Work by Guest Poets

AFTER THE PICTURES Copyright Mary Hunt 1997.

Oh, it was good in childhood days
to walk along the Edgeware Road
dreaming of what I'd left behind
in the "Grand Kinema's" abode.
My mind was still among the stars
that sparkled on the silver screen,
and yet - the stars were in my eyes -
thinking of all that I had seen.
I did not heed the milling throng,
the twilight held no fears for me.
my heart still sang a lovely song
that I had heard in Arcady.
But then, a rough familiar voice
awoke me from my rapturous dream
and burning embers, shining bright
recalled me to this earthly stream.
For there the chestnut seller's stand
blazed at the corner of the street.
Twopenn'orth of his luscious wares -
and there was ground beneath my feet!
'Tis ever thus! We cling to dreams
but cannot long in dreams abide.
My childish dreams could not withstand
The empty place I felt inside.

MARY HUNT, A good friend and near neighbour of mine, has written several poems, three of which have been published. She has also written a book, "THE SHEPHERDS", published by Effective Publishing and had several short stories published. She has had two articles featured in "YOURS" magazine, one of which was about cinema legend Lon Chaney.


THINGS YOU ARE NOT by Andrew Turner

You are not a candle flame that burns
With a fiery light
My Darling
But the solitary beacon
That guides my path
Through every
Dark and lonely night

Not the Sun's rays
That beat down in summer
My Darling
But still provide
Warmth to me
As could never another

Neither Goddess nor God
From a heaven above
My Darling
But equalling their power
In your gifts
Of showing me compassion and love

You are unlike any other
That has ever known life
My Darling
You are magick to me
My beautiful angel
My joy; my lover; my Wife

This was written by my brother-in-law to my sister, Beth, who helped me to put these pages onto the Internet.


Heaven Sent Water
Copyright Carol Sanford Hall (Oregon's #1 Grandma)

The space scientists look for water on heavenly stars,
concerned about life on other cosmic shores afar,
yet we who live daily on earth's surface and below,
strive our utmost to secure water to bestow,
life in cells of living matter daily for all mankind,
conservation of heaven's rainfall every soul can find,
barrels, buckets, containers of all ages example,
giving every race and creed realization of pull,
lifting the burdens cited impossible to assure,
the ever onward demands of exploring our future.

My Oregon
Copyright Carol Sanford Hall (Oregon's #1 Grandma) June 1978

The pulse of life runs through my Oregon,
The hills covered with sentinal giants,
Lifting their arms toward heaven and God,
Oh what joy to be a part of all this.

I scan the rocks and valleys to see,
Life's pattern around and all about me,
The rivers, the lakes and the many creeks,
Become a winding ,coursing, tumblng bliss.

Echoes in evidence of the season's time,
Wagons , to autos, to flights and speculations,
Write my Oregon's history pages and rhyme,
Its people tracking the paths that build nations.


Carol hall with her grandaughter
AUTHOR'S COMMENT: "I dislike writing for competitions....I like free- verse and heartfelt sentiment the best. That is REAL-LIFE, not words to hurt or slander or be pandered about for snide remarks. If everyone had love in their hearts and spurned destructive thoughts... we could turn the world to construtive activities totally."


STELLA POLARIS Copyright Tom Riley.

Though moved by the restless circling moon,
To sometimes thorny answers and debate,
And media's hearts and flowers call the tune,
When passion's drive needs more than tÍte-ŗ-tÍte;
Surrounded by world's false-friendly clamour,
And acts inimical, on every hand,
You wear innocence like shining armour,
To comfort me and evil countermand;
Your beauty, which in magic younger days
O'erfilled the mind, and drove the pulsing blood;
With soul's maturing, softer, calmer, rays,
Now shines in lovely, radiant, womanhood.
In love; I give you all I have to give,
Without your guiding light, I cannot live.

SKYSCAPE Copyright Tom Riley.

Far journeys weary traveller, far south of tropic line,
And on his back he feels the weight of equatorial sky,
Dense cloudless blue, of light years depth and universal time.
Brass sun-god hammers down on him from course in heaven high.
And spirit longs; for Sussex and a new born April morn,
And spirit sees the dew fresh light of dawn.

Sudden the tropic sundown comes with strident harmony,
And moonless heaven adorns herself in jet-black velvet dress.
Suspended in the long moment of creations agony
The icy flame worlds sparkle from the universal press.
And spirit sighs; for moonlit calm of leafy Downland lane,
And spirit treads the moonpath home again.

Our traveller, returning now by fabled Grecian strands
Thrills to the light, that once did Dionysian revels bless.
Neath brilliant sky, the calyx shows the proud limbed Satyr and
Fair Maenads writhing in priapic sport and venereal excess
And spirit wings; to passion spent in spring clad Southdown wood,
And spirit smiles, re-treasuring the mood.

This the Aegean vault, cloud wisped, of deepest cobalt blue;
Horizoned Homer's heroes, raging billows to annoy,
Warmed the sweet muse that mothered Ovids verses true:
Was this the sky that wept the smoky tears of burning Troy?
And spirit feels; the soft cloud cloak of windy Ditchling height
And spirit follows skylarks out of sight.

Sea-borne, our traveller sails on Atlantic homeward track,
Heeds the awful warning of the mackerel painted sky,
Senses the sickly overcast give way to streaming wrack,
As gale releases Furies leash with evening drawing nigh,
And spirit quails; before the stormy ending of the day;
And spirit steels itself to face the fray.

Sharp nailed clouds tear shreds from the racing gibbous moon,
Then gather boiling towers of awful immensity,
Whose drumming rain's the counterpoint of screaming gale's wild tune
Whose blinding fingers strike, with thunderous intensity;
And spirit sees; the lighter bar on western sea's edge form,
And spirit tells the ending of the storm.

Now, home at last, 'neath pristine cloud and newly laundered blue,
The fleecy crowds traverse the sky in never ending train,
And mint bright, sun now takes his turn at warmly shining through
The misty castled transports of the flower refreshing rain.
And spirit joys in ambience that smiles upon the Down;
And spirit rests in quiet Sussex town.

And spirit looks with eager heart, to many an Ashdown dawn,
Of red and gold laced fretting, over palest duck egg blue.
Or pearly white December days with frost upon the lawn,
And early evenings drawing in, through firelit windows view
Where magic bars the horizon, in velvet pink and grey;
And hymns a fitting requiem for the day.

TOM RILEY lives in West Sussex and is a member of the same poetry group as MARY HUNT and myself. He has written many poems over the years, including several ballads. The first of these two interesting examples is about his wife. Tom enjoys sailing and this is reflected in the second example.


WEDNESDAY WE WAKE
Copyright Michael Stephens

For love, for yearning, for the puzzle,
the fine blue riddle of Wednesday we wake,
leave behind the mystic realm of moths and mirrors,
the halfmoon strangled night where dreams
take hold and our bodies burn.
Do you dream of me, I wonder: the ragman
haunting halls, softshoe dancing, propped up
waiting with these faded eyes, this strawman heart?
I dream of you. I find you lost in
unfamiliar rooms, your voice a silver song
that heats my blood. I dream of you,
a diamond peach, a broken pear, the taste of time,
of raging sea, both hard and ripe against my
tongue, my cheek, my breath inhaling, breath
inhaling, breathless cry of waking, breathless
flight through unreal corridors and walls.
Do you dream of me? Do you say my name the way
a lover would, with hushed and secret knowledge?
Do you dream of me, of who I am or was? Of roads
and boxcar straw? Of jukebox joints and pinball
starlight love? Or is your longing fresh and young,
like a child's question, a second kiss?
I dream of you, the eternal dream, the delicate
dance; for love, for yearning, the fine blue
riddle of a flame, the fine blue riddle of
Wednesday we wake to empty beds and empty wonder.
Your dreams are like a song.

FOR HILARY
Copyright Michael Stephens

Take this longing, this stone-heart rawness
this broke-leg puppet dance
this fist of shells I give you
from mythic beach I've walked in time
uneven stiles like crucifixion posts
sand-calloused fingers, driftwood stumble
this twilight ache of bone and pulse.

Take this longing, translucent embers
memories of rooms and strangers
this flint-eyed sorrow
the residue of roaming.

Take it with your kiss
this longing from my tongue
in whispered night, in shallow water.
I've never slept in someone's eyes.

HAUNTING SANTA BARBARA
Copyright Michael Stephens

Oh look, Carrie says
at those... What do you call them?
next to the bananas...
Kiwi fruit, I say, from Australia
or New Zealand someplace
Michael, you're so smart
Yes, but look at the price, I say
Ninety-eight cents a pound
Scrooge McDuck, she says
and places three in the basket
like furry eggs in a nest of cellophane

The sun is starting to set
it's belly testing the cool Pacific
And I am at the window watching it
while Carrie is lost in a photo album
sitting cross-legged on the bed

When I was a little boy
I was afraid of everything
I was afraid that while sleeping
I would forget to breathe
and die
(my aunt who was nine years older
laid that one on me)
And I was afraid
that the world would end before I grew up
or the sun would die of old age
But the world is still here
I'm pleased to say
and the sun is waist-deep in water now
I can hear it sizzle
Or it might just be the wind
hissing through palm trees
or some other sound, some other
California static

Who's this? Carrie asks
This girl dressed up like a witch
on Halloween?
My cousin, I say, a few years ago
And this? she asks
Same girl without the mask
And this? Carrie asks
My ex-wife and daughter
my ex-daughter, ex-life
when I was younger
But now, Carrie, I belong to no one
I might even be dead -- who knows?
and haunting this place, haunting
Santa Barbara
Once, years ago
I sat beneath a bridge near Spokane
with three old hobos huddled over a fire
And the one named Idaho Joe
started calling me El Vaquero
because of the bandanna
and my scuffed-up boots
He taught me a little Spanish
and I thought later on I might disappear
into Mexico, just keep walking like Dean Moriarty
let the sun burn me to a crisp
or find a cave and live there
forever
But that was a long time ago
and forever is upon me now
and I can't even be sure I survived

And who's this? Carrie asks
turning the last page
in shadows on a porch, alone
Good God, it's you
beneath all that hair!
Yes, and I recognize that guitar
must have been ten years ago
you fed it to the Grand Canyon
watched it freefall in slow motion
It sleeps now with the fishes, you said
at the end of the Colorado

MICHAEL STEPHENS is the editor of the Avalon poetry ezine website and lives in Cincinatti, USA, with his wife Heidi and his cats Spot and Betty.


 
                                     Untitled
                                     Copyright Eric J Swanger

                                       I cried for you
                                       Like the way I cry
                                           listening to Sweet Baby James
                                         that awful sense
                                           of knowing
                                         that poetic helplessness
                                            and unstoppable abandonment
                    
                                       I cried for you
                                       Like I wanted to cry
                                          for others
                                          but could never build up
                                             the emotions 
                    
                                        I cried for you
                                       Cried silent and alone
                                          empty bedrooms of tears
                                       Cried on the crowded streets
                                          to the beat of laughing strangers
                                          to melt hearts like mine
                                          to be met with defeat
                                             on every corner
                                          to return and cry for you 
                                             alone
                    
                                       I cried for you
                                           who caught my eye
                                             and has my heart
                                       For you who came and went
                                             and stayed even though
                                       For you the one I love
                                       For you who speaks forever
                                           but the next day for tomorrow
                                            or for yesterday
                                            or for it has never happened at all
                                       For you who is as confused
                                         and scared
                                         and in love
                                          as I am
                    
                                       I cried for you
                                          to come back
                                         just as I cried for you
                                           never to leave
                                           and when you left
                    
                                       I cried for you
                                         as you cried for me
                                         separate and alone
                    

                              ĎDo You Remember Those Days?í
                               Copyright Eric J. Swanger

                             Do you remember those august days?   the hot ones  where
                                               (when combined                 with  humidity
                                               it felt like Texas)
                             Do you remember that?
                             And when you first contemplated          our autumn
                              it was one of those days
                             With sweat and tears
                                            (good combination of            salts
                                            but oil and water                         
                                            are a hard mix)


                                       Untitled
                                       Copyright Eric J. Swanger

                                       1.
                                       we covered most of New England
                                        our endless hours driving
                                          seem lost 
                                          now
                                          everything 
                    
                                       2.
                                       let me be your concord memories
                                           the awkward meeting in front
                                             of the bagel shop
                                          me,  writing
                                          you,  dressed up
                                          even made up
                                        and how I wanted to kiss you
                                          on top of the fire tower
                                        I introduced you to humus,
                                             poetry
                                          and a good book store
                                         we fell in love 
                                             and dreamed
                    
                                       let me be your Walden Pond memories
                                           sitting on the log taking pictures
                                          of birds
                                          and holding hands
                                         we walked to Thoreauís
                                              foundation
                                        stood where he lived
                                            and felt ashamed for
                                           not knowing enough to
                                        bring stones to place on the pile
                                          as Emerson wanted
                                            we vowed to make this mistake
                                          only once
                    
                                       let me be your memories
                                             of that nameless
                                          Massachusetts beach
                                         wind blowing
                                             cold and underdressed
                                         but stood shaking taking
                                            our first pictures of each other
                                        then running to the car
                                              to keep warm
                    
                                       let me be your New Hampshire memories
                                            of how it was too cold
                                              to stand staring
                                          at the face in the mountain
                                           hawthorn told us about
                                         of the closed Mount Washington
                                           the gorge, more cold
                                              and more pictures
                                           of Portsmouth
                                              and the shaker village
                                             I never got to see
                    
                                       let me be your mystic memories
                                           of the motel with the broken heater
                                               and candles
                                               and pumpkins
                                               and how I waited for you
                                               and that rain
                                               remember the rain?
                                          remember the army/navy store
                                          the book shop on the corner
                                               the pizza
                                         and the over-priced seaport
                    
                                       3.
                                       D.C. is our town
                                             I told you
                                          letís get a cheap apartment
                                             near the train
                                           and learn how to live
                                           I wanted to propose to you
                                              in the museum
                                           while looking at the 
                                           hope diamond
                                             in front of
                                           gawking tourists
                                           ďno it isnít as big,
                                            but itís all Iíve gotĒ
                    
                                          but lack of money 
                                              means to do without
                                          so there was no promise begged
                                              of you
                                          and on your birthday
                                              I was broke
                                          so I cried
                                              and upset you
                                         these are your Pennsylvania memories
                                         no wonder you canít promise
                                              I have nothing to offer
                                              but reminiscence
                                         and the uncertain future
                                              of the struggling couple
                                              in love
                                         but never quite infatuated


western
© steve rouse

He shot him, so
she hired him
to shoot him.
They shot each other,
so she shot herself.


science fiction
© steve rouse

The huge space-craft arrived unexpectedly,
killed thousands in a flawed attempt
at intergalactic understanding, then left.


the car park of conspicuous consumerism
© steve rouse

In the Car Park of
Conspicuous Consumerism
Barbie dolls sit lovingly
beside Kens, who caress
the stitched leather
steering wheels of their
pink Porches,
whose suspension groans
under the weight of
seventy-seven identical varieties
of squeezably soft, strong and
very very long toilet tissue.

Power Rangers riding
purple ponies
patrol the lot,
separating the grubby-fingered
and runny-nosed from their
green-backed girocheques;
whilst, high above them,
Donkey Kong fights
Donkey Kong II in an
ultimate battle for survival
which both will win.

Ken and Barbie's eyes don't meet,
they can't kiss,
they can't hold hands,
but they are in love.
To be this shallow takes ages.


renfield
© steve rouse

Spittle on his lips
like mascarpone,
as if heíd been eating
when it happened.

Not eating, but thinking,
and not unusual thoughts
in his case, though
perhaps for others.

Shadowing it with his eyes
he digests the images,
hiccoughing them back
as barks and moans.

Eating it, when it lands,
when itís in his fist;
licks the spittle from his lips,
sees the world laid out.


Mail Steve on: catfish@cwcom.net

Steve Rouse
Steve Rouse (aka Catfish) is a member of the Monday Night Group of writers in Manchester, England.

He's quite active on the local poetry scene and has been published by Crocus and the AK Press, amongst others.

He writes about anything which comes to mind and has been accused of being experimental, which he confirms or denies as the occasion demands.


THE PERILOUS JOURNEY Copyright Debbie Prowse

She flutters
And flaunts
Across the water,
Glittering silver
In the sun,
A ballroom dancer
In flimsy net dress,
She swishes along.
Flits and flirts,
Skimming the surface
Taunting the spray
That tosses and turns,
Trying to grasp her,
Dragging her downwards
So her net dress
Would spread and splay.
Marooning her.
Yet, her journey started,
Mid-way and strong,
She won't be caught
And cajoled along.
Far to fly,
Sea-horses
to fight,
Determined and dexterous,
She has land
In her sight.
Pastures green
Where she will
Alight
And dance with Coltsfoot and
Forget-me-nots
Blue,
In time to
The music
Set by you.

CROW'S FEET Copyright Debbie Prowse

Black shadows
On the wall,
Hands Moving
Floating wings,
Crow's feathers
Whisper in the wind.
A flock, a black cape,
Breathing with the air.
Blown by her breath,
In fits and starts,
Concave, convex,
With the clouds
Scurry along
To rest amongst
The tree tops
Which spindle
Like a beanstalk,
With their nests
Tottering on
High heels.
The crows alight
With a squawking noise.
Cracking silence
Into smithereens.
Fragments flying,
Black charred paper
Floating from
A bonfire
Of spindly twigs
In disarray,
Like pick-up-sticks.
Tree shakes
Her hair
But the knot
Remains,
Becomes part
Of her make-up
And the crow's
Feet
Interlock at
The corners of
Her eyes,
Like
Crazy paving.
A permanent,
Cemented feature.

DEBBIE PROWSE lives in Essex and loves nature and animals. She has written poetry for a number of years and the two poems above are good examples of her modern, ethereal style.


Wishing
Copyright Julie Damerell

Trees play possum tonight,
still as the starless night sky.
Our two oaks ache for wind
to toss their hundred manes and buck
skyward.

I pine for their frenzy, too,
gusts to carry sleepless fury away.
Hidden in fixed branches and napping leaves
wait breezes eager to hush the distant noise of engines
hurrying
elsewhere.

Like waves rushing the rocky shore
of Lake Huron
when I was ten
and fell asleep to water's lullaby,
then woke to it,
wishing I could stay
there,
then.

Years before I knew that glassy eyes
hid broken hearts,
when my sight was naive
and I believed

that when things looked whole,
they were.

Garbage
Copyright Julie Damerell, July 1997

Headlight moon
shining down my restless eyes
you leave shadows here
in every room,
with just enough light to find
the evidence.

You wouldn't think a person could remove clothes
in so many places
other than the bedrooms, his and hers,
but there they are,
in every room.
Count the toys touched today:
not in any of the four toyboxes,
but where they left them,
in every room.
Books, at home on her shelf and in his basket,
instead visit tables and floors,
in every room.
Evidence of their being here, six and almost-three,
in every room.
Normally I don't mind the trail,
little crumbs I can follow to find
them,
in every room.

But Hansel and Gretel they're not.
Even they picked up their stuff,
only leaving a trail as a last,
desperate measure.
This is mine.
A garbage bag full of the evidence
gathered before the judge's bench
in the kitchen.

Shine on, headlight moon.
I can't sleep
and tomorrow's gonna be a mean day.

The Awakening
Copyright Julie Damerell May 1998

Wake, suddenly,
in a night garden
still
barren of sun warmed buzzes and flutters.
Suffocating, almost,
this moist quiet of
breaths
meandering forward and back
through wordless lips.
Here is the rich dark soil
of tomorrow
teeming
with mute bodies burrowing
under cover,
minds worming their way
through midnight tunnels
then sparkling night
with treasures to savor
later
in days blue blossom.

JULIE DAMERELL is a writer, mother of two, and frequent insomniac living on top of a hill in rural New York State. She is a high school remedial reading teacher who spent half of the nineties at home watching the children grow and trying to place her writing somewhere more public than her floppy disk. Her poetry can also be found on-line in the June 1998 Pigs 'n Poets, and Issue 17 of Zuzu's Petals Quarterly Online. Her column for Ellavon: An Ezine of Basic Culture, http://www.ellavon.com is titled Rural Route Two. Two of her essays are included in Mother Voices an anthology
published by Rose Communications in March 1998.


CHANGING LANDSCAPE
Coyright John Holt 18/8/98

All colors to my eye are grey.
My appetite has lost its will.
Thirty hours now curse the day,
existence but a bitter pill

This aspect often brings its dread
as mind with thought is so employed,
and sentiments dwell on the dead
forgetting things I had enjoyed.

I will arise to seek fresh fields,
while I cast off the gloomy things.
Imagination paints and yields
the brightest colors for my wings.

Depressive thoughts are cast aside
as I revive my self esteem.
I had mislaid my errant pride
but in the dark I saw it gleam.

Fresh mental palette with new brush
paints out the noise, paints in the hush,
soft gentle patterns of the kind
that dance, around my inner mind.

EYE WONDER
Coyright John Holt 18/8/98

On summer nights I hear
the herd at Charlton farm.
Sometimes a donkey brays
over there in some alarm

Now and again I stand
outside and gaze
at that inkiness sprinkled
with stardust haze.

My thoughts race, then falter.
I know that I and
a million I's cannot alter
this staggering scene.

Stop it! I tell myself.
Don't look up and compute
when only a prayer can impute
the meaning of it all.

Oh Lord, in all this universe
I am so small.

AMITY
Coyright John Holt 18/8/98

Friend,
if we should never meet again this is our memory:
though time should dull this senseless brain
my thoughts remain of thee.

Capture these sweet moments with your mind
bind them, hold them in your heart, remember,
when the years have flown and we have sped apart

Some day, when you have time and leisure,
recall our evenings, full of laughter,
filled with so much pleasure.

Our paths diverge, we go our separate ways.
Division will not wipe away the value of these days.

Friend,
if we should never meet again this is my memory:
I found a fortune in the friendship
that I shared with thee.


John at his computer
"Hi! - My name is John Holt. Until 1996 I was working for a company involved in the financial sector of telecommunications and broadcasting. Currently I am a freelance contract worker in the banking industry. I have been writing poetry for several years now. Some of my poems have been published in an anthology comprising other poets in my local poetry group in Hampshire, southern England. 1998 has been my most productive and innovative year to date in the field of poetry. Writing poetry brings me much pleasure and I would like to share this with you." For more of John's work see the newsgroup alt.arts.poetry.comments, where he is a regular contributor, both in poetry and discussion.


Sappius Maximus (for Debbie)
Copyright Chuckk Hubbard

I asked the night a question
and it answered me with dawn;
I turned to thank the night for its
advice, but it was gone.
I turned myself toward home then,
for my shoes were soaked with dew,
When I asked the dawn a question
and it answered me with you.

"What are you waiting for?" had been
my question to the night-
The answer was as clear as day,
and somewhere near as bright;
I slept that morning knowing
I could ask for nothing more,
For my question to the dawn had been,
"What am I waiting for?"


IN THE DINER
Copyright Chuckk Hubbard

Tines scrape careless teeth
and a mouthful of flapjack
admonishes you,

"What your problem is,
is you're thinking about it
entirely too much."

You crush the desire
to flip the bird just in time,
and cede with a shrug.

Later you get home
to find your badger waiting,
and tell her instead.

Sonnet #2 for Stephanie
Copyright Chuckk Hubbard

Two moths, one wont to flit around the flame,
The other leaning more toward flying in,
Soon meet and make an unassuming game
Of dancing round each other. As they spin,
Eventually a wing will thump a wing,
Suggesting to the two a closer range,
And Nature's subtle push will surely bring
The flight to much more intimate exchange...
But evening seeps inex'rably toward dawn,
And Nature's unseen hands release their hold,
And as the wave of fancy passes on,
Regretfully, the pair must soon unfold,
For one must fly on, one day to expire,
And one must once again seek out his fire.

CHUCKK lives in Pennsylvania with his stuffed badger. Plays banjo, writes poetry, and is most at home in the diner, where he can feel comfortable being his usual insomniatic self! He loves to write sonnets and invites anyone to share/be shared with.

He is also a huge fan of Frank Zappa, The Allman Brothers Band, John Steinbeck, Joe Cocker, and Steppenwolf, among many.


WINNER.
Copyright Frank Mothe of Denmark. 1998.

My heart is a winner, a born winner,
wrapped up in the with cream,
just like the cake from my mother,
which she made in true love for my familiy and me.
My heart stopped crying when I met you, my heart !
My heart stopped a heartbeat, by your smile, so nice, of love;
she made me shut up about freedom,
''it's not your fight,'' she said to me.
My heart is living like the new dream of Mars;
must we land and destroy it like the Moon ?
My heart said no ! No more of this pain !?!
itīs not the new dump for us to kill!

My heart is a born winner to this world, like yours too ?
We are loving the enemies in blood and pain,
hand in hand to the living life, in love,
My heart, we are not the enemies,
come again, just like the little heartbeat,
you are more than a number in my little black book.
My world, give me a change ! My girl, do it to me too ?
Give us a love, to you and me.
My heart is a born winner,
be a winner with you, make my love come true !
My heart is a born winner,
just like you and you and you too !

"The Internet has given me the blood to write more in English." Says Frank. "The last 7-9 years I have written about 110 poems about many things: life, nature, love, in some way it's love that is the thing to write about, maybe it's because, we all have a love of life, yes ! the meaning of life is love ! To the world, family, kids, just the good things in life."
Frank is an accomplished abstract painter - click here.


Valedictory
Copyright R. Dean Ludden

This class is at an end
and I can stand far off
and understand frustration.
For there infused,
a single-channeled vision, seen
through scopes of vaporous happenstance
and frozen lovingly as honest insight,
n'est ce pas?

This body's sinews tighten;
there is desert all around,
and enemies lurk just outside
the field of sense.
Pure joy unmasked
is evanescent fantasy,
fading footsteps
chasing after dawn.

This journey stretches one.
Center-bound, indeed, and to the edge
of truth...where monsters
and angelic messengers invite
the crossing. Then it is
the trembling, eager soul
will cry, "Not yet."

Please check my home page: Bob's Poetry Archives


"untilted #76" copyright blane pucket 1997

what do i have to do
why can this be you
why do i have to love you
how's he gonna feel
my life's grown so hard to deal
my feeling i can't feel
i want more than i can steal
i want your help to kill me
here today, it's hard to say
and i still love you anyway

i miss the good old days
the days we used to have
when life was so simple
and there's no reason to be sad
if i could start again
i wouldn't end it all that way
i would turn you inside out
we could run away
i've done it now i led myself astray
and our relationships come so jaded
and now it's faded
out of my mind

i know i'm not good enough
you deserve someone else
you deserve a different way
i've deluded your mind
implanted subconcious messages
for you to never find

and the mysteries all come undone
i loved it, it was fun
but now it's over reposed and done

"up and down and then we fall" copyright blane pucket 1997

in the deepest darkest regions
of the deepest darkest space
all the little angels
must some how fall from grace
it's my deepest darkest secret
that no one must ever know
my deepest darkest secret, well thats for me to know
and when you fall from grace
you too will be erased
oh now i've said it all
we're up and down and then we fall

in our little rage
we must listen to Mr. Page
'cause he's buying a stairway to heaven
and maybe we'll never know
and maybe it's just me
like the folks that keep on trying
thats the folks you'll never see
now my visions just about come to an end
i've finished it off in te email i must send

so take this how you wish
and take this how you might
they're words on a piece of paper
they're windows to her life
with me and you
who ever must have built her
has the right to be blue

i eat the cold breakfast on a rainy night
i'm taken away
i see no light
and my endless poem is come to an end
they're cut off
all the vibes that i send

the angels are all now dead
the apocalyptic battle rages on in my head
as the 13th floor is always missing
in the distance the fat lady is singing
and the reaper is always bringing
my thoughts to an end
no more emotion to write or send

Blane, from the USA, is a fan of NINE INCH NAILS and has friends from all over the world on the Internet. These two examples explore the darker side of love and life.


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