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i remember

>> Monday, November 15, 2010





















now i realize seeing your name
in my mind i remember you

in the field among dragonflies
little hands weaving dreams
in that little room long gone
you always smelled of the sun

i see you outside the window
catching rain with your hands
you did not turn as i leave
time went without goodbyes

why do summers have to go?
fading even sunsets in pictures
with faces that replaced mine?
you never wrote, i broke a vow 

now i realize saying your name again
in my mind and in the many places
of my heart i'll forever remember us


  • I dedicate this little ode to old and older friends I have lost and found again. Thanks for the memories. And here's hoping to making some more with you.  

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[GUEST POETRY]

>> Saturday, November 13, 2010

Ocean's Gift
by Marie Jimenez-Beaumont






















When life casts its gray shadows
and the tests have been too much to take
When my heart has been broken once again
and my dreams have faded into nothingness
the white sands of the beach is where I go.

Running past sand castles
and the hidden treasures the sand may hold
running past lovers basking in the warmth
of the eternal sun -
I reach for the cool embrace of
the ocean's wave.

Together we dance to the ebb and flow
of the tide of life
and together
we stand unafraid.

In the silence of the distance the ocean's
strength speaks to me
enveloping my soul with
the gift of peace it came to find. 




"It's great to be here, meeting other writers and gaining inspiration and connections from all over the world!
fr the author's profile page on HubPages where she writes as
VioletSun







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hanging out

>> Thursday, November 11, 2010


excuse me.
 excuse me, but i only caught the last
word you said. the rest were just
high and low notes that mingled
with the smoke i thoughtlessly
exhale, ignored like the heady
scent of a pungent perfume.
i took a sip of the coffee with
a dreamy name for fear of
succumbing again into the
already familiar landscape that
we create. but the coffee, like
the cigarette, won't kick it for me.
i'm desperately hoping you'd
start singing of the apocalypse,
or pull out a knife and stab me
in the heart and maybe, just maybe,
i'd feel a rush, a gush, excitement
...anything. anything if only to
to feel something other than
this fear of feeling nothing.
but the world remains settled,
unstirred, machine-like in its
business of killing time. i dangerously
arched my back and waited for a
bone to break. nothing. i held my
breath instead and prayed for
something to snuff but still it would
not come. the thought that we'd  be
doing this forever doesn't make me
cry, or think of crying. i light up
another stick and emptied the cup
and i'm thinking what a wonderful life
this life is. this life we make. 
you and i.

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divine, miss m

>> Monday, November 8, 2010



























you never moved in color
always flirting in black and white
but who knew you lived in gray


did you really...one day in '62
some say they saw it coming
but i never could tell
from your face
   eyes lips skin magic
the graininess
   (where was technicolor)
could not stop the world
from stopping
when the skirt lifted
the shoulders hunched
the hips jutted
dreams came easy


or was it taken from you
that day in '62
for fighting fierce
and loving fiercer
a country girl between
a rock and a hard place
barbiturates brought the stars
a man-god could only promise


now i see you in color
larger than the life you breathed
you outshine them all
if god keeps true to his promise
you might even outlive him


if a life in gray was all it took
you did splendidly well
and i say...


divine, miss m, divine



Image: Marilyn Monroe (1962) by Andy Warhol


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[GUEST POETRY]

>> Wednesday, November 3, 2010

ToddleRIO
by Lexi Haberman




















Is he one of us?
Or is he he something else?
Was he brought by the stork?
Or manufactured for the store shelf?

Reality blurred, sentience questioned.
Humanity's achievements, time of great reflection.
What makes a human?
Soon we'll have to create an answer
To this conundrum.
The truth we frequently fear to seek,
when it threatens our ego of being unique.

If we can't get past the skin
And bask in everyones character
If we can't get past the closet
Then how shall we profit?

Is he one of us?
Or is it just a thing?
Who is alive when
Our children see the same?

You can't beseech
Such beauty
and innocence
How far has our hate
Gotten with viral resilience?

Reality blurred, sentience questioned.
Humanity's achievements, time of great reflection.
What makes a human?
Soon we'll have to create an answer
To this conundrum.
The truth we frequently fear to seek,
when it threatens our ego of being unique.



"And as always, I am your proverbial punching bag. So don't forget to abuse me, because I may just push you too far."
- fr the author's profile page on HubPages where he writes as lxxy

His other sites



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at last the sky is gray

>> Tuesday, November 2, 2010




















at last the sky is gray
the blue has gone summering
yet the rain is a world away

there is nothing here
not even blackbirds singing
and i stand ashy
a ghost among dead trees

there must be fireflies
waiting in the gloaming and beyond
shed the tear you have refused me
and my soul is free from November

i see now, know now
how cold stone live without life

at last the sky is gray
the blue has gone summering
yet the rain is a world away



at last the sky is gray

at last



Image: Die Winterreise (1827) by German Romantic painter Caspar David Friedrich,
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[GUEST POETRY]

>> Saturday, October 30, 2010

Quarto, with Crows
by Lita Sorensen



























For four days now, crows have woken me
against slate gray snow burgeoning tree limbs
I hear cries
as they pick old grape
seeds from the neighbors’ vines
and circle like ministers above tenements.
Today is bright with winter sun. The rest have kept
the sullenness of November blustering, weathered, tearful days.

Crows know how to bring on the morning
properly with chants and caws
but with laughter of hypocrites
behind earnest magisterial robes
and open eyes of gypsies.
Almost a week has passed in November,
great thief of time endgame of the year.

I have counted four crows ahead
In the tall elm tree
perched like dark sailors
up a ship’s mast preachers on a pulpit
resemblance in their stark cries
exhorting god of sky,
endless blue-white oceans.
This too, will pass (like winter)
an old lover once told me
not yet waking on my pillow,
predicting the phantasm of our love.

I look for crows every day now
in dictionaries of black symbols in webs of branches
quotation marks against sky after endless skies
in days ahead and behind me
in sighs and with sharp intakes of air.
There is something so familiar about the sound of their voices
speaking so plainly before breakfast.




"I am a writer living in Sedona, Arizona" 
-fr the author's profile page on her writing site 
"The Sutler"








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surreal

>> Tuesday, October 26, 2010


This was inspired by a dream. And as with all dreams, the details of which  have evaporated with the passing of time. It must have been intense though, that I'm quite certain, for I still can't shake it off from my subconscious. A niggling abstract thought.  And now I'm like recalling a scent only I can't tell where I smelled it, who wore it, or what exactly was it - old leather, bergamot, jasmine, tamarind?  It is so much like deja vu, you're certain when it happens and in a wink of an eye, you're not, never sure anymore. It's all very surreal. Like the impression invoked by the images and words - lines stolen from great poets and randomly strung together - below.





















AT midnight hour I went, not willingly,
When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
Cover mine eyes, O my Love! 





























My heart leaps up when I behold
Angels of the love affair
When June comes dancing o'er the death of May























Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead!
as the poems go into the thousands you
Oh mother, mother, where is happiness?
Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers to-day; 






























The name of the author is the first to go
immense, august, like some Titanic bloom,
when winter was half over
Let the rain kiss you

























Now close the windows and hush all the fields
The free bird leaps
And death shall have no dominion. 
























Never try to trick me with a kiss
I do not love you except because I love you;
I am in need of music that would flow
Desolate and lone 

























Once a dream did weave a shade
There will be rose and rhododendron
I walk down the garden-paths,
Go, sit upon the lofty hill





I SING the Body electric;
I dwelt alone
a total stranger one black day



,,
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like a flower

>> Sunday, October 24, 2010


i unfurl in many colors
                 little by little when you are taken to the night
                 or suddenly when you are inclined to behold
as red as your heart in times of hate, choleric
as blue as your wintering soul, disconsolate
as white as your thoughts in prayer, chaste
purples greens passim, prismatic thru glass
 
i flood your air, headily
                 cautiously like autumnal leaves descending
                 or frantically like stormy weather unbound
with perfumes so potent Chloris weeps in envy
else feeble whiffs you mistake for afterthoughts
until to you I become no more a passing fancy

on my skin are etched
                paths to your awakening, rapturous, earthly
                across hellish high waters to placid shores
with me you are immortal, celestial, infinite
no dream has a prayer to make you forget
no memory, no silence, nothing is as distinct

love, i am love
let me in like a secret
your fall and redemption like a flower 


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[GUEST POETRY]

>> Monday, October 18, 2010

A yellow rose and a thousand red roses 
by Francia Clavecillas

 


























There used to be
just one yellow rose
defining the scars
of my geography;
Each scar was a terrain
unfamiliar to promenaders
holding hands
under kind stars.
Then I dreamed
of a thousand women
swallowing the teeth of their sorrow
Each of them was giving me
a red rose. 



 

"At present, aside from working with the marginalized, I do freelance writing, conduct training in community organizing, play the guitar and a local instrument called bandurria. I write poetry with an earned self-confidence."
- fr her home page on HubPages where she writes as franciaonline

The author is the creator of self-esteemandcommunityorganizing.com  



 ,..
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climbing trees

>> Thursday, October 7, 2010


Checkers of pale gold and soft white fluttering on my skin. Luminously more so when a warm breeze passes. They spill onto the ground, cascading. I stand on a chess board of light. A dazzling sight for anyone who cares to notice. I lay my hands on the cool, rough skin. As if sensing  a sign of the minute lives underneath, inside. In a beautifully chaotic procession. The furrows of my palms find respite on the wrinkles and crests of brown darkened by time while I was gone. And away.

I look up but do not squint and marvel at the filigree of green and limbs. Swaying. Waiting. I desired to be with them but my mind, despite the enchantment, pulls back. And wanders off again...

to that sight of a strange fruit, a crowned seductress, a guava. It was so high up. And to a child of six, it was amongst the clouds. It was probably the distance that separated that made the child I was once more resolute to quell the quiet but unignorable stirring inside. In my throat. In my gut. The rotund, yellow green orb of flesh was the first object of my desire. I can still feel the warmth that spread on the insides of my cheeks to this very day. I flung stones, sticks and anything my hands can throw at the fruit but it remained untroubled. What was I to do? Ah, a conundrum of the highest order!  But brilliance to a young mind also comes. And to me, it came in the form of the sinewy length of the giant plant.  Without a hint of hesitation nor any form of thought, my feet lifted off the ground...I climbed the tree.

My feet curled over each groove they could find. My hands grasped  at the limber branches that  hoisted me higher. Higher and higher I went. But I was not alone in my journey. Ants marched before my eyes, little feet on a mission.  I did not get in their way for I knew even then what they can do. My mother's potted plants were home to them too.

The higher I went, the more natural things felt. The leaves became familiar. Playful in the heavier wind, arching with the boughs and twigs. Their webbed faces caressed mine and, as if eager to please, they perfumed the paths I was traveling  - scent so heady and fresh I could have spent the rest of my days up the tree with my eyes closed. Or probably with my eyes wide open for how could I miss that wondrous sight...the jewel that lured me skyward?

And there it was at last, the freckled, rotund drupe. The sheen on its skin bespoke of the succulent flesh that challenged me to devour. But curiously, I felt the craving to possess and consume starting to ebb. Little by little. Like an echo drowning in space until not even a memory of its sound is left. For a moment I was mystified...what was I doing there?

And the answer came to me when I looked around. With the ground far far below, I was free, I was majestic.  Like the tree that embraced me. In retrospect, it was my first lesson in metaphors.

My mind wanders back and here I am again. Looking up but not squinting and marveling at the filigree of green and limbs. And with a new metaphor. A metaphor I learned while I was gone. And away. A metaphor about

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russian roulette

>> Thursday, September 30, 2010






















you own that corner in the cafe
beside the french window
a plastic flower, a chipped vase
no ashtray on the table for two

right after work you go, always
the man with the apron
knows...black no sugar, he does
not return your smile anymore

but your trouble is your trouble
your friends knew better
you sit and wait while the dark
brew courses through your heart

surely he'll come looking for you
they always do you say
if only you were born that way or
they don't fly off the handle easy

the tenth stick 'neath a heel goes
and at six o five a gush
for in comes the one. you think
of your bed (and was the cat fed?)

he's looking now, with eyes alit
just the perfect swagger
the right sneer you're looking for
(sigh) what are tables for two for?

.

and you fall as all dead things fall
gathering dust as you go
tasting warm red black and blue            
and gone before you hit the floor


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[GUEST POETRY]

>> Monday, September 27, 2010

Ballistics 
 by Sheila Tombe




















Research on the web confirms my suspicion; the small hole
in the back window of my car (parked as always
under the cherry and pines) was made by a projectile
traveling at a speed upwards of 760 mph.

So.  Probably not a pine cone, then.

The cracks radiating across the glass from the entry wound
are myriad, ready like the trigger on a booby-
trapped bomb. I touch the surface; immediately,
it implodes with a sigh heaved downwards; surprising,
uneven chunks—compelled by gravity—fall into the car
(at about 10 mph, I suppose).  

Yet still attached in its corner isthmus, in case I might forget,
a bullet hole.  Angle of entry dictates that the shot
came from a height; one roughly equivalent, as I guess,
to a second-floor apartment. . . like the one across the street.
(Unless it was borne through the leaves from the branch
of an intervening tree? Unlikely perch for a Friday night sharpshooter!) 
But then, I imagine, this shooter was neither
sharp nor flat, whistling through air in tune like Elvis
Costello singing “my aim is true” (which was first recorded
for black vinyl rotating
at 45 rpm). 

No.  I conjecture this stray bullet, looking for Alison
yet not finding her, is the product of a late-night session
featuring shots of tequila, or worse, traveling at speeds
as comfortable
as a swallow.




"Born and raised in Belfast, Northern Ireland. Educated in Belfast and Glasgow.  Employed in Madrid; Hamamatsu, Japan; Columbia, SC; and Beaufort, SC. Retired by a river. Tolerated by cats and dogs.  Fed by literature, music, and light. Enchanted by ideas and engrossed in making words work. Now at law school--at 51--and fascinated." 
- fr her home page on HubPages where she writes as Teresa McGurk .


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i lay dreaming of birds

>> Saturday, September 25, 2010

 I wrote this poem on the aftermath of Typhoon Ondoy (Ketsana) which ravaged most of the island of Luzon (Philippines) on September 26, 2009. It's exactly been a year.



























mud encrusts my hands like
gloves, warm but impersonal
i persistently rummage for
things i am afraid i have lost
in the flood, in the dark water
      photographs
      letters
      pride


but i keel over, the stench
leaves no room for nostalgia
even in overcast moments
when memories weave a
a perfect release to go with
     stale cigarettes
     and a cup
     of tears


i lay down and stare at the
wounds on my feet, gaping,
like an open call for death
but even death is no more
a stranger than this quietly
      strange house
      that the birds
      deserted


birds...i see one...two...three
silvery ghosts silhouetted
against the untouchable sky
did Noah's ark really land on
Mt Ararat? a fortunate soul
      he had God
      on his side
      while i...


i lay and dream and dream of
birds and lay dreaming still...




I also wrote a blog called seven meters of misery - my personal accounts of that very unfortunate event in my life.  

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mater dolorosa

>> Friday, September 17, 2010

mater dolorosa (Latin); the sorrowful mother
Mater Dolorosa; the mother of Christ sorrowing for her son























this dark flower that i cling to on my
breast shall not fade. it will stay with
me, locked, in this tower that i built... 
an island in a sea of tears I have shed
for a thousand years only for you. the
stars may forget to lift their veils, and
the moon may forever slumber, but my
eyes will refuse to tire or dim.  they
shall seek and behold your beauty in
the gloaming and in every dawn. the sun
may forsake rising for all eternity but
i will endure longer and, ever faithfully,
speak your name in the darkest hours 
through the labyrinth of fog and sleep.

go now, my sweet. set sail to where i
cannot shadow. take this, the purest
love my heart can gift and embrace
it like you did my face when you first
breathed life from my life. go. fly now
to the distant shores of white where
pain is a stranger while i linger for a

moment longer in the mist, in the east
of your west, and dream of your smile
while i ponder upon the fragile veins  
of newborn leaves and recall your scent
in the passes you have walked with me.

ah my dearest one, you have broken my
soul and the pain shall not come to pass
like days melting into nights. the sweet
ache i will let dwell in my remembrances - 
within the walls of my longing, beyond
the sound of autumn, beyond the kiss of
the rain. beyond where words resound.

i am letting go but do not fret my love.
turn away without a care nor 
an afterthought, for my
sorrow is my light
my child. 

.

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eat fire raw

>> Wednesday, September 15, 2010























eat fire raw
man, woman, child
fleeting is the flame
red unlike any other
or fall away to black

the passing of wanting
is an unfortunate affair
the requiem is apathy
not a lilt in the march
to a chamber of cliches

while you have wings fly
burn the map and stray
scream, ask, lust, brave
life in mono is not a life
ellipses are for stones

for time loses faith
in shadows and fog
hunger for the pain
and layer by layer
eat fire raw


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antarctica

>> Friday, September 3, 2010





















you shun me and i die a thousand
deaths, breath by breath, petal by petal
but i endure like waves to the shore

your beauty is my melancholy a mirror
of a million stars, a smile and i fall
to despair in shades of midnight blue

for your youth, your fragile, delicate youth
is my greatest tragedy. somewhere, the sun
dreams of the waters of  the moon

i hear time stops in Antarctica, losing
itself in all the whiteness.time forgetting
time. i'll set sail before winter descends

but while this flower flies with the wind
will you defy the maps to your heart?
i promise to return eternal as stone

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the keeper

>> Thursday, August 26, 2010



here is a secret nobody knows
you collect butterflies in a jar
blue, orange, silvery winged things
your eyes bright orbs through the glass

your feet are bound in twine, wispy
unlike your memory, as you recall
that one name, that one time

your hands are as unmoving as your
feet, the fear to hold rousing the
desire more and more...and more
for a feel of the fairy dust that
settle on your brow

but your tears are meaningless
for it is your fate
some love without sound
some choose pain for air
some are born to keep

god blessed your soul with butterflies




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