David Jackson

I climb the hills and mountains of my heart poem by J Barton

by

I climb the hills and mountains of my heart

Where the echos of spirits sound.

On my way I search for happiness–

Happiness, solid as a stone.

Now My happiness is with you–right now–here–

There’s no power in yesterdays–tomarrows–nothing–

Their voice speaks in the wind.

So pour me your tea–

Make it warm this night–

Come close–

And old spirits won’t find me home.

***

Peace Comes Dropping Slow by Ken Peters

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Peace Comes Dropping Slow 
 

glacially
when bloody Christians
aren’t looking
incrementally
when red Imams
aren’t listening
inexorably
inevitably
when wall building Zionists
and bomb laden Palestinians
are sleeping
God must be laughing
at this horror
because my prayer
“dear God
protect me from
your beleivers”
may not be enough
while I wait for glaciers, trees and rivers
to replane this terra
into Eden– Ken Peters

Ken’s menu   /   Moongate

Where Poem by Marilyn McIntyre

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            WHERE?
            Where? 
            are poems alive 
            upon the page 
            do words have meaning 
            does the music sing 
            when no one hears 
            am i alive when i’m alone 
            does my breath soar 
            and reach another’s dreams 
            will God hear me 
            can i feel with no other 
            to give me bounds 
            and where do my feelings fly 
            in the night 
            mysterious and dark and calling 
            if my eyes cannot see 
            is it so 
            and the candle 
            what of the candle 
            will it still glow 
            without tender whispered murmurs 
            where will my love touch down 
            must it float forever 
            meandering among the stars 
            where does it all go 
            where does it go 
            when it’s gone?

more from Marilyn
 

Contemplating Hell by Bertolt Brecht

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Contemplating Hell

Contemplating Hell, as I once heard it,
My brother Shelley found it to be a place
Much like the city of London. I,
Who do not live in London, but in Los Angeles,
Find, contemplating Hell, that it
Must be even more like Los Angeles.

Also in Hell,
I do not doubt it, there exist these opulent gardens
With flowers as large as trees, wilting, of course,
Very quickly, if they are not watered with very expensive water. And fruit markets
With great leaps of fruit, which nonetheless

Possess neither scent nor taste. And endless trains of autos,
Lighter than their own shadows, swifter than
Foolish thoughts, shimmering vehicles, in which
Rosy people, coming from nowhere, go nowhere.
And houses, designed for happiness, standing empty,
Even when inhabited.

Even the houses in Hell are not all ugly.
But concern about being thrown into the street
Consumes the inhabitants of the villas no less
Than the inhabitants of the barracks.

Bertolt Brecht