Killers in the Mist

Disguised as of the human race, evil strolled into the glade.
You know the place, cloaked in grace, one that God has made.
Then as an oak, a sentry spoke, a protector of liberty,
and extended a welcome to these blokes, into the land of the free.

"Hello, Arab. Or are you Jew? Though origin doesn't matter.
We've had quite a few, since our land was new; they mix into the batter.
Are you Polish? Chinese? Irish? Please don't bring your quarrels here.
Sure, we've got problems, more than we wish, but we've been working our way clear."

Throughout the land, the soldier trees protected all below:
the chickadees, the mice, the bees, fawns hidden by the does.
Smart songbirds knew, as rumors flew, what the Devil had in mind,
but his devious ruse was something new, of a cruel and nasty kind.

Far out in the seas, the leviathans gave a shield beyond belief.
The fleet so brave was riding the waves, keeping villains beyond the reef.
Engines roared and eagles soared, staunch guardians of the air,
warning off the evil horde, their screams proclaiming, "Beware."

But a demonic lord, vaingloriously proud, sent killers into the mist.
His black-hearted crowd hid in silver clouds, treachery in their midst.
Then the Twin Trees fell in a fiery hell and worker bees shriveled and died.
Rescuers rushed to answer the bell and hundreds were killed in their pride.

The Star of Power, though built to be lasting, was burning and rent in despair.
Without thunder crashing, or lightning flashing, destruction rained down from the air.
While on a captured bird those of courage would gird to save unknown fellows below;
calling down to their mates, they gave out the word that the unarmed would challenge the foe.

Evil incarnate cannot be denied, even when it surpasses belief.
Innocents died as the watchers cried, uniting in anger and grief
All had been sure that the glade was secure, a bastion of invincible power.
Such insidious terror was hard to endure; it seemed the darkest of hours.

Devils danced in the streets in eastern lands, hailing the carnage with glee.
But the glade still stands and the bereaved hold hands, proud that the fallen died free.
And true to the accord, though oft hard to afford, one must pay the price to be free,
from the scabbard of peace was drawn the sword that was forged to fight tyranny.


Copyright 2001-2003 by John Bushore.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Parallel Roads

They meet and fall in love. It is in their plan to enjoy each other, to work diligently to expand their horizons and, to minimize disagreements.

A love relationship is cemented by a promise to love, honor and obey before GOD and man. Still, it is the actions and inter-reactions among two separate beings that signal the success or failure of that union.

Before marriage, two people travel through life on their pathway. Rarely does one person rely upon the other for reasons beyond social amenities and amorous enchantments.

Few couples really prepare for the step they take. Most think that a union brings forth a oneness with both persons occupying the same space, or stated another way, the same road; But, this is not only impractical, it is by nature and the laws of science, impossible.

When people marry, they travel a road that, under constant attention and concern causes both roads to run parallel through life.

As most roads are, there will be bumps and patches and temporary detours;but, most likely when one road has bumps, the other road is free of such;the fact that both persons share a common destination should guarantee a positive and happy ending.

Still, without a constant comparison of where both persons are on their road of life, with respect to each other and their common goal, simple changes in direction or speed will go unnoticed.

Timely changes in direction or speed causes virtually no alarm. But, left to chance, the distance between roads and resulting conflicts increase in scope until all reference to the goal is gone and the relationship is no more.

There can never be a single road for two unique individuals. Each have their own personality, each contributes at a different rate and responds to specialized drives.

Because a marriage is a union of two people, it takes both to constantly travel the parallel roads of life -- together.


Copyright 1980-2003 by Charles B. Whitehurst, Sr.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

At the end of Hanover Street

Crumbs on the table.
Crusty bread breaks apart, ripped
leaving crispy brown remnants
spread across the white table cloth,

thick, starched, cotton.
The waitresses, tall and bronze in the soft light
(a flickering of table-placed candles),
white collared shirts popping open

across ample breasts pert with youth,
buttons strained,
and black pants accentuating round fullness,
white aprons pulled tight,

dim shadows hiding bright eyes,
and a practiced sway of hips.
Cappuccino, cinnamon dusted foam,
draws bitterness inward, hot on the tongue.


Copyright 2003 by Peter A. Stinson.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Three dreams

I dreamt of us, together, old and weathered,
rocking in a porch swing,
gnarled hands holding one another;
your eyes still soft.

I dreamt of us, together, under Asian skies
green rolling hills spread out,
a splash of blue in the form of a pagoda,
beckoning us to come forward,
our destinies or purpose,
peaceful in turbulent times.

I dreamt of us, together, and of a sun drenched room,
a golden glow seeking shadows,
and we, nestled and showered by the light,
a nurturing closeness in each other’s arms.

Dreams they are.
I don’t dream now,
or at least the morning light
steals the memory
of them;
as I drift from sleep to wakefulness,
wrapped in the quilt you made for me,
those images
find me.
I push them away
like I’m breaking up a bar fight,
pushing with my full strength and dreading the punch;
I wish them away
like a wish for a circle of light while walking
a dark, city street;
I run from them
as if a monster pursues me,
intent on stealing my soul or my heart or my mind.

Sheets damp from my sweat:;
crisp winter air cutting through the cracked window.
Memories of dreams I may have had drift in the draft.
Captured like dust, they float,
turn, and reflect
the light.
In the draft, dreams drift
as the wind chills me.


Copyright 2003 by Peter A. Stinson.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Open Skys

I think atop my head there lies
An opening to evil skys
Cruel spirits rushing too and fro
They see my aura's erie glow
A channel to a mortal place
And silently they take my space

I feel the presence cold as ice
A cloak around me as I go
The tunnel size is now twice
As evil's mantle does grow
In some past life I must have caused a massive painful woe
For in this life each breathe is pain and peaceful bliss dies oh so slow

In silent night the spirits stir and whisper words in my ear
I don't believe their peaceful sounds, the safety of my soul I fear
All I possess, that which is mine
That mortal man can not buy or sell
My silken chord, my spirit free my open channel to Gods line
Or my entrance pass to fiery hell

The soul is what true makes the man, his honor or his cruel defeat
Titans clashing right and wrong the wounded dieing in the street
I guard it well but aura's glow
And mindless devils always know
Where open channels cross thru hell
And endless grief and sorrow dwell


Copyright 2003 by Linda Arena.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Life with you

Life with you
is the warm fuzzy blanket
I draw across my shoulders
to keep out the January chill.

Life with you
is an endless evening out,
the submarines plying the still
waters, breaking moon shadows.

Life with you
is the soft glow of candles
burning long in the cool of evening
as practiced lovers touch as if for the first time.

Life with you
is the thump of waves against the hull,
sails straining in the breeze,
the rig groaning with passage.

Life with you
is the soft laughter of children
running, spinning, dancing:
the park full of joy.

Life with you
is the heart beating
a rum-tum-tum, rum-tum-tum,
knowing that the heart

Keeps all promises.



Copyright 1997 by Peter A. Stinson.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Choices

Fate watches as each soul is born
She ponders how much time
This is your allotment, she'll warn
Use it well, don't whine
Each of us is given a life of precious days
To bend or mild, twist or fold in many different ways
The impact of our actions time will let us know
In the evening shadows when life's fires burn down low
If we used time wisely, we've touched others hearts
And left a soft imprint that remains when we depart
If we squandered our days and touched no other soul
There will be no legacy when the death bell tolls
Use your timeshares wisely our earthly walk is short
And when it ends, make your amends not a second more can be bought


Copyright 2003 by Linda Arena.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Where rock and sky and water meet

Six sunsets
and with each
a mist of orange
spreads across the bay.
Where rock and sky and water meet
my eyes tear
with the loss
of something to hold on to,
as if all has become the wind
curling my hair
and keeping me warm
with the hope that something lies beyond.
Sinking quickly like an evening sun
my tongue tastes the harsh salt
stained with the sweat of the sea
puckered by the lips of Poseidon.
Under sail, the edge of the horizon
meets fast with the wind.
The meeting place
becomes the self centered soul.
I reach up to hold the sun
and grasp nothing,
nothing but the air,
nothing but the wind
tempting me with the salt of the sea.


Copyright 2002 by Peter A. Stinson.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Two Steps and Down

You visit me smiling,
while hiding behind bright colors
and pink ice cream.

Once we wandered the
mirrored rooms of Bloomingdales
looking for a spring hat. And
we walked, fingers just touching
fingers, through the graying crowds
of Manhattan.

We walked city streets
and went nowhere together,
feet stepping out
as if one mind guided us
both. On wooden horses we
became children,
your pink cotton dress
showing knees and flowing
in the Wurlitzer wind.
In the shadows
we brushed lips
good-by and allowed eyes
to dim with tears.

It was in the heat
of September that I
loved your green eyes.
They flew wild with every
hint of my caring.
You disowned me, saying that
I was too similar. I never
gave up. In the cool of
November, we made love with
fingertips and never touched
flesh.

The meeting of lips
was always well timed and
reserved for moments of
coming and going.

And your visits continue today;
pink is your favorite color;
and I imagine
what you are really like.


Copyright 1980-2003 by Peter A. Stinson.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Dark Side of My Heart

In the dark side of my heart, where the sun dares not shine
Are locked away in veils of tears, precious memories of mine
In this place of endless pain, I visit in complete dispair
For I know I'll never see the family members locked in there
My heart is broken, never whole, missing pieces tear it deep
Dreams replay visions of old, I cry out loud in restless sleep

I will love my missing heart strings, untill my lifeforce ceases to be
Until then no earthly creature can take my memories from me
Shadow people will I know them as the years do change us so
Everyday missed from their presence makes the monster heartache grow

I do try to lock that part up, where my heart breaks with each beat
But the aching and the anguish sometimes cause a vast defeat
I will never be whole again until we can reunite
Until then I wait to embrace and hold on so very tight

In the dark side of my heart where the heartaches wail and moan
Is where I play over and over pictures, places times to atone
Human fraility, points to ponder, wishes for a heart to heal
Praying reconciliation touches each soul with vast appeal


Copyright 2003 by Linda Arena.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Flushing, New York

The quick scent of November
brought back the memory of you.

I am small, the foyer is bare
and smells of oak and polish
and the faint remains of pine cleaner.
The glass in the door,
bright, sharp, and as much as it is,
reflects the afternoon light
through prism eyes.
If I stand still, I can hear
the traffic, the water running in the kitchen,
and the absolute quietness
of this small room with doors
into two worlds.



Copyright 1982-2003 by Peter A. Stinson.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.