The Stairway

Inspired by Les Escaliers de Montmartre, Paris


Landmarks by day
Beacons of light by night
always there
Like a quiet reassurance

A succession of stairs
Like so many rites of passage
Wrought iron, stately,
Victorian, cool to the touch.

Casting light at nightfall
Making the way clear
For those who stroll
By heat of day or cool of night.

A mist lingers
Kissing the metal
Leaving its whispery trace
Of dewy wetness behind.

The whispering wind whistles through
A crack in the lamppost glass
And branches crack and pop
As a slight breeze blows

A voice is calling
Faintly, in the distance
Someone heading to the top of the stairs
Stops to listen

But sees no one
It isn’t until the journey to the top
That the voice becomes more clear
And the trip is now complete

It is a voice he has heard
All along but knew not
the source from which it came
Yet it is clear

He glances back down
The lampposts are pointing the way
Even though it is daytime and they burn not
Yet he sees someone in the mist

It is her
He hasn’t seen her in real life
Only in dreams
Sometimes faceless

Yet very real
He always saw her
Always almost reaching her
To catch a glimpse of her face

And then the subway
Or bus in his dream
Would pull away
Leaving her once again faceless.

Then came an answer
His dog bolted
Ran down those steps like crazy
Headed straight for her dog

Two needy souls
Being walked by their dogs
On a misty morning
Up a flight of steps
By some stately lamp posts



By Phyllis Johnson

Copyright 2004 by Phyllis Johnson.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Being Frank With Anne

At the request of the poet, Phyllis Johnson, "Being Frank with Anne" has been removed from Poetry 360. If you would like to read this poem, please check out Deunant Books; you can download this powerful poem from here.

Grace Church, Yorktown

Still, colored shadows. It is not
The building that is still, but we
Who stand at twilight by the red-
Stained walls, eroded to curves,

Yet changed by the same hands
That laboriously cut and

Shaped convenient rectangles of
Marl, the leavings of unbelieving
Creatures, accumulated through
The passage, heat, and pressure of years.

The shells, once articulate, bivalve
Dissolving to blunt rock, made the walls

Sufficient to have stayed, but we have
Not the faith to keep them as they
Were placed, through the fallow years
The yard destroyed as the walls.

Blocks, though brown, are red in the
Light of certain sun, like we who shall pass.


By David King
The sixth poem from Virginia Churches, a series of 8 poems on colonial churches.

Copyright 2004 by David King.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

St. John’s Chuckatcrk

Between the roads, among the trees.
Twisting in a course above the
Green scummed pond that lies,

Has lain, the centuries, the circle
Of water persists from vapor
To piercing drops that fall upon

Us who live. The faith, too, lives
In our minds as in the English
Bond that stays as it was known,

Then the only force solidity.
Six by one and ten lives thick, the
Faith considered permanent as

Clay borrowed from the river’s edge
Convenient for use and dried
In sunlight by the stalking wheat

And reflecting pond, waiting for
The faith to place each course
With faultless line and enduring love.


By David King
The fifth poem from Virginia Churches, a series of 8 poems on colonial churches.

Copyright 2004 by David King.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Glebe Church

Repointed arches, one door, and the
chuff chuff of a tractor on the glebe,
not the dray of horses. To speak
with a voice more suddenly my own.

As silently as time can whippet,
swallows wicker on the evening air.
Return to brick, few remain
between directions of modernity.

Though plumb and fast, square at least
upon one corner, little is
placed where they left it, matchlocks
and steel plows against the wilderness.

Is it less now, when we have made
a monument and token for
ourselves among the spoken walls
and, redolent of singing, choir?

Once fallen, are they the less, so
laboriously as they were piled,
sunlight angled on the mortar
stippling a prayer to evening?

Is this past dead, or do we have
in it a vision of a purer
arch, completed rondel, and a
firmer door like the faith that was?




By David King
The fourth poem from Virginia Churches, a series of 8 poems on colonial churches.

Copyright 2004 by David King.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Yeocomico

Upon the road a crosstie lies
the product of a deeper yearning
than that of flesh which labored it.
Each one put upon his hand the

holiness of clay, more pure than
nightjar’s calls across repointed
furnishing that now remain, where
two roads cross among the furrows.

The looming square of transcept
and crossing at an angle mark
more firm along the coming dark
the certitudes of simple faith.

So they loved who were the body
of a surer time of soul, who
knew corruption in its forms more
quietly than we imagine

flesh decays and swells to light. Yet
the mind was stronger and the wall
elected with a calmer hand
than we who name it can invent.



By David King
The third poem from Virginia Churches, a series of 8 poems on colonial churches.

Copyright 2004 by David King.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Southwerk Parish

(A picturesque ruin opposite Bacon’s Castle on Route 10)

Across the water and the land
vague stillness lives, as if the flesh
were not here, but bent along
the common fields and unkept houses
that remain: a fuller feeling
in the hearts of us who stay
on the edge where highways and
the sculpted farms give way to
silence and the fallen brickwork.

The past we are, in flourishes
of molecules upon the cells,
makes us both dead and living.
They who lie upon the earth
are us; we tasted on the lea
the salt-tinged victuals they ate,
felt the swell among us move,
and quickened in the act of freedom.

Here upon the land their shapes persist
from folded meadows to the knoll where
stands a lighted house again.
An arch of dreams transmits the present
to the peopled past. Again the
clutter of a rural mind fills
the straightened bricks with simple faith
or faith made in a different soil.
Life awakening the ever dead.

From the present, too, we
bring ourselves to the body.


By David King
The second poem from Virginia Churches, a series of 8 poems on colonial churches.

Copyright 2004 by David King.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Somewhere Between A Dixie Cup and a Big Gulp

Shopped for a bra today
I’d rather shop for shoes
Victoria’s secret is still one
Because I was clueless.
What a bust.

Room spun around
So confused
Miracles, wonders, angels
Flying around my head
Such lust.

Fluff and satin
Boas and lace
Teddies bare
Were in that place.
A real must.

Somewhere between
A Dixie cup
And a big gulp
Can I be on Victoria’s Honor Roll
With a C Plus?

By Phyl Johnson

Copyright 2004 by Phyl Johnson.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Merchant’s Hope

I’ve heard they placed a brick up-
on a brick, each act a measure
of their faith and settled mind. At

Merchant’s Hope for us the crumbling
brick and perfect lunette bring to
mind a lighted, purer past,
made simple by the lack of that
we see encumbering our lives.
That it’s a church seems more to show,
in the closers and studied arch,
leaning always eastward, as they
had compasses and hearts to use them,
faith had every day its light,
yellowed perhaps, and on some days
too cold for even firm flesh
to feel, but always on the lintel,
and sang again at dawn and dusk.

Would they change, if given it,
the idea of faith in a simpler flesh
for the impediments of Godless time?
Do these cushions and the central air
make the round of love the less,
belief the more ambiguous,
and every miracle so common?
Or, removed by centuries and
all the busyness in every day,
do we esteem them not real flesh,
forgetting in ourselves their faults,
who shared our bread, had slaves, looked
at a neighbor’s wife with calm intent,
and bastardized the land for gain?

At least we feel all peace is here,
Among the tracing arch and fallow dead.


By David King
A poem from Virginia Churches, a series of 8 poems on colonial churches.

Copyright 2004 by David King.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Moment in September

Quiet silhouettes
creep noiselessly past watching eyes.
Shadows laugh at passer-by’s feet
as wet pavement glistens
under streetlights.
Trees cry at approach of autumn.
Leaves cringe at the impending cold.



By Peter A. Stinson

Copyright 2004 by Peter A. Stinson.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Sacrificing Isaac

We've executed Isaac, and we call
him hero, having fed upon his flesh.
With oil his skull anointed, hold we high
his sacred goblet overfull with wine
and pour it on the stone as chisel bites
his name into this monument. The grit-
contaminated wine appears as blood
which, splashing from the letter-gouges, seems
to issue from the very rock itself.
We celebrate the dead. We honor those
consumed, whom we have sent to satisfy
this festival of arrogance; we call
them Heroes whom we've offered up to feed
this faithless, fearsome creature. We can find
in any city anywhere about
the globe these granite walls, these obelisks,
these sandstone totem poles, these litanies,
these condemnation curses dug in stone,
these names whose bones, alone, have journeyed home.
We make this ample sacrifice of souls
again, another generation rich
in hope, and hope it's pleased this monster we've
created in our image and our greed.
Our pride has given bloody Ba'al form,
which we now feed our own. In gratitude,
we comfort a parade of widows and
of grieving mothers, telling them, "Be proud,
for he served well, stood firm before the face
of hate, until the gaping maw of Death
snapped shut upon and swallowed him.
You see? His name is here in stone. He is
a Hero. Honor him; remember him."
Remember Him . . . We must remember Him.

By Pete Freas

Copyright 2004 by Pete Freas.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.
For more poetry by Pete Freas see The Mindworm.

Doc Wilson

Old Doc Wilson had great rough hands
With knuckles as harsh as the rocks
That work their way out of the land
After each winter's freezing shocks.

His skill was not in gentleness
Or the fineness of his touch
But he could make a poultice
That would cure a body of much.

He knew the ache of rumatiz,
The jutting of a mangled bone,
The mysteries of birth and colics,
How and what must be quickly done.

And he would come out any night
In the clinging mist or drifting snow
Or sit alone in oil light
With bag and book in a cold home,

Just to see a man set clear
And out of danger's way.
So Doc's hard hand was always near
And never seen to shake or sway.

He pulled many a young un
Who could not come of its own accord
With the skills of his arms
And the mercy of the Lord.

His was the hardness of a land
Born of mountains and tall rocks,
Kept by the daily work of hands,
So made of stern and steady stock.



By David King

Copyright 2004 by David King.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

To hold on

Heavy, white, misty. Like fog
the past envelopes,
cool, slips through my fingers.

By Peter A. Stinson
Copyright 2004 by Peter A. Stinson.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Reprieve

Straight down
The rain comes
Suddenly
Seemingly
All at once.
Citywide sheets of cascading water,
The deluge tonight knows just where it wants to go.

Angry hooves
In the cold
Strike the slate roof above me,
They outrage
The grass below,
Hard we feel it press, weighing down on us as heavily
As clamps bear down on wood.

More vulnerable than I can stand to be,
A friendless, homeless woman,
Drenched and cold in the black night and wondering why,
I remember fear.
I wonder if the roof will hold,
Whether the outdoor cats got in all right,
Or if we left something precious outside, and it's now destroyed.

But footfalls now are light,
Prancing happily above me, raindrops have become
Friendly, light, and musical -- offering me hope.
Surely our cats know all they need to know,
To find their way to warmth and safety.

And in the morning, after sleep,
On getting out of bed,
I find the razor sharp, staccato, polar air of yesterday
Has given place to warmth.



Copyright 2004 by Diana Strelow.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Boxwood, ferns

Boxwood, ferns
but not boxed in.
Bubbling fountain
free flowing, erotic.
Hibiscus, white and delicate
like supple skin.
Lush green fronds
of ferns, potted.
Ivy climbs up concrete blocks
as if to kiss the sky.
Gazing balls reflect
but yet distort
not true to the beauty
that flanks beside.
A cat outstretched
on a wooden bench
belly turned up,
tongue hanging down.
Round are rims
of concrete vase,
birdbath, pedestal
Platforms of grace
like the statues that
that tend court in the yard.
Archways rounded,
promising entry
Dentil molding
Pediment topped
finials to finish.
Romanesque romance
Vine winding
Flourishing venue
to a celebration of nature,
art and beauty. 
 
Copyright 2004 by Phyl Johnson.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

   

1941

In 1941 I was six years old, in Iowa, USA.
In the evening the sky turned lavender, deep blue, and purple,
We children ran hard, laughing and shouting our joy in
Our own special time, "the children's hour,"
Time for our last burst of energy, of unfettered happiness
Before our mothers and fathers would tuck us in safely for the night.

My wondering eyes were wide and hazel,
My dark hair naturally curly.

In Germany across the sea, also in 1941, in Poland, or perhaps in Czechoslovakia
Another child, a boy, also of six years, asked himself and he asked his mother
What had become of the children's hour.
His questioning eyes were dark and wide,
His dark hair a heavy mass of curls.

That night a comforting, almost mystical, a beautiful snow has been falling.
It's Christmas Eve, or Holy Evening
In fairytale, ancient Germany, then and always a land of beauty and wonder,
The Birth of the Holy One is coming again to their lives and also to ours, on this very night.
Grownups happily shout love to their children,
Joy fills their souls, families light their trees, and all rejoice to see the glow of God's love.
They eat Bratwurst and fresh-made bread, and they drink dark beer and good wine, all the while
Whispering out loud to each other, to anyone who can hear,
"The Christ Child is coming! Das Christ Kind commt! Der ist schon wieder hier!"

But on that night,
Never a special night: it was never a magical or a holy day
To the boy or to his family,
An iron door has slammed hard before the child in his terror,
He's destroyed, as his naked, sobbing body quakes in fear.
As he's erased from the earth, and his mother and father as well.
Powerful, angry men have said and are still saying grandly, obscenely,
That the child and his family are being liberated
From their despicable lives
As Jews.

In 1961, I teach ten year olds. I have a fifth grade. I'm twenty-six and healthy,
My life a comfortable and happy place to be. I love my work and the children I teach.
But I stomp my foot in rage and horror
As though my anger could somehow help the dark-haired child of 1941,
Or my rage be of any use to him.

If there were a way one could say to those who died for the grand design of an angry few,
If one could now say to the boy, to his teachers, to his family:
We are just all of us so very sorry.
We want to know how such a thing as this can ever have happened.
We were alive and we were well, even happy, while they were killing you -- many of our lives were going forward.
How could terror and death have become your reality -- and how could the knowledge of it now be ours?
We must never let go of our outrage, never, ever forget our anger.



Copyright 2004 by Diana Strelow.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

   

Anticipation

Turning in the fire,
My mind is a glowing iron

The world smells like new leather,
And it’s waiting for me to burn into it.


Copyright 2004 by Deborah Markham.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.
Deborah Markham is the founder, host & online moderator for GhentPoetryCafe

   

Pavarotti in China, 1987

Chinese children study excellence
And often the violin
Rather than disrespect.

The people's communities
Seem ones of constant and smiling endeavor,
As young and old swing by on bicycles
There is no Ford, Chevvy or Buick, and never a limousine.
We see the people flock, so many, to the Great Hall of the People
To hear Pavarotti
Bring his great love to China.

Rodolpho sings love and dolor to Mimi,
And Pagliacci weeps his rage,
The sound a great groundswell of power, of profundity and truth
That engulfs us and the place we are in,
Here where all things end, and then again begin,
So that we hope to find places large enough within ourselves
To store it, to keep so much beauty and joy alive
      For our own hard times later on, when we may need such love.

But for now, ten thousand Chinese faces rise
And break into joyful, reverberating grins,
         And as one they
Communicate their deafening love of beauty.

The fountains of Bernini
      Gush pure and robust and honest
         Today in the broad and busy streets of Beijing.
         Luciano Pavarotti sang here today.
         The people have heard him sing.


Copyright 2004 by Diana Strelow.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

To Gordon

What difference does it make how Gordon died
or who he was? It’s all the difference in
the world to me. I called him shipmate and
a friend. We were two aviators in
a class in Monterey. I’ve learned that Life
is not so cruel as those who once were friends.
My friend, how many times have you and I
conversed one-sided, drinking late into
the night? While one discoursed profound,
the other slept until the drink caught up
and turned the situation ‘round. How oft
did we replay this cycle through a night?
How many times would you prod me awake
in class and I’d blurt out, “I AM awake!”?
How many times did we work out our rage
and our frustration playing racketball
until our shirts our shorts our shoes were soaked
in sweat and neither one of us could breathe?

You played a trick that turned into a long
revolving joke. You’d planted in my bed
a bra I intercepted when a Wife
returned with me from Christmas break; I found
the bra before my bride had such a chance
to find this sign of infidelity.
We sneaked the bra into the glove box in
your Vette. You found it, nonetheless, before
a date one evening might discover this
suggestion of your aspirations, clear
revealed. So thus began the saga of
the wayward bra appearing at odd times
and places unpredictable for years.

My wife and I pulled off a stunt on you -
we sneaked a kitten in a basket once
into your car; and we got back a cat
when you got orders to the Philippines.

It hurt to watch your luster fade while you
worked there between the joy of flight and crush
of drudgery for seaweed eaters lost
in purgatories of their own washed up
careers. When you reluctantly let go
a life we both had loved in Naval Air,
I shared with you a sadness born of change.
One weekend out of San Diego I
dropped in on you, and we dined out ‘til late.
Next morning at the Club, while we drank beer
for breakfast, Alameda lost a jet
too heavy off the runway to sustain
sufficient lift and left a broken “Whale”
beneath salt water on the rocks in San
Francisco Bay. The A3D consumed
its crew and fiercely burned until it sank.
The plane confirmed the name the pilots all
had given: All 3 Dead because there were
no rocket seats, no way to bail out
but down – no exit at low altitude.
We heard the engines’ take-off roar, the thud -
more shudder felt than noise heard - the Crash
Crew sirens’ wail. I felt a sadness then,
the shadow of a prophesy that this
event portended. This black pall of smoke
that hovered over Alameda rode
me back to San Diego. Gordon, I
was unaware how like that hapless Whale
you were. Your wounded wings and fuselage
on rocks in water without depth enough
to swim back out to sea and yet too deep
to walk back to the shore, you drowned while I,
with all my Search and Rescue training, could
not save you. No one builds a helo that
can pluck a damaged soul from broken dreams.

The Navy done, you went abroad to fly
big jets for foreign airlines, hoping for
an opportunity to come back home
and fly domestic in the U.S.A.
As you pursued a new direction, I
continued mine; and we lost touch.
With no address, there were no letters, cards,
no news of new adventures, loneliness,
of triumphs or of failures or fears.
I hoped one day to recognize your voice,
“This is your Captain speaking, ...” overhead
my seat on board a flight somewhere, and we
would send a brown-bagged bra up to the front,
instruct the flight attendant, “Tell him
‘This token’s from a shipmate in his past.’ ”

Some ten years hence, again in Monterey,
I sought and found a link that might
connect us one more time. I called and spoke
to one who would protect and isolate
a fragile friend. We did, however, talk;
and you told me that you had ARC
and did not want your friends to know. I told
you then that it was more important
now than ever that we visit you.
I only knew we had to see you soon
before this illness dashed you on its rocks.
My family and I drove up to see
how you were getting on and let you know
we cared. We shared some memories and laughed;
and when we left, we hugged. You told me that
my children’s hugs turned you into a long
lost uncle reunited now, at peace.

That afternoon with you became for us
a highlight of that year in Monterey.

A few months afterwards, a letter I
had sent returned with sanguine hand-stamped cold
inscription “Addressee unknown”. I knew
your fight was done and told the envelope
that it was wrong - you simply did not live
there anymore – the tide had set you free.


Copyright 2004 by Pete Freas.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Accept Me As You Find Me

Accept me as you find me –
Do not try to make me over.
Don't try to create or destroy anything about me.
I have lived with me longer that I have with you.
I am satisfied with me.

I can change –
But it must be because I want to change.
I have no problem with me now,
And I have no problem with you maintaining
Yourself as you are.

You can create an awareness –
And, you can create an atmosphere
In which I may develop and become
Better able to meet your needs;
To be better able to understand my shortcomings,
And to better utilize gifts I may possess.

You cannot carry my load.
But, you can share your knowledge
And your understanding in areas where I might not be capable, in roles where I may not be so readily equipped;
And you can challenge me to go far beyond my means.

It is important that you not try
To make me anything but what I am,
What I want to be, or what I am capable of becoming.
Before you, I was me.
Please let me stay, as I want to be.


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

State Hospital

We have all of us, long since, died here.
And we are all so very dead, already dead and for so long.
But all the same I'll ask it anyway,
Could I have a cigarette please?
There are too many of us, all of us asking, and all of us at once
But could I have one please?
We were children once.
And some of us were happy.
Me they told me I was sick then, and it hurt.
But now what I want -- and it's all I want -- is a cigarette.
When you give me one I feel the whole meaning of life -
So I wish you'd lay one on me, and it'll be like you love me.
I've got a light - I just want a cigarette and it's all that I can handle.
But do you, does anyone, can you -- do you love me at all?
But I won't ask that.
I'm strange and I'm lost and you are nothing to me.
You go to Hell.
And I'll ask again,
Please give me one.
Please.


Copyright 2004 by Diana Strelow.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

National Portrait Gallery

The faces of the dead who live,
Forced in oaken frames, painted
Close in oil, washed with
Pale, correct temperas, follow
Across the room with eyes
Of surprising humanity.

In our colored thought, we see
Them in a daily life our own:
Digging for a dollar or
Forgetting a grocery list,
More than feeble saints, they say,
Is what consumed us. Made of flesh,
Now pigment, we too had our
Days of indolence and tincured
Anger: thought sex, ate love, had
Our children dearer than the earth,
And then were nothing. Were we
The chosen seed or did we dream?

Only these pictures stand with us
Between our lives and faceless dark.


Copyright 2004 by David King.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

The Other Side of the Slotted Spoon

We fed the poor and homeless there
Our stew and bread we went to share
A rosy glow it brought to faces
and spread some cheer around that place.
Then out on the street and down the way
and scattered around, the folks did stay,
in a parking lot stood a woman there
with shopping cart who lives nowhere.
Her countenance I recognize
that look of lost was in her eyes...
We sat her down upon a chair
and fed her stew ...two bowls - her share.
'Twas all we had left in the pot.
We dished it out, it hit the spot.
She showed up looking dazed and rough
we served it up, 'twas just enough...
The Master's hand was on that spoon
that fed the hungry by full of moon.
I felt a warmth from sharing thus
by twist of fate it could be us...
on other side of slotted spoon
standing in line by fullest moon
with blanket there and checkerboard
and hungry stare to ill afford
a home to stay and food to store
and yearn for comfort evermore.
Forever will the homeless be
an analyzing soul once said to me.
I think on this and draw a frown
forever's such a long time sound.
Yet what is their purpose there
to teach compassion and how to share
to show us all a contrast,
measure our blessings far more
rich to treasure.
Could it be so this is their role
so humble yet sometimes so bold
part of a plan we can't quite see
worked by the Master Deity...


Copyright 2004 by Phyllis Johnson.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Sailing the Lady Maryland

Our fathers did not live like us
Upon a vessel fixed by mind,
Decorum in their narrow eyes
The trading of a life for life,
Consuming of the tide
In all its intricate and swelling forms
A passion of flesh released.
Living close to nature, they
Knew no sin in killing,
But kept all life in living it.

We, of nature now so tamed,
And indolent on the living water
Take for play their outward form
Of motion, from wooden hulls
To the slap of bleaching sails,
Their faces, we hope, our own
Their hearts were something more
Both savage and content.


Copyright 2004 by David King.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

When They Study An Artist

An amazing painter.........
she was
an artist to the bone
with an artistic flair
for seeing women of the world
not only
for their physical beauty
but their inner charm as well...
A gallery showcasing her work
draws you in........
Painting after painting
hanging on the walls
Glowing countenances of women
from the U.S.
from China
from Haiti
from the Ukraine
and many more......
women and their stories
very alike
and yet...
very different.....
Standing and looking at each one
gazing into their eyes.......
sparkling blue,
flashing green,
a soft, doe like brown.........
wondering what it is that they see each day
as they go about their lives
what they encounter.......
how they deal with it.......
are they in pain......
or full of joy?
how sensual are they.......
do they have the love of their lives.....
or are they just going through the motions......
what's on their minds when
they go to bed at night.......
when they get up in the morning......
when they look in a mirror........
when they study an artist
who is studying them.........?

Copyright 2004 by Phyllis Johnson.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Marriage Lines

There was a time before we met,
When moments existed
Without us.
Then like butterflies in the wind
We touched.
Our wings set the molecules in motion.
Strangers dancing around each other,
Aching for what the other could give,
Fearful for what would be taken.
A thin line drew us together,
Like a spider spinning her web
In the dark corner hoping to
Trap the juiciest fly, chew, swallow,
Digest, excrete and begin again.
Sucking the juice from one another
We wove dreams into illusion,
Till the web broke and neither had the
Will to mend.
Now I design a solitary mandala,
A place for me to sit
In the centre.
You, my ancient love,
Are still spinning lines to trap,
And finding you have only caught
Yourself begin again.
But the design is losing its integrity
And I am too far away to care.


Copyright 2004 by Helen Eden.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

The Birds

There was an ebb and flow
to the flight of birds overhead
dark shapes against an azure sky
creating patterns
once, an unmistakeable
string of diamond shapes
formed by flapping bodies
flowing first this way,
then that.......
changing again.......
some of them flying left
others flying to the right
then seemingly forming
a constellation pattern
nearly making
the Big Dipper...
then another shape
moving so gracefully
so in sync
so sensually
as though nothing else
in the world
even existed........


Copyright 2004 by Phyllis Johnson.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Days by the Sea

We, called to return,
    look seaward:
water and horizon touch.

Gold pools of summer bright
    lap at the rocky shore.
Loneliness gathers at our feet.

From where we came,
    shall we return in fire;
water calls us home.


Copyright 2004 by Peter A. Stinson.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

REFLECTION

Looking at my father's face, I must confront
my own mortality. I marvel at his silver hair,
the wrinkled skin, his blue Paul Newman
eyes that sparkle still. Antiquity has stolen Dad.

Although insurance tables tell me he's
in overtime, and my clock's running down,
I don't feel so old. It's like a jug of water
leaking. I'll bet a bigger jug would make
no difference. Suppose instead
of eighty, the tables topped a hundred
sixty years. My wife's dad died
at eighty-five, but he had failed to live
a day past twenty-five. But then,
I've read about a Russian guy who lived
a hundred thirty-three, still active
to the end. Dad's raised three
of us pretty well successfully,
outlived two wives, and married
a third; he's traveled some and saved
enough to live a comfortable retirement.
That must say insurance tables don't
mean much -- just tell how fast the average
jug will leak, but not how well a life's been lived.

I look again into my father's face, smile,
and wonder at his silver hair, his aging skin,
and blue, defiant eyes still full of expectation.
I splash hot water and smear the lather,
then lift the razor to my cheek and chin.



Copyright 2004 by Pete Freas.
See also The Mindworm website.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

'48 Hudson

We, the impermanent ones,
Who are doomed to a life of going
And coming, day to day
And hour to hour wearing away,
Find in objects a brief salvation.

We found the article one day
In the Asbury Park Press,
"48 Hudson 4-DR, ST 8, green,
Good condition, 5000 miles,
Needs new tires and a battery."

I went with dad on Saturday
And met an ancient woman, hardly
Able to read the key tag.
The car was there beside
Rotted sea tackle and a pipe rack
In the garage out from the house.
"It's sat eight years," she said,
But I could never stand to sell it.
Henry loved it and kept it to himself.
No one but him drove it, till he died.
A heart attack. So sudden. It
Reminds me of him and I could not
Bear to part with it. Here, take the keys."

We renewed the oil, bought
Five tires, and a battery. It
Ground, kicked on the third turn,
Roaring back to life. "For fifty dollars
And a form it's ours!" We drove
Toward the Delaware and
Motored on, passing winding
Farms and pale, still horses. Ripe hay
Lolled in the idle summer.

As we drove, a strange scent
Grew and filled the car,
Tobacco fumes from a long dead
Pipe and man.
We stopped and found a leather pouch
Under the seat frame, eight years forgotten.
Dad looked and put it back.
Then we turned toward home.

Are there
Places where tobacco fumes
And a faded green car will take you?


Copyright 2004 by David King.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Madrid 3rd March 2004

Once again the hand of terror invades all our lives.
Pages run red with blood
Names and faces I have never seen
Never known
Become familiar across the borders of our world.
News at ten, news at six
24 hours the news breaks across the screen
The horror of the massacre.
In such a short time the bombs took their toll of life.
Children returned home from school
No parents to meet them,
Friends lost forever, only the shreds of clothing
To suggest a life once lived.
Today we hear the latest victim a seven month child,
Patricia.
Father already dead, mother dying.
What is this world we have created?
I feel it escalating into chaos
I fear the journey we are on is a downward one
And I am part of it.
Is it so hard to stand in the light
That we prefer to walk in darkness?
Is it so frightening to believe
That we are beautiful powerful souls
Incarnated to care for this planet
That we prefer to inflict pain and suffering
On ourselves and others?
Is it so impossible to stop the hatred
In our own hearts?
I see a wake up call in the images in the papers
Bodies ripped open right down to the bone
A call to reach out across boundaries
To break open my own fettered heart
We take to the streets with our banners
We cry out in our anger and pain
We beg that our voices be heard
Please! Let this never happen again.


Copyright 2004 by Helen Eden.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Brian Boru

Brian from the crags and trees of Banba
Came to the throne of his long-dead fathers
After years of struggle with the Northmen,
Defeating ringed armor and sharp helms
With uncertain, steady force of valor,
Was at last defeated by hunger, hollow
Of belly and unsteady of hand
Though his mind burned with freedom like a fever.

Burned the dream of freedom, the vision
Of days long past, when the land was ruled
By men who rose as the sun rose and set as
The moon falls among rushes. These shadows
Are as firm as courage, as strong as the will.

No matter that pain and death follow this,
that the flesh can not endure what the mind
demands day upon day, year upon dreary year.

The River Shannon flows with dark water
to the sea, runs with rippled stirrings among
the pools of mirror-still motion, reflecting
the sky darkly, as if day were night. Pale
musings of the shadow of thought, of the
stirrings of desire, wait. Men, too, sleep
until the dawn rises and the sun appears.

Many years and many men will die at the hands
of conquerors, killed in battle or hanged
in their garden trees, left to rot like fish
on the shore until dry, dead eyes stare aimlessly.
But the dream never slackens, the hope never wanders,
for the old ones are with us, their shadows remember
the summer with green hills and free winds,
for the time of the future and the time of the past are one.


Copyright 2004 by David King.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Flood

The rains fall forever
Or so it seems.
I should build an ark,
I thought,
Watching the melancholy
Drizzle against the glass.
That's what I would do
If I was Noah and God spoke to me.
But I am not
And He doesn't
So I sit and watch.
The tides rise.
The rivers overspill into homes
That belong to other people.
Faces on the news,
Holding a single prized possession ,
Rescued from the debris,
To take with them
Into a new day.
And I wonder.
What would I take with me
Should that new day come
And the rains stop
And the waters recede?
What will I carry
That I treasure
From the flood?


Copyright 2003 by Helen Eden.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Raw Beauty

To some it would look
only like a black heap
but there was something beautiful about it
gazing at it from the car
in the darkness
there was something
almost mesmerizing
graceful rounded mounds
of black coal
promising energy yet spent
over which beams of light
cascading down
created a hazy
filtering in white
showcasing
beauty in a raw form........


Copyright 2004 by Phyllis Johnson.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

The Barachois*

Here we do not seek the sea,
for it a level presence, beyond
persuasion, cold and articulate
in motion like the sinking
of a dark moon, impossible
to touch, but for the briefest
stroke.

            Instead, we find the lakes,
sun-warmed and glistening, between
the patches of tuckamore and flattened
rocks that radiate yellow light. We
see in their shallows the perfect
melting of form and idea,
the blue-pocked water reflecting
bare, circled suns.

On their banks,
people listen to the sea, distant
by a thought, and wait for the
revelations easiness offers in
the intricacies of warmth. Maybe,
we plunge into its sheltered depths,
translucent water streaming from us,
and shudder at the hints of coolness
below the turquoise surface.

Oracles could have prospered here,
offering scant words for dull coins,
telling us what we feel in words we
can not sound but as the moon
moves predictably across the
foam-pocked, level ocean;
Telling us again and again
that things have meaning,

that we are.


* As the seawater temperature in Newfoundland is forty-five degrees even in high
summer, locals swim in shallow fresh water ponds which are usually within sight
of the sea or sound.


Copyright 2004 by David King.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Wars

The Old Masters worked
With no more intensity of perfection
Before a vast scene of carnage
Getting each detail of man and beast
Just so in oil and tempera,

Than my brother
Ranked his legions of plastic men
In our room, setting each olive-toned soldier
In such a position that he could fire
But be exposed to no fire on the oaken floor,
Though we didn’t see the need for camouflage,
So each one lay naked and alone.
And, besides, the color itself was wrong;
Every man a naked thumb of dull green
On that flat, waxed surface would
Have been blasted to oblivion by the artillery
Placed commandingly on the looming heights
Of toy chest and bed.

He did better when we found a threadbare carpet,
Making ripples like hills and trenches
In the tangled, thick background,
So the grateful troopers could hunker down
Exposing only their weapons
And the tips of their helmets,
Establishing a field of death without standing out
Like frightened immobile rabbits
In some imaginary meadow, thinking
They are invisible to all-seeing predators.

He would set them in long lines
And curves following the run
Of that day’s terrain from one length of the room
To the corner and then start at some random point
Hammering one side against the other,
All the while making sharp noises
Of shots; some men miraculously missed
In the hail of fire, others mercilessly slaughtered
At the first volley. But one side, usually those
Who held the high ground of the bed, would
Prevail in a field mathematical possibilities,
And find glorious victory.

Plastic faces
Took on no despairing looks of fear,
No mercy was implored, no prisoners
Were taken, though in an hour or a day
The implacable, faceless foes would
Find themselves elbow to elbow with
Those who had fought most bitterly
Against them:

There is no
resurrection from this oblivion,
from the dark necessity to live
again and again.

Copyright 2004 by David King .
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

She moves with water grace

She moves with water grace,
a waterfall in motion
predictable but each moment different,
a twist of movement
each droplet
like the next
but not like the rest
building upon the next,
one after the other.

I could stand under
water washing my soul
each drop bringing sweetness
to my lips.
I want to dive in
stand under
raise my arms high
uplift my face
be enveloped in wet sweetness.

Copyright 2004 by Peter A. Stinson.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Two hours after midnight

Your lips,
  pursed and puckered;
a blush on your cheeks
  soft with youth.
The light
  tender and gentle.



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

Jazz and Poetry

Jazz and poetry
hits me like arctic air,
a bite across the calm waters,
breath stolen and cheeks brushed cold.
Shipyard lights reflect in the black shadows,
the dull roar of city life
deadened by winter’s chill;
scent of fireplace smoke
takes the edge off.

I can only imagine,
the warmth of your southern breath,
flame of desire,
a tenuous flickering,
heat seeking heat,
body seeking body,
a goddess watching over me,
eternity still

all cocooned in the melody
of the wind,
jazz and poetry wrapped together,
heat building.


Copyright 2004 by Peter A. Stinson.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

The Cricket Box

A Southern Christmas Poem

Cool as bunny paws in a winter's snow
old as a horn that missed its cue
the old cricket box sat
kissed by midnight
until its brassy sheen
had grown to a darkened hue.

It sang a song of winters long ago
of innocent young maidens
and their courting beaus.
It sang of cold winter nights
by the kernel spitting hearth
as it soaked the warmth like a sponge.

Oh, for days gone by
for winter nights, for winking eyes
for crescent moons and twinkling stars in the skies,
for frozen ponds and taffy pulls
and laughter in the air.
for days gone by.

For Christmas nights under a harvest moon
and front porch swings and swarm
carolers singing to a cricket's tune.
for city folk that yearn with passion plea...
that again shall come that feeling of
Christmas country,
with mint fresh air
and swirling snowflakes everywhere
as yuletide fall
with cricket call
oh cricket box.



Copyright 2004 by Phyllis Johnson.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Deinstitutionalization

They made me leave
The church too soon
Again this morning.
I left at seven,
Already hungry, wanting to stay a while and pray.
God knows I need to.
"Come back at noon for sandwiches," the man said. Baloney.
"Baloney and cheese," he said.

They give each of the men
Two sandwiches at midday.
So many men shuffling
Reaching up in helplessness and shame
Reaching up to a tiny open window, each for his two baloney sandwiches
With no mayonnaise and no lettuce,
Then trying hard to keep studying what's left of his shoes.

But I'll be too hungry at noon for just two slices of bread -- too hungry
For baloney
With no mayonnaise.

Oh my God it's starting again.
The fear
That makes my hands and feet hurt every time.
My mind a set of wheels that's left the track, now flying,
Going a hundred and forty miles an hour, even more,
Threatening my mind with its own insanity, as I just try to drive the thing
Coming at me with rage and fury I can't hope to control.

My belly an angry, a ravenous, really ugly cat,
Hissing at me furiously, angrier now than before,
Telling me all day and all night that I need to eat need to eat need to eat.

My corduroy dress
Is dirty now,
Shapeless and worn out,
It had a hem once; the dress and I were proud, neat and pretty together.
I loved wearing that dress
That's a now a torn blanket I wear to cover me.

Adhesive tape holds my glasses almost together,
My short hair shaggy and ugly and long,
Loafers worn sideways, now useless,
No wonder children are afraid of me.
Oh my God the children are afraid of me.
Just how does one ever change such a thing as that?
How does one make such a thing no longer so?

Fear becomes terror,
And terror's now anger; now deep down angry rage.
And I myself am the terror. I'm the rage; I'm the terror,
Rage and terror are who I am and they're what I am.
Neither leaves me; I never stop being what or where or who I am.
All that I am, I'm bound here by life and by necessity,
Having no money at all, and no decent way to get money,
I can't just stop being here where I am
And go where life is good.

But now I'll find a way to
Get myself some chili -- or a plate of meatloaf
Or something equally beautiful.
Maybe I can do that; I mean I absolutely have to.
This looks like a spot. This corner will maybe work for something good.
People hurrying by seem happy to be going where they're going.

"Excuse me Sir, excuse me, Ma'am,
Do you have a couple of dollars to spare
That maybe you don't really need?
Something you've maybe sort of tossed into one of your pockets?
A dollar or two you could give me,
So that I'll be able to keep on living, too?
I'm just so absolutely, so totally, really unbearably, hungry"

"But thank you both so much! The world's a better place now,
At least it is for me, and that's all
Because of you two. Blessings on you both forever!"

I wish I could never again get hungry, never have to be humiliated and beg again.
I'd never ever ask for money from strangers, if I could just find a way.
But I'll get hungry again for sure. I'll have to beg again.

I wonder if that church
Will let me in again tonight so I can hope to sleep there again.
I want a home of my own so bad so bad so bad.
I was brought up in a family -- well brought up and truly educated once,
Always, especially, to live and run a well-kept home of my own.

But that can never be -- will never be for me to have a home,
Sleep every night in my own bed.
I'm the woman I've become.
But there must be some sort of reason
My life's now the painful, angry, ugly thing it is.
There just must be some reason. I keep wishing I knew.




Copyright 2004 by Diana Allen Strelow.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

An Ode to Rap

They can't be bothered with grammar or phonics;
ain't nothin' wrong with talkin' ebonics.
They word up a rap, monophonic
to music nowheres near harmonic.
Some play da gangsta, act demonic,
show off a gun and break sardonic.
Their fans won't think that they're moronic
'cuz most of 'em are catatonic.
Most got no talent and it's ironic
that they get rich off their histrionics.

I'm sure the world will never hear
a rap that comes remotely near
to a metered line, crisp and clear,
that holds the English language dear.
A poet elicits a sigh, a tear,
or a thought to cherish and revere.
A lilting verse that brings you cheer
when read aloud to please the ear,
or the little jest that you see here,
a poem is a gift, sincere.

The differences between a rap and a poem?
They're obvious but some don't know 'em.
Rapping is talking with rhyme, not reason,
but words have souls and the poet frees 'em.


First published in Poem Kingdom, 2002.

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