po·et·ry (poetre), Noun: Literary work in which special intensity is given to the expression of feelings
and ideas by the use of distinctive style and rhythm; A quality of beauty and intensity of emotion
regarded as characteristic of poems: "poetry and fire are nicely balanced in the music".
Next Stop by Juliette Beswick Pokletar
Awaken inner spirit
Time to take in truth
Time is on fast forward
And cannot be stopped
There is no rewind or pause
Rushing on
Screaming to the ultimate demise
Hug the children
Kiss your loved ones
For the ride comes to its close
Celebrate the moment
Faster and faster this train speeds
Taking everyone with it
You look upon the filled seats
And wonder…
Whose stop is next?
You turn and blink once
A new face before you
Your parent's seat was taken
Their ride was up
Celebrate the moment
Reflections of your now wrinkled skin cast upon a window
You take a more comfortable seat
You feel the train increase it's speed
You yearn to return to a previous stop
And shout "wait"
But this is a one way ticket
With no return
You glance back from the window
This car is now empty
And there are no seats left
Your 'stop' is next
Celebrate each moment!
© 2012 Juliette Beswick Pokletar
____________________
Take a look into my eyes,
And maybe we will find
that between you and me
It's the way that love should be.
She told me I had beautiful eyes
her heart said friends
and her mouth did too...
and my mind's confused now I'm not with you.
See I can be the best friend that I have been for years
or I can be the guy that can hold you near.
But I can't be this.
You said you don't want me to be hurt or sad.
Well how can this be when I'm lost in emotional quicksand?
Memories of unrealized dreams trickle beneath my feet
enclosing me in apathy.
My eyes twinkle for you as a happy friend
or the willing prey of my transatlantic temptress...
but not like this.
I can't do this.
I can't tell you you're beautiful and just casually admire your voluptuous hips.
I can't allow you to run your fingers through this Indifro
or compliment my scent and rugged masculinity.
But I can't do this.
My eyes can't sparkle like an ocean of realised dreams
when all we wanted lies shipwrecked on the isle of uncertainty.
If you want a friend, I'm here.
If you want to friend date
without the emotional prerequisite of romantic restriction...
I'm here.
If you ever see me like you did,
like I wish you would - I'm here.
But I just can't be there...
I just can't be this.
Every compliment instead of rubbing my ego
just shatters my soul.
If you're so beautiful
and I'm so handsome
then why exist in awkwardness and timidity?
I will not push you
nor will I pull you into submissive inequity.
Instead I wish to take your hand
and run like the children of young love we once were
towards a new destination.
But I cannot be this...
this lost boy without a map carving wishes into the whispers in the wind.
I gave the the promise with golden grace to always love you
and I will.
But not like this.
Saturn has three rings and does not question their existence
yet you query the nature of just one given as a mark of our unique friendship.
I can shine like platinum...
But not like this.
I cannot be the friend you say is handsome, pretty, rugged gorgeous
or those beautiful eyes will seep with sadness.
I cannot feel comfortable as you recite make believe love scenes with fictional characters in my accent
whilst choosing not to believe in a different love that does not yet have a definition.
A one true friendship like Brick spoke of.
Our love is not like a gushing puppy or a goo goo gaa gaa baba.
It is real, it is adult and it is as yet undefined.
You would not look at or flirt with a sibling like we have.
Friends not family
and not family if we remain "just friends".
When you kiss my cheek
my lips scream scorn with jealous envy
and I wish I'd have impulsively held you close and kissed you that first night
who cares if your mothers watching?
But I didn't
and I can't... like this.
I don't know what we are
or what we can be.
But I know what we are not.
We are not brother and sister.
We are not boyfriend and girlfriend.
We are not "just friends".
We are not anything we do not want to be or choose to be.
But I will not be tortured by this uncertainty.
Your flirtation hurts me more than a mutually terminated relationship ever could
as it is like a cyrogenic catalyst
frozen before the chemical that creates butterfly blossoms can escape it's condemning cocoon.
I don't know what I am or can be to you.
But I cannot be this.
Take a look into my eyes,
And maybe we will find
that between you and me
It's the way that love should be.
© 2012 Ushiku Crisafulli
____________________
Beholder's Eyes by Ushiku Crisafulli
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What Trip is This by Mahalia Solages
Synopsis: Sessie is a 6-year-old girl whose family is taking their first vacation together. She quickly learns that traveling is more than just getting on a big plane, flying really high and arriving in a new place. She witnesses the difficulties of traveling in the high security world that we live in and everything that is a part of traveling from preflight check-ins to seat back kicking to arrival. Get it at Amazon, Barnes and Noble or mahaliasolages.com if you want a hardcover and or autographed personalized copy.
The Devil Dancers by T. Thurai
Synopsis: Following Independence from the British, Ceylon's future looks bright. A new prime minister is creating a modern nation. But his legacy is an unexpected one. The deals that brought him to power turn into a time-bomb and the country is contorted by bloody race riots. A widening rift divides Tamils and Sinhalese destroying communities. Neighbour turns on neighbour. As the terror increases, many lives are transformed. In this atmosphere of violence and uncertainty, relationships fracture and families fragment reflecting the wider political turmoil. Yet, weaving its way through the mayhem is a single, twisted thread: the story of Neleni and Arjun. The book is available both as a paperback and an ebook (Kindle and epub/Kobo). Ordering information can be found on the author's website at: thedevildancers.com
As the moon tucks us wearily into our nests,
we sigh deeply, exhausting the last of the day
my ears receive the pulse of your heart, I conceive of
what makes it beat so, like a tribal drum deep in the forest
that quickens with anticipation, love, passion, ecstatic colors dancing, bursting
and slows as I calm your body in the glowing embers
as I place my hand upon your gate
that has just set loose its fire,
to quell and calm and breathe my blessing of thanks upon you
where I have just unleashed my own fiery echo, within yours.
The glittering jewels of delight still trace the landscape of your thigh
and the air is thick, heavy with our fever.
I bow to you in honor, full of Eros
and humility, bliss and quietude
while this moment, eternally melting, expanding,
binds us inseparable, with the glimmer of newborn stars.
© 2012 Scott Lutz
____________________
Your Nocturnal Radiance by Scott Lutz
Caravaggio by Michael Corrigan
I wove darkness
like satin
from my fingers
to the canvas
rich darkness
deep darkness
the stuff
you love
and rush
to deny
I was
a bad boy
a rude boy
a chancer
a devil
took Christ
before
Christ took me
fought
fucked
and swaggered
with a paintbrush
howled
lust
and passion
to a deaf
starless
sky
loved
the feel
of a well
rounded arse
put paint
to canvas
with
an energy
feral
and
fearless
died young
but am
immortal
to your
lusting
loving
eyes.
© 2012 Michael Corrigan
____________________
Dark Poetry of Mine By Tyler W. Stinson
Synopsis: Not for the faint of heart, Dark Poetry is the thoughts, views and passions of people who live in a cold and heartless world. A window on the thoughts of a guilty soul as he encounters violent people and the mentally ill. Dark Poetry of Mine paints a violent and sad world, shows God as the merciless one who condemns you to hell. It is the abyss of one man's soul. Can be order from llumina.com
If Roosters Don't Crow, It Is Still Morning: Haiku and Other Poems by Salvatore Buttaci
Synopsis: Haiku has emerged as one of the most popular poetic forms of the 20th & 21st centuries. The form, with its brevity and pinpoint illumination of the spiritual, appeals to a contemporary audience that yearns for meaning in a chaotic and rushed world. In some ways, haiku dovetails with some aspects of Post-Modernism, in its capacity to reveal telling moments and express spiritual loneliness. Many poets including Alan Watts, Robert Hass and Jack Kerouac wrote haiku and were influenced by them. Haiku societies exist in almost every country, and there are many books, journals and websites devoted to the art of writing haiku. Some practitioners remain loyal to the traditional Japanese format of 17 syllables, but others, especially English-speaking poets have taken the form into new directions, adapting it to the English language and allowing the use of non-natural images common to modern life. Available on Amazon or from the publisher cyberwit.net
The sound of the violin is like this.
Another person in another room
far removed stretches out
a thin line long and essential.
The sound comes like this, high-pitched
and already half-forgotten. It will disappear
if I don't listen closely.
The sound of crickets spreads
like night encompassing all
in its song. Things disappear.
The trees and fences of daytime
the rocks and houses are no more
in the listening of night. The grasses
the rollings of the earth itself
are one continuous taste of song.
The sound of the violin comes like this.
Like the condemned man's rope
a road in darkness
the only light a shadow light
rising from my feet, the night
spreading through me like a tree
branching and all around the same
black night, the one world I desire
I've always desired.
© 2012 Luigi Luccarelli
____________________
Desire by Luigi Luccarelli
Dancing With The Pen: A Collection of Today's Best Youth Writing By Dallas Woodburn
Synopsis: Dancing With The Pen: a collection of today's best youth writing features stories, essays and poetry by more than 65 young writers from around the world. For every book purchased, a new book will be donated to Write On's Holiday Book Drive to benefit disadvantaged youth. Learn more at writeonbooks.org. The book is available on Amazon.com
Well Suited by Chris Birrane
Bedspreads, sheets; all washed and folded,
lay stacked neatly at the end of the bed.
Clothes, sorted into type and season
for the benefit of 'Oxfam' or the 'Cancer Shop'
but not yet...not yet.
I watch as she pulls a suit from the wardrobe,
there is a blouse, almost hidden, inside.
She sniffs the blouse, eyes closed and then
holds it tightly to her, breathing deeply.
Holding it at arm's length, she stares at it.
With a sniff and a multiple blink, she sighs,
replaces it and closes the door - locking it.
Turning to me she states firmly and yet
almost enquiringly;
'I'm keeping that one!'
'Good, I find myself almost whispering,
I think you should.'
© 2012 Chris Birrane
____________________
Three Women: A Poetic Triptych and Selected Poems by Emma Eden Ramos
Synopsis: The poems in this chapbook, a small book of verse, deal mostly with family tragedies that affect three women - Annette, a psychotherapist, and her daughter Julia, and a Croatian immigrant, Milena. The poems about them compose the Triptych of the chapbook's title. The poems are moving, each woman revealing herself and her history in her words, reflecting on the tragedy of their stories. The book is available on Lulu.com
An Interchanging Poetry View of War by Mac McGovern
Author Note: "Interchanging Poetry" is a narrative combining poetry with discussion, debate, dialog, or description; using poetry to emphasize the narrative. It is a new form of poetry I am developing interchanging literary devices to enhance poetic discourse.
War is the bane of society. Why do we fight? We do not depend on each for food, clothing, or shelter. Is there a reason for the enormous loss of life brought about through war? The only logical reason for war is population control.
All animals in nature have a predatory counterpart that helps cull the sick in disease prevention, control the number of a species in maintenance of a healthy environment and of course as a food source. In nature, the process is well defined and executed...in other words; it works. This is not the case with man. We have no counterpart to control us.
We therefore, are the control. Is there a genetic code buried deep within the soul of man that dictates war as a population control. Do we use land, ethnicity, resources, and power as excuses underlining the true role of war in human development? I have written the following poetry in my quest to find some justification for the madness of war. I begin with the question, what is war?
WHAT IS WAR
What is war if not a culling of humanity,
a methodology guaranteed to impact growth;
preventing starvation in an overpopulated world.
What is war if not an investment in economics;
yet,
a depreciable asset in accumulated loses.
What is war if not the nightmare of mothers
who grieve for sons or daughters
who suffer no more.
What is war if not the fuel that ignites passion
not extinguished by previous war,
rekindled again.
What is war if not a culling of humanity;
when extinction becomes evident.
What is war if not the end of humanity?
Sensibility dictates, it matters not the definition, reason, or explanation of war. The determining factor often lies in the availability of personnel, economic wealth, industrial strength, and natural resources necessary to conduct war. Wars are fought more often for natural resources than with natural resources. Those who have not want, those who have, want more, therefore war. Personnel resources can usually be assured.
Records and documents describing many wars and campaigns site reasons for men and women to come forth when history cries, and display the tears of sorrow shed with their realization of the impact and consequences of war.
WHEN HISTORY CRIES
Men come forth
Black clouds hover, answer the call
When history cries
Upon the field, once green
Flowing red, wars bitter friend
Men come forth
Sweethearts love lost forever
Patriotism wounded, refuses to die
When history cries
Who knows the heart of warriors
Uniforms identify living and dead, ranks define
Men come forth
When next the call to arms
Forget not valor upon whose fields heroes are born
Men come forth
When history cries
MEN WANTED
Young men wanted,
a call to arms,
their biggest challenge,
their deepest scars,
those who die on foreign shores,
those who survive,
to weep forever more.
YOUTH
I am a young man,
as old now as I will ever get,
I lie upon cold ground
trying to forget,
visions of those gone before me,
of whose life I brought to sudden demise,
those who lie before me,
to move not again,
no pain,
only sorrow,
to reach such an end,
another life wasted,
in this troubled land.
ARMIES WONDER
Armies face one another in uniforms that define,
leave no doubt, who is on what side.
The ground upon which they stand,
soon bright red, confirm life's ebb.
Cries of wounded lessen
as death's reaper claims each,
causing cessation.
Medics roam the field tending those in need,
care not the uniform,
tend all who breathe and may survive.
All now quiet, both sides watch and wonder.
This death and destruction, this hatred inside,
the poison of prejudice,
a people unknown until they died.
Armies face one another across a field piled high,
and wonder why.
With the cessation of fighting and signing of terms that end the war, comes full realization of the economic cost for taking care of fallen warriors and those disabled physically and mentally. When wars end, for many, a far different life begins.
WHEN WARS END
When wars end,
celebration defines,
disfigurement is its blind eye.
I have no feet; I need no shoes.
I have no hands; I need no gloves.
No legs; no need to walk.
No arms; I long for hugs.
What is left, sits in a chair all day.
At night, I turn in great pain.
Some say I am lucky to be alive.
I disagree,
It is through the grace of God
I survived.
I am a testament of how
precious is life.
An American Veteran,
not crippled, alive.
When wars end,
celebration defines,
disfigurement is its blind eye.
As we age, we are enlightened and often reminisce over the actions of our youth. That period when we have no fear of death and there is a feeling of indestructibility. That is until the shooting begins and the body count makes men of boys; setting aside forever the fantasy of youth. Through age, comes the realization once again of death. We therefore anguish over our youth and will not rush to death in our twilight. If old men fought, wars could not be possible.
IF OLD MEN FOUGHT
An old man, looking out his door,
gaze fixed on a distant shore,
reminiscing to a time, not of happiness,
or, the prospect of a bright future in store,
to when he was sick, to his very core,
to when as a youth, he went to war
A time before infallibility had meaning,
patriotism and bravado the fashion,
the future was still a quandary,
zest for life, at an all-time high,
a time for romance, partying, buying,
no thought of pain, deformity, dying
Too young, to understand or question,
ship to foreign shore, medals abound,
sacrifice not temporary,
forever more,
a legacy etched into a wall,
few will remember,
flesh shredded, burned, torn,
families mourn
A time, when he willingly went to war,
will happen no more,
all lost in youth, now conscientious,
no blind obedience,
minimal risk,
long life, his number one endeavor
As he turns back from the door,
he thinks of the youth,
here now, soon no more,
lessons never learned,
the call to war,
to common the roar,
complacency the mood,
another generation removed
The old man laments
over what was
originally not known,
war is preventable,
life too precious to waste,
the solution simple,
his vision, maybe too late
Send old men, to the front to fight,
arthritis, heart disease, poor eyesight,
let the youth enjoy their life,
his near over, it is only right
Send old men, to the front to fight,
ask them, to give up their life,
patriotism and bravado, still right,
will and desire, would not last the night,
old men do not rush to death, in their twilight,
failure inevitable, the old man smiles,
knows he is right
Wars not possible,
if old men, are sent to fight
I wrote this poetry in my quest to find some justification for the madness of war; I have failed. We will continue to fight wars and kill one another through ignorance. There is no honor in the predatory nature of man. Our biological classification as an animal, does not mean we must act as one.
Nature did not provide us a natural predator and did not intend for us to prey on each other. We were given the intelligence to develop the means of controlling population and sharing resources without using war to satisfy the animal existing in us all. One day we may look upon each as what we truly are, family, not enemies.
© 2012 Mac McGovern
Please, she begs of God,
no more corpses on the road.
She's only driving home.
Why must it be so like a funeral.
She swerves to miss the squashed
remains of squirrel.
And is that a... no it's just
the shadow of a tree.
But that lump in the breakdown lane
is definitely a dead raccoon.
She wasn't the one that
smacked it down
but that was only luck.
She feels as if she's in a firing squad
where one rifle has the real bullet.
But all are culpable.
She fires ten thousand blanks
but still cadavers pile up.
A possum this time,
like an old man too slow
to get out of the way of death.
like a grandfather so wasted
with cancer you'd think
he'd slip between the traffic like wind.
But no, he's in the graveyard now.
One more victim to the speeding metal and the wheels.
And how long do the rest of them have to live anyhow,
with the likes of her always on the road,
and a woodchuck sliced in two,
and a pigeon for God's sake..
some driver even beat flight at its own game.
The death of creatures makes her shudder
because it's her hand on the wheel.
And there goes her grandfather
down into the ground,
and the priest whispering, "Start your engines"
and the living praying to their own impatience,
to their hunger to drive on.
© 2012 John Grey
____________________
Killer Streak by John Grey
Slipping between the cool sheets
I lie, cushioned on softness
feeling the silky smooth fabric
caress my naked body,
pressing in on all sides
touching me
in all the right places.
Softly, the light fades
outside my curtained window.
The velvet darkness surrounds me.
I'm soon to be
cocooned in sleep.
I close my eyes
and drift to dreams
floating, flying, falling
from the last vestiges of consciousness
into weightless wonder.
© 2012 Sarah Terzo
____________________
Savor the Night by Sarah Terzo
Last of an Emotion by M
Synopsis: Based on a collection of poems and philosophies the author has written throughout certain struggles in her life. Experience the struggles of love, friendship and a mind trapped in a world of dreams while reality collapses. This book is filled with love, fear, dreams and nightmares. Find yourself in a part of the story and maybe feel just a little less alone. Order from AuthorHouse
Unadulterated pain sears through my very being,
as I strive to live with hope.
I lay curled up, hiding away as I grasp for hope.
One may be afraid of many things,
but one should not be afraid of hope.
Like a drowning victim,
my hope is just out of reach,
as I fall back down to the depths of the abyss.
I exist within a facade of meekness.
Behind that deceptive mask
resides a hollow being.
Lost to the world,
like a sheep from the herd.
Alone - desperate and crying,
this being is too scared
to reach out towards their hopes and dreams.
This struggle for hope has me dying
although I exist in a soulless entity.
Even as the quill conveys my emotions,
my tears fall to this parchment
as I strive to face my fear.
One may be afraid of many things
but one should not be afraid of hope.
© 2012 Callum Williams
____________________
Hope by Callum Williams
Cafe Stories by Jerry Guarino
Synopsis: Cafe Stories is an anthology of 26 critically acclaimed stories by Jerry Guarino, previously published in magazines in the United States, Canada, Australia and Great Britain in 2011. Like mysteries, these stories have twists and turns, unexpected consequences and surprise endings, much in the style of the great William Sydney Porter (aka O. Henry). But instead of 19th century New York, the stories take place in contemporary New York, Boston, San Francisco and Los Angeles. The collection includes love stories, humorous accounts and even a few science fiction tales. Like O. Henry, Mr. Guarino's style appeals to a wide audience, men and women of all ages. Editors, publishers and authors around the world have high praise for his writing. Order from Amazon
They are always deceiving us,
while they are completely consuming us.
We refuse to wake up.
It is right in front of our eyes.
Why can't we see though their lies?
We just won't wake up.
Their use of past tense,
Just doesn't make sense.
We need to wake up.
They get caught up in their lies,
weaving them into the disguise.
It's time to wake up.
Their use of the disguise,
will lead to their demise.
We just woke up.
© 2012 Alex Cougill
Wake Up by Alex Cougill