My tired eyes cry
My weary body lies
And why do my tears
Think they cannot dry?

Shaky hands and nervous throat
Exhausted heart, this stimulated soul
They ridiculously wait, day after day,
For a break from sorrow, a thing called hope.

How is it that I can live, but it is the hardest thing I ever did?

© Melissa Carlson 2016

Thou ill-formed offspring of my feeble brain,
Who after birth didst by my side remain,
Till snatched from thence by friends, less wise than true,
Who thee abroad, exposed to public view,
Made thee in rags, halting to th’ press to trudge,
Where errors were not lessened (all may judge).
At thy return my blushing was not small,
My rambling brat (in print) should mother call,
I cast thee by as one unfit for light,
The visage was so irksome in my sight;
Yet being mine own, at length affection would
Thy blemishes amend, if so I could.
I washed thy face, but more defects I saw,
And rubbing off a spot still made a flaw.
I stretched thy joints to make thee even feet,
Yet still thou run’st more hobbling than is meet;
In better dress to trim thee was my mind,
But nought save homespun cloth i’ th’ house I find.
In this array ‘mongst vulgars may’st thou roam.
In critic’s hands beware thou dost not come,
And take thy way where yet thou art not known;
If for thy father asked, say thou hadst none;
And for thy mother, she alas is poor,
Which caused her thus to send thee out of door.

ደራሲዋ ለመጽሐፋ

ስትፀነስ ጀምሮ የቅርፅ ህፀፅ
የሚስተዋልብህ አንተ የአይምሮዪ ክፋይ፣
"ሀ" ብለህ ይህን ዓለም ስታይ፣
ታማኝነት በጎደላቸው ጓደኞቼ
እስክትውል አደባባይ ፣
ያልሻትከው እንዳንለያይ፣
ቡትቶ ደርበህ ፣
የህትመት ብርሀን አየህ
ስህተት ተብጠርጥሮ፣  
ለጀማ ሂስ የሚጋለጥበት አድሮ!

አንተ መልቲ (በህትመት)
ተመልሰህ መጥተህ
እናቴ  ስትለኝ
ቀላል ሀፍረት አላገኘኝ!
አይን ስለምትጎረብጥ  በእይታ ማእዘን፣
ገሸሽ  ማረግ  መርጬ ነበር አንተን፣
ግና የእኔ ስለሆንክ ስሱነት፣
ከቻልኩ እንዳርቅህ ገፋፋኝ፣ በሂደት፣  
ፊትህን ሳጥበው ወጡ  ህፀጾች ጎልተው ፣
ዝም ብያ  ሳፀዳ  ብቅ አለ ሌላ ህፀጽ እንግዳ
መገጣጠሚያህን ጎትቼ
እግር ልሰራልህ ስጥር፣
አካሄድህ ፋይዳ ቢስ የሚያሽቀነጥር!

እኔማ  በልክህ  ጨርቅ ቆርጬ
ልቀይርልህ ነበር ያን ቡትቶ፣
ግና ቤት የተፈተለ ሸማ
ላገኝ አልቻልኩም ከቶ፣
እናም ለብሰህ ይህን ድሪቶ፣
ከወፍ ዘራሾች ጋር ዙር ተደብልቀህ፣
ሃያሲዎች እንዳያገኙህ ሸሽተህ !

ስለአባትህ ከተጠየክ
ንገራቸው እንደሌለህ
ካስጨነቁህ ስለእናትህ ማንነት
"ልጅዋን የሽኘች በምስኪንነት !”
ተናገር   በድፍረት

አኒ ብራንድስተር


ትርጉም ዓለም ሃይሉ
ደራሲዎች አንዳንዴ ህቡ በሆነው የሰው ልጅ አይምሮ የሚንቀሳቀስን እንደነውር የሚታይ ሃሳብን በፈጠራ ስራ ይገልጻሉ። ስራው ቢታይብን ብለው ይፈራሉ ! /

Anne Bradstreet

Anne Bradstreet wrote in the Elizabethan literary tradition and became one of the first poets to write English verse in the American colonies

When i am old and grey
my heart is still the same
you and me spend the day
sharing of memories is our game.

I'll find you, and cherish
you in another time.

In another life.
In another dimension.
In another soul and in another heart.

I'll look out to you in another pair of eyes,
Hold you in another pair of hands,
Speak to you in another lips,
in another voice, in another tone.
And be with you in another chance.

And in this another, I'll make
sure that I'll make you stay.
I'll make sure we'll have another day.
and we'll have no more lies to say.
And we won't have to keep
our wonders at bay.

I'll find you, until finding isn't necessary anymore. Because chance itself gave me another piece of it to not let another you, to be taken away by another.

There will always be another us,
another you, another me;
But there will never be another love.
Or at least the kind of love that we have.
That we had.

i regret the days that passed
the years that flown.
when inspirations come and cast
i let them blown.

i regret the days i did not write,
the things my eyes have seen.
tales and poems that could have been,
passed i let them all out my sight.

i regret the times i remember when,
i did not care to hold a pen.
to tell and write down what i can,
before my fantasies come to end.

i regret to forget, i really do,
a writer in me whose next to you
may not be so good but i always knew
i’m very much in love so dearly, too.

CSantaMaria

We didn't begin with a
"once upon a time."
and we didn't end with a
"happily-ever-after."

We just met.
Not with a "hello."
And we were just eager to know.

We just met. And we just end.
Not with a "goodbye."
But with just an act of letting go.
We just end, somewhere in a moment.
We just end.

somehow the world looks down on me.
standing central inside a garrison
of skyscraper's shadows
a concrete world s
liding down it's own walls-
until-
you are here- i am here
or so i'm told.

sometime ago i was here with you.
we bought a postcard and i dated it for posterity
amongst
buildings that climbed, clock faces that chimed
breathy airy floors split into windows outside-
doorways replete with someone to greet
own world in it's centre turned pinkish by heat
as the rest unfurled around us
and all we could do is look up.
i am here, i am here
looking up.

somehow this whole world looks down on me.
poor lonely soul wondering restless and old
i am here, i am here
so i'm told.

Maybe sometimes there's a
reason why chance reconnects us with people from our past.

Maybe it's to ask the unasked,
Answer the unanswered.
Tell the untold,
Or close the unclose.

Yet maybe it's also another way of telling people to re-open things that should have been opened years ago, and feel things that should have been felt a long time ago, all leads to the 'should have's.

I do believe that happy endings
somehow do exists.
And so does second chances.

something fit.  something aligned under the breastbone
ribs pattered out and gave space for breath
that didn't taste of anything.  

something clicked.  tortured poet keeping a journal
walks the south route instead
and sees the spiritual spin on life through the stained glass windows
of a shack church in need of extensive renovation.
she is inspired and her need bottoms out for the day--

praise is good.
good.
great.    
don't bother me when i'm sharpening my pencils.
i'm preparing for divine intervention
and the clarity i know i'm owed

something hit. my words, hey, i'm black and blue
and they? they're cut through and through
with flecks of tracts lent from life and beyond.

reading my old poetry is like sampling
blood's flavour on the tongue
the uncomfortable metallic taste
of something in the wrong place
at the wrong time