Anne Webb

Nov 2016

Michael L

Flowers

Pass me the vase, will you dear
I've picked some flowers to place in it
They are purple, yellow, white and red
Don't they just make you smile

I will place them by your bed
So when you retire for the night
You won't miss the beauty
That's painted on their faces

Take a moment, will you
To appreciate their worth
Lean in close and take a sniff
Their fragrance is most genuine

And as you wake, remember
I've placed those flowers there
For you to enjoy and adore
If only for a season

Nov 2016

Terry Jordan

An Ode to Poets

The first thinkers were poets
Naming Mother Earth
Beginning symbolic thinking
Of nature, death and birth

Though themes are often repeated
Love, Beauty and God
Poetry in the guise of Religion
A prophet or a fraud

The poet resurrects the Primitive
Through allegory and similes
Disarming the unknown like explorers
Sublime Prophets and Visionaries

They must lay bare those treasured images
That must be expressed
Unraveling and revealing the sounds
At each soul’s behest

Encompassing the entire Cosmos
So lyrical the beat
The poet’s excitement flows outward
Laid at the Reader’s feet

So original, individual
She won’t examine or explain
Letting go the festering feelings
Disturbances in her brain

He exposes his dark, wounded psyche
Just to release and express
Such capacity to see and compare
Hyperbole at its best

I love, I hate, I suffer
A special dance in rhythm and rhyme
The poet as a buffer
Lessening the pain and sting of time

Laden with symbol and feelings
She gives you sweet relief
From something urgent, revealing
Confusion to belief

Through a cinematic kind of seeing
The poet purges to transform
By leaping through Alice’s looking glass
She never was one to conform

Quite intolerant of convention
Just like The Mad Hatter
His passions immune to all logic
In syncopated patter

Jamming up the poet’s mind
Struggling for expression
Seeking order out of chaos
An infantile regression

Cleaving to his imaginary world
The poet breaks out into words
Creating sound paintings to be unfurled
So his own agony is blurred

She succumbs to storms of passion
With instinctive techniques
Rhymes and rhythm still in fashion
Out of hand flows mystique

The poet mines from his unconscious
The Reader is not blind
For every single line and symbol
Means something to the mind

Causing an inner liberation
Enlightenment or flight
It is a matter of life and death
When darkness turns to light.

Been working on this piece for a while; my thoughts on the inner mind of poets.

Nov 2016

Walter W Hoelbling

november 9, 2016

the day
when even the not so faithful
were tempted to pray
for the health of the nation

#president #elected #trump

Anne Webb Nov 2016

Wildfire

Spreading over trees and hills
a wildfire unleashed,
what crosses its path it kills,
no mercy yet no thrill.

Its flames reaching to the sky,
the biggest fear of most,
not hearing its victims cry,
it won't stop on its own.

Always hungry, never full,
feeding on other's pain,
biting all that comes around,
what's left behind is plain.

Yet why is it that we fear,
what never comes alone,
though it's the fire causing harm,
blame the people on the throne.

From:
The arsonist watching,
nearby the fire he has grown.

And so they say, Lord, for everything a reason.

Anne Webb Nov 2016

Tree

We used to have a tree in the garden ouside,
when I was small,
and I remember watching it slowly grow tall.

So tall that I could barely see,
the leaves on top
of the crown of that tall, tall tree.

And maybe it was trying to reach,
the stars up in the sky,
but how can I be sure if I cannot see that high.

Its branches reaching to the clouds above,
how can I forget,
when its attempts were never enough.

I fell in love with climbing up its branches,
once I grew older,
and right on the top, I watched the stars.
Even if it got any colder,
I still sat there staring at the distant blue sky.
But when we moved out,
of that house with the garden and the tree,
they cut it down,
watching the fall of every last leaf.

Nov 2016

Polar

Dead Poet's Society

Where do all dead poets go?
If you find out then let me know.
Does all language die with them?
Words float in air, then end. Amen.

Or are their words preserved in time?
Scorched on paper, then held in shrine.
There to be seen, read, devoured,
Ancient wisdom from those empowered.

There to make a serious point
Using words to soothe, anoint.
Recording times, events and places.
Cataloguing history, people, faces.

Sometimes harsh in what they say,
Determined to speak come what may.
Not all poets speak in rhyme;
Using rhythm to keep in time.

But all good poems should touch the heart,
Evoke emotions from the start,
Make the reader see and feel,
Hear what's said, know it's real.

Remind us where we all connect,
Be you non- religious or from a sect.
Touch our senses, hearts and memories.
What one man does another sees.

Not all men use knowledge for good;
Follow morals and do what we should.
Think before we act and speak.
Find courage, be strong, protect the meek.

If you find time to help out others,
Mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers,
Take your life and start anew.
That's when you'll find the poet in you.

Anne Webb Nov 2016

Don't go

I dressed all in black today
but for an actual reason this time,
I though she was about to die.

And all I could do was cry,
so much that my eyes turned red
hurting as though I was going blind.

And she was so strong,
and it made me feel proud,
more than anything ever before.

We looked at each other
and she didn't shed any tears,
yet I could see the pain in her eyes.

And in that moment
I begged her, please don't go,
don't leave me in this world all alone.

My prayers were answered.

*She's still alive.

Thank you, I love you very much. Yours forever, Anne.

#love #fear #life #sadness #death #cancer #black #funeral