Your Poetry

Please feel free to share your poetry here for others to read.  Post it in the comments below.  I'd love to see your poetry. Don't be shy.  Try your hand with one of the Writing Starters or give us something you've already written. You might be the next Whitman or Hemmingway! Your poems will appear after I have read them and approve them.  I do not approve anything blatantly distasteful. 

 WARNING:  Blogger ate tons of poems that were here and I can't guarantee they won't do it again.  Thank you. And then somehow magically all reappeared months later!



Paolo Mateo said...

Show Me More

show me a picture so I may envision a tale
as azure as the dreams of humanity's slumber
when all good folks slide from reality's grip
or maybe the hue of a moonless sky
devilishly smoked as crow stew and
black licorice tapioca delight

sing to me with a voice not mine
in sultry gentleness that suggests a calm
flutter of orchestrated flight
under a moon's revealing gaze
or maybe a course due of pickaxes
laboring with prideful lust, of
grateful hands toiling in tune

place on my tongue a flavor of your desire
velvety smooth, wet, quenching the palate
an exquisite elixir of fairy's brew
or tickle the buds with tartful play
brackish bitterness and burning spice
reminders of those who have little
to choose in their next meal

caress my palm with a passing breath
so I may feel the miracle in life's simplest
perfunctory duty bringing sensual pleasure
or so I may giggle over the ticklish torture
teardrops shedding pains no longer endured
upon the winds of promise and fortune

do for me what I cannot do myself
provide new meaning to old possibilities
satiate the need to be more
see more
feel more
taste more of the fantasy beyond
reality's austere hold on

Copyright © 2011 Paolo Mateo et al

Paolo Mateo said...

A Tree To Be

smothered in
in blacks
gloomy from many
like me
but not
I shine
willful and
I live
I love
I grow
I will die
but always
I am full of

Copyright © 2009 Paolo Mateo et al

Paolo Mateo said...

Grudgingly Grungy

A grungy old codger lived in

a grungy old cabined plot,

grudgingly admiring poetic art that

his grudging old heart could not.

Darkened by painful mistakes,

his doing and that of others,

the grudging old soul wept for

his lack of grungy brothers.

Grudgingly he penned a verse,

then another after careful thought.

Sweat pour grudgingly from his brow

with each word coerced and fought.

Try as he did, he couldn't see

a vision of words released.

Grudgingly he admitted that

his grudge would never be eased.

Deep, dark grungy places lie in

each and every one of you,

Grungy fingers silencing thoughts

from a grudging, stifling crew.

Hug the grungy outer soul

as if it was totally new.

Embrace the grudging soul within

After all, he's a part of you.

Copyright © 2008-2010 Paolo Mateo, et al

Paolo Mateo said...

Last one. (Yea! screams the crowd)

Nimble Bimbo

Nimble bimbo, bubbling sweet
Lacking tacking on her feet
Swaying, baying with her hips
Smiling, sighing as she tips
Showing, knowing that she's seen
Daring, sparing all pristine
Bating, sating a need to be
Tipping, dipping for all to see
Careful, dareful in her tease
Preening, leaning at her ease
Willing, filling heads with dreams
Never, ever giving means

Copyright © 2009 Paolo Mateo et al

Poet on Poetry said...


Thank you for submitting all of your poems. I bet you had fun writing Nimble Bimbo! It has a lot of interesting word choices. Grudingly Grungy is also delightful! I notice that Tree to Be is shaped like a tree trunk-nice. I like the line "I am full of me." What a great thought. Show Me More is a very passionate poem. I think there is a lot of your heart in that one!

Thanks again for sharing, following and being a Tweet Heart!

Paolo Mateo said...

Thank you for allowing me to share with you some of my work. I so apologize for the zealous posting. For a bit, I was like a kid in a candy shop: everything within reach, no clue what to grab first and no thought to ever stopping!

Poet on Poetry said...

That's sweet! A kid in a candy need to apologize! I love your excitement!

marissa said...


On some other lost plane
of time you are standing
watching the years roll
like clouds forecasting
rain on a spring day.

Gray-black eyes fold tears
into memory that forgets
you. As soon as dawn comes
you watch the children
grow like strong trees,
the grandchildren grow
like deep-rooted sycamores
in the ground you plowed.

On some other lost plane
of time you are hovering
as a bright-bold presence
with a smile eating tears
of snow on a winter day.

Marissa Mullins
April 2011

poetryman said...

The Passing of Ages

Weariness creeps, like vines round an ancient oak
with an ever tightening grip
not suffocating, yet gently reminding ~ it is time

The passing of ages, as the sun begins its last journey
descending, into the shadows
to sleep with legends past

When darkness falls, peace ebbs through the soul
old lights fade, becoming memories
entombed, in their own eternal mausoleum


Poet on Poetry said...

Marissa, Grandfather is tender and touching!

Poet on Poetry said...

Poetryman, I love Passing of Ages!

Anonymous said...


The room was ….. Pink.
Yes that's right; I can see it now,
Clear as a bell.
I turn to the bed, which belonged to the Child.
(Not me of course) Far too late for all that 'Fairy Princess' nonsense.
Softens the blow?
How little they know,
'Grown ups'.

"Take off your clothes!"
He drawls,
in weird demonic tones, that pack a mean punch.
First body blow leaves me reeling,
Lost my breath somewhere in my throat.
More than a feeling knocks me off centre.
Halo slips, balance tips
in his favour.

She felt her wings go first.
Watching. . .
Their flightless descent to the ground,
Trampled underfoot.

Thunderous blood, ear splitting resonance,
Ruptures silence.
Morbid precursor,
the sounds of violence.

Tread back, turn head. . . Away . . .
So he can't see.
"I don't want to, please don't make me"
The thought ran free…

Silent plea
That falls wide of the mark.
First shot in the dark fell by the wayside,
I'm losing my grip, I mean she, the Victim,
not me. I, third party witness to the downfall,

Reduced to a whisper,
Barely a whimper.
She closes her eyes

Be Brave Be Brave!

Not like them,
Bold only in number,

"Do what you're told!"
The wood, SLAM fills the hole,
BANG Shut.
Shroud ensnares casket.
Can't breathe…She cannot breathe.
Smothers the thought,
Drowning in pink.

Nervous arousal quickens the flesh,
prickles the skin, Rash reaction.
Intensifies five
yet making no sense.
Projects into overdrive,
More 'alert' than alive
Clock banging, heart thumping, blood pumping.
Ears ringing,
Eyes stinging, inside out.
Tunnel vision,
Looming at the end of this road,
Poisonous toad,
Knows what he wants her to do
In this, her first 'cold blooded' performance.
What happened to the prince?

Dragged down from where she waited,
upon limbs of lead, edges toward the bed.
tries to hide,
CREEP inside.
Slips into something cold,
and froze.
Struck numb,
Rendered dumb
Swallowed whole.

all that breathing. . .
Shallow breaths.

Swarms in for the kiss of death.

"I HATE YOU" she mouths,
Under her breath,
silence decays on her tongue.

She got the last word.
Too absurd to mention.
The voice of a child,
Crimson spattered, forever dead…
Nothing mattered,

Not where it counts,
No recall, for recounts.


Poet on Poetry said...

Powerful piece Poison Pen! You have an amazing voice in speaking for so many! I tried to put your poem up under my comments above but it doesn't work. It turns it all into a blob without line breaks! And you have crafted this beautifully! It needs the breaks. Great job!

Christine Anne Borra said...

The Question of Poetry

Spider words apon the page
Creep inside with hints of sage
To look and see words climbing out
To understand but then to doubt

The very old and yellowed prose
Unformed thought do you surpose
You look again and think you see
Does deepness reflect divinity

Dip again if you think you ought
Did you understand bare thought
Words jump in and sence seeps out
Intellgence without a doubt

Moments pass how do you feel
Did you reflect or will you steal
You ask yourself what did you glean
And ask again what does it mean

Christine Anne Borra

Christine Anne Borra said...

The Steel Hat Men

Dark you loom
and blot the landscape

Mothers whisper
to their children

Do not go near
The Steel Hat Men

Like ancient armies
a show of might

Arms out stretched
crossing our valley's

Shadows at night

just there

just there

just there

Do not go near
The Steel Hat Men

Steel and tears
more than 100 years

You crackle your
private words

And we pay
we pay

Unsightly scene
of necessity

Who will follow
in your steps

When will your
day be done

Do not go near
The Steel Hat Men

And we wait for their
end to come

Poet on Poetry said...

Thank you for leaving not one, but TWO poems! I love that so many of you, once you decide to post, post more than even one!

The Question of Poetry really captures the question of poetry! I especially liked "You look again and think you see
Does deepness reflect divinity"

The Steel Hat Men is intriguing and haunting! You made me think on both of these poems!

Looks like a lot of crafting went into these! I am so amazed at the quality of poetry we are getting here!

VS Bryant said...

I suddenly remember how to truly cry
The rollercoaster turns, twist, and bends
And I continue to float through the air, softly descending
I remember the moon once played with the stars
I remember the rain once sang with the clouds
Quiet loneliness, wraps itself around me
Cocooning my soul in a blanket of desperateness
Then suddenly I emerge as the beautiful butterfly
Spreading hope in the face of despai
I once again can fly
You once again will reach the enigmatic high

Poet on Poetry said...

Just beautiful!

Little Monster said...


Below the fine film
of skin
which clings
to once glorious bones
would you find
who I once was
or overlook
the decay
"There is nothing here."

Poet on Poetry said...

Nice to see you again, Little Monster! I so relate to this poem! Well done! Thank you for sharing!

Christopher Berry said...


It's true what they say
You don't know what you've got till it's gone.
And it feels like a chunk of your being has gone
A lovely round lady whose smile meant love
Gone to sleep
And so now she is gone.

You were the one I went and sat by to feel special
Special because you were proud of me.
Special because you knew me.
You knew me well and I knew you.

Where did you go?
And why did you leave?
In that empty space there
I cry on my sleeve.

You taught me the beauty of nature
That was you
The poems I wrote about what people ignore
It was you that I thought of, when I noticed a tree
A small blade of grass
The four seasons
You did love the world, and I loved it too.

But the words that you spoke don't matter now.
You're gone.
The love you sent out to everyone, everything
Even the little birds
Your wisdom, your kindness, your fun isn't there
And even though we stare
A picture of you doesn't talk or laugh
A picture of you doesn't hold your hand
A picture of you doesn't say, I love you.
And this world is less beautiful now
Since my Granny left.

Why did you go, Granny?
Why did you leave?
Sat in your empty chair
I cry on my sleeve.

But perhaps there's a light at the end of the tunnel
Perhaps it's that star in the sky
Maybe if I carry on, you'll carry on.
Maybe if I paint a picture
There is you.
Maybe to make someone feel better
I'll write them a letter
And there's you.
Maybe there's you whenever I see
A field of green, or a beautiful tree
And maybe whenever I switch on the kettle
You're in every cup of tea.

I'll remember your ways
I'll try to be like you
And then you'll go on
Maybe you'll go on in me.
If I carry your words on my tongue
And I carry your smiles on my lips
Maybe you are still here.

Finally I see a new start.
Because maybe you're here in my heart.

Poet on Poetry said...

Thank you for sharing your poem, Christopher Berry! What a beautiful tribute-and what a special relationship!

Christopher Berry said...


This planet Earth,
This piece of turf,
In a massive Milky Way.
I do not mean
The chocolate bar,
In case you're slow today.

The sun comes up
The sun goes down
Grass shudders in the breeze.
The blossom tree
The bumble bee
The pollen makes us sneeze.
This bitter pill
To swallow slow
Is to realize that we
Are living with
A human race
That's very me, me, me.
The race has had
Good points and bad
But when they spoil the Earth.
Remember where you stand.
It is
A precious piece of turf.

A big blue sky
Of birds on high
Will sing the brand new day.
The wind will blow
Its caring arm
To wipe your tears away.
A world of sounds
Scents all around
A starry sky at night.
We'll watch the waves
The blue sea paves
The way to newer heights.
You will learn
How not to burn
Because of human lies.
And you will see
The good that we
Can make out of our lives.

Just take a seat
World at your feet
Gaze at our piece of turf.
It's a beautiful place
And there's so much space
To make a home on this planet

© 2006 Christopher Berry

Poet on Poetry said...

That you for sharing "This Planet Earth" with us! It is a nicely crafted poem speaking on a subject we tend to take for granted, our planet Earth and the environment. Great insight-nice ending! Please share some more of your work here! (Reposted from earlier deleted post)

Nicholas Vaughan said...


Sweet new sovereign of my heart,
Snuffling like a mole
Breaking the surface of the earth
And taking in tender new air,
Daylight just too bright,
Far from the night-time surround
Of Mummy’s peaceful home,
But the cover of love,
As warm as the waters that held you,
Lies flush and calming
Like a red carpet
Smoothed a thousand times
Or more,
In readiness for royalty,
My princess.

Eyes flickering with images,
Softly a faint shadow quickens
Around your mouth,
The mouth I gave
Without thinking.
Looking up in the briefest break
Of slumber,
Through blue haze
To woo my gaze,
Melting this dirty kneed man
Quicker than a red-faced arrest,
But lay easy, sweet girl,
You have captured me
Without trying,
Gladly handcuffed to you
Until breath parts us
For good,
Or bad,
Without question.

I spin a chocolate lullaby,
Dripping with the rapture
Of a million so-called love songs,
The words meaning less than their sound,
Laughable and ill-timed maybe,
But Daddy’s voice immeasurable,
Just as I still hear my own parents’
Reading of forgotten stories,
Bored and tired,
Though full of comfort
To schooling ears.

And when the day arrives
For you to leave
For the wild woods,
A brand new rucksack
Oversized and square across your back
Full of hearts to break
And innocence to shake clean,
The nettles will bite,
The winds will sting
With the chill of ugly eyes,
And clouds will sometimes clothe the sun
In hopeless shades of grey.

So come home to me,
Come home before the badly dressed sun
Dribbles away for the day,
Squeeze out that pretty smile,
And I’ll smile right back
As broad and deep
As the garden I built for us.
And with my fingers tight around yours
There we’ll walk,
Speeding to run,
Until we’re out of breath,
But as far from death
As life will possibly allow,
And forgetful of the weeds
That wish to tangle and strain
Our love - our daisy chain.

Copyright Nicholas Vaughan 2010

Deep Rhymes said...

Half spoken story

Incomplete and unfinished
My words fly through time to diminish...

For I'm a life form of limits
Grim shadows and dim spirits...

I wonder what we'll become
Whether we'll glow in today's finish.

Deep Rhymes said...

Tiny version of an epic

Find a place, find a pace
Look for that moment, and embrace that grace...

For you are a spec in space
And happiness is adjusted to your taste....

Debbie Green said...

ZOOM ZOOM WOW By Debbie Green
Celebration Joyful Laughing out loud from the belly head back

Debbie Green
Nineteen glorious
Eyes wide open
Unique years
Deliciously Aromatic
mmmmmm delight
Zoom Zoom Fast

bubbly baby
mischievious sparkly child

copyright Debbie Green

Poet on Poetry said...

Thank you for TWO poems, Deep Rhymes! Funny, I just wrote a poem called Just a Speck in Time! Guess we are thinking along the same wavelength! :)

Poet on Poetry said...

Thank you for posting Zoom Zoom Wow, Debbie! You have really captured the feelings of kids growing up so well!

Christine Anne Borra said...

In Her Head by Christine Anne Borra

She sees poems, like a camera
Turning her words, over and over
Replay, backwards and forwards
She cuts, she cuts herself

She sees poems, like a movie
A twist, a turn of phrase
She writes for the brave
She writes to explain

She sees poems, like a dream
A waking dream, images
Flying by, strung out on string
Heart strings

She sees poems, in her head

Poet on Poetry said...

Thank you for posting In Her Head, Christine of New Zealand! I like this! I hear poems as songs more than see them but I have written screenplays where I saw the scenes. My poems often come as a couple of lines I find myself absent mindedly singing all day. Finally, my poetry machine wakes up and says, "Hey, that's a poem waiting to be written!"

Jo Bryant said...

And counting...

Six days of runaway happiness.

Day seven it all fell apart.

The feeling – the disturbance.

It was August. Winter. Chilly. Too chilly, for being cocooned under the blankets.

And damp.

Why was it damp?

I rolled over.

The bed under me, my pyjamas, were wet. Wet and cold, clingy against my skin.

I though for a time I had done something unthinkable for a twelve-year-old.

Did I wet the bed?


The cold clingy damp lay only on the side of my pyjamas.

Death is not always serene.

Mum lay still, undisturbed by the cold, the damp, the rustling I caused as I twisted about trying to understand what it all meant.

I shook her, and shook her, and shook her.

I thought the coldness I felt under my hand came from the damp I had been feeling.

Not from Mum. Mum was warmth. Always warmth. A personal sun I revolved around. It could not come from Mum.

I called to her, over and over and over.

She was not moved by my gestures or cries.

How long is time?


I have no measure for how long I stayed there – shaking – calling – pleading – praying – realising – denying.

The damp.

I realised it came from her.

It connected us – like an umbilical cord. Joined as we had been at my birth by blood, her expelled urine connected us at her death.

Time. Slowed.

Like a film reel that has slipped free of the cogs.

It juddered back and forth.

Stuck on a moment. Refusing to go forward to the next scene. Stubborn. Hanging on. Dragged into a new moment of time.

Unwillingly I left the bed, the room, called to my brothers.

Shattered the last illusion that this was a not a step into another lifetime.

A lifetime without my own personal sun.



By routine. Showers, meals, people coming and going.

Trying to stay invisible in a corner.

Please don’t hug me, don’t touch me, don’t speak.

The ringing in my ears – I can’t hear you anyway.

An ice-cold wall is forming under my skin. Solid. Fragile at the same time. Don’t touch it or it may crumble.

I may crumble.

She left on a trolley. Grey metal and a squeaky wheel.

Squeak, squeak, squeak up the hallway, though the lounge, out the door. Squeak. Squeak.

They squeaked her away from me.

One hundred and fifteen days short of her 53rd birthday.

silkcranberry said...

Show me the sun that waits for rain
The face remembers on waking breath
When flowers grew still on gardeners vacation
Track the stillness of lingering air
Heavy with life's anticipation
Young and invited cleaved to furrowed brow but restless

Michelle Jones said...


Chimes hanging from the porch
Sound their alarm
This change chills my skin

I smile as I see a hummingbird
Buzzing about, until
It tries to suck nectar from a brick

All the flowers have died
Except the white Hawthorn blossoms
And they’ve turned to Carnelian before my eyes

A burnt orange slumber
Layered in morphine dreams
Plays in high definition while the wind chimes cry

Copyright 2011 Michelle Jones

illegitimatepoetsentertainers said...

Been chanting praises in the wrong places
Blowing naïve kisses to the wrong faces
I aint buggin’, you are sweeter than bee’s asali
You got me high like that Caribbean Cali kush
Your flynes got you hotter than Wasabi in Abu Dhabi
Lovelier than Nswazwi in the spring of ‘88
Always chilled like June 28

My enchantress, you aimed my heart and not my mind
Now my mind thinks my heart is deeply cynical
Voodoo princess, “asante iwe zuri malaika”
TRANSLATION: thank you my beautiful princess
Got a nigga flipping thru’ Swahili like solitaires
Flaunting you like a youngin’ is trifling
Learning Bantu languages just to impress you

I spit the fridgedest flow just to astound you
Boo, only you and I can understand you
Beautiful salvage, heaven sent but negligent
Don’t ride with cats into dark air castles
Come to Princeville and become the Princess
I ll dwell by your side like your apprentice

Janice said...


I wonder where my thoughts go
those that don’t pass my lips
and stay forgotten after I’ve thought
and my mind is fast asleep
because I sometimes think
that I’ve thought a thought before
but am not quite sure
so I reassure myself
that I’ve thought it not before.
Maybe all things I’ve thought
stay floating in the air
waiting, as it may,
for me to pick them when
the time is ripe
to use them in whatever way
to complete some other new thought,
idea, concept, or craziness
that my mind conjures up
from the random electrical waves
that pass through my brain
and somehow make it to my lips
and into some audible sound
or onto my fingers
that type nonsense
onto a keyboard
into a computer
for other people
to read
just because it’s there.

tinkwelborn said...

Aping Billy Collins


Let me try to mimic Billy,

it certainly couldn't hurt;

I don't think he would mind.

You be the teacher,

I'll be the student;

but you don't use the semi-colon, do you?

You like hyphens -

instead of colons.

Most of your work,

or the small book that I have,

you mostly use the tercet structure -


Many are plain,

but now and again

you really do break the metaphor!

And such good metaphors, too.

Tell me,

do they come natural to you?

Or must you ponder much?

And a modern poet!

Amazing yet,

I do like your work.

Why is that?

Do you not follow

the edict of Eliot -

'The reading must be


(From) Quiet


Scenes of Hell

(A) Hippo Takes a Holiday

(on) New Year's Day.

(So) Carpe Diem

(in) Dublin.

(I'm not) Lost

The Day Lassie Died.

Names upon pages,

pages of a book

I bought at Barnes & Nobles

in Charlottesville.

Am I working at a new plateau?

I like it,

as modern poetry goes;

but, still, I'm just a nouveau.

I like William Carlos,

Wallace is too hard;

I suppose this is what T.S. behest-ed.

I don't know,

but I was told

to mimic the poems of a poet

as a mold.

So I've copied you, Mr. Collins -

It's so fructifying.

MilaNoelleFaulkner said...

Love some of the other stuff posted!

The Infinitive Togs

Underrated expression,
An unanswered question;
Or two.

It becomes hard to mention
The life of detention
That grew.

A guilt or denial,
A lifelong self-trial
I count each mile
As they queue.

A duvet of infinitive togs
Traps me at night
Flight or fight?

No. Fright.

I cradle my own doom,
The battleground of a catacomb
Long-lost, now just a tomb.

My own martyria,
In my long-dead interior
In all heart, and soul,
and womb.

Incase not clear (but I hope so) this piece is about a woman that has had several miscarriages and is suffering a personal depression/guilt that won't go away, and see she sees her self as a consequence.

Read more on my blog or follow me on twitter @MilaNoelleF :)

Douglas J. Noble said...

27 Years 159 Days

I have a balloon,
it is rounding, it is large, it is filling. You can’t see what is in it,
but it is voluptuous, so I know it is filling. My balloon is filled with ideas not air.
Big ideas, little ideas, crafty and simple ideas. Now can you see my balloon? It is lighter than air,
if you suck on it, it may make you talk funny. Do you have a balloon? Is your balloon lighter than air, or do you use it as an anchor? That’s ok to, after all it is your balloon to do what you wish with. Close your eyes, look at your balloon. What color is it? If you do have a balloon like mine,
I have an idea. We can take both of our balloons and tie them to a lawn chair. If we get
enough balloons, and are really brave we could fly. I’m serious we could do it.
It’s actually been done before. A guy did it back in the 80’s. Real balloons,
real lawn chair. He did it alone though, with our balloons we could take as
many people as we want to invite along.
I think we should invite
















Above is the shape of my balloon. It’s not quite round because it is not quite full. Maybe tomorrow or ten years from now it will be a little fuller. No matter how full it gets it will still always be lighter than air. When I die I will go inside my balloon, and it will take me wherever I am going. Then my balloon will be full. P Q R S T U V W X Y Z

Read more of my collection @

KenMikaze said...


I lit one stick,
In the darkest of nights,
its acrid kisses bring out
hazy pictures of our distant memories.

In its trailing smoke, I reached for you,
in the darkness, I embraced your fairness.
In my mind, danced your songs,
as I breathed in its kisses.

Slowly, a sweet narcosis envelops me,
as my mind is filled with your every detail.
Forgetting all traces of a painful reality,
But behind all its sweetness, lurks the bitter truth;
You’re leagues away from my side.

My smoke slowly turns to ashes;
Along with it, our memories;
And all my desires, and wishes;
it burns away, towards the darkness.

I lit another stick…

RAD said...

Christmas Jingles, Inside a Snowy Hollow

Oh writers block and resistant wind!
Please wash me away, before all else fails.
Oh Aphrodite! Please cultivate the holiday blossoms!
So that a Poinsettia may swallow me whole!
So that we, may enter Godric’s layer . . . .
Which is the Kingdom of White.

My wishes are granted.
My dreams are true.
I can now view my illusions from the inside.
Jingle . . Jingle . . .
Jingle . . . .

Julia. Julia!
Grace me with your presence!
Let us embrace the mistletoed doors!
And the splendid spruce.
The spruce that provides the wreaths, and the trees that wear the bulbs . . . .
In order to light the season.
O Julia! Enter our realm!

All is silent inside the kingdom.
The snow lacks print, and I, you.
What is this game you play?
Are you lost? Aren’t I found?
Show me the way!

Jingle . . Jingle . . . Jingle . . . .
An eerie sound I must hear.
It is bright, but lacks cheer.
The bell tones vary, so who must this be?
Maybe an angel, or a lonely Virgin Mary?

No! It is a messenger!
An at-the-moment descendent of Hermes.
The Ghost of Christmas Past, maybe?

For away in a dream cloud . . . .
The eeriness lingers amidst the chapped mountain air.
The bells speak to me. The voice answers me.
“Julia! Julia! Love her no more!
Please note that the real world trapped her lonely soul!”

Could it be true?
Did the poinsettia wilt before a Christmas miracle?
I believe so. Because all is silent again.
Shaded sound is forever present, inside the Kingdom of White.

All that I needed was love.
A magical, Merry Christmas.
Inside a safe, snowy hollow.
Just me and my bride.
Me and Julia, side by side.
Despite perseverance, my dreams are false.
Real, is true.

Oh Aphrodite! Ready the pistils!
Slingshot me into reality! So that the world may swallow me whole!
So that I, may exit Lord Godric’s layer!
So that I, may long for real love!
Because I missed Julia’s jovial jingles.

The Kingdom of White is dead.
Jingle . . Jingle . . . Jingle . . . .

Robert Alexander Deason Peace

© All Rights Reserved!/RADsPeace

Phillip A. Ellis said...

"[Five Haiku]"

cirrus at dawn
mackerel backs stretch
to the sun

stormy weather
the waves' foam whitens
the ocean

the sky sans clouds
the sea without whitecaps
is almost still

red sky at night
at some beaches the sea
is warm

night and stars
Surfers Paradise
reflected as lights

Matt said...


I drove towards the sun
to sweat out my fears and
my teenage angst, but I
can’t when it’s like a ghost

living in my bones.
I need a transplant and with
new marrow, a new tomorrow.
But I’m not like a Lego

I can’t build myself back.
I’m a man forever in a shroud
of doubts and you said,
“I love you,”

and I didn’t believe you could
so I ran and dug my trench
to try to dodge the bullets
I was shouting at myself.

Matthew Levine

Matt said...


I drove towards the sun
to sweat out my fears and
my teenage angst, but I
can’t when it’s like a ghost

living in my bones.
I need a transplant and with
new marrow, a new tomorrow.
But I’m not like a Lego

I can’t build myself back.
I’m a man forever in a shroud
of doubts and you said,
“I love you,”

and I didn’t believe you could
so I ran and dug my trench
to try to dodge the bullets
I was shouting at myself.

Matthew Levine

Matt said...

The Devil, My Drummer

Like an angel with clipped
wings when it was born, I am
falling like Icarus to the earth
and there is no good in me left
so I better get used to the flames

that burns the flesh under my toes,
I’m wandering on a bed of coals.
If only I were still just a soul
in the womb instead of this
aimless bag of bones I

became with the devil in my
heart beating the drum.
So sweetie, I’m taking
yours because it’s
time for a new rhythm.

Read more at:

The Dreamer said...

Mixing oil and honey
taste of bitter and sweetness
my world quickly changes
gritty like sandpaper
concentrating on lacking feelings
Worried about the end result
All those simple things
I cannot change
Rapid heart beat
Keeps me awake
Taking so many away
Erased so easily like a pencil
Making me feel so misplaced
Heart full of stone
Eyes made of jewels
Sparkle like the stars
I keep trying to carry out
The mission of happiness
I disappear
Camouflaged in the cracks
My mood sour
Like the words you say
Moment of weakness
Stepping on my hands
Loosing my grip
Circling this drain
The ship remains afloat
Giving me hope
Bringing me courage
Through the darkness
Heading in a new direction
Aimed towards the light
From a new day
The waves
Crashing against the shore
By: Erin Wank

Allen Kluger said...

Shaving in the

bathroom mirror

with a straight razor

the sink fills up with


as I slash my cheek

from grin to ear

I save some of the


in a jar and show them

to a friend

She says yes, those are


and that I should

throw them away.

I ask her what

my face looks like

and she tells me

that I am beautiful.

I stopped shaving

and sometimes I stay up

all night hoping that

she'll come over with

a jar of her own.