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This Week's Featured Poems


What I See In You

Your spirit is like a rare
piece of art.
It's also like stone that 
would take a lifetime to 
purchase.You are amazing. 
And you don't have a clue.
I just wanted to remind you
of what I see in you.

Dedicated to friendship.


Copyright © Alexis Y. | Year Posted 2016

Raining Broken Glass

Through my shattered mirror,
Finding pieces of myself
Seeing this divide clearer,
I clean the wounds bad for my health
The blood runs thick and inferior
And, dizzy, I request of your wealth
But in this empty room I can't reach her
So I curl into my shells
Darkness envelopes those that are weaker
And yet my insecurities collapse the well
Petals of Dawn spiral from my mirror
Throughout my imperfect visage I remain myself

Under my apocalyptic dome I spin in ash
Dancing in the fallen leaves raining like Broken Glass

Copyright © Andrew Travis | Year Posted 2017


between stars and fireflies...
a quiet conversation

Copyright © Anthony Slausen | Year Posted 2013



     Oh! serene spirit,

     White gowned on sun flecked waters.

     Majestic in your slow glide.

     What intelligence

     Guides you silently along

     The river’s strong flowing path?

     Choka		5 7 7 5 7 7
     Checked by


Copyright © Barry Stebbings | Year Posted 2017


Bound by nothing that is common
To the ragged soul of man,
Nothing that causes the insistent pulse to quicken
Or the measured step to slow,
Her eyes divert attention from the evening's afterglow
And lead us toward the chambers of the sea.
Waking the dead with frozen hands
She ventures forth but once a year
To tease the mind and tempt the ear
With stories of the spring.

Copyright © 1997-2018 by Benjamin Toney.  All rights reserved.
Image credit: The old grey teacher | Photography by Zena Holloway | United Kingdom

Copyright © Benjamin Toney | Year Posted 2018

Robin Hood

                                       Robin Hood

The Boys from the Hood are always hard...Robin laughs in mockery,
  for he is the thief among thieves, swift, hard, so intelligently...
   A lifestyle for most buried in the Hood, 23 square blocks of misery,
    but not for he, oh know Mr. Hood takes pleasure in using this as...
     as his... Metaphorical hideout tree...In bad company...King Thief...
      Here amongst the derelicts, addicts, gangs, and overall bad men,
        he is an Omen, an unlucky out of place casuality of urban demographics.
He is sly, so sly like the fox, letting all of the immoral degenerates around him
 get blamed for all of his bad stuff, all of his illegal escapades they take the blame.
  Why? Because he is the King Thief, a thief without greed for he feeds who needs.
   So people here hold him in reverie, like a King, but just a thief with a good plan,
    he understands what others can't comprehend...He has a plan...And many fans...
     Robin Mr. Original Boy in the Hood, he took it all just because he could,
      leaving the rest of the Boys from the Hood to think that they're hard...

Poetry Contest: A twisted poem about Robin Hood:
Sponsered by:C.T.

Copyright © Brian Davey | Year Posted 2016

A Brothers Love

          Hope we'll always remember when,
               A time when all of this began;
          Every day, we spent, us two
               In unplanned mischief to put Mom through.

          A brothers life is tough at times,
               To keep each from a life of crime;
          We drank water from a hose and laughed our milk right out our nose
               From race cars to bugs in jars,
          From one adventure to another;
               With hands held tight through scary nights,
          Made safer with a brother.

          From skinned up knees to pillow fights
               And every snowball that we've tossed,
          I'm here for you, for things that might,
               Need help to get across.

Copyright © Charlie Smith | Year Posted 2016

A Tree in the Harbor


Waves crashing at me feet, noble tall as I stand.
The beauty I see beyond me, tides washing in the sand.

Bright sunny days, to mist in the mornings.
Cold winter chills, see the whales adjoining.

No other life but this ocean to imagine. 
Picture perfect memories, a life not meant for a cabin.

The years have slipped by, for even a friend I could not tell.
My roots have grown down deep, for my solitude suits me well.

To the east and the west, south as far as the eye can see. 
My territory I claim proudly, belonging to only me.

I could never miss a friendship, A love bringing me such glee.
Reminiscing shared tide risings, ship sailing mad at sea.

Ask me why I grew here, for that I could not tell. 
The wreckage from a past life, for a witch cast my spell.

A smile, I will smile; My best I will always be.
Enchanted for whatever reason, is perfectly fine by me.

In sight my green leaves flourish, growing taller by salty sea.
The world will know of my beauty, from the lighthouse tall like me.

Control casted light, during the storms jilted hour. 
A guide of protecting beams, illuminated star built tower.

A Chelsea between us, ships resting, white caps sighted.
If someone were to look here, off ports path, to be united.

My secrets buried treasure, moonlit travel, capsized martyr.
My worth to yet be known, a tree in the harbor.

Copyright © Chelcie Darling | Year Posted 2016

God Knows Where I Am

Across the tossing tumult of reality
my brain gasps for truth, for freedom.
This inconvenient leprosy of mind,
whose scarred visage must be quelled.

My own reflection has no scars,
yet, all about are those that insist that ...

AH! What a perfect sunrise!

no soylent concoction, no peering prying eyes
-hidden yawns or dulcet tones or pseudo smiles,
suggesting - DEMANDING I, this day
I will go to where only God knows where I am.

I will dance with the forgotten frantic weeds
- spayed and sprayed, dandelions of disdain
             live here unfettered

This house, neglected, forgotten in
a field of imperfection to those
who can not see what is perfect,

           is heaven to me.

Apples with scarred blemished skins
beg to be loved - excused for
their imperfections shall
be my nourishment.

The passing of each day - 
my romantic vision transformed,
my own pace, my own space, where
freedom hugs me, warms me, feeds me
and loves me
-sleep dear child, you are free. 

I am found, but then, God always knew
...where I was.

Copyright © craig cornish | Year Posted 2017

Confessions of a Statue

Ignore me and know that I am grateful. See me as a statue and I'm content. Leave me to my idyll: I find more respect in solitude than compliments. I know more of love from silence than from kisses. I've learned more of human kindness from passing strangers than from people spouting mindless viewpoints as though it were the word of God.

Copyright © Dale Gregory Cozart | Year Posted 2017

Beauty Of Poetic Lines

I have met many great poets, from all around the world, on this very site. Some have squeezed my heart into tears, while others filled my heart with delight. I have learned many great things, about these people through their words. We all have passion in our heart that sings, like a great musical that seldom is heard. Some write about the simple things they do, while others write about the deeper meanings of life. It matters not, who it may be, me or you, but rather we are all churning out pieces of our lives. Why must we do this thing we must do? Writing about wisdom and our everyday lives? Because that's what poetry is to both me and you, simple beauty in a form of poetic lines.
Dan Kearley:3-5-15

Copyright © Dan Kearley | Year Posted 2015

Strangers In Paradise

Strangers In Paradise 
You Standing there

Blonde wavy hair
Streaks of red and gold

Eyes so  piercing 
Look right through me

And yet, then again
I see you watching me

I feel awkward this moment 
As you look right through me

I feel it every move I make
Even though you're not aware

I feel as though you're touching me
As my daydreams take me to paradise 

Copyright © Debbie Duncan | Year Posted 2011

At The Gates of Auschwitz

At The Gates of Auschwitz

Today, I stand
At the gates of hell;—
“Arbeit macht frei,”
(work sets you free!)
That is Auschwitz,
Where they burned God’s children,
And the world stood by,
To what was happening inside.
The League of Nations,
Whose mandate was World Peace,
And in 1942
The trains rolled in.
Packed like cattle into cars
Ready for slaughter
Were God’s children:—
Cold, diseased,
Inhumanely treated;
Insane hatred,
Blamed and damned
As in the past
For events through no fault of theirs,
Because they were Jewish!
Take for example,
That ocean liner in 1939,
The MS St. Louis, 
Carrying Jews to Cuba;
A scheme of the Nazis
To prove, Jews were pariahs
Nobody would welcome,
Nobody wanted!
Cuba denied safe harbor
And the USA turned them away,
And so did Canada,
And decreed;
“It is not our problem!”
Germany did have a solution;
Ethnic cleansing,
In the ovens of Auschwitz!
And the world looked the other way,
The world did not care!
Later, when the horror was exposed,
They would apologize, officially.
“If we do not remember the past, 
We are doomed to repeat it!”
At Dachau concentration camp,
On the memorial to the Holocaust 
It is written; 
“Never Again!”

Copyright © Dennis Spilchuk | Year Posted 2018

A Ripple In Time

A new borns cry
Tearful last good bye

Swaying waves of golden prairie grass
Shifting desert dunes - an hour glass

An acorn dropping among forest leaves
To mighty oak - a lifetime of dreams

The changing moon - to full again
Each morn' the sun - new skies begin

Eagles soar high - our hearts go there
These ripples in time - we all share

©Donna Jones

Copyright © Donna Jones | Year Posted 2013

Used to go to this Bar

Red light, the neon beer sign on the distant wall reflects off the long expanse of polished bar top, overpowering the quiet brown wood. It’s after lunch, only a few people in to stir the air; the dust motes can settle. Scattered talk of a few regulars, other people’s business, when will she and he be in? Celebrate victories, or manufacture some. 

2:07 p.m. Only three of us now. I used to come here a lot, even though it’s ten miles “up the hill,” out of the river valley into the highlands. It’s obvious the other two people are in all the time. Years back, it was “Bud and Larry,” two fixtures of a bar if ever there were any. I was last in a couple months ago, and saw Bud. He was much the same. They’d found Larry dead at home, 3 years previously. 

Liquor bottles stand on their layered, underlit steps – the temple in front of the mirror, the cathedral of the unclimbables. All those white glass photons going upwards through the fluid.  The bottles stand tall, their inserted “Posi-Pour” spouts all pointing to the left, angled as if flowers toward some imaginary sun.

Rows of polished glassware, sitting and hanging, infinite reflections, each glass a lens of life. They know they can’t make the love come back. Hollow people don’t realize it; most of them end up knowing nothing more than the floor. Take away the lies, the false friendships and loves, and what have you got? 

In a few hours the lights will be on in here, the bar packed with people, the raucous, the driven, the hungry; a Friday night. For now, the bar is patient. Outside the windows, the day floats. 

The bartender is a pretty woman with a great attitude, and in the back pockets of her jeans, a bottle cap opener leans right, and an order pad leans left, forming their own little tabernacle; you can almost see the Eiffel Tower. Humor and good nature, on the rocks. 

Can’t hang forever, have to drive back to the house. Gin is there too, in the freezer with a couple glasses. Pour some cold gin into a cold glass – then add tonic water from the refrigerator compartment. Definitely no ice needed, and lime is up to you. The outside of the glass will fog with icy condensation, but then it will melt, and you feast your eyes on the jewel diamond waterglass platinum mosaic. Cold glass, cold gin, when the tonic water is added, the first quantity freezes, sort of like smoke in water, instant ice, syrup gel silica facets of beauty.

Lots of mighty cathedrals in Europe. And I love The Cathedral of St. John the Divine, in New York City. That’s my home-ground big boy. And since we’re talking New York City, Trinity Church, way down on Broadway in lower Manhattan. Darker stone and stained glass – the first time I walked in there I knew something was up, I mean – HOO AAH – color and contrast. Wow, you can say “Feeling,” or “God,” or “Love,” or this has just got to be some special doo-dah goin’ on here, but it was real. I think that either it is all one thing, or that at the least we are all looking for transcendence - in some or many aspects, depending on how optimistic we are.   

So, the bartender has been looking at me in a funny way. I’ve been scribbling on pre-printed papers for work that I had in my wallet, folded into eighths so they would fit. Luckily, the back side of one was blank. I got a lot of writing done there – I print very small.

Now, I am firmly old enough to be the bartender’s father. And hitting on a bartender is an exceedingly low percentage play. And I love my wife, and am totally faithful to her. Totally. Things are getting busier now, but in the slow time that has passed, the bartender was a bit inquisitive – she mentioned how she had all the glasses washed, all the tasks completed, all her ducks in a row. And there I was, all studious, sort of (while drinking gin), and she said that maybe she should be doing something like I was – writing – “for her classes.” A-ha, that’s it – she just got a job as a schoolteacher. Got the good stance – kids will eat you up, but not this woman – she will command whatever it is that teachers need to command. These days, in the U.S., that’s a tall order. The bartender’s name is Colleen, and she’s gotta be about 30. Maybe a bit less, slight probability she’s a bit more. Got a soulful quality underneath the chipper and bouncy quality so favorable in a bartender, and I think – the steel to be a teacher; she’ll do well no matter what. 

Monreale – this is a big cathedral up high, above Palermo, Sicily. The roar and density of history, the weight and perfection of art, the sublime execution of human caring – just think of it – the “Norman rulers of Sicily.” Wait, what? The Normans were in Sicily? Lots of us have heard about the Normans and England, i.e. 1066, yes, but for the next 90 years or so they were going south, too. 

So, 840 years ago, William II started the church, later decreed a cathedral. What sets it apart for me is the mosaic art – vast in scale, extremely beautiful in its fineness. The Arabic influence is huge, and though I have read that there are even “finer” examples in existence, I have not seen them, and the sheer expanse and impact of Monreale is personally monumental. What it took to make this thing…. There, I was lifted up. When I say, “mosaic art,” I think you really have to see it. 

Back home – I like to mix things up a bit, and after ordering a nice big pizza, I determined to ask the delivery person a question, pursuant to the fact that we are all citizens of the universe. “Tell me something good,” I said, after the knock came on the door. He was a fresh-faced teenage boy – was he even old enough to drive? He stammered in incomprehension. I said, “You gotta tell me something good…” 

“Uh… I got a new car today.” Hardly the philosophical explosion I’d hoped for, but still – he was decently enthusiastic - winner winner chicken dinner. $30 on a $17.95 bill, he went away happy.

Copyright © Doug Vinson | Year Posted 2016

If Grandchildren Could See What I See

I wish they could see through my eyes-
Lush green grass wild and free
Streams flowing e’er gently
Corn growing silently,
While fluffy clouds roll in the skies

I wish they could feel with my heart-
Tomatoes ripe on vine,
Nails in barn hanging twine,
Blackberries taste so fine,
Yellow goldenrod stand as art

I wish they could see through my eyes-
Cat drinking milk from cow,
Horse till the soil with plow,
Baby piglets with sow,
Farmers getting rest by and by

I wish they could feel with my heart-
Fun playing tag some more,
Under apple tree store,
Doing the ev’ning chores,
God’s blessings He imparts

I wish they could feel with my eyes-
Rainbow after the rain,
Sunrise on windowpane,
Soft rain falling on grain,
Love shared before good-byes

Copyright © E. Pearl Anderson | Year Posted 2018


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