Retreat

    echoes across empty spaces
bugle calling evening to return.


Copyright 1984 by Peter A. Stinson.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Wanderlust

I wish to whisk you away, whispering
(my words caught in your ears)
holding tight your soft hands,
falling blindly into your eyes
(thunderbolt bright with a hint of summer).

Faith, I put my trust in the wind
to lead me, the sun and wish alive.

Hope, I yearn to hold more than the air
alive with the thought of you.

Charity, to give back the greatest gift of all,
uncensored, unequivocal, repentant of the past,
embracing the future,
the memory of your hands touching mine
(the touch still felt).


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

A Man And His Time

A man walks the Earth
  Through all of his days,
Touching so many lives
  In so different ways...
No one may govern
  What he does with his life,
Only he may cope
  With his trouble and strife..
He begins as a child
  Until life makes him grow,
He'll live through experiences
  Sometimes high, sometimes low...
Upon maturity he finds
  The Earth's not his kingdom,
He bows to authority  Accepts the government's wisdom...
Through mid-life he'll ride
  With all of its woes,
He lives life for today
  As it comes, as it goes...
Time will pass quickly
  His stiffness sets in,
He is always aware
  Of the slowness within...
Each day is now golden
  He will fight to survive,
He will fight to live on
  For each day he will strive!
For slowly, so slowly
  His days on Earth end,
But his time is not over
  He is remembered by friends...
Though he may now be gone
  To those close he's still near,
He walks among all of us
  We all hold him near...
For him, life is over
  He's outwelcomed his stay,
For us, life goes on
  We all live, day by day...



Copyright 1987 by Shawn P. Madison.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Nothing in front of me seen

Snow coming down so much
the interstate has disappeared:
I haven’t driven in snow
like this for more than decade,

last time was in Kansas
looking for shoes. Now I look
for something, unknown;
at home in my bed

another woman, belly burgeoning.
And night sky surrounds me,
headlights doing little more
than turning the way white

with heaven-sent flakes,
a covering to mask uncertainty.
I wish for quiet times,
the still of the city stopped

in the first snow, but now
I drive on to raging fires,
the crackling tender
of emotion and life

alive with the flames fueled
by the winds driven with the purpose
of fanning each red tongue,
an orange consuming the yellow,

green turning to black,
a melting away as I drive straight,
praying the road continues,
blind faith the snow leads me

home. In front of me, pure
whiteness and black, a study of contrasts.


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

Mare Insanitatus

A crazy crew of lunatics sailed to the moon in schooner ships.
They flitted over lunar seas and littered them with lunacies.
All pitched their schizophrenias, made jetsam of their manias,
and split their personalities, then ditched them like banalities.

Soon they felt an eerie presence - spooky to the very essence.
With one blue eye, luminescent, 'round a pupil, incandescent,
he stood like a beaky vulture, dressed in duds that reeked of culture.
Beneath his hat of kiwi fruit, he wore a pea-green leisure suit.

Like sharpened knife, he flashed his gaze, and from his eye shot dazzling rays.
He mesmerized those wary folk; he hypnotized them ere he spoke,
"You're not from here; just what are you?" And, minds unclear, they answered, "Who?"
So these were hoos, he wrongly guessed, and then he shooed them to his nest.

Deep below the crater Tychos, he boldly led the zany psychos,
to his retreat, beneath the ground, where they perceived tink-clinking sounds.
The begging, hungry beaks of chicks? Their fate to be cheep menu picks?
But, bright and hot, his eye lit up; they spied a pot and nine chipped cups.

His mate was there, 'bout eight-foot-three, and, gaily, she was making tea.
They eased a bit, the tension slacked; at least they hadn't been attacked.
Enjoying tea, their hostess kind, they couldn't see their host behind,
who honed his beak for easy cuts. He hoped to eat a meal of nuts

Beak filed, he leapt right at those hoos. He'd smile at death, fight not to lose.
He came at them, sharp beak slashing, but the madmen started laughing.
His razor jaws met naught but air; they played as if he was not there.
And then he grokked their source of mirth; they'd left their bodies stored on Earth.



Published on the web in The Martian Wave, Sept. 2002.

Winner of the independently judged 2002 James B. Baker award for poetry by Sam's Dot Publishing.

Copyright 2002 by John Bushore.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

A Kiss

A kiss. A smile.
I have felt your lips brush mine,
have felt the soft curves of your waist
beneath my hand
before.

Your lips caress mine for a moment
and in my mind, like a flash, is a vision,
a vision of you
as a southern belle.
This first vision is followed by a
second – as real, as brief, as fleeting
as the first:
You and I
old,
very old, sitting together on a swing.
It is the dusk, the sun setting behind a slight ridge,
your body, old and
frail, wrapped by my bony arm.
It is the dusk
and the sun, sinking, will rise again soon.


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

Displaced

Here
in this place I find myself drowning
in a sea of emotions not knowing
where I am.
Displaced in time, lost in love, knowing only
you can replace this loneliness I feel
inside. If you would come back
to this place I know
I would no longer feel
displaced
in this place .


Copyright 2001 by C.Lee.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.