Urdu original poem by Mirza Ghalib:
Hazaaron khwaahishen aisi ki har khwaahish pe dam nikle
Bahut nikle mere armaan, lekin phir bhi kam nikle.
Nikalnaa khuld se aadam kaa sunte aaye the lekin
Bahut be-aabroo ho kar tere kooche se ham nikle.
Magar likhwaaye koyi usko khat to hamse likhwaaye
Hui subah aur ghar se kaan par rakh kar kalam nikle.
Hui jinse tawakko khastagi ki daad paane ki
Wo hamse bhi ziyaadaa khastaa-i-teghe sitam nikle.
Khudaa ke vaaste pardaa na Kaabe kaa uthaa zaalim,
Kahin aisaa na ho yaan bhi wahi kaafir sanam nikle.
Kahaan maikhaane kaa darwaazaa, Ghalib, aur kahaan waaiz,
Par itnaa jaante hain kal wo jaataa thaa ki ham nikle.
Translation by Sunil Uniyal, India:
A thousand desires I had, each enough to take my breath,
Many longings were fulfilled, yet these were not enough.
Adam was driven from Paradise - I've long heard that tale;
A disgrace far more worse has been my exit from your lane.
I'll help if you want a letter to be written to her,
For, since morn, I've been roaming with a pen on my ear.
When I expect that someone will show sympathy for my plight,
He turns out to be more wounded by the blade of misfortune.
O tyrant, for God's sake, don't lift the curtain of Kaaba,
Or else the same unfaithful icon may appear there, too.
Where's the door of tavern, Ghalib? what has the priest to do with it?
This much I know that yesterday, as I came out he entered it !
Sunil Uniyal ( born 1953-) is a poet and translator based in New Delhi, India. He has been writing haiku and poems for over thirty years and many of these have appeared in e-journals like Muse India, Kritya, AHA Poetry, Poetica Magazine, Sketchbook, Notes From the Gean, A Hundred Gourds and Haiku Dreaming Australia. His work in translation includes, 'The Target is Behind the Sky-Fifty Poems of Kabir', brought out by the Low Price Publications, Delhi in February 2012.
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
Monday, March 25, 2013
Taken In--By Jean Calkins--United States
Taken In
(Cinquain Sequence)
I’d seen
my mother do
it many times, a part
of normal farm life, keeping things
in check.
But I
am ashamed to
have chosen the same thing
later: my kids watching me drown
kittens.
It is
a memory
I will never forget,
it haunts me still and always will,
I know.
Jean, at 80, has been writing poems since she was 18. For 25 years she published a popular poetry quarterly of up to 100 pages, with a subscribership of nearly 500. Illness in 1986 ended the magazine. She currently publishes, by email, a 2-page monthly of clean humor. Contact her at jcalkins01@charter.net.
(Cinquain Sequence)
I’d seen
my mother do
it many times, a part
of normal farm life, keeping things
in check.
But I
am ashamed to
have chosen the same thing
later: my kids watching me drown
kittens.
It is
a memory
I will never forget,
it haunts me still and always will,
I know.
Jean, at 80, has been writing poems since she was 18. For 25 years she published a popular poetry quarterly of up to 100 pages, with a subscribership of nearly 500. Illness in 1986 ended the magazine. She currently publishes, by email, a 2-page monthly of clean humor. Contact her at jcalkins01@charter.net.
Life--By Yancy Lee Dalton--United States
Life
Forgiveness begins with and for self
Gaining hope to do better each day
Having the desire achieve greatness
Faith to go on when going gets tough
In gratitude for stumbling blocks
Yielding achievements in love of life
Yancy Lee Dalton is a published writer from Colorado.
Forgiveness begins with and for self
Gaining hope to do better each day
Having the desire achieve greatness
Faith to go on when going gets tough
In gratitude for stumbling blocks
Yielding achievements in love of life
Yancy Lee Dalton is a published writer from Colorado.
Saturday, March 23, 2013
A Small Member--By Christine Tate--United States
A Small Member
Give me ears to hear Lord,
keep my feet on solid ground,
help me walk the narrow path
where wisdom can be found.
Sweep out the corridors
of my cluttered mind,
and purify my thoughts
that deep inside You find.
Cleanse my speech Lord
so it glorifies Your name,
and edifies the listener
as Your gospel I proclaim.
I'm just a small member
in Your kingdom family,
but can make a big impression
because YOU dwell in me!
Christine Tate lives in New Jersey. She is the mother of three married sons and has eight grandchildren. She started writing inspirational poetry in 1994, and is blessed to encourage others and honor the Lord. She was widowed in 2007 and met her new husband Artie, a widower, in the nursing facility where their late mothers resided. They've been happily married for 2 1/2 years. Since neither of them ever expected to marry again, they consider it a "divine appt."
Give me ears to hear Lord,
keep my feet on solid ground,
help me walk the narrow path
where wisdom can be found.
Sweep out the corridors
of my cluttered mind,
and purify my thoughts
that deep inside You find.
Cleanse my speech Lord
so it glorifies Your name,
and edifies the listener
as Your gospel I proclaim.
I'm just a small member
in Your kingdom family,
but can make a big impression
because YOU dwell in me!
Christine Tate lives in New Jersey. She is the mother of three married sons and has eight grandchildren. She started writing inspirational poetry in 1994, and is blessed to encourage others and honor the Lord. She was widowed in 2007 and met her new husband Artie, a widower, in the nursing facility where their late mothers resided. They've been happily married for 2 1/2 years. Since neither of them ever expected to marry again, they consider it a "divine appt."
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
Leaving April--By David Austin--United States
Leaving April
a break in the clouds
leafy crowd rustles
shadows rush
blue jay darts in
darts out
point of concern
David Austin is professional violinist and teacher, who communicates through poetry. He has played with the Cincinnati Symphony, taught at Colorado College and various public schools. He is a published author, who has been writing poetry and novels for over 40 years. His pride and joy is a shelter in which he feeds and cares for animals. David is a member of Poetry Soup.
a break in the clouds
leafy crowd rustles
shadows rush
blue jay darts in
darts out
point of concern
David Austin is professional violinist and teacher, who communicates through poetry. He has played with the Cincinnati Symphony, taught at Colorado College and various public schools. He is a published author, who has been writing poetry and novels for over 40 years. His pride and joy is a shelter in which he feeds and cares for animals. David is a member of Poetry Soup.
Sunday, March 17, 2013
Touch of Silk--By Kathryn McLoughlin Collins--United States
Touch of Silk
Spirits, souls were
all I cared about
until this clear
night of loneliness,
stars murky
reminders of the
liquid blue and
white of your eyes.
Prayerful pleas,
no matter how sincere,
cannot change the
will of the gods.
I, anchored in flesh,
must touch you,
your cheeks, lips,
the nape of your neck.
To know you again,
your hands on my shoulders,
your fingertips, is
all can fill me.
Born in 1945, Kathryn Collins is a native New Yorker now living in Connecticut whose works have been described as “a gentle sort of poetry” by the editor of her first book No Need for Breadcrumbs, published by BeWrite Books, 2004. Her work has also appeared in numerous anthologies. Inspired by her beloved grandmother, she developed a great love of poetry at an early age and has been writing for 20 years.
Spirits, souls were
all I cared about
until this clear
night of loneliness,
stars murky
reminders of the
liquid blue and
white of your eyes.
Prayerful pleas,
no matter how sincere,
cannot change the
will of the gods.
I, anchored in flesh,
must touch you,
your cheeks, lips,
the nape of your neck.
To know you again,
your hands on my shoulders,
your fingertips, is
all can fill me.
Born in 1945, Kathryn Collins is a native New Yorker now living in Connecticut whose works have been described as “a gentle sort of poetry” by the editor of her first book No Need for Breadcrumbs, published by BeWrite Books, 2004. Her work has also appeared in numerous anthologies. Inspired by her beloved grandmother, she developed a great love of poetry at an early age and has been writing for 20 years.
Thursday, March 14, 2013
Ashokan Farewell--By Robert L. Hinshaw--United States
Ashokan Farewell
The haunting strains of 'Ashokan Farewell' keep racing through my brain.
'Tis a fitting requiem for those who bore the agonizing pain,
Of bidding a sad farewell at many a humble cabin door,
When young men were called to serve in the American Civil War.
Its poignant theme wafts as a gentle zephyr o'er the countless graves,
Of gallant men who faced Death's Scythe in unfaltering waves.
Men who wore either blue or gray and unselfishly gave their all,
Lie sleeping 'neath hallowed soil awaiting Gabriel's clarion call!
Each time I hear those mournful chords played on the violin,
Though 'tis decades later, I feel sadness for grieving next-of-kin.
And for their heroes left upon the field of strife, lonely and forlorn.
'Ashokan Farewell' is a sad lament for those left behind to mourn.
Every time I hear that tune, I'm reminded and left to wonder,
Why brothers tore this nation, this beacon of hope, asunder.
Thanks to one man's vision and unshakeable resolve,
A united and stronger nation would once again evolve!
Antietam, Bull Run, Manassas, Spotsylvania, and Gettysburg,
Fort Sumpter, Shiloh and the formidable bluffs of Vicksburg:
O'er these now peaceful battlegrounds, once ravaged by shot and shell,
At eventide can be faintly heard the solemn dirge of 'Ashokan Farewell'!
('Ashokan Farewell' was written by Jay Unger in 1982. It was later used as the title theme for the PBS 'Civil War Series'. To hear this haunting tune type 'Ashokan Farewell' in your search to enjoy a number of different renditions by various artists on YouTube.)
Robert L. Hinshaw served 30 years in the Air Force retiring in 1978 in the grade of Chief Master Sergeant. He began writing poetry in 2002 at age 72 and has composed over 1100 poems.
The haunting strains of 'Ashokan Farewell' keep racing through my brain.
'Tis a fitting requiem for those who bore the agonizing pain,
Of bidding a sad farewell at many a humble cabin door,
When young men were called to serve in the American Civil War.
Its poignant theme wafts as a gentle zephyr o'er the countless graves,
Of gallant men who faced Death's Scythe in unfaltering waves.
Men who wore either blue or gray and unselfishly gave their all,
Lie sleeping 'neath hallowed soil awaiting Gabriel's clarion call!
Each time I hear those mournful chords played on the violin,
Though 'tis decades later, I feel sadness for grieving next-of-kin.
And for their heroes left upon the field of strife, lonely and forlorn.
'Ashokan Farewell' is a sad lament for those left behind to mourn.
Every time I hear that tune, I'm reminded and left to wonder,
Why brothers tore this nation, this beacon of hope, asunder.
Thanks to one man's vision and unshakeable resolve,
A united and stronger nation would once again evolve!
Antietam, Bull Run, Manassas, Spotsylvania, and Gettysburg,
Fort Sumpter, Shiloh and the formidable bluffs of Vicksburg:
O'er these now peaceful battlegrounds, once ravaged by shot and shell,
At eventide can be faintly heard the solemn dirge of 'Ashokan Farewell'!
('Ashokan Farewell' was written by Jay Unger in 1982. It was later used as the title theme for the PBS 'Civil War Series'. To hear this haunting tune type 'Ashokan Farewell' in your search to enjoy a number of different renditions by various artists on YouTube.)
Robert L. Hinshaw served 30 years in the Air Force retiring in 1978 in the grade of Chief Master Sergeant. He began writing poetry in 2002 at age 72 and has composed over 1100 poems.
Tuesday, March 12, 2013
Answer to Truth--By Dena M. Ferrari--United States
Answer to Truth
To each in a dream one travels in thought
Problems arise and the answer can solve
An idea that grows and in sudden fraught
Fleeting consequences will bring resolve.
Allegorically speaking the mind finds
Imagination in clarity sees
The true path that ultimately walks the lines
Between the righteousness and strange thought frees.
Budding intentions to another craves
Human Nature survives on their own truths
The distinct thoughts and dreams, they have, enslaves.
The final outcome cry of thoughts aloof.
Question that which ponders a train of thought
Blossoming an answer, the truth is wrought.
Ink flows in Dena's blood and spills its words upon the Parchment of Time...
Writing since four years old, she has a lifetime of created works in many genres.
Inspiration in Nature draws more work as Dena's Muse is relentless. Thank you Karen for having this work displayed....
To each in a dream one travels in thought
Problems arise and the answer can solve
An idea that grows and in sudden fraught
Fleeting consequences will bring resolve.
Allegorically speaking the mind finds
Imagination in clarity sees
The true path that ultimately walks the lines
Between the righteousness and strange thought frees.
Budding intentions to another craves
Human Nature survives on their own truths
The distinct thoughts and dreams, they have, enslaves.
The final outcome cry of thoughts aloof.
Question that which ponders a train of thought
Blossoming an answer, the truth is wrought.
Ink flows in Dena's blood and spills its words upon the Parchment of Time...
Writing since four years old, she has a lifetime of created works in many genres.
Inspiration in Nature draws more work as Dena's Muse is relentless. Thank you Karen for having this work displayed....
Monday, March 11, 2013
rice paper...By Karen O'Leary--United States
rice paper
poetry flows from one
to another
Thank you contributors for sharing your words. I especially want to thank those that have been commenting on the words of others. It is though your generous hearts, Whispers is becoming a creative community I had hoped for when beginning this journey. Blessings to all of you.--Karen
Karen O'Leary is a freelance writer/editor from West Fargo, ND. Her poetry, short stories, and articles have been published in a variety of venues. She released her first book of poetry in 2011 called Whispers... published by A.P.F. Publisher. Their second project, Snippets...an anthology of short verse, contains poetry from 73 talented writers from across the world and was released in 2012. Karen is a member of The Writers and Poetry Alliance and the Haiku Society of America.
poetry flows from one
to another
Thank you contributors for sharing your words. I especially want to thank those that have been commenting on the words of others. It is though your generous hearts, Whispers is becoming a creative community I had hoped for when beginning this journey. Blessings to all of you.--Karen
Karen O'Leary is a freelance writer/editor from West Fargo, ND. Her poetry, short stories, and articles have been published in a variety of venues. She released her first book of poetry in 2011 called Whispers... published by A.P.F. Publisher. Their second project, Snippets...an anthology of short verse, contains poetry from 73 talented writers from across the world and was released in 2012. Karen is a member of The Writers and Poetry Alliance and the Haiku Society of America.
Thursday, March 7, 2013
The Wind--By Jack Horne--England
The Wind
The wind is like a naughty child,
That watches as I sweep the leaves,
He then delights to scatter them,
And giggles, tugging at my sleeves:
I want to play, the wind believes.
Jack Horne enjoys reading and writing poetry.
The wind is like a naughty child,
That watches as I sweep the leaves,
He then delights to scatter them,
And giggles, tugging at my sleeves:
I want to play, the wind believes.
Jack Horne enjoys reading and writing poetry.
Family--By Joann Grisetti--United States
Family
At his first glimpse into amber-brown eyes
he held his breath and fell, head over heels
In love. Released emotions, one hushed sigh;
his newborn infant daughter at last real.
A downy fluff on golden-olive skin,
small tufts of ebony, like soft-spun silk;
a wrinkled face, yet hardly any chin
below a mouth waiting a sip of milk.
He walked the halls with pride and babe in arms
while mother slept and slowly healed her pain.
He prayed for God’s protection against harm;
also, for His safe guidance home again
The two alone increased through love to three.
where loving bonds create a family.
Joann Grisetti has been writing for 45 years. She is a retired teacher from Florida. She receives encouragement from her daughter and has recently enrolled in a creative writing workshop. She is a member of Poetry Soup. You can read more of her poetry there.
At his first glimpse into amber-brown eyes
he held his breath and fell, head over heels
In love. Released emotions, one hushed sigh;
his newborn infant daughter at last real.
A downy fluff on golden-olive skin,
small tufts of ebony, like soft-spun silk;
a wrinkled face, yet hardly any chin
below a mouth waiting a sip of milk.
He walked the halls with pride and babe in arms
while mother slept and slowly healed her pain.
He prayed for God’s protection against harm;
also, for His safe guidance home again
The two alone increased through love to three.
where loving bonds create a family.
Joann Grisetti has been writing for 45 years. She is a retired teacher from Florida. She receives encouragement from her daughter and has recently enrolled in a creative writing workshop. She is a member of Poetry Soup. You can read more of her poetry there.
My Little Louisiana Shrimp--By Celine Rose Mariotti--United States
My Little Louisiana Shrimp
I am a little shrimp in the sea
BP sucked the life off out of me,
All this oil and gook,
No one can fish me out
To cook
I am a little shrimp in the sea,
A big oil company sucked the life out of me,
No fisherman can come and see
He can’t fetch me from the sea,
I am so sorry folks,
You can’t make me into a fried shrimp,
I can’t be made into shrimp scampi,
Forget the marvelous shrimp cocktail,
I can’t be eaten, not even by a whale!
Celine Rose Mariotti is an accomplished writer whose work has appeared in magazines all over the USA, Canada, England, Scotland, Australia and India. Some of those magazines include: Green’s Magazine, Poet’s Review, Poet’s Art, Tombigbee, Hindu Young World, Magnolia Quarterly, Lone Stars Magazine, Pablo Lennis, Coffee Ground Breakfast, Pink Chameleon and many more. She has had six books published. She plays the guitar and banjo; has her own home business and lives with her family in Shelton,CT.
I am a little shrimp in the sea
BP sucked the life off out of me,
All this oil and gook,
No one can fish me out
To cook
I am a little shrimp in the sea,
A big oil company sucked the life out of me,
No fisherman can come and see
He can’t fetch me from the sea,
I am so sorry folks,
You can’t make me into a fried shrimp,
I can’t be made into shrimp scampi,
Forget the marvelous shrimp cocktail,
I can’t be eaten, not even by a whale!
Celine Rose Mariotti is an accomplished writer whose work has appeared in magazines all over the USA, Canada, England, Scotland, Australia and India. Some of those magazines include: Green’s Magazine, Poet’s Review, Poet’s Art, Tombigbee, Hindu Young World, Magnolia Quarterly, Lone Stars Magazine, Pablo Lennis, Coffee Ground Breakfast, Pink Chameleon and many more. She has had six books published. She plays the guitar and banjo; has her own home business and lives with her family in Shelton,CT.
Wednesday, March 6, 2013
In the Time--By Richard Sponaugle--United States
In the Time
it takes to read one trashy novel,
a thousand great poems can be savored.
The knowledge obtained in 10,000 books,
doesn’t equal the wisdom in one poem.
Yet for every poem read,
there’s a hundred thousand lousy books sold.
Is it any wonder this world’s
in financial and moral debt -
a million fold?
Richard Sponaugle was born 4-20-60 in Maryland and raised in Northern Virginia. He received a BA from George Mason University. A prolific poet and songwriter, he has been published in many venues.
it takes to read one trashy novel,
a thousand great poems can be savored.
The knowledge obtained in 10,000 books,
doesn’t equal the wisdom in one poem.
Yet for every poem read,
there’s a hundred thousand lousy books sold.
Is it any wonder this world’s
in financial and moral debt -
a million fold?
Richard Sponaugle was born 4-20-60 in Maryland and raised in Northern Virginia. He received a BA from George Mason University. A prolific poet and songwriter, he has been published in many venues.
A brief spell--By Ranu Uniyal--India
A brief spell
One rain soaked evening
he stroked her voice
with his bashful smile.
Late that night
he was found drinking.
And she had lost her voice.
Ranu Uniyal lives in Lucknow, India. Poetry keeps her going and is as much a part of her life as her love for humanity. She is a Professor of English at Lucknow University. She has two books of poems: Across the Divide and December Poems to her credit.
One rain soaked evening
he stroked her voice
with his bashful smile.
Late that night
he was found drinking.
And she had lost her voice.
Ranu Uniyal lives in Lucknow, India. Poetry keeps her going and is as much a part of her life as her love for humanity. She is a Professor of English at Lucknow University. She has two books of poems: Across the Divide and December Poems to her credit.
When Oceans Flow….Tears Follow--By Maurice J. Reynolds--United States
When Oceans Flow….Tears Follow
Silence as I watch the ocean still
The sun sets, bringing joy
Gentle winds make the waters sway
Peace in a peace-less world
Roaring waves, yet still, they are so calm
The sound of the swaying water is music to my ears
Tranquility and peace to my heart
A beautiful sight that takes my breath away
Stirring emotions I’ve never felt before
The peace, the grace, the majesty, the essence
Release my joy….let my tears flow
A home away from home
Inhale peace, exhale joy
Peace
When oceans flow….tears follow
Maurice J. Reynolds is a freelance writer who has had material published in various publications. He is the owner of To God be the Glory! Publications, a literary ministry that produces the poetry publication Creative Inspirations. More information can be found at: www.tgbtgpublictions.com.
Silence as I watch the ocean still
The sun sets, bringing joy
Gentle winds make the waters sway
Peace in a peace-less world
Roaring waves, yet still, they are so calm
The sound of the swaying water is music to my ears
Tranquility and peace to my heart
A beautiful sight that takes my breath away
Stirring emotions I’ve never felt before
The peace, the grace, the majesty, the essence
Release my joy….let my tears flow
A home away from home
Inhale peace, exhale joy
Peace
When oceans flow….tears follow
Maurice J. Reynolds is a freelance writer who has had material published in various publications. He is the owner of To God be the Glory! Publications, a literary ministry that produces the poetry publication Creative Inspirations. More information can be found at: www.tgbtgpublictions.com.
Tuesday, March 5, 2013
A Debate of Conscience--By Carolyn Devonshire--United States
A Debate of Conscience
Angel on my right shoulder battles devil on my left
Ever guiding my actions, saving my soul from bereft
Angels are among us, like Clarence on Stewart's bridge
Reminding us to avoid falling from grace at the ridge
My special angel's sweet voice sounds so much like my mother's
We each have a conscience that is unlike any other's
Spirits of loved ones who've passed want us to know heaven's joy
So we’ll reunite with them and eternal bliss enjoy
So, Mom, if you are listening, your voice overtakes evil
Helping me find the right path, you have mastered soul retrieval
A wonderful life is bestowed by a righteous urging
From an angel observer seeking spiritual merging
My sense of right and wrong will still create battles ahead
But if I heed my mother’s voice, I’ll never be misled
Carolyn Devonshire is from Ormond Beach, Florida.
Angel on my right shoulder battles devil on my left
Ever guiding my actions, saving my soul from bereft
Angels are among us, like Clarence on Stewart's bridge
Reminding us to avoid falling from grace at the ridge
My special angel's sweet voice sounds so much like my mother's
We each have a conscience that is unlike any other's
Spirits of loved ones who've passed want us to know heaven's joy
So we’ll reunite with them and eternal bliss enjoy
So, Mom, if you are listening, your voice overtakes evil
Helping me find the right path, you have mastered soul retrieval
A wonderful life is bestowed by a righteous urging
From an angel observer seeking spiritual merging
My sense of right and wrong will still create battles ahead
But if I heed my mother’s voice, I’ll never be misled
Carolyn Devonshire is from Ormond Beach, Florida.
At the Gate--By Sandra Stefanowich--Canada
At the Gate
I swim in the aftermath of the storm that rolls through my mind
twisting and turning in rogue waves that leaves my vision blind.
As I hear the screams of the righteous who said it was "God's will"
I contemplate and question the logic of their basic fundamental skills.
I have felt the searing eyes of disapproval that still burns upon my skin
I suppose I should have died too as my existence is considered a sin.
Alone I stand on a distant shore watching the seas of hatred grow
in silence lamenting; this is not the God that I have come to know.
I don't know how or when the love for our fellow man began to dissipate
but I won't be led down the manicured garden path of apathy and hate.
I have learned what's right and wrong and you can't tear my faith apart,
I feel no need to be in a church as I know that God is with me in my heart.
Apathy comes in all shapes and forms even from those who faith it is to believe
to turn our backs, I don't think that's what God intended for us all to achieve.
Sadly the waves still crash angrily ashore and soulless winds continue to tempt fate,
one day in the ruins of our own destruction, we will all answer for at the gate.
Sandra Stefanowich is from Ontario.
I swim in the aftermath of the storm that rolls through my mind
twisting and turning in rogue waves that leaves my vision blind.
As I hear the screams of the righteous who said it was "God's will"
I contemplate and question the logic of their basic fundamental skills.
I have felt the searing eyes of disapproval that still burns upon my skin
I suppose I should have died too as my existence is considered a sin.
Alone I stand on a distant shore watching the seas of hatred grow
in silence lamenting; this is not the God that I have come to know.
I don't know how or when the love for our fellow man began to dissipate
but I won't be led down the manicured garden path of apathy and hate.
I have learned what's right and wrong and you can't tear my faith apart,
I feel no need to be in a church as I know that God is with me in my heart.
Apathy comes in all shapes and forms even from those who faith it is to believe
to turn our backs, I don't think that's what God intended for us all to achieve.
Sadly the waves still crash angrily ashore and soulless winds continue to tempt fate,
one day in the ruins of our own destruction, we will all answer for at the gate.
Sandra Stefanowich is from Ontario.
Esmeralda--By Rick Parise--United States
Esmeralda
She felt like a queen with sweet memory and life
nestled in her fortress of lush poetry and light
a place of passion where the world could not go
as she forged on with sweet memories and a loving novel bestowed
Of tattered pages strewn in moments of flowers and lace
where words came with delicate emotion and could not be replaced
She fought to relive a time when all was fair
just one more moment where her loving song was shared
Upon this solemn silence in hushed light of loving dream
she placed the pen and paper at the edge of life redeemed
And on that final day
she came home to be fulfilled
as she lay dying in feathered down
she found him once again.....
Rick Parise, known as “A Pondering Poet”, is from the beautiful land of Salem, Oregon. The main focus of his poetry is to take the reader to a meaningful, personal time in their lives, to a place where spirit's are touched and memories unwind. He hopes you enjoy his work. To contact Rick please email him at rickparise@yahoo.com
She felt like a queen with sweet memory and life
nestled in her fortress of lush poetry and light
a place of passion where the world could not go
as she forged on with sweet memories and a loving novel bestowed
Of tattered pages strewn in moments of flowers and lace
where words came with delicate emotion and could not be replaced
She fought to relive a time when all was fair
just one more moment where her loving song was shared
Upon this solemn silence in hushed light of loving dream
she placed the pen and paper at the edge of life redeemed
And on that final day
she came home to be fulfilled
as she lay dying in feathered down
she found him once again.....
Rick Parise, known as “A Pondering Poet”, is from the beautiful land of Salem, Oregon. The main focus of his poetry is to take the reader to a meaningful, personal time in their lives, to a place where spirit's are touched and memories unwind. He hopes you enjoy his work. To contact Rick please email him at rickparise@yahoo.com
Monday, March 4, 2013
The Gift--By A. Michele Leslie--United States
The Gift
One dark night a candle
barely lit because of storms
melted nonetheless until
its wick had lost its form.
The Child came (in some dismay)
and took the wick away.
Yet, to my surprise, a light
still shined till night was day.
I sat down to make a note
(for miracles are rare here)
and He grew a little coat
and He launched a little boat
and He lifted one small hand
(making light of cold and land).
Some dared not to touch His sandal.
(One blessed night, I lost a candle!)
A. Michele Leslie is a poet and playwright who lives in Minneapolis with her husband, David, and two cats.
One dark night a candle
barely lit because of storms
melted nonetheless until
its wick had lost its form.
The Child came (in some dismay)
and took the wick away.
Yet, to my surprise, a light
still shined till night was day.
I sat down to make a note
(for miracles are rare here)
and He grew a little coat
and He launched a little boat
and He lifted one small hand
(making light of cold and land).
Some dared not to touch His sandal.
(One blessed night, I lost a candle!)
A. Michele Leslie is a poet and playwright who lives in Minneapolis with her husband, David, and two cats.
Poor Men, Rich Men--By Arthur C. Ford, Sr.--United States
Poor Men, Rich Men
Poor men wonder, will life let them relax
Rich men ponder, how not to pay tax.
Poor men spend, in order to survive
Rich men lend, then hope you stay alive.
Poor men pack their belongings in a sack
Rich men shellac, so their belongings stay intact.
Poor men drink, until time makes them malice
Rich men think, then sneak the poison in a chalice.
Poor men fish, in a river thick and thin
Rich men wish, to catch the fish that they put in.
Poor men kids, must avoid perennial blame
Rich men kids, only have to sign their names.
Poor men walk, whether far or whether near
Rich men talk, while commuting on a Lear.
Poor men die, before they finish life's adventures
Rich men die, because of dying business ventures.
Arthur C. Ford, Sr. is originally from New Orleans, LA., where he graduated from Southern University (S.U.N.O.). He studied Mathematics, Physics, Creative Writing(Poetry) and was a member of The Drama Society. He has traveled to 45 States, lived in Europe(Bruxelles, Belgium), and more recently spent 30 days doing missionary work and traveling throughout the country of India. He publishes a quarterly poetry newsletter entitled "THE PEN(The Poetry Explosion Newsletter)", and resides in Pittsburgh, PA.
Poor men wonder, will life let them relax
Rich men ponder, how not to pay tax.
Poor men spend, in order to survive
Rich men lend, then hope you stay alive.
Poor men pack their belongings in a sack
Rich men shellac, so their belongings stay intact.
Poor men drink, until time makes them malice
Rich men think, then sneak the poison in a chalice.
Poor men fish, in a river thick and thin
Rich men wish, to catch the fish that they put in.
Poor men kids, must avoid perennial blame
Rich men kids, only have to sign their names.
Poor men walk, whether far or whether near
Rich men talk, while commuting on a Lear.
Poor men die, before they finish life's adventures
Rich men die, because of dying business ventures.
Arthur C. Ford, Sr. is originally from New Orleans, LA., where he graduated from Southern University (S.U.N.O.). He studied Mathematics, Physics, Creative Writing(Poetry) and was a member of The Drama Society. He has traveled to 45 States, lived in Europe(Bruxelles, Belgium), and more recently spent 30 days doing missionary work and traveling throughout the country of India. He publishes a quarterly poetry newsletter entitled "THE PEN(The Poetry Explosion Newsletter)", and resides in Pittsburgh, PA.
An Empty Bench--By Jan Henson--Turkey
An Empty Bench
An empty bench, this cold, misty Autumn day,
Normally two lovers sit, of elderly sway.
William and Norma held hands upon this bench
They laughed out loud together when he called her ‘wench!’!
William sits at home now, sad and very alone,
Norma’s here no longer, to heaven she has gone.
He’ll go to the bench, when his tears no longer flow
For the sweetheart he married all those years ago.
Inside his head and heart she wanders all the time.
Just what was the reason ,and what was the rhyme,
That took her way too early from his warm embrace?
Leaving empty tomorrows that he cannot face.
Please go , William, and sit upon your love bench
Remember with fondness your sweet and loving wench,
And when the Autumn leaves fall on the softest sigh
It will be Norma blowing kisses from the sky.
Jan Henson has written poetry for a few years. She finds it an enjoyable experience. When she attended school in England (in the ‘50’s) poetry seemed such a dry medium and she wasn’t all that impressed. After school, she became a hairdresser and continued the profession after her marriage and birth of her four children. When her youngest was three, she started working nights at a nursing home. She realized her passion for the profession and became a nurse. She worked in the healthcare industry for 20 years. After her children were grown, she retired to Turkey where she currently lives.
An empty bench, this cold, misty Autumn day,
Normally two lovers sit, of elderly sway.
William and Norma held hands upon this bench
They laughed out loud together when he called her ‘wench!’!
William sits at home now, sad and very alone,
Norma’s here no longer, to heaven she has gone.
He’ll go to the bench, when his tears no longer flow
For the sweetheart he married all those years ago.
Inside his head and heart she wanders all the time.
Just what was the reason ,and what was the rhyme,
That took her way too early from his warm embrace?
Leaving empty tomorrows that he cannot face.
Please go , William, and sit upon your love bench
Remember with fondness your sweet and loving wench,
And when the Autumn leaves fall on the softest sigh
It will be Norma blowing kisses from the sky.
Jan Henson has written poetry for a few years. She finds it an enjoyable experience. When she attended school in England (in the ‘50’s) poetry seemed such a dry medium and she wasn’t all that impressed. After school, she became a hairdresser and continued the profession after her marriage and birth of her four children. When her youngest was three, she started working nights at a nursing home. She realized her passion for the profession and became a nurse. She worked in the healthcare industry for 20 years. After her children were grown, she retired to Turkey where she currently lives.
Sunday, March 3, 2013
All is Sleep--By Suzanne Delaney--United States
All is Sleep
A foal races circles around its dam,
content with an instinct
that confines and controls
his tiny orbit; a world,
without abstracts.
No hell - No heaven!
a pasture, thence,
his whole existence.
Prostrate, on meadow grass,
his eyes glaze - eclipsed by
heavy lids. Buttercups
and drowsy warmth lull
his gangling form, nether.
All is sleep.
Suzanne Delaney was born in Tasmania and, now lives in Hawaii.
A retired Registered Nurse she enjoys her time to be creative
and to write about life around her.
A foal races circles around its dam,
content with an instinct
that confines and controls
his tiny orbit; a world,
without abstracts.
No hell - No heaven!
a pasture, thence,
his whole existence.
Prostrate, on meadow grass,
his eyes glaze - eclipsed by
heavy lids. Buttercups
and drowsy warmth lull
his gangling form, nether.
All is sleep.
Suzanne Delaney was born in Tasmania and, now lives in Hawaii.
A retired Registered Nurse she enjoys her time to be creative
and to write about life around her.
Face His Tomorrow--By Rhoda Galgiani--United States
Face His Tomorrow
When sorrow touches, one’s broken heart
tears gently wash sorrow’s grief away
Harsh confusion crosses one’s sad path
clarity comes to mind as if to say -
Don’t worry all will be just fine
When one’s mind doesn’t understand
the constant turmoil day in and day out
Bringing to one’s broken heart a time
when it wants to cry, scream and shout -
Quiet settles the saddened thoughts
When peace comes about one’s brow
taking the inner pain and hurt away
One has asks themselves why and how
does pain come to one almost everyday -
Understanding clearly comes to mind
Turning to Him calling thy sacred name
as one stands tall to face another day
His gentle hand touches one’s heart -
as one asks His love not to go away
Strength is given to face His tomorrow
Rhoda Galgiani is a published poet and author of a child's book.
You may view her work on Expressions Poetry Journal at:
chesakat1.blogspot.com
When sorrow touches, one’s broken heart
tears gently wash sorrow’s grief away
Harsh confusion crosses one’s sad path
clarity comes to mind as if to say -
Don’t worry all will be just fine
When one’s mind doesn’t understand
the constant turmoil day in and day out
Bringing to one’s broken heart a time
when it wants to cry, scream and shout -
Quiet settles the saddened thoughts
When peace comes about one’s brow
taking the inner pain and hurt away
One has asks themselves why and how
does pain come to one almost everyday -
Understanding clearly comes to mind
Turning to Him calling thy sacred name
as one stands tall to face another day
His gentle hand touches one’s heart -
as one asks His love not to go away
Strength is given to face His tomorrow
Rhoda Galgiani is a published poet and author of a child's book.
You may view her work on Expressions Poetry Journal at:
chesakat1.blogspot.com
Saturday, March 2, 2013
Mad March--By Helen Dowd--Canada
Mad March
Mad March is eager to blow in,
But sometimes he's put on hold.
Mean February steals a day
For Leap Year, so I'm told!
This often makes March furious!
And he roars in like a lion.
He demonstrates his strength to all.
That fact: there's no denyin'.
Mad March is fickle, just the same.
He changes moods so quickly.
One day the sun shines brightly.
The next, the snow lies thickly.
Mad March can sometimes be so mean.
And he roars and blows and bellows.
His temper tantrums are quite known
Among his calendar fellows.
Mad March is not called that for naught.
He'll tire out everyone.
He'll make them March the full month through,
Right to day thirty-one.
Helen Dowd enjoys spending time at her computer, along side her husband of 55 years, writing poetry, story poems, stories about pets and life in general, as well as inspirational and Bible stories. She is a caregiver for her husband and sister, two dogs, three cats and 2 Oranda fish…Email address: helenmdowd@shaw.ca
Mad March is eager to blow in,
But sometimes he's put on hold.
Mean February steals a day
For Leap Year, so I'm told!
This often makes March furious!
And he roars in like a lion.
He demonstrates his strength to all.
That fact: there's no denyin'.
Mad March is fickle, just the same.
He changes moods so quickly.
One day the sun shines brightly.
The next, the snow lies thickly.
Mad March can sometimes be so mean.
And he roars and blows and bellows.
His temper tantrums are quite known
Among his calendar fellows.
Mad March is not called that for naught.
He'll tire out everyone.
He'll make them March the full month through,
Right to day thirty-one.
Helen Dowd enjoys spending time at her computer, along side her husband of 55 years, writing poetry, story poems, stories about pets and life in general, as well as inspirational and Bible stories. She is a caregiver for her husband and sister, two dogs, three cats and 2 Oranda fish…Email address: helenmdowd@shaw.ca
Dawn--By Ndaba Sibanda--Saudi Arabia
Dawn
Those who dream
and value Time
live to see a Dawn.
But doomed into
the ruins of a Dinosaur
are those that forever
Dilly-Dally.
For theirs is Drowning
and Dropping
Till history judges
them Harshly.
Ndaba Sibanda is a Zimbabwean-born writer. His poems, essays and
short stories have been published in Africa and the USA. Ndaba
currently lives and teaches in Saudi Arabia. Of his career, he
says, "writing is my life, and my second wife".
Those who dream
and value Time
live to see a Dawn.
But doomed into
the ruins of a Dinosaur
are those that forever
Dilly-Dally.
For theirs is Drowning
and Dropping
Till history judges
them Harshly.
Ndaba Sibanda is a Zimbabwean-born writer. His poems, essays and
short stories have been published in Africa and the USA. Ndaba
currently lives and teaches in Saudi Arabia. Of his career, he
says, "writing is my life, and my second wife".
Friday, March 1, 2013
Time--By Barbara Siekierski--United States
Time
Time flies away, never to return.
It disappears like a leaf in the wind.
I try to get back memories,
regrets of what might have been,
dreams to be told,
and ambitions yet to be attained.
I ask myself does time stand still?
Does it march on?
Barbara Siekierski is a writer from Swarthmore, PA.
Time flies away, never to return.
It disappears like a leaf in the wind.
I try to get back memories,
regrets of what might have been,
dreams to be told,
and ambitions yet to be attained.
I ask myself does time stand still?
Does it march on?
Barbara Siekierski is a writer from Swarthmore, PA.
Blooms Gone Wild--By Andrea Dietrich--United States
Blooms Gone Wild
The
lawns, well-
manicured,
along my street,
are nice, with their trees
strategically spaced,
bushes looking like bookends
for porch-front flowers, and beds of
stunning roses, bright tulips or small
decorative trees encircled by stones.
But I am more enthralled to see the yard
not so meticulously arrayed -
like an impressionist's painting.
A profusion of diverse
shapes and sizes. . . yellows,
oranges, and reds. . .
is sprayed across
it - lovely
blooms gone
wild.
Andrea Dietrich grew up in Iowa and now resides in Utah with a spouse and two cats. She has two grown children and six grandchildren. Having graduated BYU with a Spanish major/ESL minor, she has spent most of her adult life teaching. It wasn't until 2000 that she began writing in earnest and discovering her "niche" as a writer of lyrical poetry. The internet opened up a new world for her, and she has spent nearly a decade now participating in poetry clubs, acting as a judge of poetry contests for various magazines and for the website Shadow Poetry.
The
lawns, well-
manicured,
along my street,
are nice, with their trees
strategically spaced,
bushes looking like bookends
for porch-front flowers, and beds of
stunning roses, bright tulips or small
decorative trees encircled by stones.
But I am more enthralled to see the yard
not so meticulously arrayed -
like an impressionist's painting.
A profusion of diverse
shapes and sizes. . . yellows,
oranges, and reds. . .
is sprayed across
it - lovely
blooms gone
wild.
Andrea Dietrich grew up in Iowa and now resides in Utah with a spouse and two cats. She has two grown children and six grandchildren. Having graduated BYU with a Spanish major/ESL minor, she has spent most of her adult life teaching. It wasn't until 2000 that she began writing in earnest and discovering her "niche" as a writer of lyrical poetry. The internet opened up a new world for her, and she has spent nearly a decade now participating in poetry clubs, acting as a judge of poetry contests for various magazines and for the website Shadow Poetry.
The Escapees--By Jan Oskar Hansen--Portugal
The Escapees
The goat by the wayside had sun flecked eyes
rhombus brown pupils… and silky white wool.
But it was not alone, together with a donkey
that had brown eyes which exuded endless
patience, and long lashes; they both were on
the way to town where a circus said it needed
more animals and promised hay, dry straw
to sleep on and fame. But knew, as I heard
an ohm of a plane overhead, that it is difficult
to find your way back home and remembered
my mother watering plants on the window sill
while I was biking up and down the road
showing off. I took the animals back to the farm
the agrarian was glad to see them, the goat was
his pet, the donkey too now that he had a blue
tractor, yet both make the domestic landscape
more picturesque.
Jan Oskar Hansen is a published poet from Portugal.
The goat by the wayside had sun flecked eyes
rhombus brown pupils… and silky white wool.
But it was not alone, together with a donkey
that had brown eyes which exuded endless
patience, and long lashes; they both were on
the way to town where a circus said it needed
more animals and promised hay, dry straw
to sleep on and fame. But knew, as I heard
an ohm of a plane overhead, that it is difficult
to find your way back home and remembered
my mother watering plants on the window sill
while I was biking up and down the road
showing off. I took the animals back to the farm
the agrarian was glad to see them, the goat was
his pet, the donkey too now that he had a blue
tractor, yet both make the domestic landscape
more picturesque.
Jan Oskar Hansen is a published poet from Portugal.
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