Joe Cole

Mar 2015

ShamusDeyo

Everytime I hear No, its always .......MY FAULT
As the Brain drags me down this train of illogic
Anxiety Loops in unending Circles Spun to the Tragic
What can go wrong, then to feel like.......
Life has ***** me, And why is it always my Fault

The FIST FLEW out of Nowhere, Sucker punched*
Slow motion falling as a..........
Childs head bounces off the ground
Awaking to throbbing Pain,
My Pants around my Knees,
And why is it always my Fault..

For those who know what I mean
Others can't know what we've seen
Even if Its both Bad and Yucky
*Childhood is for the lucky..........JMF 9/28/14

I did a revision of an earlier Piece...

I realized I never had a childhood

Joe Cole Mar 2015

For Catherine

You are an artist
A sculptor who crafts fine works
But you also sculpt with your mind
And beautiful imagery written in gold
Flows across the page
You are the gentle rains of spring that nurture us
The summer sun that warms us
The bounty of autumn that feeds us
In winter you are the crackling log fire that comforts us
When you leave you will leave with our love
But you will steal our souls
You are the Soulsurvivor but we are not
Soul less we will be cast upon barren ground
There to wither and die
For without a Soul we cannot survive

For Catherine, our Soul

Mar 2015

Matt

Proud And Fierce Gurkha Warriors

Nepal
The fourth poorest country

The Gurkah Welfare Trust
Installs fountains in the mountains
To help the poor Nepalese people
The water near the village is contaminated
So they had to walk 8 miles to fetch clean water

Thanks to the Gurkah welfare trust
There are fountains that provide clean water

"It is better to die than to be a coward"
That is the motto of the Gurkah fighter

After one year in the British Army
The Gurkahs put on a stone of muscle in weight

Why do the Gurkahs agree to die for the British crown?

It's simple The Gurkah says,
"We've eaten your rations, we've eaten your salt.
The obligation is binding."

Mar 2015

SG Holter

Three (part three of the ******* triology)

Here I sit, fog-eyed from yesterday's
Wine; the last sounds made still in my
Ears; her laughing at my reply

When she asked why I was getting
Out of bed: "To go jogging," and when
She love-sarcastingly giggled, I

Laughed back: "I love you, but ****
You," and she laughed even more, and
I'll be ****** if that sentence itself

Isn't as much poetry as anything else.
Her, love and I; all three together at
All times, bruising and scratching

And moving in bed, or hand in hand
Asleep on the sofa, still fog-eyed from
Yesterday's wine and having

Had enough of everything the world
Has to offer lovers on a Sunday morning.
Sometimes poetry is the only

Remedy for Life. Sometimes poetry is
The only voice in the world.
The sound of the love between us.

The act of fingertip on touch screen
Etching a moment into cyberstone; quill
Of 2015, chisel of Today.

Sometimes poetry is our newborn;
Love manifested; product of our
Scratched, bruised morning hours.

Are you writing about me, she asks.
I lie.
*No.

Joe Cole Mar 2015

Freedoms Fresh Air

I walk away from this ***** grey quay, step onto an equally ***** old boat
Only God and a sailors skill will keep this old thing afloat

I'm saying goodbye to the place that I know, a place of hunger and toil
I sail in search of the promised land, of sunshine and rich fertile soil

Will I look back to the place that I've left as I sail off over the sea?
No, for it might drag me back to a place where I don't want to be

Like the brave men of old I have to be bold in the search for my new destiny
I leave behind a life of servitude for a new life where I can be free

No magical skills do I bring with me, just a love of the land and the soil
But in my new promised land I will be free and for only myself will I toil

In my bag a handful of seed, a small Axe and a knife that I own
But its with these crude tools in my promised land I'll carve out a place to call home

The ship sails on and old Ireland is gone 'tis now just a faint memory
Soon I'll be there breathing freedoms fresh air in my new land the land of the free

During the Irish potato famine thousands of Irishmen and their families sought a new life in America

Joe Cole Feb 2015

My South Country Is Calling

For many long years I have wandered
For many long years I have roamed
But a voice in my head is now calling
Calling me back to my south country home

I have walked in your tropical forests
Experienced the hot desert sun
Climbed the high mountains snow capped peaks
In your lakes and blue seas I have swum

But now a voice is calling me back
Back to where I was born
Once more to walk in the pinewoods
Under blue skies and a warm summer sun

Many years ago I did leave her
As a youth so fearless and bold
Now I hear my south country calling me back
To the place where I can grow gracefully old

I will never forget all the friends that I made
As I wandered your far distant shores
And if ever you visit my south country
You will find a welcome sign over my door

Feb 2015

jc

the shades of a stare

sometimes
i catch myself
looking over at you
just
laughing,
eating,
or working,
and i catch myself
feeling completely immersed
in a feeling of joy
...
but then
sometimes
i look over at you
and you're
staring at the ground,
or staring off into space,
or just staring into nothing,
and because i know
that thats what you do
when you feel nothing at all
i catch myself
feeling the need
to do anything
to make you feel something
...
and then
after all the staring is done
and you are
perfectly balanced
on the spectrum of emotion
i catch myself thinking

why aren't you ever looking over at me?

― j.r.

february 25, 2015