Ormond Mar 13

( reply to Sappho )

I took my guitar to the sea and said:
'Come now heaven, these fingers bled,
Wrangle and rain for thoughts you deign
And all the listeners dumb shall proclaim,
Strings are merely— vibrations of the soul
And soul is merely one mirror to the gods,
Take my dying art and throw it— to wind
Hear my song, strung, sept to your kin.'

I Took My Lyre

I took my lyre and said:
Come now, my heavenly
tortoise shell: become
a speaking instrument

                 — Sappho, ( circa 600 B.C. )
Michael Lechner Feb 17

On the day
you were born
the Angels prostrated
themselves before 
your radiant face;
while the rest of creation
held its breath
in raptured awe
at the splendor of your

© Michael Lechner

Apollo Hayden Feb 12

On days such as this
of reminiscent times viewed on rewind
The slowing down of details missed gives sight to the blind
Wider eyes letting in ethereal beauty to a much grander design
to where divinity is intricately knit deep within the fabric of life

Connor Devore Jan 23

Spoiled. Quite unlike your usual
Presence in a room, tonight you
Carry with you an immense weight.
Dragging along your creme draping,
You stroll up to the window and look
Out. God bless your beauty.
In divinity, it is thought that there will
Be a reckoning. I hope that they use
Your judgement. What do you see?
The waves roll in, crushing the grains
Of sand beneath its own immense weight.
You’ve been spoiled. Your whole life
Has been closeted to the comeliness of
The coast. Dreaming of simmering
Love affairs and social meetings in
Coffee shops on the tumultuous avenues of
New York City. You turn and begin to walk
Towards the roaring fireplace.
I’ve heard that you covet bedlam.
Some find the eroticism of chaos to be
Unnerving. Irritable, even.
Your guilt draws you downward,
And by the time you reach the
Mantel, you are crawling.
Your sobs echo through waxed halls,
And quiet dormitories.
You toss your weight into the flames
That lick up all of the love letters and
Empty plea bargains that have paraded
Around your thoughts for so long.
In divinity, they may refer to you as
An infidel. Someone whose faith has been
Spoiled. But I think “martyr” is more suiting.
You sacrificed yourself for more sins than your own,
Your weight was not yours to carry.

But only God and I know that, so here’s to you: The Infidel.

If you are the only one
in existence,
then there is only one perspective;
that is your perspective,
and your perspective is all of the

If there are billions of humans
in existence,
and countless other life forms and souls,
then there are that many more
unique and priceless and irreplaceable

how can anyone be limited to
and satisfied by
just one?

How do I know that our creator was not
satisfied with one either?
I do not know anything for sure,
but I will always try to see things
from more than my own two eyes.

I must see it all from my heart
and from my soul,
from what many call the third eye –
which is more like a unified perspective,
and from your perspective too.

Written in 2017.
Bethany G. Blicq
Ormond Dec 2016

( Song )

Every culture of the world, they speak of,
Tell the tale of a great flood,
I feel the weather is changing, pouring hot
And getting ready to spill.
    I don't know what it was like before,
    'think now is like before the flood.

And so I welcome the rain from the sky,
It is only the tears of the earth,
As a young woman who cries,
Showing beauty along with the hurt,
In future days woes of our lives,
Will be cleansed by the tears of the earth.

I read the story of Noah and his ark,
'say that he was a righteous man,
I look for truth but I can't see clear it's dark,
And all the animals are scarce.
    I feel the end of an age is come,
    Inequity is the day, O Lord!

And so I welcome the rain from the sky,
It is only the tears of the earth,
As a young woman who cries,
Showing beauty along with the hurt,
In future days woes of our lives,
Will be cleansed by the tears of the earth.

Tamal Kundu Dec 2016

I walk among stars,
my vibrant soul resonates
their brilliant symphony.

It tells the story
of us, each reaching out for
the divine in the other.

Form: Sedoka
DEW Nov 2016

Golden coin gleaming in hand.
All his hopes took refuge in that vestige of conjured worth.
The man with no name would buy his name this day...

The empire's burgeoning halls pressed in around him as he strode.
They would devour him in this moment if they had not done so already.
Yet, why the empire? There are more docile things to tame.
Everything is the same for the man with no name.

"People would apologize for stepping on me, but they knew not what to call me, so they went somnolently on their way."
I try to imagine these are the things he'd say,
instead these are the words of those I know,
those that I can hear, see, smell, touch... taste.
The man with no name's words are a waste.
He leaves no footprints wherever he may go.

The steps to the Hand of the Empire are steep.
Some will climb it, some will weep.
Yet, the man with no name will not turn back this day;
he takes a moment to fill and a moment to pray.

His memories are so vibrant, so full of clarity,
like crystals in the light, banishing insanity;
his tales will evoke the highest majesty,
entrance the gluttonous, deprave with vanity,
they'll bite the snake and poison its legacy,
they'll quietly rake the fields of the mind,
yet each soul is weary, cold and blind,
when he is gone, they pay no mind.

His steps are strong, hard, fast
throughout the night, will he last?
This is no simple, boring task,
the steps to the Hand do more than ask.
They take from you and more than due,
they make you fight,
they run through you.
When the night is cold and breezy,
you'll find the steps are dark and creepy...

Of course, the man with no name bears on.
What has he to fear, you can't hunt what you don't want,
for the hunt is a thrill, and trash is pleasureless.
The steps are perilous,
they hunger for blood,
his steps are thunderous,
nailing thud after thud.

Dawn peeks over the distant horizon,
and what a sight to see: the man is still rising.
In tandem the sky and he play their parts,
so does the Empire, putting bodies in carts,
for the night brings the dead, so many have tried,
to climb up the steps and in doing so, died.

The man with no name treads a feat all his own,
but see? A trembling hand. The ache of bone.
For the man with no name is tiring, tiring,
even in the face of his glory aspiring.

He would tend to the sick and defend the weak,
danger and challenge and evil he'd seek,
to vanquish the rotten
and save the damsel,
but he's always forgotten,
that he couldn't handle.

So this lead him to this fateful day,
to this fateful place.

Just look at the sweat cascading his face.
Look at his knees, how they groan and slow pace,
his legs seem to jostle and wobble out of place.
Where is his strong stride? It almost seems funny.
Many would do this sort of thing for money.
Yet, he does this for his own pride,
and that grim determination, from his face,
seems to slide.

He collapses and the jut of a step knocks his face,
for the steps are at his throat,
trying to crush his ebbing life.

I've known better men
to have fared far worse,
but this man looks on his life,
not as gift,
as curse.

Who is more deserving?
More than he?
Cowards! Be gone!
Pretenders, flee!

What's this?
He props himself up with ease,
the fire in his eyes would startle a lion.
The steps tremble with fury,
they quiver with disgust,
they lust for his end,
he must die, he must!

He speaks!
"Not today."
The gall!
Don't tempt these steps,
the Empire's nigh trekable wall!
"What I want more than anything,
is to be myself,
whoever I am,
so let me pass, you glorified shelf!"

How strange it would be, to be there that day,
for the steps let him pass, without delay.

He stood in the face of the Hand of the Empire.
Glistening in his palm, the token to buy his face:
his full life's earnings, polished, just in case.

He sighed, "All I've ever wanted is to be respected."
At the cusp of his one goal, the man defected.

One day, he told me this tale.
This he said, into my conscience: burned.
"If you fight death for a name,
you'll lose all you've earned."

It's a rare thing these days for me to feel puckered out after writing a poem, but this one had me panting... metaphorically... maybe a "little" bit literally, LOL.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this!
Let me know if/how much, you liked it :)

The Lonely Bard Nov 2016

My heart has a crush on a heart of infidelity,
Yes, she is treacherous, a traitor she is, that sexy.
My heart had a crush on the heart of a sweety,
Yes, she was pure and high was her divinity.
My heart has a crush on the sweetest of them all,
Yes, she is simply the sweetest of them all.
My heart had a crush on a simple heart,
Yes, she was simple when I fell in love with her.
My heart has a crush on a heart of a young gal,
Yes, she is youthful, and obviously she is fickle.

Immature people are fickle hearted.
Others are mature & dedicated.
The immature call us wrong.
HP Poem #1236
©Atul Kaushal
Anna Jones Oct 2016

In the shadows
We dance
Building a bridge
Between friendship and love

Bricks fall
Dreams are broken and burnt
Then remade
Every single day

I sit still
Staring at the blank space
Where you once lay

Planning for the journey
Or simply walking through
Sit still
Breathe in
Aware of what to do

Thoughts pass like thunder
On their way out
As the stars
Cut through the sky

Scribing now
Drawing down clouds
To scrawl our dreams
Upon its steps
We stand

Holding onto the past
We let it drop
First a finger
and then a hand

Filled with deep regret
Transforming how
into why

We realise that
Dreams are broken and burnt
And remade
Every single day

Yet, a part still missing
I sit
Staring at the blank space
In the sky
The part where
lovers meet
for the first time;
Where you became I.

A thought about the meaning of true love and the illusion of how it fades away in the physical world.
Next page