Category: poet

Read Poetry: On Reflection, by Nupen Oldhand

I was raised in narrow alleys between tower-blocks of convention.

Not even the streets and avenues were for my attention.

Just those alleys, New York-like, rubbish strewn, cabbage-aired, concrete and cobbles uneven.

The whirr of air-conditioning, smell of fast-food, and the certainties of both God-fearer and heathen.

Just once in a while, bursting forth into the sunlight, wide streets and avenues intersected.

Bright lights, success, and the beautiful people attracted.

Not for me, though. I didn’t even try to stray.

Preferring my defined certainty to the risks of a better way.

I have no-one to blame for where I am. Or perhaps I do.

Does blame transcend the generations for me and for you?

How much of what we are is really what we are? Truly our own clay?

Or are we just versions constrained by circumstance and inherited DNA?

But those tower-blocks, surely they were not of my doing.

The ‘put your cutlery down between mouthfuls’ and fifteen times chewing.

The constraints of proscribed thought and the wilderness of rebellion.

Stern judgement of those who spurned convention.

A quiff, modest to the point of invisible.

Condemned by words harsh and a tone risible.

Errors examined and exposed for the world to see,

A need for blame accountable, set on the balance sheet of me.

Religion supported this threat of retribution,

Guilt and fear with an all-knowing God of attrition.

Waiting to add the columns of good and bad.

Punishing the crimes and the pleasures I never had.

So, we conform, or at least I conformed, until I could conform no longer,

Struck out at a time when weak despair made me briefly the stronger.

I enjoyed the pleasure of overcoming shame,

Of love, and joy, and disregarding blame.

But soon those cavernous alleys returned and comfort from a new ordinary prevailed,

For that was my lot before my aging body ailed.

Two cracks at the whip and a wealth of experience,

Living in the past a new deliverance.

Breaking away from parental strictures to my own choice of constraint,

I am where I am, no cause for complaint.

 

My life draws on, the days counted off

from a secret calendar that I have no sight of,

And when it is done, no more bed-making and showering,

an end to the false dawn of passed sell-by-date flowering.

Will they say, ‘he sought vainly for recognition and fame’,

Or will they look in disbelief, barely recalling my name?

Gone in a generation, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

Achievements, precious few, rarely praised, often cussed.

So I reflect positively, because that’s my prerogative,

But the memory of others is more likely pejorative.

If your rightful desire is a modicum of immortality,

start now. Don’t leave it like me to imminent finality.

 

 

 

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Read Poetry: PATHS TO RESERVATIONS, by Sandra J. Hookham

Genre: Native American (historical)

 

PATHS TO RESERVATIONS

 

Many, many decades now reversed,

“We the people…” feebly put ashore

Trembling ships from seas accursed,

With tattered sails and rats galore.

 

Each drew an icy, mournful breath

For rations gone and malady to show,

Appearing doomed to certain death

In winter’s barren bungalow.

 

But then a man so strong and kind

—Standing proudly—called us brother;

And by his fire we warmly dined,

Accepting largess from another.

 

We ate his food to give us strength,

Even quaffed strong medicine for ills,

Wholly dependent through winter’s length,

And viewed the rewards that help instills.

 

But we learned no lessons I’m afraid

—From those compassionate and selfless ways—

For we did scoff and laughingly upbraid,

While plundering their sunlit turquoise days.

 

We robbed this land and pushed them out,

Stripping its resources and killing the game;

Then from booms of ridicule—a victory shout,

To hide the squander and the shame.

 

Gone by our rash and thoughtless vows

Are those massive forests of pine,

That once combed the air with richly scented boughs,

Leaving it clearly pure, vital and benign.

 

In their stead rise fallow stones

And scattered prickly ash,

Where tempest-charged winds dry out the bones

That roaring floods did smash.

 

A promise was granted to the Ojibway—

That if their tribesmen now behaved,

Upon this land they might stay

And not to reservations be enslaved.

 

Naïve and sad they trudged along:

Believing the pledges that were given;

In search of kinsmen who did us wrong,

Since once again they were being driven.

 

They have their reservations now,

Where the land is harsh and rough;

And we have ours, while heads we bow,

Listening to voices that cry, “Enough.”

 

But down through history one thing is for sure,

And like it or not we all know it is true,

That things never stay quite the same as they were—

That the earth and her children must begin life anew.

 

The pendulum of time takes a mighty swing

To right the wrongs that have been done

—To change the course of freedom’s ring—

And the backward thrust has just begun.

 

So please be patient my sovereign friends,

For there is good in every race;

You know the strongest tree is the one that bends,

And things will change by God’s good grace.

 

The white man’s greed took this land

By deceit and brutal attack;

Yet “Indian Gaming” extends a welcome hand—

And the white man’s greed will give it back.

 

—Sandra J. Hookham

 

 

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Read Poetry: Phantom Limbs, by Cheryl Glickauf-Hughes

Passion recalled like 
phantom limbs 
Like heroin, 
the first one is free. 
 
 
Do you Loki 
promise 
mere illusion? 
Don Quixote didn’t care 

 

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Read Poetry: SOUL MATE, by Chuck Loch

We were standing in your kitchen

A long, long time ago.

I looked in your eyes and you into mine

And we felt the same fire glow, again,

We both felt the same fire glow.

 

You leaned against the counter.

I sat in a straight-back chair.

We talked of kings and rings and things.

I reached out and touched your hair, so soft,

I reached out and touched your hair.

 

You mentioned the smell of breakfast

And told me you lived before.

I said I know I was with you.

Now, it’s time to live some more, right here,

It’s time to live some more.

 

I remembered we were lovers.

More facts I did not know.

Together then, now together again,

You whispered it’s time to go, once more,

You whispered it’s time to go.

 

Some say that life has a meaning:

To find your own true love,

To travel with her together, forever,

All over the earth and above.

All over the earth and above.

 

 

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Read Poetry: Peering into Hell, by Karl Larew

Peering into Hell, my friend and I,

We made a pact one day, before a

Fire of Blood,

Before the red abyss of time,

That we would make our time obey–

And the gods laughed at that.

They laughed our hopes away.

But we couldn’t hear–luckily we didn’t

Know–

When we made our pact that day,

Peering into Hell one day,

Peering into Hell

 

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Read Poetry: The Family Farm, by Gerald E. Greene

The funeral ended, I sought solitude,
on petrified planks in his cold, empty barn,
transported to times of memories faded,
when he stood as a giant before childish eyes.
Wooden beams, hand chiseled, fitted together,
by strong arms and tackle, holding framework firm,
through rain storms, blizzards and changes of seasons,
retained in position over two hundred years.
He once stood as I, after grandfather died,
perhaps with emotions similar to mine,
while thinking of soil and its meaning to him,
as he viewed the patina of harvest and sweat.
My life is different, fast paced and hectic,
as lawyer with office, contracts and clients,
in city center, stressful and demanding,
requiring allegiance and greater achievements.
But ancestral echoes grow louder with time,
beckon and chasten the next generation
to honor the past with resolutions new,
so I hear and answer. “I’ll come back to the farm.”

—

Gerald E. Greene

Author Kaleidoscope – A Poetry Collection
Purchase at Amazon.com
See: Short Stories Rated ‘G’ on Facebook

 

 

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Read Poetry: A WIDOW’S STORY, by Terita Buchanan-Moore

He was snatched from my grasp
In the blink of an eye
Tragically taken
By a thief in the night
My soulmate lost his life
In fifteen minutes
I became widowed
No longer a wife
Not by choice though
It was pure evil
Unleashed upon me and my family
Ten years later
Still in disbelief
When buried memories
Begin to surface like a vengeance
From my own remembrance
This past nightmare
Becomes a true reality
Of flashing frame shots
Stomach balled in knots
As I can sadly recall
The worst day of all
How I found him
Laying helplessly in a pool of blood
With gun residue
Scattered on his skin
In a state of shock
I mournfully watched
As my sister tried to revive him
I wish I could have turned back the clock
To the time when he was breathing
and standing right by my side
Alive and well
Moments before
Death decided to knock at our door
Holding on by a thread
I surely thought I would lose my mind instead
Our lives haven’t been the same
Since that unfortunate day
Trying to live on
After a loved one is gone
Is the hardest thing to do
Living life without him
Has been a heartbreaking task to get through
For no one can erase 38 years of his soul’s existence
In a short period of time
As the pain of not physically seeing him again
Leaves a very deep empty hole within
That no man can fill
So many thoughts of where we could have been
Often run through my head
Yet, I press on and remain strong
For I know this is something
I will never get over or understand
Why and how this was written in our life’s plan
Day after day, I’m doing the best that I can
By the grace of God
I’m living proof
As to how the Creator can keep you
During dark horrifying periods
From broken moments to happy spirits
Never thought I could feel again
But I did
No Love will ever match his
As he will be safely tucked away in a special place
In the deeper part of my heart
Forever and for always
Will I cherish those blessed days
I shared with my true love

 

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Read Poetry: Mother and Son by Malik Shakur

 
My Eyes 
are filled with tears 
Knowing each of the steps  
I’ve taken 
We’re steps  
Walking with you 
To the end of your 
Life’s mission.  
Your death   
was always near  
and my soul  
Understood   
The realization  
of your end 
But 
Acknowledging  
The existence  
of your beginning 
Can never be 
a plausible  
Mention  
Without understanding  
the relationship of a mother and son. 
As I look back over  
Our life together  
I am not moved  
by the lack of time 
spent 
But profoundly  
Amazed  
At what I’ve  
Become.  
Because of that 
Their something about the relationship  
between a mother and a son  
That should be noted  
With clarity, 
Acknowledged with praise 
and a keen sense of 
infinite wisdom. 
When a son 
has been raised  
to be a man 
The road  
a mother and son  
travel 
 
 
Will have,  
And has had 
many turns,  
twist,  
hills and valleys. 
For many  
looking at the relationship 
With their noses  
Pressed up against 
the glass 
can only see  
the distance  
between them, 
never seeing 
The reasoning 
Why this  
Relationship must be, 
what it must be. 
A Male child  
has a duty to go out  
Into the world  
and seek his own  
fame and fortune, 
Start a family  
Raise his children 
Instill in them  
Values,  
pride, 
Understandings, 
Responsibilities and 
Their purpose. 
A mothers duty  
is to love that male child  
Believing in him 
nurturing him and hoping he understands 
the sacrifices  
She has  
given, 
Believing  
They will 
Sustain him 
in his times  
of  
trials and tribulations. 
Throughout this Journey 
their desires,  
thoughts,  
beatings of  
 
 
hearts and  
Silent prayers  
Continued  
Until that moment  
When you  
took your last  
Breath 
Felt your last  
Heart beat  
and 
listen to  
the last notes 
of the songs  
a mother and son shared. 
On the date of my birth 
My mother gave me the gift 
Of being her first born child. 
And with this gift  
comes a duty like no other. 
When a queen dies  
it is her first born son  
Whom assumes  
the responsibility of  
Her thrown. 
Without a 
Coronation 
now a king that is thankful to God 
charged 
with keeping  
the faith and family intact 
Adhering  
To the past 
values 
Wisdoms, 
nurturing, 
understandings 
Being principled,  
making sacrifices, 
As she has made 
Before him. 
And regardless  
Of how I feel  
In this moment of grief  
I have a duty  
To honor,  
Be steadfast  
And adhere 
To the dutifulness as a man whom is you son. 
 
 
In the quite hours  
After your death  
Where the exchange  
Of mother and son 
Becomes 
Son, siblings, family and friends 
I know become the head of my family. 
Now that you  
Have passed 
You now get to 
Confer with 
Our 
Ancestors 
and their ancestors  
and their ancestors  
about your life’s 
mission to raise a son, 
Your soul 
has been released 
back from  
Whence it came 
And the  
Carcass we now 
Morn  
Can no longer 
Tie  
Your soul  
To pain  
Sickness  
loss 
Hopelessness 
Anger 
Depression  
and fear. 
We 
Here and now 
collectively 
Share 
A uniqueness  
of time stopping  
Just for a moment  
And will continue  
Tomorrow 
Without  
The presence 
of you smile 
The joy of Your laughter  
The sway of steps 
 
 
and 
The calm in our storms. 
You now get  
To celebrate 
Looking back on your time  
Now past, 
Telling stories 
To your parents,  
Laughing with your  
Friends and siblings,  
Holding a son 
Whom has  
Passed before you 
But 
Always keeping  
a watchful eye 
As the seeds  
of your garden  
Continues to  
Grow,  
Thrive, and live  
The purposefulness 
of a life 
worth living.  
As your family 
We wish you  
A safe passage 
As your son 
I only wish you LOVE. 
 
 
 
Go to Top

 

 

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Read Poetry: Isadore Greely’s Place, by David E Navarro

Ominous beats thump the shutter
my blood throbs, I shudder within
hear the eerie creaks and groans
of stressed parched gray timber floors
and walls with each howling gust pushing
against the rough blanched stone estate,
a dark gabled palace of yesteryear
on the sparse plain midst the tall grasses
dominant within its wrought iron fence
and gnarled tree-lined perimeter,
up the hill separate that looms
above the field of wild grain overgrown.
The musty smell reeks of untold stories
better left in graves to sleep, but rest
escapes me as I lay huddled in the corner
there because my car gave up the ghost
on this chill night that might kill by morn
if I fear to lay in this cold tomb of a place
where a hoary voice breaks the dark shadows
just to simply ask if a fire would suit me.
I jump out of my shaking skin—my heart
drops into my stomach as Isadore Greely,
with glazed orange eyes from the instant fire,
introduces himself with an outstretched
gnarly hand of knuckles, then grins and says,
“No one has visited me in years,”
and intends to be quite a congenial host.

 

 

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Read Poetry: Midnight Horizon, by Barbara Hunt

 Genre: Dark, scary, empowering, unknown, mystery, life

Turning and twisting out of reach
My dreams turn dark my fears unleashed
As I slowly drown in darkness I feel it’s icy touch I squirm trying to stay out of its evil clutches but it’s just not enough
The light of day continues to fade far from my reach
My heart beats fast as at last I finally see this living beast for what it truly is
I embrace it’s tendrils empowered and unafraid my fear fades far away as I dive into the darkness I now find comforting
 

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