Read Poetry: MY SWEET HELL, by Christopher Rosana

Fair, freakish, faithful,

Fabulous, forceful, fierce,

Fiery embers laced upon the bond closely made, eye to eye,

Forceful, ah irresistible, desires of the calm evoked,

Fastidious, detail and detail of my stares, your gazes, elicited by the mystery of you,

Foment my fears to their demise, sweet betide even with painful salty tears,

Folksy, though unseen, I see the paradise in your eyes,

Fasten your weird self upon mine own, see me true for yours to own,

Finding what hitherto unfound, camp at my fiendish straits; unleash your fierce,

Fire, fire, fire, though I may burn, I burn not truly for am only warming me up,

Fire, Hell, inferno, you bring, a better sweet to the cold indifferent docile others be,

Tis not hell you bring, not truly, tis warmth that burns all of my winterish fears when away you are,

Tis not hell you bring, truly, tis flowery beauty of you

This is the hell you bring, a hell that isn’t hell, but sweet.

BIG BUTS, Poetry Reading by David Creighton

Performed by Geoff Mays

POETRY 7 questions:

1) What is the theme of your poem?

It’s a look at unconditional love, and whether that truly exists.

2) What motivated you to write this poem?

I like humorous poems with a twist at the end. This time, the twist even surprised me. It came from nowhere, a sharp shift to the theme, but far superior, I thought.

3) How long have you been writing poetry?

Since grade school, but only seriously for about five years.

4) If you could have dinner with one person (dead or alive), who would that be?

I’d choose someone alive. Eating with a dead person would put me off my food. Oh wait, you said “who” not “which.”

Seriously, I think I’d like to eat with one of the oldest people in the world. Just so I can hear memories of times on the verge of being lost forever, and hope to preserve them in some small way.

5) What influenced you to submit to have your poetry performed by a professional actor?

I wanted a fresh take on my work and I know how important it is for all manner of artists to help and support each other.

6) Do you write other works? scripts? Short Stories? Etc..?

Oh yes. I write short stories, flash fiction, I write for games and occasionally blog.

7) What is your passion in life?

Imagination. I saw “The Muppet Movie” as a child and, ever since, I’ve wanted to be a lover and a dreamer rolled up into one “me.”

HANGER ANGER, Poetry Reading by David John Shafer

Performed by Geoff Mays

Get to know the writer:

1-Theme of poem?

Koyaanisqasti.

2-Motivation to write it?

The Muse.

3-How long have I been writing poetry?

My whole life really, I started when I was maybe 13 and I’m 28 now.

4-Dinner with one person (dead or alive), who would it be?

Probably Buddha.

5-What influenced me to submit to have my poetry performed by a professional actor?

I need the exposure if I’m going be an established poet. Also I do find something interesting about the idea of seeing a professional read my work and seeing that go out, seeing other people see that and maybe be affected, be moved perhaps.

6-Do you write other works? Scripts? Short stories? Etc.?

Totally. I write all kinds of different stuff, but mainly poetry and songs/song lyrics, particularly rap songs. I also write a lot of comedy sketches, jokes, and bit ideas.

7-Passion in life?

Serving the Muse as best I can. Creating great art.

Read Poetry: Bardsong I, by Adam Callahan

daily-poem.com

In open sea, in timeless hour,
A legend sails against the winds;
Its speed is its defining pow’r;
It flies far from its many sins.

She’s captained by a forlorn soul,
A lonely man with heart most true,
Whose stalwart ship does pitch and roll
Unbreaking in the wat’ry zoo.

They ’round the world have ever fled,
And, seldom seen in realms of men,
His kin and hers assume them dead
And neither pine for new brethren.

Beknownst to few, the tragic pair
Run with empathic anima;
They sail in oceans rough and fair,
The Captain, and Virgilia.

Once, long ago, they did make port:
A city known only in song
Awaited them; its King’s great court
Invited trav’lers to belong.

There pillars tall and arches wide
Surrounded guests from far and near;
Musicians played, and dancers tried
To win someone for to hold dear.

Amidst the court, in stony chair,
The King looked o’er his happy lot;
And on his right there stood so fair
His daughter, Princess Khama’at.

Her copper skin gleamed as the day’s
Last light wore thin; her figure soft
Did draw the Captain to her gaze;
Her chin she held just so, aloft.

The King was jolly, for that he
Had vanquishéd the Ancient Wyrm;
He called for songs of bravery,
So none would doubt his courage firm.

“Ye bards and players, young and old!
Sing! Tell the tale of how your King
Did tame the beast, break ope its mold,
And send it to its reckoning!”

The players nodded, sang a tune
Of godly deeds, adventures grand,
And told the tale of Elderrune,
The blade that made the dragon’s brand.

And all the while, the Captain watched
The Princess, clad in cloudy white,
Whose eyes stared back, as arrows notched
In bows of yew, as stars of night.

As firelight grew around the place,
So’t flickered on the raven hair
Of Khama’at; and, too, her face
Did glow like flames in the night air.

The Captain, fixéd on her eyes,
Mov’d through the crowded palace-ground;
To meet her, he assumed the guise
Of rev’ler, and so, through he wound.

When fin’ly he did reach the throne,
He gazed up at this masterpiece
Of gods: this woman, she alone,
Did make the light itself increase.

More beautiful was she than he
Imagin’d from across the way;
So strong, yet delicate was she;
He knew not what to do or say.

When, looking up to her, he found
His stare returned: fair Khama’at,
Intrigued by strangers from around
The great wide world, had his gaze got.

She put a finger to her lips—
A warning, but a friendly one—
She gestured t’ward the bay of ships
Then looked away, their contact done.

The Captain, unsure what to do,
Did turn around and head out past
The dancers and the players too,
Through heavy doors of iron cast.

And for a moment he, confused,
Sat down upon a bench of stone
Out in the garden; and he mused
While he was sitting all alone.

When, just before he stood to go,
Sweet Khama’at, as if a bird,
Did glide into the flower’d row,
And ask if she might have a word.

“Dear gentleman, thou’ve traveled far,
Pray tell what stories thou’ve beheld!
Thou come from und’r a dif’rent star,
Thy tales must be unparalleled.

“I knew when I did see thee that
Our paths had crossed as fate saw fit;
Now ope mine eyes, fair sailor, at
The end of twilight’s redly wit.”

The Captain, caught off-guard, began
To tell of sagas from his home;
He told her how he these days ran
Each long day under sunny dome.

But he could not tell stories long,
For stars began to twinkle bright,
And in the Princess’ eyes a song
Of old reflected back their light.

A goddess she must be, he thought,
For naught else could be so divine
As Khama’at; and so he sought
To pray their fates might more entwine.

“Fair Princess: true, I’ve travelled far,
And have beheld a lengthy tale,
But never have I seen a star
That would not next to you grow pale.”

And Khama’at, without a sound,
Stood tall and offered out her hand;
The Captain and she walked around
The garden to the beach of sand.

Then lusty moon arose and smiled
On the unlikely pairing there;
The salty waves became less wild,
For that the pair could list’n and share.

Fair Khama’at spoke quietly
Of royal conquests she had seen,
Of realms exotic, far and free,
Of mystic places she had been.

The Captain told of oceans deep,
The likes of which he’d sailed with ease,
The way he saw the heavens weep
Into the vastness of the seas.

And closer they unceasing grew,
As if made to by providence;
Somehow, the man and woman knew
That destiny was coming hence.

They laughed and cried under the sky,
Assisted by the very hours:
Time itself seemed to ne’er go by,
And stars rained over them in show’rs.

The very constellations now,
Were smiling, each drawn to the sight
Of lovers young knowing not how
They, destined, met this perfect night.

The pair looked to the happy moon,
And then into each other’s eyes,
And laid upon the sandy dune
Embracing ere the sun did rise.

The night conspired to never end,
But morning light began to glow;
The Sun so prideful thought to lend
Its brighter face to friend and foe.

For foe did thence appear, unbid:
The King, amidst his royal guard,
Had sent out search when find he did
Khama’at’s room, empty, unbarred.

“Stand, whelp!” He ordered, fierce as fire,
“Wherefore hast thou lain with my child,
The Princess? Your sin, runt, is dire!
Your punishment will not be mild!”

The Princess stood, far taller than
Her father King had ever seen;
She took aback the fat old man
With teary eyes, both cold and mean.

“Oh, Father, why must you persist
To hide me like a little girl?
I am full-grown; now, spare your fist,
And sheath your blade; your hand, uncurl.”

The King was struck; he hadn’t known
His daughter ever to speak back;
And so, he struck back with a tone
He’d often used when on attack.

“Fair daughter mine, thou’ve broke mine heart,
And now, for his sin, so thou’ll pay.
Guards! Take them, one from oth’r, apart!
The gods will rue this sinful day.”

Khama’at, brave, took action then;
She grabbed the Captain by the hand,
And ran like wind t’ward last haven:
The harbor, and escape from land.

The King demanded, from uphill,
His guard to fire upon the man
Who’d stolen his sweet child, to kill
The thief who, with his riches, ran.

So arrows flew; but Destiny
Allowed the pair to safely get
To ship; the two were nearly free—
But kings not oft forgive a debt.

He ordered for a second round
Of shafts sent at the haughty sot;
One fin’ly hit, its target found:
But not the Captain—Khama’at.

The King cried out, but all too late:
The arrow hit its mark; he fell
And cursed the gods who’d used as bait
A sailor for his line to quell.

And Khama’at, in death’s embrace,
Did breathe a last word to the mate
Who’d held her close and touched her face,
Who’d shown her love with help of fate.

“Sweet sailor, go. And with you bring
The memory of what we shared:
This night of love, a wondrous thing;
So few die having loved and cared.

“Go. Take your ship, and leave me here;
The gods will carry me away.
You needn’t worry, merely steer;
And find me in the light of day.”

With that, the Princess closed her eyes.
The Captain, list’ning, lifted sail.
The guards turned ‘way from their King’s cries.
The morn did hide ‘neath teary veil.

Yet, as he pulled away from shore,
The Captain saw angelic light;
Khama’at’s body was no more,
Her soul was lifted, high and bright.

He felt a warmth upon his brow,
And knew the Princess left the earth;
But she would e’er be with him now,
As light; he’d solely know its worth.

Far in the sky, this new-wrought star
Did find its place in heaven’s realm;
And so the Captain travelled far
Ever aligning star and helm.

And always does the Captain chase
The star he knows is his to find;
One day, he’ll see his lover’s face
Once more, at last, when death is kind.

Until then, he will ever sail,
A never-ending quest; his lot
Is to reach the end of his tale,
Where he will find his Khama’at.

Read Poetry: The Struggle, by RJ Britten

Genre: Personality

Imagine for a moment a room filled with creative people.

You know the types, the real creative people.

The ones who wear their personality out loud.

The ones who have messy hair or even colour it purple, and perhaps have shoes that match or

A bright multicoloured outfit catching your eye causing you to stop and consider

Why?

Then there’s me.

Plain old simple me, who,

walks into the same room,

With my plain clothes, short styled hair and a slight smile to cover what’s happening inside.

You see,

I’m a hyper creative, a real hyper creative.

If I was to allow myself to let loose what’s inside, I would feel a little scared you see,

It’s my creativity.

Untamed and wild like a dust storm of ideas engulfing a traveling caravan of thoughts,

Whilst swimming deep down

into rich blue pools of water inside my own soul as a ravenous feeder, who’s not quite content until he’s well and truly full.

If I was to let loose my creativity,

I would feel a little lost you see.

It can be lonely out here,

Rolling on an ocean of artistry at the perils of my own self identity.

So I find myself hiding, not showing off my person but telling of my being, quietly.

So maybe there will be a day when, I feel it’s ok to let loose a taste of colour, to wear a shirt that shouts loud enough for all to hear, but until then,

I’m just content to be plain old simple me.

– RJ Britten

Read Poetry: Pain is my anchor, by anonymous.

Genre: dark/depression

Pain is my anchor to life

I believe there is no truth in joy

That sorrow is our reality

The most alive I have ever felt is when my heart aches and my insides try to pull at my soul

Trying hard to sever ties with life..

Sorrow is not an absence of joy,

It is intoxicating and rich, like old wine..

It is the womb of creativity

I feel high in this low

Nothing but my body , my pain is real

All the times I had ever laughed, had “fun”, they were illusions

Like magic tricks, fascinating but false and hollow…

Pain is what helps us see through the fog of fake friendships, empty promisses, forgotten lovers, fallen heroes..

Pain is , the essence of life

Rich and intoxicating , like old wine.

Read Poetry: Hate Groups by Gladys W. Muturi

Genre: Peace, Humanity, Social Commentary

Dear Hate Groups

Why do you hate us?

What have we done to you?

Are we your targets to get rid of or grow attention from the media

I am woman made not to hate

I have a child, an innocent child who doesn’t understand the world yet.

You say, “Black Lives Matter is a terrorist group” and yet

Unarmed black men and black women get shot by police officers and get away with murder

While We get blame for crimes we didn’t even do

Can’t we just get along?

We’re not your enemies

We’re your friends

We don’t have to fight

Let’s teach our children to love not to hate

If it weren’t for God, he would’ve never created us in different colors

Can’t we just be kind?

There’s no need to fight

Let’s endure each other

Embrace each other

Give hugs and kisses to each other

Sing Kumbaya in perfect harmony

Accept each other whether we’re black or white

Can’t you see? The Point is….

The world is different, we’re different

Love,

A Human who loves Humans

Read Poetry: COLD SONGS, by Olabisi Akinwale

It’s the secret of life
To die, with blood flowing in your veins
.
We lost a sister to the songs in her throat
We knew she would not survive the whips
From nights when the moon burns her pride to ashes
And days when the sun mocks the radiance in her eyes
.
On many faces are birds with broken nest
Flying to the ends of the earth- where death is the only hope of
bodies, running from their own body
.
Somewhere in this verse
Is a boy burning with cold fire into strange tongues
His father was the man you met on your way home- walking on his head
The man you saw numbering his days, with sad numerals
The man who said God exist only in fictions, forklores, and in non
existing worlds
.
Life is a sorcerer, her languages are too complex to be spoken by
women, yet to die with their seeds growing in them
.
This song are the dirges
– in the mouths of boys who murdered themselves and ran away
– girls, in the confluence where blood and history met
– in the tales of a father with ten sons, having none
– mothers, seeking the life in a world different from theirs
.
There’s a voice calling you home in poems like this
Skate on their surfaces- it’s god’s art in dark places
.
© Olabisi Abiodun Akinwale
Undiluted Poet
#UndilutedPoetry