Perfect - Hello Poetry

May 2014

Paula Lee

You stabbed me 24 times and slit my throat
then dropped me to the ***** floor
as I watched, you walk away from me
You stabbed the man who tried to help me twice more,

You left me drowning in a pool of my blood
and never once looked back to see
you just kept walking out the door
as my lifes blood pour out of me,

There was a young Sergeant
who came running to my aid
ripping the shirt right off his back
pressing it to my neck to stop the spray,

He saved the life you meant to take
you didn't even ask if I'd died
my heart stopped twice that night
Oh how those Surgeons tried

I'm the one left in a prison
while now your'e walking free
"No Remorse" I was told
for what you did to me

But Know this My Dear Leo
if I ever see you, you better run
no one will have to wonder Why
You'll answer to my Gun.

This is a True story and the man's name is Leo Edward Booth and he is free! I only shared this because a SGT. in the Army saved my life that day

May 2014

Mel Holmes

The Boy Who Played the Piano

seven years young, always sharing a still smile.
You find him decked out and drowning in choir robes, with
Golden curls placed gently on a hammered head.

This boy plays piano in a dead sanctuary
Following familial rule,
until he let it all go.

the boy began playing music unwritten,
off hymnal sheets
Harmonious melodies stream from dancing fingertips,
Intrinsically clearing the once-cloudy air with vivacious voodoo.

The boy’s fingers groove up and down the piano,
His touch graces ivory keys and
His foot performs a rhythmic pedal-pressing tango.
He calls the audience: everywhere, eyes ignite like flame:
A communal headturn towards the piano.

They need more.
They crave it.

All the sanctuary people rise from the seats,
Abandon their pews, they enclose this boy.
No means to scare him, they want to experience.
The audience turns their ears towards the piano’s emissions,

Emanating from within

Inhaling soundwaves—
Intoxicatingly sweet.
They absorb his notes into every pore of their skin,
Fueling their bodies with musical nutrients.
Electric jolts flow right into the room’s extremities.
They let down their hair and begin to dance.

Until a brief noise, distinctive throat-clearing, came through the speakers;
Heads shifted to the podium, only to see their ticked-off pastor,
Smirking and waving sarcastically.

Discipline.

The congregation stumbled back to their seats.
The boy stopped playing.
Ending the enchantment, killing the sanctuary.

Air again filled with ‘God’s voice’
through the mouth of the speaker.

A speaker who just wanted attention.
The boy slipped out of the piano seat, out the church’s doors.

You want to chase after him, give him a ride
Where could the boy be going in the middle of the storm?

The pastor’s prodigal son.

May 2014

Savannah Becker

My Barbies Still Have Boyfriends

I still order chicken strips
(with a side of fries)
And when my cartoons go off
Sometimes I have to cry

I still kick my covers off
And refuse to sleep with socks
And when I go to the candy store
I still get sugar rocks

My Barbies still have boyfriends
(and better hair than me!)
My dessert is still 99% sprinkles
And 1% ice cream

My stuffed animals still have names
And they have feelings, too
I can't sleep with only one
I invite the whole **** crew!

I still have my night light
(shh! Don't tell my friends!)
And my math is still not very good
"5 plus 5 is 10!?!"

Despite my inner child
And my silly pointless fears
It seems in 15 years of living
I've aged a hundred years

May 2014

K Balachandran

Music unheard

Rising full moon spreads her cryptic commands
on the tree branch a wise owl sits intently listening
from her window a girl in wonder discreetly observes ,
seeks its unknown meaning , a pregnant pause in the choral music

#moon #cryptic #nature #music

May 2014

Sarah Spang

Metaphors

If I was a mountain

That soared towards the sky,

With craggy snow caps

And stormy grey eyes-

Then you'd be the clouds

That swaddled my peak,

That silenced my thunder

When I tried to speak.

If I was the earth

The desert, in fact:

With arid dry soil

And mud, baked and cracked-

You'd be the rain

The downpour that soothed;

The balm to my bruises,

Relief to my wounds.

If I was the Moon

In the indigo night,

With stars as my blanket

And silver; my light-

Well you'd be the Sun

Just always behind

That lent me your glow

And caused me to shine.

#love

May 2014

Nat Lipstadt

easy like Sunday morning

for Joe A., who wishes me that
"may your best days be in love's sight"

your kindness in words,
over the top,
unduly undue

"my best days"
très charmant,
mais aujourd'hui

students surpass
the teachers,
cause
sad, bad and life
tag trending
and we~me,
are simply
Sunday~done
with those

nowadays,
grandpa's tools
outdated, shelved,
in their final
resting place,
blades dulled,
the technology
of his verbiage,
rusted by old age

the reads diminishing,
his touch, antiquated,
his best days, resting on top of
the ocean internet waves
his summertime buddies,
sand sun grass and sea air perfumes,
singing, awe we got ya,
cosy and comforted,
awaiting you in your chair,
overlooking our truest
sheltered applause

my best words
turned inwards,
collecting recollections,
rereading my solaces,
and content that

my body,
still stirs,
when joined by
Barry White and Lionel,
forgot like me,
yet happy, in bed
with us

so you see,
Joe,
you are half right,
the right half

on my bare chest,
blonde tresses,
blanket, keeping me warm,
easy like a Sunday morning

so turns come and go,
no more down the slide,
running to the back of the line,
up and down again and again

time of the tool and die maker,
to cut loose,
learn by crafting daily,
and not from the books

Ooh, that's why I'm easy
I'm easy like Sunday morning
That's why I'm easy
I'm easy like Sunday morning^

write for me, write for her,
for with her,
in love's sight,
life is
easy like Sunday morning,
and
that's why I'm easy,
like Sunday morning

I find inspiration in the private words y'all send me, your messages,
become your poems

Sunday morning, in bed, March 23rd, 2014

^ lyrics by Lionel Ritchie, "Easy Like Sunday Morning"

Apr 2014

AprilDawn

Faceless

Out of a swirl of nonsensical
scenes jumbled
through my dreamscape
a man with no face
planted a deep kiss
on my lips
his urgency knocked me
out of my sheets
in the middle of the dark
aware only
of that aching gap
  sitting inside me
filled for a moment
by a shadow man.

In the years after the intense initial deep mourning was over for my husband of nearly 20 years and the realization that I still had love to give and share , came this poem outlining my inner craving for another partner.

#yearning

Apr 2014

J

My Voice Was Lost.

I wrote I love you in the sand at the beach
Tide swallowed the words and drowned them
But the waves were not the reason for impeding speech
My awkward asocial character is the one to condemn
Now the words are gone like the tearstains on my sheets that I have just bleached.

Apr 2014

SG Holter

Her Anger Drops With My Jaw

I learned from boxing to keep my eyes on the chest of
My opponent; center focused; seeing all.
It also keeps your chin down.

It works when we argue, too. Defusing the situation
With humourous female disbelief.
Her anger drops with my jaw-

And we seem to be saved by some bell.
Then we laugh like during those very first months,
When all we did was
Anything but
Fight.

Apr 2014

Hilda

Slow Dawn of Spring

Vibrant hues of Autumn
Fades now into the
Winter water color hues
And bleak barren trees.

Days of frozen landscape
And dreams have to defrost.
All the ice and snows now
Cover the twigs once filled with roses.

Trembling in each gust
Barren trees moan, stretching
Gaunt arms towards bleak grey skies
Pleading for rebirth.

Sunset fades to blackness
Shrouding the silent earth,
Devoid of tranquil benediction
No ray of light or hope.

Awakening the resurrection
Of Spring's triumphant song,
Return of Thrush and Robin
Blending with all nature in jubilant symphony.

Until then the minor strains
Of the winter Hermit Thrush
Spiraling hope of the warmer days
And softens up the Arctic blast.

Then finally with the last
White-throated Sparrows gone
And the daylight hours increase
Spring arrives and Winter retreats!

~Timothy and Hilda~

~-Russian-~

Медленный Рассвет весны

Яркие оттенки осени
Теперь исчезает в
Зимой воды цветовых оттенков
И мрачно бесплодных деревьев.

Дни замороженных ландшафтов
И мечты нужно разморозить.
Лед и снег сейчас
Покрывают ветками, когда заполнены с розами.

Дрожал от каждого порыва
Бесплодной деревья стонут, растяжения
Гонта оружия к мрачное серое небо
Пледирование для возрождения.

Закат бледнеет до черноты
Зачехление немого земли,
Лишенный тихой благословение
Не луч света и надежды.

Пробуждение в воскресение
Торжествующий песни весны,
Возвращение молочница и Робин
Смешивание с всю природу в ликующая симфония.

До сих пор незначительные штаммов
Зимы отшельник молочница
Растущие надежды на теплые дни
И размягчает Арктический взрыв.

Наконец, с последним
Белый – Рубиновогорлый Воробьев ушел
И увеличение светового дня
Весна приходит и зима отступает!

~Тимоти и Хильда~

A Husband and Wife collaboration.
(Still working on an entire family collaboration.)
Hope you enjoy this writing!
© Timothy 26 January, 2014.
© Hilda 26 January, 2014.

Apr 2014

Jeremiah Levi Robbins

Tell Me

Tell me, have you ever been kissed in the rain
Ever loves so much that it wracks you with pain
Have you seen the sun rising, or watched as it set
Did you know they were perfect the moment you met
Have you looked into eyes, and seen naught but love
Thanked God for the blessings rained down from above
Have you lost someone special, a person held dear
When you’re alone and it’s dark do you wish they were near
Tell me of the memories, each second that passed
Of times you took first, and times you came last
Did you ever hold someone close, and whisper low
I love you forever and I won’t let go
Have you known you were wrong, and tried to make it right
The anguish of which won’t let you sleep at night
Do you miss what you had, are you mad you let go
Have you ever considered letting everyone know
Have you lost all you held, your home and your friends
Tell me, do you pray that your pains find their ends
I’ve known the top of the mountain, I’ve known the fall
I will always love you, my everything, my all.

Apr 2014

Sally A Bayan

To a Rose...

She is a rose...
of course,
It is but natural
she was born
with those thorns...
but thorned or otherwise
she rises in splendour
beauteous in every colour...
her petals, oh so fragrant
When dried, they are more redolent
especially when kept in a sachet...

She brightens our days with
the many colors and tones of her poetry.
some may be sad  outbursts,
reactions that could have been stirred
by daily circumstances...
others are gentle reflections,
it doesn't matter...
they are roses arranged in a vase,
or scattered
among a garden of flowers...
she  showers us with a variety
of her chosen thoughts for the day...
it is always a mystery,
she keeps us in suspense!

Thorns are an accepted part of her body
even when she tries to spare her fingers,
she gets pricked, just the same,
she  deals with the wound
as she would always do,
just as tests of life, like thorns,
are part and parcel of our daily lives...
she knows very well those roads to be taken
and those to be avoided...

On a stressful or gloomy day
when our spirits are clouded,
almost sagging towards the ground,
when under the weather
when restless or anxious, or
when needing solace,
the rose-y colors of her poetry
do their best to comfort us
some days they are red
other times, pinkish
other days they are yellow
or immaculately white,
peach-y, at times, seeming delicious
one may be tempted to have a bite...

Don't know how or why...but we
must not question these miracles of God...
time comes for a rose to be dormant...
during these winter moments in her life
she  lives, she exists in silence...but
underneath, her mind is so alive....

From deep inside, she writes,
she hears, she reads,
gathering pictures, words,
anything important in sight
wherever, whatever the source
her cloth-bound journal is always ready
to  record her new-found discovery
all pages would soon be consumed...
a new one to take its place, is presumed.

Petals may fall or pinched one by one,
her stem, may be left to stand on the ground
but strength is like second skin to this rose
she has risen above past thorny episodes
surely, she will rise above future ones,
if they come...
these days, she is in  some kind
of a wonderful state...
i pray she will always be that way.

she is a sturdy wall to lean on,
she is indomitable...
her stem may sway,
she may bend, but
she rarely snaps
she is a rose...and
will always be
a rose...

Her name is KELLY ROSE...

Sally

Copyright 2014
Rosalia Rosario A, Bayan

For you, dear Kelly Rose...I hope you like it.
Stay as sweet as you are...