More from this authorYouthful exuberance shattered Glittering shards of glass Beneath a pool of dying wishes Flowing into the hollows Reading the wall’s inscriptions Yearning for felicity promised At the vista’s edge Aspirations discarded Craving simplicity of bread Expectations deserted In the wake of sudden exodus
More from this author”…Don’t be anxious about tomorrow, for tomorrow shall be anxious for itself” Matthew 6:34 “Anxiety does not empty tomorrow of its sorrows, but only empties today of its strength.” Charles Spurgeon
What love means to me By Warren Jones Love is juiced music evolution Those moments when the sound Surpasses The language And creates a kind of energy That previously Did not exist Love is simple human revolution Those moments When the act of trying Gives way to the soul of loving The roots of compassion The being of human being I am eight years old Standing in the back yard An oak tree lights up the afternoon sky With memories A dog barks somewhere in my soul My bare feet scratch at the grass It is summer time And by now I have forgotten that school exists And the bells and the rules Have faded I reach down and pick up A dandelion And hold it up close to my nose And my eyes see millions of tiny planets Revolving around a central star I shake it And millions of lives Are thrown free Floating on the wind Across galaxies I can’t learn this stuff in school My mother calls out to me Warren It’s time to come in Dinner’s ready But mom the day was so long And now it oh so sho
By Yemisi Ilesanmi They say it is culture I think it is torture Born a woman, a reason to be oppressed It is culture A woman must be suppressed I must never be too forward They will only drag me backward I must learn to be submissive For the man has power to be dismissive. To be accepted I must be subjected. Different meals I must prepare That’s what makes me special Teas I must make Special cakes I must bake The butter I churn amidst the patter The children and husband I pander Hanging on my apron often As I face the heat of the oven I am sweating, but he is swearing. Well, he is the man And I am just a woman They celebrate polygamy, condemn polyandry But why must he have all the fun? Have his beer belly rubbed in the sun? Have the status, be the chief And keep his many wives as chefs? Catering to his every need Ready to bear his seed While taking lovers makes me a pariah I can be stoned according to Shariah. I am a child, there goes my friend Yet I cannot see her face She is covered
. To open this lock it will take a special key for Pandora’s box. . Hidden hurts abide, shame is within the closet broken skeletons. . Prompt LOCK from Haiku Heights. http://haiku-heights.blogspot.com.es/ .
‘Church Going’, begun on 24 April 1954, went through twenty-one pages of drafts, was “abandoned 24.5.54″, and then was resumed and completed in July of that year. ‘The Whitsun Weddings’, begun in May 1957 with its first stanza complete, was then dropped, resumed in July 1958, reworked for twenty-three pages until 6 September, picked up again on 19 September and completed after eight further pages of drafts on 18 October. – Anthony Thwaite, Introduction to Philip Larkin: Collected Poems (Marvell/Faber, 1988)
I am slightly upset, but I am trying not to show it. Writers are supposed to have personas that are never upset, and ever smiling. If we are upset, we are supposed to pour out our upset-ness into our creativity. Last week, three of my poems were accepted by the same publication. After I did a little jig around my bedroom, I realised my ghazal was going to be up first. I was happy. It had been written with a specific purpose in mind. Today would have been the perfect day for its inauguration. But no, the editors decided for reasons of their own to publish one of my other poems. I would never argue with an editor unless they messed with my actual work (which thankfully, has happened only twice in my memory, and both of the editors I am afraid, were rather inept.). So, even though I love the publication and the very approachable editors, I am slightly upset. Slightly pouting. Slightly sulky. What a start to a weekend, eh? My poem, “Fasting and Feasting,” based on one of my pho
I’m going to try and crank this out as quickly as possible. At the cafe having a healthy breakfast of bagel and latte, gazing out the door at the absolutely gorgeous weather we’ve gotten in the wake of last night’s stormy business. (Hope everyone along the eastern seaboard reading this is unscathed!) I very much want to get moving around in the sunlight, maybe pop by the bookstore on my way to yoga. But until then… This week: “ten by ten“ Time once again for a world poetry form exercise. I don’t know how many people are familiar with the décima, but if you’re like me, you were vaguely aware that there was such a form without really having any idea of what it entailed. As you might guess from the name, ten is the magic number when it comes to the décima stanza, and as you might guess from the accent mark, it’s pronounced “DAY-see-ma” (not deh-SEE-ma or anything like that). The form is Latin American, but in my research, I
Another old poem that I found in myspace. Circa 2006. Current mood:creative look my way.. dont look away exhale.. palm sweats knees start to shake and i wonder (should i?) youre ubiquitous.. i can never escape it… dont mock me you dont know me.. you never did it is I, the one that sits in the corner a failing shadow it is I, that stranger that you like to pass by (she) sits and waits but always adjourned gathering her senses and placed it in her box green box of letters.. of snapshots of memories.. your first candy? the leaf that you have stepped on…? so much love.. so much love.. so much hate… it is I, that stranger you’d like to pass by… (c) April Jed, Nov. 7, 2006
(Don’t) be afraid I see you sitting their Staring at the world Thinking of everything you can And wondering how to deal with the problem of life You say that everything is great I can tell you really don’t believe that You hide behind your own grief And you’re afraid of what will happen You call for help and no one listens Your thoughts become blurry You stare down at the bottle And think why not You open the cap You stare at the pills now in your hand You count 1, 2, 3, and maybe a forth You’re afraid of what will happen But you put the pills in your mouth You swallow them along with your grief You start to shake with fear And you should be afraid Be afraid of what is to become Be afraid of the actions you cause Be afraid of the love you waste Be afraid of the loss you cause I know fear is a strong thing I know you’re afraid to fight it alone I know you fell that there’s nothing you can do I know you feel that you don’t belong I know you feel that this is the only way To get rid of th
I thought my idea was brilliant, But the boss gave it the big kibosh. And if I didn’t like it, I could end up Working at the car wash. 2/10/12
Now to die for what I see, The demanding memory yet to be. I fall unto a waking world. … Perhaps it is just and right, That others must take up the fight. I free myself from the dream. … When all is lost and you are last, Would you dare to be as steadfast? I pray we don’t forget. … Soon we wake to see the day, None must fall if we’re to stay. I know they will start the fire. … Remember the memory yet to be, For you shall die for what I see.
Today the day will roll out like a red carpet to a luau of roasted pig chicken long rice crab poi coconut pudding and shaved ice. Today I will say hello to friends my hanai family of poetry students I will sign my name bid at the silent auction I may win I will bid at the live auction and wonder at the energy the craze of owning an impulse and at what cost? Today I will enjoy the soothing entertainment local talent comedians singers, that will serenade me beneath a trio of giant tents in a school field. The sun that will continue to beat down blink its ever-changing code and dance again with a rain shower rain sun rain sun their steps co-mingling dry and wet sizzling puddles tamping down parched fields tamping down my fear tamping down the Earth Today I will remember why I am here my purpose for continuing the rough climb up the treacherous slope of despair and I will smile and give back.
http://seventhvoice.wordpress.com/ For your son I love to run in the open field Roll down the grassy hill Spin around the merry-go-round Back ‘n forth free as a bird Sliding down hands up in the air Feelin’ the summer breeze everywhere Fun at the park all day until dark
