Month: April 2021

Obsidian locks, speckled with snow.

A ruffian’s beard, dark as a hidden alcove.

Candle-lit eyes, deep as star stricken nights.

A visage a beauty, an emporium of delights.

Glaciers jut out, slicing the wind;

Those cheekbones of yours, cutting diagonal above chin.

The icy claws of this wintry house,

Leave me needing your touch and wanting your mouth.

Your lithe, svelte body: an image of grace;

Angling the heavens, honouring your face.

Your arms are safe havens, never-ending and strong.

The embraces bestowed are more-some and warm.

Your hands can hold the entire universe,

And balance on your pinky, our own little earth.

You walk among Gods in your towering stance,

As you weave through life, gifting your charming dance.

Genres: romantic, nature, life, love, relationships, peace

She smoothed faint creases from the clean, white square,
placed it across the scarred top, hiding that corner
where the woodgrain splintered and the clumsy repair
still showed ancient traces of our grandfather’s tools.

‘I found it in the shed’ my younger sister said,
‘Had to rescue it before the clearing sale’.
Our Grandmother made scones on this table,
Leaving flour embedded in cracks. I lift the cloth to see…

I recalled other foods, shelled peas, stringed beans,
and the chop chop chopping of tiny purple onions.
Misshapen carrots, potatoes and bunches of salad greens
from garden to table, this table, their table, my sister’s table.

I then remembered another clean white square of cotton.
Standing, eyes level with the tabletop, grandmother beside me,
baby powder scents the air. How could I have forgotten
her changing the baby, clean after a bath, on the kitchen table?

My sister pours a cup of tea, serves scones, dusted with flour,
and I sit in her kitchen, gently letting the years return.
Babies grow, grandparents age, and tables have the power
to let memories be born again.

©Yvonne Gluyas

that it’s always nice to include
a cat
in a poem.

What about
my nonexistent cat should slink into this poem?
I’ll ask it.
It didn’t like the question.
It hissed its answer then
cut with its claw
the only security blanket I own,
my ratty robe, and now
it pooped in
the suitcase I forgot I owned.

I wish I could be comforted by
my nonexistent cat.

I should have explained
why a poem with a cat in it wouldn’t work out,
but did Billy Collins ever listen to me?

—
Author of PRISONER 88 (Charlesbridge)

http://www.leahpileggi.com

He always was the sheep,
Dangling from their hands.
He never felt complete
While waiting for commands.

He holds his rifle tight
Praying for his friends.
He knows they won’t survive,
The battle never ends.

He washes off the blood
Dribbling down his cheek.
He is not really there;
His mind’s trapped in last week.

He keeps that dreadful day
Revolving in his brain.
He cannot block the thoughts;
He’ll never be the same.

He recollects the crash
Burrowing through his ears.
He tries to shut it out;
Their screams are all he hears.

While two of them laid still,
The others squirmed around.
Unscathed yet befuddled,
He scrambled to the ground.

The screams turned to silence,
Tearing away his fears.
While sprawling to his men,
The soldier shed no tears.

Their lives were at his feet,
They huddled from the pain.
He could not dress their wounds,
His men would die in vain.

Now he gazes forward,
Vacant and unaware,
Recycling the moment,
When he was in despair.

Called from active duty,
They honored his control,
Promoting his function,
With power to extol.

He then became the shepherd,
Bestowing the commands.
Who to send to slaughter?
The next victim in his hands.

The creamy slate of our soul lingers
On callous perforated sex crimes
While outside, gods war with sky
To end all beginnings anew.

Peace is a lie in this place
Swirling marvels of cold black nuances
Where are the angels now?

Feel the ugly
The obsidian face
Bearing down on us
Heavy subsidence
Slow weight making heavy our minds
Making heavy our hearts with fat hate.

A ripening fruit to be picked
Then bitten.

Juices flowing between
Tongues and teeth
Tongues and teeth
Tongues and teeth.

Antonyms of frictions
Both delicate and hard
Tearing flesh wide for the tasting
While licking our own wounds.

A subtle paradox
Like and death dancing in the reflection of our lives.

Author – Travis Lemke

I once was a…
Felt like a…
Thought like a…
Did like a…
Talked like…
…someone
Am I still me?

Memories fading,
Buildings fall,
People change,
I see it all.
But why?

I yearn for more…
I feel it.
I hear it.
I see it.
Just through the door.

What are we?
We’ll never know.
A movie without an ending.
A prayer without meaning.
To live…
To dust…
No more.

They think I am.
I think I am.
I know I am.
We think we are.
I know we are.
Who am I?

I shall be,
Can be,
Will be,
Must be,
Or maybe…
I’ll just be.

A thought…
A feeling…
A memory…
A dream.
Flowing down a running stream.

It was.
It is.
It will be.
It shall be.
It must be.
It can’t be.
Fleeting…
Fading…
Faltering…
Rest.

I woke up this morning and opened my eyes.

There was light.

Goodnight.

WHY WAIT FOR SPRING?
LOVE IS CALLING NOW.
WHY WAIT FOR SPRING?

WHY WAIT FOR SPRING?
ROMANCE ISN’T FOUND
ONLY IN SPRING.

LOVE SINGS OF ROMANCE IN NOVEMBER.
ON WHISPERED WIND IT CALLS YOUR NAME.
YOUR NAME, WHEN SUNG ON THE AUTUMN BREEZE,
TURNS AUTUMN TREES TO FLAME.

WHY WAIT FOR SPRING?
LOOK AT ALL THE JOY NOVEMBER CAN BRING.
SPRING MAY BE LATE.
WHY SHOULD YOU WAIT FOR SPRING?

I’LL BRING YOU TULIPS IN DECEMBER.
I’LL COAX THEM THROUGH THE SNOW FOR YOU.
FOR YOU, I’M MORE THAN JUST A MORTAL MAN.
I KNOW I CAN COME THROUGH.
I AM ROMANCE.
GIVE ME THE CHANCE,
AND I’LL BRING THE SPRING TO YOU.

FORGET THE HEARTACHES YOU REMEMBER.
I’LL FIND A WAY TO MAKE THEM GO.
IF YOU TRUST IN ME,
I CAN MAKE IT SO.
SO, DON’T WAIT FOR SPRING.
THERE’S NO NEED TO BE ALONE ANYMORE.
DON’T WAIT FOR SPRING.
WHY WAIT FOR SRING
TO FIND OUT WHAT LIFE IS FOR?

The day I stop giving a fuck
Is the day the fuckers win. Even if
All around me are losing their fucks
And blaming the same fucking thing.

These fucking times we live in
Are the only times we possess
And how history’s proved,
When our fucks are removed,
We end up in the same fucking mess.

You may feel disenfranchised,
A screw in a fucking machine,
But a fuckload of us all giving a fuck
Can at least make the fucker run clean.

Don’t blame generations above you,
Claim their aim is to fucking forsake us,
Mankind survives on fucks supplied
By those who fucked to make us.

But beware the fucks in sheep’s clothing
Who declare only they give a fuck
But who don’t give a fuck about reading the notes
While they’re tearing the rulebooks up.

If you think your fucks don’t make a difference,
That the system remains just the same,
Then some fucker wins through who will fuck over you,
Then you lose your right to complain.

Stop passing the buck,
Let’s pass on our fucks,
Let the age of fuck-giving begin.
The day we stop giving a fuck
Is the day the fuckers win.

A shadow of a man I used to be
A bag of bones brittle and broken you can see
A stray dog would not even nibble upon me

I made it here by the grace of God
It’s the only reason that makes sense to me
The places I used to dwell; Hell bound indeed

Pitiful sorrow drowning in drugs
Swimming in disease if you please
My friends all demons wanting the worst for me
Got their wishes fulfilled you see

A beacon of light through the fog I see
An illusion or lie or could it actually be
A hand of help reaching out just for me

Nothing to lose its all been lost
but this hand I grab and it grabs me
The grip unbreakable as it drags me upon
a raft of hope to a path of light
to save my soul to Serenity Lane

In Kyoto, the hawks circle over Gion
Seeking no prey above the traveled streets
Where the crow unheeded passes cherry trees by.

The steps of Kodai-ji are emptied now,
And clouds close in on Higashiyama’s crests –
In Kyoto, the hawks circle over Gion.

Night rain heavy air drags at the cherry blooms
Flowing down the mountain side to the gate
Where the crow unheeded passes cherry trees by.

Heavy as headstones the stain-shot sky hangs
Over the fir-lined stone block steps up the hill –
In Kyoto, the hawks circle over Gion.

A breeze – squeaking the wet tree tops, waving
The black-ribbed cherry trees, grazes the roofs
Where the crow unheeded passes cherry trees by.

Now down the steps on sandaled feet, seeming
Asleep, a monk comes who does not see how
In Kyoto, the hawks circle over Gion
Where the crow unheeded passes cherry trees by.