Dream Ahead, Poetry by Chris Biscuiti

I will not let them look at you sadly
and I know how you want it so badly
to look at the stars and grab with your hands
to do little boy things your mind commands

Genre: Family, Rhyme, Sadness

Dream Ahead
by Chris Biscuiti

I will not let them look at you sadly
and I know how you want it so badly
to look at the stars and grab with your hands
to do little boy things your mind commands

You will get there son, I can see your will
you’ll ride rollercoasters just for the thrill
we will chant and scream for the New York Mets
when they break our hearts we’ll have no regrets

Today grandpa held you close on the couch
and grandma fed you another fruit pouch
she calls you her peach as you beg for more
mommy lights up as she comes through the door

I read you Goodnight Moon just before bed
as you doze off tonight I dream ahead

About the Poem:

My son Brayden was diagnosed with a rare seizure condition known as Infantile Spasms. He has since been treated and has been seizure free since he was 6 months old.

He is about to be 1 year-old on November 5th, and while he is severely developmentally delayed, we are just so blessed and so lucky to have a happy baby boy.

I wrote this poem about my dreams for Brayden, hopefully in some way this poem could shed some light onto an under-researched, unknown condition that is very serious and can really use the support and awareness that other conditions have.

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Read the best of LOVE Poetry from all over the world

Submit your POETRY to the Festival. Three options to submit:
https://festivalforpoetry.com/

Submit your POETRY to the Festival. Three options to submit:
https://festivalforpoetry.com/

I WISH ONE DAY, by Saiz
http://wildsoundfestivalreview.com/2015/05/24/i-wish-one-day-poetry-by-saiz/

WHAT A WONDERFUL WORLD, by Pyja Jurid
http://wildsoundfestivalreview.com/2015/06/15/what-a-wonderful-world-poetry-by-pyja-jurid-2/

LOVE THIS LIFE, by Buffy Sammons
http://wildsoundfestivalreview.com/2015/05/23/love-this-life-poetry-by-buffy-sammons/

A POEM FOR MOTHERS, by Caleb Owusu
http://wildsoundfestivalreview.com/2015/05/23/a-poem-for-mothers-poetry-by-caleb-owusu/

MY JOURNEY, by Stephen McBride
http://wildsoundfestivalreview.com/2015/05/23/my-journey-poem-by-stephen-mcbride/

HATE ME LIKE YOU LOVED ME, by Mariah E. Wilson
http://wildsoundfestivalreview.com/2015/05/16/hate-me-like-you-loved-me-poetry-by-mariah-e-wilson/

THE EXCEPTION TO THE RULE, by Writer Cornered
http://wildsoundfestivalreview.com/2015/05/16/the-exception-to-the-rule-by-writer-cornered/

FLIGHT OF FREEDOM, by Scott Davis
http://wildsoundfestivalreview.com/2015/05/16/flight-of-freedom-poetry-by-scott-davis/

THE PLACES YOU LISTEN, by Janet Weil
http://wildsoundfestivalreview.com/2015/05/16/the-places-you-listen-for-poetry-by-janet-weil/

IF I BELIEVED IN A GOD I WOULD BE PRAYING, by Megan Holman
http://wildsoundfestivalreview.com/2015/05/16/if-i-believed-in-a-god-i-would-be-praying-poetry-by-megan-holman/

DEAR STRANGER, by Junaid Sallies
http://wildsoundfestivalreview.com/2015/05/15/dear-stranger-poetry-by-junaid-sallies/

YOU SOUND SO DISTANT, by Kela Maswabi
http://wildsoundfestivalreview.com/2015/05/15/you-sound-so-distant-poetry-by-kela-maswabi/

TO BE DESIRED, by Patty Mooney
http://wildsoundfestivalreview.com/2015/05/15/to-be-desired-poetry-by-patty-mooney/

DRIP DRIP DRIP, by CJ Flowers
http://wildsoundfestivalreview.com/2015/05/15/drip-drip-drip-poetry-by-cj-flowers/

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The One Night Stand, Poetry by Carolyne M. Acen

Alone and confused
No written pattern for the previous night
No special one night creed to relate
The price of guilt now marked
on her face, drawn in sheets tainted in sex.

Genre: Regret, Sadness, Lust

The One Night Stand.
by Carolyne M. Acen

Alone and confused
No written pattern for the previous night
No special one night creed to relate
The price of guilt now marked
on her face, drawn in sheets tainted in sex.

Ephemeral, quick to leave!
Awake but in denial to what
happened the previous night.
Memories still fresh like the pathetic
fumes of cigar and cheap alcohol
still lingering in the hotel room
A haunting most sufficient.

Surreal moments lavished in the
arms of a stranger who is used
to dishing out the same tale.
Promises were not made, emotions lingered
Hasty retreats were undertaken and
passions were aflame…
culminating to crazy sex scenes.
Time caught up with their frenzied love
space and spent embraces dissolved.
She must have passed out after all that
alcohol intoxication.

He left without a word
Not a message or address to relate to.
A face almost as familiar as the
taste of Oreos on a cold evening.
Clutching onto torn sheets,
memories painstaking,
bitter truth now embalmed in her nakedness
Time veered on unceremoniously
The sun followed suite unanimously
A quiet reckoning the walk of shame
The hotel dimmed low,
receding as the one night stand.

©Carolyne M. Acen 2015

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A NOU PLACE: My commute, Poetry by Caoimhe O’Neill

There is a woman I pass
Every morning,
Underground in a walkway of Diego de Leon,
She sings the same ABBA song.
Every morning.

Genre: Art, Travel, Commute, Observation, Life, Society

Parte Uno

A NOU PLACE: My commute
by Caoimhe O’Neill

There is a woman I pass
Every morning,
Underground in a walkway of Diego de Leon,
She sings the same ABBA song.
Every morning.

Her voice is impaled by her own poverty,
A voice squealing to ignorant and bustling passers-by.

They have coins slouching in their
Pockets, bags, purses.
But none clinks its way to her.

There is a man when I emerge from the metro at Santiago Bernabéu.
I pass the scooters in their messy rows.
I pass the people of Madrid’s
“Canary Wharf”
With their suits and golden euros.

This man he leans against a pillar,
Everyday, mid-morning I watch his leg laze solemnly as the other props him up.
He smokes, he leans, he smokes, he never leaves and only his clothes and the date changes.

He contemplates or he does not,
all the while his dirtied, beige boots are still.
He is not a beggar like the woman,
despite a scuffed look.

I question who is the most entertaining statue on my morning commute?

I don’t answer,

I do know that my commute will never
Be free from characters,
from still or moving lives,
from man nor woman.

Parte Dos:

CALLE DE ORENSE

People on bikes,
Your Lance Armstrong or Bradley Wiggins types.

People with headphones,
Your Michael Jackson or Leonard Cohen types.

People in cafes,
Your J K Rowling or James Joyce
types.

There are people all over,
in Madrid, Paris, London, Lisbon, Milan

European people who cycle on reckless city roads or glorious mountain pass, who sing and dance, who write with real ink and fashionably sip cappuccinos and peer longingly into a hustling street.

The latter is like me,
Those who write for love
and for dreamy trade.
Some people all the while, do other things.

We are Europeans and living on the mainland
Makes me write with an increased flourish and flair for I belong to this artsy RACE.

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Lines, Poetry by Matt Griesinger

Lines keep us in order.
If we can keep ourselves between the yellow and the white,
pass when it’s dotted and stay patient when it’s solid,
we will arrive at the solemn promise
of shelter from disorder.

Genre: Romance and Relationship

Lines
by Matt Griesinger

Lines keep us in order.
If we can keep ourselves between the yellow and the white,
pass when it’s dotted and stay patient when it’s solid,
we will arrive at the solemn promise
of shelter from disorder.
But that shelter is mythical.
Magical, sure. Practical, maybe. But all the while, hypocritical.
See, the shelter doesn’t exist.
The mythical, seemingly magical, possibly practical, definitely hypocritical shelter
is what new fathers, holding a bundle of six pounds, yearn for,
what cracked out junkies burn for,
what ivory tower academics press you to learn for,
and what once drunken sluts now bored housewives turned for.
The myth of safety in numbers, safety in lines
is pervasive and attractive.
It is invasive and reactive
In nature.
And I don’t mean nature in the form of the waves on the beach.
The waves that destroyed the dunes
and the wooden stairs leading to my house.
The stairs, dampened from perpetual high tides that never returned to low,
that led to a balcony.
In five years, the waves will destroy the stairs.
In ten years, the waves will destroy the balcony.
In twenty years, the waves will still carry the Memory.
The Memory lives on the incalculable shape on each individual wave.
The waves carry no lines, no safety, and no shelter.
They carry the memory of my beautiful blonde running down the stairs.
My beautiful blonde smiling up at me on the balcony.
My beautiful blonde bathed in innocence and swimming with grace.
She is the Memory.
As She walks on the sands,
the commands and demands
of a life in worship
strike repeatedly with the waves.
So when She changes hands, I feel the weight of the laying of the hands
as I realize that while I leave footprints in the sands of time,
She leaves footprints across my soul.
As I leave footprints for forlorn and shipwrecked brethren,
She becomes a veteran of my soul
as She lifts the oppression
and shows me pieces of heaven.
She lives without lines and provides
none for me.
Instead, She divides what I knew and collides two views
as She decides on a life outside the lines.
We will reside in the world of the Memory.
My beautiful blonde shining in the ocean.
Me, Her hero in the strife, at work building a life,
watching over Her and Her innocence,
Her poise and Her grace.
There are no lines. There is no order.
Only the living Memory.

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