Daily Archives: February 25, 2011


Galleries Closed to Submissions During Server Move

While the big changes I’d hope to complete in time for the server move are not complete, the move has to happen now.  (Otherwise, I have to pay for another year at the old server, which I’d really rather not have to do.)  The PoetsHaven.com galleries will be closed to submissions while the move is completed.  The galleries will be open to submissions on the new server, however it may take up to 48 hours for everyone’s ISPs to update their DNS info.  If you wish to submit work to the galleries and are not able to do so, please come back in a day or two.

(If I don’t close the galleries on the old server and that’s the version of the site you are seeing, your submissions will be lost.  This way, no submissions get lost during the transition from the old server to the new.)

Good things are in store at the new server.  I am promised unlimited (within reason) bandwidth, and as such will be able to do things like hour-long podcast episodes (instead of half-hour episodes) and the upcoming ebook releases without worrying about data transfer limits.  I am also continuing to work on upgrades to the galleries, but what I am trying to do there has proven to be a major undertaking somewhat beyond my self-taught PHP programming skills.  It’ll get done someday, I just have to figure out how to get certain functions to work the way I want.


“An Opus for Ants” by Ron Koppelberger

"Turn away... Turn away!" the commander said to the soldier.

The soldier ant said, "But I have this burden to deliver to the queens guard, a burden of nourishment and blood for the secret birth of our children and the nest." The commander waved his antenna and spun in circles around the soldier and his burden.

"Danger lays in wait by the rivers edge, for the enemy has the deluge and the destruction of our construct!" the soldier ignored the commander and moved on to the place where his burden would be multiplied by the limits of a possible berth. When the soldier ant had found his cache of bidden sustenance he paused and rested for the return home; in a seconds breath the shadow of the enemy approaching filled the sky and the vision of the ants fear. The shadow passed and the ant counted himself lucky in fate.

Later he returned to the nest only to find it awash in an ocean of water and drown comrades. What of the queen he thought. Realizing he was alone his hunger overcame him and he ate the burden intended for the guard and the queen.

"Confessions of mystery, a war fought at odds with the impossible," he spoke, "but at least I have a belly full of food and my back to build a road unto the next horizon."

“Confirmation” by Tim Dyson

When Momma wore slacks
tan linen and white silk
blouse, swept back
auburn hair full
of Virginia sun
all things seemed fresh
like the Jean Nate
or the grilled onions
on lunch counters
or new shirts
crisp as confirmation

I walked next to a princess
passing the housedress
ladies, the half stockinged
guardians of low
expectations, steering
their carts away
from the makeup case
the lingerie mannequins
talked among themselves

“Stoic Courage” by Lisa Cappiello

A man of few words, his life experiences decorate the majority of his flesh
Humble, he gives thanks regularly
Puts others in front of himself and willingly reaches out to those in need
But at first glance you'd never know
As his large, purple heart is hidden by oversized clothing

His music enabled the world to get a glimpse of what his inner circle saw clearly
Fueled by drive and determination, he obtained his professional goal while staying true to himself
On this particular night, the spotlight was fixated on him
He basked in the glory of his well deserved success while joyful energy radiated stronger than his colossal persona
Until his selflessness shot him
Straight back to reality

Erroneously accused
He returned to the scene of the crime voluntarily in an attempt to clarify the muddle and rectify any wrong
The deceit was cleverly masked
As was the ambush from the regulators
Prejudged by society
All they saw was his packaging
They found no reason to look beyond his exterior and hear his version of the truth
He fit their profile, perfectly

As the cold metal pinched the tender skin on his wrists he barely made a sound
All he asked was for his voice to be heard, respectfully
His compliance was rewarded with force
Required to submit at the mercy of injustice, he was manhandled, then lobbed into a cage
His spirit deteriorated and was replaced with disgust
He never stood a chance

Resilient
He reached inside and drew from the strength that earned him a medal in his past life
He was not stifled for long
Cards unfolded, he critiqued his traits but refused to conform
The next set of challenges were eagerly anticipated as he held his head higher than ever
For when he looked in the mirror
He saw a man

“Divine Permission” by Albert Ruggiero

With my chin resting on a log
in a magical instant of time,
the gods have given me
the sight of a Woodland sprite
to view secrets of forest delights.

 

A silky silence invades my head,
as I watch otters drop down a slippery slide
on their bellies.

 

I invade the otters mind.
I’m on a freefalling coaster ride.
My stomach drops as I slice through the mirrored pond.

 

Hermes and Pan have given me permission
to see the vixens of the river.
They snap, snort, and hiss.
They speak with “Huh-huh-huh” sounds
and soft birds—like “Chirp-chirp-chirps.”

 

My heart jumps for joy,
watching their long, slick bodies slide
as they use the river as a toy.
Like a long, dark sausage these black shapes,
pierce the glassy surface leaving frothy,
silver bubbles in their wake.

 

 

 

 

 

Albert Ruggiero is a baby-boomer, so his view of the world has always been through his glasses of the 50′s, but his stories are filled with hope and a view of the future.  He is the author of two short-story collections; “The Curious Boy and Other Short Stories” and “Bestride the Narrow World,” and the novels “Wilson’s Wall” and “Daughter of God and Man.”


“Where Do Butterflies Go When It Rains? (All Butterflies Have Gossamer Wings)” by Albert Ruggiero

When it rains, a butterfly I know,
Hides under a dense leaf.
She pulls a thick blanket over her head.

 

Another hides under the overhang on a house.
His back pushes up against the abode,
Body shaking, peering into the night.

 

And yet others perch in the bushes,
With their wings tightly closed.
And heads bent down, close to their chests.

 

They crouch together, clutching each other,
Brother and sister watching, as the angered adult
Passes by.

 

(A careless touch in the wrong place on their wings, destroys their ability to fly.)

 

Another hides under the overhang on a house.
His back pushes up against Body shaking, peering into the night.

 

And yet others perch in the bushes,

With their wings tightly closed.
And heads bent down, close to their chests.

 

They crouch together, clutching each other,

Brother and sister watching, as the angered adult
Passes by.

 

(A careless touch in the wrong place on their wings, destroys their ability to fly.)

 

 

 

 

 

Albert Ruggiero is a baby-boomer, so his view of the world has always been through his glasses of the 50′s, but his stories are filled with hope and a view of the future.  He is the author of two short-story collections; “The Curious Boy and Other Short Stories” and “Bestride the Narrow World,” and the novels “Wilson’s Wall” and “Daughter of God and Man.”


“Yesterday’s Laundry ” by Heather Mashburn

My laundry hangs off of weathered white rope
now brownish-gray from the footprints
of the minuscule ants that march across it.
On Sundays my damp laundry dances
in the humid breeze
suspended by clothes pins
as weathered as their roped partner.
Hung between two thin-barked trees,
t-shirts frolic upside down as they gather
an organic sent of sun and earth.
They are in euphoric relaxation.

It's Monday and yesterday's clothes still hang.
A storm is coming and yesterday's clothes still hang.
The wrathful wind and roaring rain batter the trees
who try with every dirt-bound root not to falter.
Their fate founders as they snap in unison.
Trees, rope, pins, and clothes
make their way to their muddy coffin below.
No one was home to pick them up.
No one came home to pick them up.

“A Song for Sisters” by Robert Holzhausen

A gander is a goose you see
And an ox is one of oxen
As a person is to people three
And strollers go out walking

She stuffs herself in suitcases
Far off with thoughts and talking
In Russia where the Russians be
And kittens roll in cotton

Alone is something by yourself
When together is uncommon
My sister shares my family
But little else too often

Dead intellects are far away
From street side painting auctions
And rusted relic scaffolding
And apples saved from rotting

“Lost City” by Jerome Brooke

Far in the desert, trapped in a mirage, lay the lost city,
By time forgot.
Her towers were toppled, her walls did crumble,
Such was her lot.

Gold and silver, still lay in the palace of death, with emeralds bright,
Of her lost glory did sing.
Helms and mail, near the gate did lie, among bones of her defenders,
Faithful to the king.

Lions now roamed thru royal halls, of the palace decayed,
Final masters of the land,
Here once walked the lords of the earth, names now forgot,
Written in sand.

“Embrace the Ambiguity ” by Sarek Futch

My purpose is written, yet unknown to me
I struggle to keep my focus
My purpose thirsts for tangibility

If these words could speak
Specific and brief
Still they'd be snarled
At the very mention of me

My mind's too enthralled
With dreams I have drawn
To observe me as a reserve
Not just as a pawn

But when my gift is bestowed
Individuality will expose
My purpose will be set in sight
As my future gets set in stone

Then you'll witness these hands
Build a place for me to stand
Within the Gods and Gremlins

My purpose lies in the coming tides of the holy light
In death I will find something
Something truly divine, lingering in the heavens
A master design, hiding behind curtains

Riding the wave of uncertainty to the shores of validity
My purpose?
It's ambiguity at it's finest

“Acid Reflux” by Sarek Futch

I looked around me as I started towards home
And came in contact with a man named Go
I said, "I like your name."
He said, "I like your mind."
"Why?" I asked, and this is how he replied,
"Close your eyes and take a deep breath,
Count slowly back from five.
Spread your wings and show me your colors,
Imagine life as a butterfly.
Now don't be shy just take to the sky,
Or you'll deprive the world of a hard-fought flight
From the trunks to the tops of the trees
And if the bees in between are what's making you scream
Then not to worry."
He said, "Not to worry.
All they want is to make a scene."
When I came to he asked, "How was your dream?"
I put my head to his chest and this is what I said,
"Well I don't recall the bees or the trees or trunks
Just trying to get to you sitting on the sun,
But it all went dark like I was in my heart
And the fire was never there.
So I climbed the vine that's taken the place of my spine
And found a mirror laying on the floor.
I screamed as I smashed the glass with my fist
And found myself running towards the door.
Upon opening I saw it slamming shut
And was left to bleed out my pain once more.
I laughed and I cried
"It won't hurt after I die!"
But how could I ever be sure?"
You whispered, "not to worry."
Whispered, "Not to worry.
I'll kiss wherever you're sore."
"That's when I came to seeing comfort as you
Still standing by my side.
I heard each beat of your heart,
Felt the heat of your charm
And saw the fire that flooded your eyes."
I said, "I like your name."
He said, "I love your mind."

“HA! HA! HA!” by Brett Electra Devlin

It seems to me I am mediocre,
I am the ruler of all mediocrity.
It seems to me I am a joke
that yields no serious punch line.
I must be wearing blinders
for I cannot see the obvious.
I am no writer,
I am a joke!
A clown!
Surely I am a fool!
For I cannot rhyme two words...
this poem proves it.
Why do I fool myself so,
with a talent of which none I possess?
I can put pen to paper and fool no one but myself.
I rant and rave about the poet I will someday be.
I am not one now, how will I be one later?
My desire is greater than any ability possessed.
It seems to me I am a minion,
an inferior crony to the craft.
God has vent his humor on me.
He has given me no writing talent,
only talent to recognize it.
It seems to me I will never write great literature,
only read it.
It seems to me I will never write gifted poetry,
only read it.
And it seems to me I am a greater fool to read it,
if I am never to write it.

“Falling Snow” by Robert O. Adair

The falling snow
floats past my windowpane,
the falling snow
so light and feathery!
Bright sunlight shines across
this clean white scene.
Cheering dour winter's
drear, cold days.
How I miss not having you
to share this with,
to kiss your cheek
and hold you close!
Ah! For the sound
of a voice
forever still.