Smile for me

Where’s your place to spend a quiet night

Because these times have grown to show you your emotions just overflow You see your affecting others now

But you don’t quite know

Where to go from here

Wishing you can make yourself just disappear

I know how you feel

Hoping other people know how you feel Without saying a word

You want the rich to be poor and the poor to be rich! To feel the hunger when we switch

Hoping maybe then you’ll click

Trust me I understand!

I’m in your shoes so I’m with you

Don’t ever think that you’re alone when I’m always here with you

It’s about how you deal with the pain

Don’t let that feeling steer you away

From what you’re working toward

If you fail, ok

Nothing’s perfect, hey

Today is the day Continue reading “Smile for me”

Synapses

Darkness befriends us, the shelter of trees.

Even when stark shell-shocked centers petrified,

they stand willing.  Afterwards, gently breeze- blown,

they are again solace sources.

 

So this moment palpably lives,

flesh lending warmth, steam-soft.

Hands funnel through like traffic,

fog-caught, lost and seeking.

 

Hands become thresholds,

paths recognized, appreciated, by-passed.

 

The lone continue journeying towards home,

exhaust, a trail left, mingling like sighs.

 

 

By Stephen Mead

 

Alone

Love,

Entered my life with abandon,

recklessly causing unwanted emotions,

reviving the lost hope of happiness.

 

Reason,

Escaped the test of thought,

and was buried by loves intensity,

but continued to struggle to say alive.

 

Reality,

Randomly dismissed and forgotten,

having no part of love,

joined reason in its isolation.

 

Loneliness,

My life-long trusted companion,

please don’t linger far away,

I fear you must rejoin me soon.

For I do not believe in love,

and this feeling masked in beauty will soon depart,

leaving me where I will forever dwell…Alone.

 

 

By Gary William Ramsey

 

The idler

He strives to do absolutely nothing all day long

He is not stirred by alarm, siren, bell or gong

Being indolent is the art

That sets him distinctly apart

If he’s content that way, what’s wrong?

 

 

By Satish Pendharkar

 

Cuts like a knife

How could you do this to my soul, my heart,

And reject this poem, brimming with art?

I wrote it long ago when I was so young

And now it gushes, or is it too long?

This poem I reworked so many times!

As I sat myself down to start to revise

I worked so hard, and I did my best!

But I say uncle, I must acquiesce.

I hang down my head, again I begin,

I’ll revise as you wish and send out again.

 

 

By Joan E. Cashin

 

Time

(thank you to Rickie Lee Jones)

 

isn’t linear.  A convoluting helix, its

taffy twists swirl:  a tornado’s central

nucleus.  There is stillness within

movement & DNA reeling into

all of our lives…

 

What’s that rappin’at your window,

pullin’ at your shirt tails,

sittin’ in your closet?

 

Open jars, sift through envelopes,

stretch forth, an antennae—–

 

Pulses tunnel chasms. Resigned rings well

as they were meant to:  moments, sea spray,

falling here, falling there…

 

Time breaks gravity, suspends destiny,

& flies on out.

 

 

By Stephen Mead

 

The ghosts of Iowa

In the land of Iowa, land of the corn,

a grandfather lived in Grinnell.

When he died, they all would mourn,

assuming his soul went to hell.

 

They buried him in the grave site,

assuming that their grandpa was dead.

But when the ghost returned in white,

from the old farmhouse they fled.

 

A scarecrow watched the haunted farm,

and not a crow would go anywhere near.

One day a traveling schoolmarm,

approached the farmhouse without fear.

 

Assuming the house abandoned to all,

the house would be her own downfall.

Around the farmhouse she started to snoop,

seeing all the chickens in the coop.

 

She thought she’d steal some chickens,

but she got scared like the Dickens.

From the grave came a ghostly hand,

protecting the farm in the evil land. Continue reading “The ghosts of Iowa”

33

I don’t want to die but Miss Hooker says

that I’ve got to and so does everyone

else, she includes herself, she’s my Sunday

School teacher, she saves my immortal soul from

Hell so that when I’m dead it’s Heaven is

where I’ll go to spend Eternity and

see God and Jesus and the Holy Ghost

and the saints and family and maybe

a few old friends and some enemies, too,

Judge not lest ye be judged, Miss Hooker says,

or maybe that was Jesus but it’s good

advice whoever came up with it and

besides, my enemies might be surprised

as well to see me up there, in Heaven

I mean, and maybe we’ll become friends once

and for all even though I doubt it now, Continue reading “33”

Henrietta

She ran away with a man when she was seventeen,

a farmer’s son who knew about curing tobacco

but not much else. Grab the stalks, strip the leaves,

then twist those leaves into ropes…that was the extent of it.

 

Didn’t earn no money at it not with the drop in prices

that year. And besides, he was a drinker, always at

the worst kind of rotgut: home-made corn-liquor

that could strip the paint off a car.

 

But it was her decision to run away with him,

first one she’d ever made in her lifetime.

And choices in a small town are as thin on the ground

as the soil once the tobacco’s been through with it.

 

He figured he’d get a job on one of the big plantations

down south but what with his overall laziness and

drinking and her always tagging behind him, they ended

up in hovel somewhere in mid-Georgia, begging for change Continue reading “Henrietta”