Daily Archives: January 21, 2010

34 posts

“Deep Rising” by Felix Alvarez III

For far too long
I have received rewards
But it doesn't compare
To what I'm heading towards
No one understands
What are my intentions
But I still have goals
And much temptation
I can't stop now
There's no holding back
There's only room for progress
No time to lack
The lines are coming together
Forming a solid beam
Soon it will be complete
And fulfill my dream.

“From Now Until Forever” by Felix Alvarez III

Days go by
And nothing changes
So much has been written
Within these pages
All of these thoughts
Are mixed with emotions
Maybe in the future
There will be much devotion
Darkness is spreading
Nothing can be seen
The light will only come
From a lovable queen
After being alone
For quite some time
I hope I can be free
From a thousand tears
This is really deep
As you can see
It’s hard not being desperate
Through my lines of poetry.

“Troublesome” by Felix Alvarez III

To no prevail
I'm in the same place
Annoyed with my life
What a disgrace
Hiding my frustration
Storing it in my heart
Holding back my tears
I feel torn apart
No more negativity
I can’t stand it
Hoping to be free
Away from this predicament.

“Mind vs. Heart” by Felix Alvarez III

Two reliable sources
Both bring happiness and sadness
But between them both
Only one fulfills tenderness
The mind may be a terrible thing to waste
But the heart is filled with love and passion
If one wants to know the similarities
There is not much comparison
The heart pumps with love
While the mind brings confusion
The reason they are separate
Is because one is an illusion
For far too long
I've let my mind take action
Time for my heart to awaken
And avoid any distractions
May it guide me to success
And may my dreams become reality
For my hard work to pay off
And achievements come gradually.

“To Be a Poet” by Robert O. Adair

To be a poet is
to be misunderstood.
To be a poet is
to pour out your heart,
to bare your soul
before a cruel,
critical and
indifferent world.
To all my
and detractors
I submit
a single word,
fraught with deep
philosophical depth:
I thank you.

“The Reaper Waits” by Chris Bendlin

with every wink of the eyes
we slowly decay
and every dawned day
we think but dare not say
we don't reveal that
reality, that just outside
our garden gates
the reaper waits

“Liberal, KS August, 1956” by Maurene Trotter

Grass crunched under pink flip-flops,
Lurking stickers nipped loose toes.
Heat leached sweat from skin before it trickled.
Dust-hazed sky embraced summer sun.
A ditch by the road dented the treeless landscape.
Boys waged dirt clod wars;
Puddled by the driveway, mud oozed between little girl fingers.
Lift of wind stirred curls,
Far distant thunder rumbled like a lullaby.
Rumbled like a timpani, rumbled like a train going sixty miles an hour.
Gust and gust slapped tumbleweeds against shingles.
Wind grabbed dirt, climbed the western horizon
Ravening the clouds.
Presaging storm, grit blasted cheeks and bare legs.
Mothers called children in.
Rain fell black.
Mud drops plopped on the fins of the red Impala.

“She Was Sorry” by Birdie D. Stringfellow

She was sorry she had said it,
but she couldn't take it back.
She lost her temper
like a shepherd loses his sheep.
It just wandered off
and got lost in the crossfire.

Anger is the tongue's worst enemy,
and a heart has no protective barrier
surrounding it.
The damage was done,
and the mark it made
was permanent like a Sharpie
identifying a name
on a piece of clothing.

A slip of the tongue --
Get over it --
she commanded.
Although a bleeding heart
that has been sliced
with the knife
flows red like a juicy tomato
ready for the eating.

Her words spilled into his veins
and poisoned his brain,
and there was no getting over it.
She was sorry she had said it,
but she couldn't take it back.

“A Good Day” by Whitney E. Youngs

One pristine autumn day by the ocean
When sky ruptured blue and winds punctured heat
While Malibu wildfires burned canyon brush,

She hugged him in a dark, crisply chilled bar.
Sparks from wood, wire and ash electrified
Dry air. His ring's white imprint slow to fade.

His voice singed with rapture and gloom, as words
Poured out like virgin rain, its purity
Lost when rising up from soiled pavement.

His eyes, spread open like oleander
Petals, emitted day's orbit to night.
Under dust and cigarette haze, cocktail

Glasses twinkled, ruby lamps camouflaged
Gestures so tense - a second drink, her pulse
Slowed. Her hand in his, palms stuck like salty

Farm mud to the skin of pigs. She minded
None, caught her on a good day. They woke up
Naked in a room still draped in last night's

Dreams and blurred memories of a sunset
Sweating from its adornment of glazed stars.
They recalled fleeing the hot evening scene,

Creeping around her house, laughter muffled,
Like children hiding in a barn. He paused,
So she kissed. It was a good day to sleep with a friend.

“The Photograph” by Mark Osaki

She is young, slender and almost pretty.
And her pose — if that is what it was — displays
a grace normally associated with less girlish frames.
One hand holds a few strands of hair, and nearby,
the other grasps a large comb placed almost in her lap.
She is wearing a paisley dress, the zipper undone,
it hangs loosely around her shoulders,
and her face is turned towards something
beyond the photo's border. Who she is,
what she meant, the memory I thought to preserve,
have all left me. I know only that I was with her
in a room years ago, and that the sun filtering
into that room faded instantly upon striking the floor.
Only film exposed to that light for a brief instant
of time has kept her, relieved of sense,
of any purpose but of being there. Intent in that time,
but looking away.

“Case of the Mondays” by Brandon S. Roy

Pies, onions, and laser storm cloud over
the smell of early morning golden bark laced

coffee has me ready to go. Popcorn fragranced
children in a wishbone stance wait an Italian
minute before jetting off to school.

Chopped and ready to make a turtle's pace to bright eye morning
conversationalists that think Mondays are just great.

You would claw at their throats if was not for the Starbucks
in one hand and cell phone in the other. A lifetime of video games
lets you juggle that iPod too.

Parked and not ready to go. That dark ring around your eyes now makes circles around your soul. Breathe deep.
Go on, false dreams await.

“Blood Letting (Sonnenizio on a line from John Haigh)” by Brandon S. Roy

It sheds its own light, benign majesty. Unfortunately, we must murder it. - Pablo Neruda

As I grew up I realized,
though imperfectly,

that I was different from other people,
and that I only wanted to cut people

open and watch them die. This
might seem a little awkward.

Once I discovered working long
hours for little pay was harder than

cutting out someone's organs
in alphabetical order then the

world seemed brighter. I remember
getting a mug and taking blood from

a man's neck. I drank it. I have to
admit, I rather liked it.

“At the YMCA” by Danny P. Barbare

Opening the door
Thank you says the Sunny Day
With the glint of blue sky
In his glasses.
His hair is white
As he has a frothy cup
Of Cappuccino in his hand
That can reach into the stratosphere.
Your welcome, I say.
I like his kind of weather, a smile.

“Home” by Alan Hogan

There was the one
With the cerulean blue carpet
So perfect we said
For a place in Florida

There was the one with the metal roof
On the back porch
Where the rain would play piano
Softly into the late hours

These were houses but not home
Home was a place
With wooden paneling in the den
Where with the bedroom window open
If the wind was just right
You could hear the trucks on I-80
Singing in their lusty baritones

And where we sat in the basement
Listening to music
And imagining ourselves as being popular

“The Promise” by Jerelyn Adviento

we look for love in the most uncaring of places
expectations sought and never reciprocated
and yet its but human nature to search for it
discontent quite not getting enough of it

sitting in front of a computer, with so many things to do
dare i take a breather, and sense
that i am love beyond words
but i don't realize it, never quite content

love in its simplest form, is love pure
thank you for giving it to me
thank you for being patient,
that i'll get to learn it somehow

you'll see, i will.
i will

“Vampyric Lust” by Mary Beth Asaro

I lick your tongue
breathing in your wasted

Then I tackle the lips
with a gentle touch
of a sharpened finger-
exposing your expensive

I don't deny what I am
as I chew on your breast
and cradle your expectations.

I am simply a reflection
of your love
making you yearn
for a jaded taste
of life's elixir.

“Shakened” by Mary Beth Asaro

Farewell to the earthquake
resurrecting the green sunlight
towards a blazing star

as I taste sour juices from a buzzing
apple tree drenched in a decade
of horse pee.

Farewell to the earthquake
that brought down my home
like a tidal wave on a sand castle.

I search for answers
in the dust graveled memories
of The Great Depression,

but there are no words
to put back the stability
of a broken cardboard.

untitled by M. David Mitcham

The white knight of loneliness
entrenches my spirit
and smothers my soul into the dark cave of comfort

Blackening my ambition
and cracking the foundation of my echoes
while in the same second pampering
my mind and molding my dreams into
pointed hopes with sharp edges

My grasp slicing when reaching
with the pale hand of reality
causing the blood of my wish to be sacrificed
unto the altar of numbness
and covering my heart for eternity

“HATE!” by M. David Mitcham

Why do we kill each other?
Why do we start wars that never end?
Why do we HATE our fellow human beings?
The world stops
No progress is made through HATE
I HATE the word HATE!
HATE is the leading cause of blindness in the world
HATE is a nauseating stomach virus that causes the
world to vomit away it's intelligence
HATE is not black, nor white
Nor Christian, Muslim or Jew
It is not rich
It is not poor
HATE is a universal cancer
HATE lives only because we allow it to persist
HATE lives only in us