Weathering After a storm
the heart is soft for a while, is tender.
Weathering toughens the outside
as it softens the inside—
is this paradox created by love
to improve our tolerance?
We weather the crisis,
the suicide,
the long dying
the loss of love,
the doom of expectations
and we grow more patient and more kind
because we know how it feels, how it all feels.
We discover compassion
and the love that keeps on giving;
when we don't feel sorry for ourselves
we discover a well
that draws not from self,
but from never ending Source
and slakes the thirst of those who come to drink
Those who have weathered many storms
do not need a safe harbor.
They face wind and rain
with the knowledge that all is well.
In some way that cannot logically be explained,
they know life will go on,
grief dwindle with time;
and the sorrow that does not pass
becomes more tolerable
as it becomes a source of strength.
The Slow Plow
The slow plow
turns a deep furrow.
Cracked earth gives way
to sharpened edge.
Old weeds decay
rotting within heaped earth.
I am slower now to move.
My hand steady on the plow,
I see more clearly,
respond more authentically.
The furrowing
helps me accept
whatever truth I uncover
within the turned earth.
Time's edge
grows keener with years.
Turn on the Light
When the skies are dark and gloomy
And the path is dim and drear,
turn on the light.
The light will show your feet the way to go.
When you can't see a solution
There is one thing you can do,
turn on the light.
The light will show your mind the way to go.
When your poor heart has been broken
And you're filled with sad regret,
turn on the light.
The light will show your heart the way to go.
The light of truth shines bright within
It will illuminate your way,
Turn on the light.
The light will guide you true.
Tasha Halpert Email: TashaHal@aol.com
GOD'S HOUSE
turns out
God
does not have a mansion after all
but only a modest bungalow
3/2 with a porch
Craftsman style
there is a room upstairs
with a window
where the Holy Ghost stays
there is a dish drainer
and a kitchen table
where god likes to sit
and write out his daily schedule
he says it's all he needs
just a place to sleep
and catch up on some reading
it's comfortable enough
when you're God
you already have everything you need
and there is no point in
flaunting your Godliness.
A PHD IN RENAISSANCE DRAMA
Kids go to school
and spend thousands of dollars
to get that precious diploma
the holy grail
they take along their
phones because it is
the only life they have
they cannot function
without a phone and earplugs
they study hard
and put in many hours
learning
how to drink
carouse
and use profanity
then in the end
they end up with the prize
a PHD in RenaIssance Drama
which guarantees them
a lifetime of debt
a job at the local McDonalds
and a room
in their parents basement.
Armies Of The Fall
The wind calls
leaves from trees
to muster in their ranks
of thousand
(continued over page)
(continued from previous page)
then down the street they charge
armies of mute soldiers
pushed onward
by the commanding wind
in the swirl of swift battle
some dash ahead
some tumble in the fray
some fall by the wayside
straggling to the curb
huddled in their drab uniforms
they rest
regroup
to plot their next attack
comrades in arms
in pursuit of something
they do not know or understand
they only know there is
no retreat
this endless army of leaves
awaits the next signal to advance
silently listening for
the bugle call of the wind.
BOTTLES AND CANS
beer bottles and cans
litter the lot
the waste of our throwaway society
our civilization gone mad
with the ease of litter
tossing anything and everything
out the window
so cans and bottles
pile up here
a procession of glass and aluminum
strewn upon this good earth
a field of trash
instead of grass
and the sad scene weeps
for what used to be
an unpolluted Eden
where rain would fall
upon good clean soil
and flowers grew
instead of cans.
CARDBOARD BOX
There is no toy that
can satisfy a kid's heart
like a cardboard box
all kids are happy to get one
big enough to crawl into
to make cut out windows in
to close the flaps
of secret worlds and wild geography
to play fort
to play pirate
to make a car or bus
all their wishes and ideas
and wild imagination
rolled up into a cardboard box
somehow an ordinary box
fires make believe
and kids become all
they ever wanted to be
as they tumble in and out
and fight over whose box it is
and who had it first
years from now
they will talk about
the box they played in
and all they fun they had
still ingrained upon their memories
parents will hurumph
and act insulted
give them expensive fancy toys
and what do they do
play with the box
all the while remembering
their own childhoods
and secretly wishing
they could be kids again
having fun inside a cardboard box.
FORGIVE US OUR SINS
Since naive youth
we have a sense of guilt
bestowed on us by mothers
who instilled in us fear
of the big bad wolf
too many sins
not enough pleasure
shame on you
god knows
kneel down
repent
be a good boy
pray for forgiveness
the finger pointed
the voice still heard
deep in the psyche
we carry the burden
as heavy as a boulder
the sins of a lifetime
weigh upon us
you cannot argue
with God or mother.
I HEAR AMERICA TEXTING
I hear America texting
her constant tap tapping
from sea to shining sea
every street and highway
all atwitter
men and women
on the way to work
behind the wheel
sending their messages
of love and nonsense
crashing into guard rails
rear ending each other
still typing away
on tiny keyboards
their small thoughts of the day
emoji emotions
miles of pings
responding with happy faces
merrily they roll along
on their new gadgets
speaking of lost causes
lost language
less eye to eye
it's a brave new world
driving while texting
our evolution
from climbing trees and artful cursive
to blanking screens
held precariously beside steering wheels
thumbs numb from texting.
we know less than before.
LOBSTER LAMENT
I was having a good time
in the sea
just being me
then along came a boat
and a wise guy fisherman
who set his traps
and sealed my doom
now I am a sad lobster
imprisoned in a tiny tank
with my pincers tied up
I flail about
trying to find a way out
people with no mercy
stare at me
and lick their lips
there is no getting out of
this glass chamber
unless it's on a plate
then on top of that
the final insult
they have the nerve
to call this place
"Red Lobster".
HOUSE FOR SALE
Homes without people
are no homes at all
just boards and nails
doors and windows
it takes people and table talk
to make a house a home
to give it life
and sound and spirit
how sad are the houses
that sit vacant in darkness
with no one to care
eventually they will crumble
there is no happiness behind
locked doors and empty closets
with no one home
a house is just a house
sitting lonely and neglected
a house without voices
to stir the dust
push open the windows
deprived of a family
it cannot be a home
the sign should say
House for Sale
bring all offers
of love.
THE WILD LANTANA
The landscape fades away
grass turns from green to solemn yellow
trees drop their leaves
to message the passing
of yet another season
the video of our neighborhood
now shows a scraggly look
unkempt and disheveled
as if nature gave up the ghost
and slowly walked away
yet there in the alley
grows a persistent Lantana
a bush so wild and weedy
it looks sickly
scrawny as a stick
it is almost leafless
yet in its bareness
still blossoms forth with flowers
bright displays of brilliant orange and gold
cheerful in parenthesis
weaving thru the chain-link fence
we are amazed at its resistance
how it stubbornly refuses to go along
the wild Lantana shows its mettle
defies the norm of giving up
and even in its sad condition
issues forth in courage
gives us its unspoken message
of enduring happiness.
David Knape
Dknape1969@yahoo.com
FROST
I can see my breath, white wisps escape with eac
exhalation.
Fingers and toes feel the bite of sharp frost.
Trees are dressed in white crystals, natures fairy
lights.
The sun is weak and shares little warmth.
We walk briskly to heat our cold bodies.
On our return, it's hot tea and buttered toast.
Winter is reaching out it's freezing fingers.
Warmth becomes a savoured indulgence.
We are all seasons and as darkness falls early,
We know the Solstice will soon be calling here
MORPHING EVERY MORNING
Our colours change with mood and outer influence.
Our auras change with healing and damage.
On the rare moments I can see them,
they leave me transfixed by their beauty.
I see people in their multi energetic fullness.
Those moments do not last long for me.
I wish all my moments were in such full colour.
It's when I truly know we are so much more than the
often believe.
We are all rainbows after the rain.
RE MAKING A MARK
It began on cave walls.
Sketches of animals and humans.
Painting with my fingers still takes me back to tribal,
childhood times.
It feels good, close to the mark.
I remember my art teacher smiling as I ignored instructions and covered the paper in daubed finger and hand prints.
He got my need to feel the paint
though my teenage counterparts did not.
He never reprimanded my need to do what I wanted and not what was asked.
My English teacher was the same, I was blessed with teachers who encouraged my explorations.
We all make marks, some on paper, some on canvass, some on hearts, some on flesh and some on cave
walls.
My heArt is still primal, still free to express, whether or not there is an audience of acceptance.
REALITY
What is reality in a plastic, virtual world?
Do we transcend or descend into the pretence.
Take my hand, feel my heart beat.
Is that my breath on your face or a chill wind.
Fencing around Stone Henge, souvenirs galore.
Plastic in lips and hips and fish.
God and trolls resides on the internet.
Buy your medium ship for $29.
Be verbally abused for free.
We can copy virtually anything.
Create something that is newborn.
I can paint you and myself any colour.
Instead we click smiley face or like.
Do not click on tears, mine are made of salt.
My smile is not perfect but it's real.
The grass beneath my feet, the fallen leaves,
provided by nature not 3D printers.
And when we kill the world for our children,
try and explain that it's ok, we have a fake
replacement.
The last bee will be our last breath.
I am not a robot but that's what they all say.
RE IMBALANCE
How many full moons and tide turns have women
been abused?
Look at HisStory, women maligned, burned at the
steak.
We have been undervalued, traded, raped and
slaughtered.
Behind the mask of political correctness, nothing
changes.
Until the feminine is valued, respected and equally represented, nothing will change.
Masculinity, power and misogamy, has brought us to
ruin.
Balance must be seen as a priority for our survival.
Wars, slavery, displacement created by men.
We need to grow nurture, care, and feminine
influence.
It is time to hear and respond positively to HerStory.
It's time for men to tell men that patriarchy has run
it's course.
The way forward is balance, for all our sakes.
Alexandria Krysinski
Email: alexkrysinski@hotmail.co.uk
FALTERED
Message me,
Messiah legacy,
Context highly suspect,
This theft of language,
Forgiveness as a concept,
Not easy when tongues slip,
Like serpents constrict,
All your prayers submit,
Sins nodded through,
By those asleep at Karmic wheel!
Powerful predatory beasts,
Pardoned dinosaur priests,
In candle-lit crypt caves,
Pulpit puppets strung along slaves,
Massed marionettes jerk and spasm,
In thrall to unholy phantom,
Black box recorder never recovered,
Drowned conspiracy softly smothered,
Choir-boys sing for last suppers,
Find silence answers those who suffer.
The wealthy and privileged,
Make of forgiveness a derelict,
Their only duty to stamp tramps,
With holy writs demanding obedience,
Bury your shame take their blame,
Through supplication you are both redeemed!
Torch burning lynchers,
In search of sinners,
Could do no worse,
Than begin with their local church!
HAWKER
“Do you know why?
You need to know,
Jesus before you die?”
Mercy street dealers,
Push their own unique,
Systems of belief,
One Almighty addiction,
Choose your dogma,
On a string of convictions!
Spread the fear,
Forget any joy,
Which might await,
When you’re swept aside,
From God’s grate,
Recognise with rueful laugh,
There may be no pilgrim’s path,
Just broken bones and crushed egg-shells,
Blistering soles down each circle of hell!
Trust in the frailty of your deity,
As you prepare to anoint another brow,
Can’t but fail to disappoint you,
Dozens of disciples,
Turned to mere trifles,
By those bearing rifles,
‘Neath their stolen crowns.
Should a redeemer deliver from evil?
With such a lack of grace?
Using squeaky felt tips,
His crude hieroglyphics,
Draw crowds in,
Sketchy sermons on sin,
How about a saviour of a different flavour?
Not just another post-mortem jailor,
Heaven as a wild child meadow,
Where we can only continue to grow,
So keep your mantra musty with grief,
Your sales pitch forks the road to deceit,
To journey beyond trade in your own faith!
Mark Laing
13 Ethelbert Road, Canterbury Kent CT1 3ND
Email: markstick@hotmail.co.uk
Mark Writes: “The second poem, "Hawker" relates to someone I have observed peddling their highly dubious spiritual wares in our local high street ! The first poem "Faltered" was written before the latest scandals to rock Hollywood and Westminster but now seems highly prescient! It was really my intention to write a treatise on the idea of forgiveness and its limitations when applied to situations when anyone one of us has endured suffering at the behest of the powerful.”
The Sandman
The Sandman snores on Xmas Say,
For then his dreams are all spent,
He can rest awhile and sleep with a smile,
A wonderful yearly event!
For every boy and girl they have
Sweet dreams on Xmas Eve,
And then they wake and find they make
The dreams that he did leave.
The Sandman is dreaming of sleeping,
For one night his own eyes be kissed;
For all through the year there is many a tear
When the dreams that are wished for are missed.
But on Xmas day all the children
Are beaming and happy and free,
Their dreams are fulfilled just as he had willed,
And now he’s asleep – so is he!
On Being Born Again
All nature feels a fleeting force;
A primal push of birth; a pain
Of being born; life takes its course
And dies, but then is born again!
And so the seasons spin in space,
Each life a world of woe and waste;
Or so would seem this endless race
Of cosmic, comic, cruel bad taste!
Each native pinned to this mad wheel
Of time that turns like wound-up toy,
Is born to fail and born to feel
The joke of life – the loss of joy!
And so each life is born then dies;
And nothing new is known or lost
For all is but a sea of sighs
That every sailor-soul has crossed!
But please excuse such sinking tones;
This meaningless and morbid mope;
It is but creaking of old bones –
Born from body, bereft of hope!
As I lie dying in my bed,
And all is dark and dimmed with doom;
Please then forget these things I’ve said;
They too should lie within a tomb!
For these weak words are only dust,
And have no life if they but curse
The fact of life in which we trust,
To seek to save our souls from worse!
(continued over page)
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The song-bird sings, the spider weaves;
The mother loves, the baby grins;
The pope and pauper, each believes
That there is hope when life begins!
For while there’s life in human flesh;
There’s also spirit set to guide
That speck of soul, caught in the mesh;
A faith that they can turn the tide!
All nature feels a fleeting force;
A primal push of birth; a pain
Of being born; life takes its course
And dies, but then is born again!
On Leprechauns
The Leprechauns laugh and leap over the moon,
And show off the shimmering shine of their shoon,
While Apollo appeases the play of old Puck,
Lighting all lives by the law of good luck;
And Luck be the Leprechaun God living over
The land of the legendary four-leaf clover!
The Leprechauns fiddle and dance and hey-diddle
And rhyme all the time and tell a tall riddle
And tales of ol’ Tara when time was as tender
As a maid in the morning all sylvan and slender
Dancing her daydreams as day dawns all over
The land of the legendary four-leaf clover!
The Leprechauns sing a sing that’s stammering
Akin to the clamour of a cobbler’s hammering
About on their business on battering brogues,
These faerie-folk rascals and we Irish rogues
Who run around Ireland unseen but all over
The land of the legendary four-leaf clover!
Eulogy for Agatha & Hercule
The Adventure of a Clapham Cook
Or a Murder in the Mews;
The Queen of Crime in every book,
She took us where she’d choose,
As freely as she felt, she took
Us out for a Death on the Nile,
And Poirot, he would catch the crook
And always with some style!
A Mysterious Affair at Styles
Or just a problem at Sea;
The Queen of Crime was best by miles
At solving every mystery,
Because of course of the guiles and whiles
Of Poirot, who would always win,
As per Miss Lemon’s copious files,
A Double Clue or a Double Sin!
For any Evil under the Sun,
Even for a Death in the Clouds;
The Queen of Crime was number one
At lifting murderers’ shrouds,
And showing Japp just who had done
Incredible Theft or callous crime,
With Poirot, finding with much fun,
The Disappearing Davenheim!
Whether a Third Floor Flat or a dream
Or whether a Chocolate Box,
The Queen of Crime could make us scream
In surprise at the twists and shocks
That she could weave or make it seem
That Poirot, who with simple ease,
Could solve what we could clearly deem
To be unsolvable mysteries.
The Million Dollar Bond Robbery
Or the Case of the Missing Will;
The Queen of Crime could always be
Counted on for a killing thrill;
She covered all Murders, A,B.C,
In her stories, like sinister odes,
And Poirot would play her symphony,
Even a Triangle at Rhodes!
Whether Four and Twenty Black-birds,
Or the Theft of a Royal Ruby,
The Queen of Crime, with winging words,
Could plan a Cornish Mystery,
And fly afar from the common herds,
To pen a plot, to tease and test
Poor Poirot, who would mouth his “merde’s”,
If far too near a Wasp’s Nest!
Tales are told of the Mine that was lost
And the Murder on the Links;
The Queen of Crime, she knew the cost,
Of doing what a murderer thinks;
How After the Funeral, fingers were crossed,
From Poirot, keeping them going free
Though in their sleep they turned and tossed,
Like a Marsden Manor Tragedy!
In the Adventure of Johnnie Waverly,
Or in the Peril at End House;
The Queen of Crime is boldly free
In her telling of a lying louse;
She does not speak all daintily
About the evil, villainous gang,
That Poirot catches continually,
As the criminals that must hang!
But this Veiled Lady is not vain,
She puts her Cards on the Table:
The Queen of Crime, never prof ane,
Made our Belgium a bit of a Gable;
Ever a gentleman, without a stain,
Though Poirot – always dapper in dress
Is mainly famous for his mighty brain
Quicker than the Plymouth Express!
And on Hercule Poirot’s Christmass,
Still, she gives no sign of rest;
The Queen of Crime, with a Sad Cypress,
Creates more crime, for him to test;
An Underdog or a Dumb Witness,
Or any clue that she can connive;
Her Poirot, even with a Yellow Iris,
Solves them all, and so does thrive!
A Cat among the pigeons knows no thrift;
Thus, with Hercule, he’ll follow the scent,
The Queen of Crime, who by her gift,
Has already written where Hercule went,
Leading him on through clues to sift;
Thus Poirot knows where to follow,
And bring to conclusion, sudden and swift,
Affairs of the Victory Ball or Hollow.
A Dead Man’s Mirror shows no morrow,
For many a victim of these crimes;
The Queen of Crime, she’ll show no sorrow
For evil ways of these evil times!
Rather do battle, with brains of her Poirot
As weapon, against the mud and the blood
That Poirot must wage his war on and borrow
A time that’s taken at the Flood!
Thus even the King of Clubs will be floored,
As the Five Little Pigs will be killed!
The Queen of Crime, she will never be bored,
Not while Hercule and her are so skilled
At catching the culprits so needing the sword,
Brave Poirot, for Justice, does brandish:
The Mysterious Spanish Chest will be gored
And others even more outlandish!
Adventure of the Western Star with dash;
Adventure of the Cheap Flat with dare;
The Queen of Crime will always smash
Any Criminal’s crime with such flair,
Because of course, she had the cash
She earned from the brilliant brain of Poirot,
Being brave but not brash,
As in the Mystery of the Blue Train.
A Kidnapped Prime Minister might complain
As he watches the hands of the clock:
The Queen of Crime knows time will remain
For more “Hickory Dickory Dock!”
And Scotland Yard may murmur in vain
At Poirot and his strange point of view,
But in the end, it all becomes plain
As One, Two, Buckle my Shoe!
A Halloween Party is such a good show
Of horrors and monsters and witches;
The Queen of Crime, has better ones though;
Murderers, poisoners and bitches!
Ask her, “How Does Your Garden Grow?”
And you will get far more than shells
For Poirot to puzzle, like maids in a row
And all solved by those little grey cells!
Mrs McGinty’s dead, and the sighs
Of the many murdered are haunting
The Queen of Crime, in many a guise
As her characters, endlessly taunting!
The Third Girl’s whispering wanton lies
To Poirot, who knows that she’s lying;
While repeatedly Lord Edgeware Dies
And the Italian Nobleman’s dying!
Murder in Mesopotamia is as daring,
As the Adventure of the Egyptian Tomb!
The Queen of Crime and Poirot both sharing
The curse of the detective’s doom –
To always find a body that’s staring
Lifelessly, needing redemption;
And Poirot and Christie together are caring
For Justice without exemption!
The Mystery of Hunter’s Lodge was a mission,
Of great discomfort for Poirot to bear,
The Queen of Crime, in her usual rendition,
Had him preened to perfection with care;
With his hat, cane and spats, though condition
Of Poirot was not suited for the land,
More for the Metropolitan tradition,
As in Jewel Robbery at the Grand!
And the Murder of Roger Ackroyd,
Agatha, with a most gruesome end;
The Queen of Crime, there would not avoid
The extinction of a trusted friend!
But Hastings, “mon ami” was employed,
As a friend somewhat simple but certain;
And Poirot’s Twelve Labours we enjoyed
Right up to Poirot’s last Curtain!
Words of Wisdom or Whatever - -
If there are such words of wisdom
This may help you in your strife
Of living in this country
This thing some call a life,
Then these few words are for you
With their meaning quite concise
And you’ll find them true
As a piece of sound advice;
“To just do your best with what you’ve got.”
As advice I hope you heed it,
For “experience” is what you only get
Just after you really need it!
Steve Langley
100 Colne Street, Castleton, Rochdale GMC OL11 UK Email: sorol8008@gmail.com
ALSO SEE HIS NEW POETRY BLOG to be found at www.poeticomms.com!
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