You pierce my brain with worry
my body wants to close the shutters
to block your morning light

You inject me with responsibility
making me ache for childhood and loose youth
that was full of simple duties

You slap the "wake up" on my
lazy weekend face
causing me to feel the pain of facing the world

You dear Monday
are one hell of a *******

I’m no author, novelist or poet.
I’m just Me,
And don’t I know it.
I don’t need to be classified,
As long as I’m writing, I’m satisfied.

Typing out words, line by line,
I don’t care if they don’t rhyme.
I don’t care if my verses don’t scan:
I’m not always an Iambic Man.

I just say what I gotta say,
I’m not worried about any pay.
Words come to me without much bidding,
The world of its evils I hope to be ridding.

I love to spread lots and lots of Love,
Bringing peace to all like a messenger dove.
Things of beauty bring joy, John Keats rightly said,
To make us sleep easy when we go to bed.

So I’ll paint what I paint,
And sing what I sing,
Just letting those words
Do their magical thing.

Paul Butters

Is there anything more wonderful
Then being part of the poet’s corner?
Lucky am I to be a poetry lover!
A romance novelist used poetry to ponder
A story that changes and transforms
One’s heart.  Is there anything more wonderful?
Joining a poetry site, I blundered
My way to writing a poem, oh what torture!
But lucky am I to be a poetry lover.
Many offered their support, allowing me to discover
My path and slowly my writing became stronger.
Is there anything more wonderful?
So many inspired awe and wonder,
Giving me strength to claim my own corner,
Justifying my becoming a poetry lover.
To those who offered encouragement so tender
I offer my thanks and give honor.
Is there anything more wonderful
Than becoming a poetry lover?*

Kelly Rose
December 29, 2015

the stony silence
is an offshoot of the violence
brewed in the madman’s dream
none shall speak ever again
he will be king
drunk on brandy and power
and only he will speak
they must listen in perpetuity
he is a latter-day monarch in a monocle
and severe coat tails and top hat
everyone is a servant servile and compliant
his will is to be done at all times and in all places
always he wakes up to a continental breakfast
and an academic on radio talking in RP
like an Oxford-educated pundit of anthropology
who has theories for everything
including the shape of his own nose
lo and behold!
The days of change are here
men shall whimper and die
women shall rise up and rule
from the bedroom to the boardroom
it’s a woman’s world, ultimately
and the tin *** king shall tuck his tail away
and kiss the hand of she who rules

My vision went blank
The memory is gone
When I wasn't there

I was held captive
By the bottle of falsity
In the midst of a crowd

My deepest possession
Was stolen in the dark
I was more dead then them

But I woke up in life
In the hell of my sins
Drowned by own blood

A strange taste sunk in
Bittersweet like rind
But it burned like liquor

My flesh was emptied
I was carrying my heart
As it diminished in hand

The air was thick and wild
My lungs filled by dust
Of what was left behind

My song turned melancholic
As my soul hid quickly
With the depths of my spirit

The years passed
And like a mirage
They dissipated

Now I dine alone
At the broken table
I placed in my home

There's a part I've lost
A place I'll never find
I am the ghost of my death