T03:42:07.946-04:00Not Merely FriendsNot Merely Friends<br />but Lovers Past<br />with feelings still uncertain<br /><br />And when we meet <br />the kisses warm<br />but only on the cheek<br /><br />The arms embrace<br />in tender touch<br />strange and yet familiar<br /><br />The caring real <br />the wishes warm <br />but passion in restraint<br /><br />Somehow so strange <br />to care for you <br />Unnatural not to love <br /><br /><br /><tt><em><small><br />By Robert E. Downing<br /><br />Copyright 2005 by <a href="mailto:red100u@hotmail.com">Robert E. Downing</a>.<br />All rights reserved.<br />Reproduced by <em>Poetry 360</em> with permission of the author.<br /></em></tt></small><br /> Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5863671.post-1119927429682337502005-06-27T22:54:00.000-04:002005-06-29T19:01:36.936-04:00Be Gentle<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7286/240/1600/DSC_7254.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7286/240/200/DSC_7254.jpg" border="0" /></a><em>Poet Eddie Dowe reads his work at the Rally for Social Justice held in Yorktown on Saturday, 25 June 2005.</em><br /><br /><strong><em><small>PLEASE NOTE: This photograph is Copyright (c) 2005 by Cathy Dixson and is used here by permission. This photograph may not be used further without the written permission of <a href="mailto:cdixson1@cox.net">Cathy Dixson</a>. All rights reserved.</strong></em></small><br /><br />Across this field their words<br />leap like suicides from their lips<br />and rise above them like knives<br />but be gentle<br /><br />Across this field<br />in this same blue air we breathe<br />they plan our murder<br />but be gentle<br /><br />Across this field<br />where our shadows are the same<br />beautiful and black<br />be gentle<br /><br />Across this field<br />as the dark birds gather<br />in their arms let our arms<br />cradle children<br />so be gentle<br /><br />Across this field<br />today is not tomorrow<br />and even though yesterday<br />wears the black dress of a widow<br />be gentle<br /><br />Across this field<br />of bodies and blood<br />bones and ghosts<br />they are afraid of the graves between us<br />so be gentle<br /><br />Across this field<br />drop the stones to the grass<br />and open the wide prayer of your arms<br />to call their names<br />and be gentle<br /><br />Across this field<br />where love lurks like a thief<br />where hope bleeds in its cage<br />here where we gather with the dead<br />be gentle<br /><br />Across this field<br />I have seen them smile<br />and they have given birth<br />and their kness have touched this warm earth<br />be gentle<br /><br />Across this field<br />you can hear them calling<br />calling for help<br />kiss them when they arrive<br /><br /><br /><br /><tt><em><small><br />By Eddie Dowe<br />Read at the <a href="http://www.rallyforsocialjustice.org">Yorktown Rally for Social Justice</a>, June 25, 2005.<br /><br />Copyright 2005 by <a href="mailto:Melngratefuled@aol.com">Eddie Dow</a>.<br />All rights reserved.<br />Reproduced by <em>Poetry 360</em> with permission of the author.<br /></em></tt></small>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5863671.post-1106790396620988112005-01-26T20:42:00.000-05:002005-01-26T20:46:36.620-05:00Quintessence of Dust<em>. . . lost between two infinities,
<br />the infinitely large and the infinitely small</em>.
<br />- Blaise Pascal -
<br />
<br />Among the khaki husks of last Fall's weeds
<br />in Henry Second's Umberland a small
<br />white flower leans in slightest zephyrs, bends
<br />beneath the weight of but a cabbage moth,
<br />then bobbing once again erect when free.
<br />
<br />The chill of early evening settles on
<br />a field beside a clear May stream about
<br />a boisterous Saxon band emerging from
<br />marauding raids against the Norman king’s
<br />dominion over lands that once were theirs.
<br />
<br />Through star-pricked deepest night, an aging fire
<br />beside the forest’s foot protects the warmth
<br />of slumber’s innocence while not one league
<br />away, among the cooling ashes of
<br />a manor house the grotesque slaughtered sleep.
<br />
<br />The gray beginnings of the day arise
<br />above the coughing embers’ dying glow,
<br />while horses and dark grumbling men awake
<br />to preparations for the violence
<br />ancestral vengeance passed on to its kin.
<br />
<br />Inside the great depression of a boot
<br />beside a fire's heap, a small white bloom
<br />lies flat among the skeletons of last
<br />Fall's weeds where yet another flower will
<br />tomorrow sway to merest thoughts of wind.
<br />
<br />
<br /><tt><em><small>
<br />By Peter Freas
<br />As published at <a href="http://www.themindworm.com/qdust.html">The Mindworm</a>.
<br />
<br />Copyright 2005 by <a href="mailto:mindworm@juno.com">Pete Freas</a>.
<br />All rights reserved.
<br />Reproduced by <em>Poetry 360</em> with permission of the author.
<br /></em></tt></small>
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5863671.post-1106094136357383402005-01-18T19:18:00.000-05:002005-01-18T19:22:16.356-05:00On the canvas<center>Dreams are like
<br />white clouds spread against
<br />the blue skies of my thought.
<br />The rain drops fall
<br />making me recall,
<br />the typical smell of a
<br />newly furnished room
<br />and of flowers in half bloom
<br />in the dim light
<br />of your lies,
<br />sitting crossed legged,
<br />you begged.
<br />If only I could forget and forgive
<br />and your dreams live.
<br />I enigmatically weighed,
<br />the sorrows
<br />you had given me,
<br />and without looking
<br />in your eyes,
<br />I knew something would die
<br />in you and me.</center>
<br />
<br /><tt><em><small>
<br />Copyright 2004-2005 by <a href="mailto:asmakarim@yahoo.com">Asma Karim Mirza</a>.
<br />All rights reserved.
<br />Reproduced by <em>Poetry 360</em> with permission of the author.
<br /></em></tt></small>
<br /> Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5863671.post-1104019743027429362004-12-25T19:07:00.000-05:002004-12-25T19:10:03.026-05:00The Stairway<center>
<br /><em>Inspired by Les Escaliers de Montmartre, Paris</em>
<br />
<br />
<br />Landmarks by day
<br />Beacons of light by night
<br />always there
<br />Like a quiet reassurance
<br />
<br />A succession of stairs
<br />Like so many rites of passage
<br />Wrought iron, stately,
<br />Victorian, cool to the touch.
<br />
<br />Casting light at nightfall
<br />Making the way clear
<br />For those who stroll
<br />By heat of day or cool of night.
<br />
<br />A mist lingers
<br />Kissing the metal
<br />Leaving its whispery trace
<br />Of dewy wetness behind.
<br />
<br />The whispering wind whistles through
<br />A crack in the lamppost glass
<br />And branches crack and pop
<br />As a slight breeze blows
<br />
<br />A voice is calling
<br />Faintly, in the distance
<br />Someone heading to the top of the stairs
<br />Stops to listen
<br />
<br />But sees no one
<br />It isn’t until the journey to the top
<br />That the voice becomes more clear
<br />And the trip is now complete
<br />
<br />It is a voice he has heard
<br />All along but knew not
<br />the source from which it came
<br />Yet it is clear
<br />
<br />He glances back down
<br />The lampposts are pointing the way
<br />Even though it is daytime and they burn not
<br />Yet he sees someone in the mist
<br />
<br />It is her
<br />He hasn’t seen her in real life
<br />Only in dreams
<br />Sometimes faceless
<br />
<br />Yet very real
<br />He always saw her
<br />Always almost reaching her
<br />To catch a glimpse of her face
<br />
<br />And then the subway
<br />Or bus in his dream
<br />Would pull away
<br />Leaving her once again faceless.
<br />
<br />Then came an answer
<br />His dog bolted
<br />Ran down those steps like crazy
<br />Headed straight for her dog
<br />
<br />Two needy souls
<br />Being walked by their dogs
<br />On a misty morning
<br />Up a flight of steps
<br />By some stately lamp posts
<br /></center>
<br />
<br /><tt><em><small>
<br />By Phyllis Johnson
<br />
<br />Copyright 2004 by <a href="mailto:Actresswriter7@aol.com">Phyllis Johnson</a>.
<br />All rights reserved.
<br />Reproduced by <em>Poetry 360</em> with permission of the author.
<br /></em></tt></small>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5863671.post-1101160293685605742004-11-22T16:46:00.000-05:002006-01-18T23:12:55.996-05:00Being Frank With AnneAt the request of the poet, Phyllis Johnson, "Being Frank with Anne" has been removed from <em>Poetry 360</em>. If you would like to read this poem, please check out <a href="http://www.deunantbooks.com/">Deunant Books</a>; you can <a href="http://www.deunantbooks.com/cgi-bin/booksearch.pl?authid=117">download this powerful poem from here</a>.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5863671.post-1098839075029059382004-10-26T21:03:00.000-04:002004-10-26T21:04:35.030-04:00Grace Church, YorktownStill, colored shadows. It is not
<br />The building that is still, but we
<br />Who stand at twilight by the red-
<br />Stained walls, eroded to curves,
<br />
<br />Yet changed by the same hands
<br />That laboriously cut and
<br />
<br />Shaped convenient rectangles of
<br />Marl, the leavings of unbelieving
<br />Creatures, accumulated through
<br />The passage, heat, and pressure of years.
<br />
<br />The shells, once articulate, bivalve
<br />Dissolving to blunt rock, made the walls
<br />
<br />Sufficient to have stayed, but we have
<br />Not the faith to keep them as they
<br />Were placed, through the fallow years
<br />The yard destroyed as the walls.
<br />
<br />Blocks, though brown, are red in the
<br />Light of certain sun, like we who shall pass.
<br />
<br /><tt><em><small>
<br />By David King
<br /><em>The sixth poem from <strong>Virginia Churches</strong>, a series of 8 poems on colonial churches.</em>
<br />
<br />Copyright 2004 by <a href="mailto:dking9@hotmail.com">David King</a>.
<br />All rights reserved.
<br />Reproduced by <em>Poetry 360</em> with permission of the author.
<br /></em></tt></small>
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5863671.post-1098404272278538402004-10-21T20:16:00.000-04:002004-10-21T20:17:52.276-04:00St. John’s ChuckatcrkBetween the roads, among the trees.
<br />Twisting in a course above the
<br />Green scummed pond that lies,
<br />
<br />Has lain, the centuries, the circle
<br />Of water persists from vapor
<br />To piercing drops that fall upon
<br />
<br />Us who live. The faith, too, lives
<br />In our minds as in the English
<br />Bond that stays as it was known,
<br />
<br />Then the only force solidity.
<br />Six by one and ten lives thick, the
<br />Faith considered permanent as
<br />
<br />Clay borrowed from the river’s edge
<br />Convenient for use and dried
<br />In sunlight by the stalking wheat
<br />
<br />And reflecting pond, waiting for
<br />The faith to place each course
<br />With faultless line and enduring love.
<br />
<br /><tt><em><small>
<br />By David King
<br /><em>The fifth poem from <strong>Virginia Churches</strong>, a series of 8 poems on colonial churches.</em>
<br />
<br />Copyright 2004 by <a href="mailto:dking9@hotmail.com">David King</a>.
<br />All rights reserved.
<br />Reproduced by <em>Poetry 360</em> with permission of the author.
<br /></em></tt></small>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5863671.post-1097697598775825962004-10-13T15:59:00.000-04:002004-10-13T15:59:58.776-04:00Glebe ChurchRepointed arches, one door, and the
<br />chuff chuff of a tractor on the glebe,
<br />not the dray of horses. To speak
<br />with a voice more suddenly my own.
<br />
<br />As silently as time can whippet,
<br />swallows wicker on the evening air.
<br />Return to brick, few remain
<br />between directions of modernity.
<br />
<br />Though plumb and fast, square at least
<br />upon one corner, little is
<br />placed where they left it, matchlocks
<br />and steel plows against the wilderness.
<br />
<br />Is it less now, when we have made
<br />a monument and token for
<br />ourselves among the spoken walls
<br />and, redolent of singing, choir?
<br />
<br />Once fallen, are they the less, so
<br />laboriously as they were piled,
<br />sunlight angled on the mortar
<br />stippling a prayer to evening?
<br />
<br />Is this past dead, or do we have
<br />in it a vision of a purer
<br />arch, completed rondel, and a
<br />firmer door like the faith that was?
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /><tt><em><small>
<br />By David King
<br /><em>The fourth poem from <strong>Virginia Churches</strong>, a series of 8 poems on colonial churches.</em>
<br />
<br />Copyright 2004 by <a href="mailto:dking9@hotmail.com">David King</a>.
<br />All rights reserved.
<br />Reproduced by <em>Poetry 360</em> with permission of the author.
<br /></em></tt></small>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0