Tag Archives: Poetry

A few poetic laughs by Micki Peluso

abcd

I)
There was an old house in Kentucky
That neighbors considered unlucky
When it kept falling apart
Its owners soon lost heart
And moved to a tent in the park

2)
An Eagle Named Eddy

There was a young eagle named Eddy
Who loved to soar by the jetty
He made a dive a little too wide
Nearly got swept by a rip-tide
Yet his dynamics kept him steady
His endurance filled Eddy with pride
Childlike, he threw caution aside
Happiness faded quickly away
As a huge trash can got in his way
Poor Eddy had a really rough ride

bcde

3)
The Web of Lust

Tarantino the tarantula, so greedy
Felt pangs of arousal, so needy
Amorously peeked through the web
Of Tabitha, the tawny beauty
Emitting her sensual musk

“Might I enter?” He implored; bowed head
“Most certainly, my love, come test my bed.”
Tarantino’s hormones leaped for joy!
He followed Tabitha, so sweet, so coy
His eight legs(maybe nine:) trembled with lust

“So sorry, I can offer you no flies,
To please your palate, my handsome dear
But I offer other pleasures, never fear”
Tarantino thought he would surely die
Foolish male, his brain had turned to dust

Tabitha smiled a secret smile
Enticing him with all her wiles
She contemplated many eggs, his spawn
To be conceived well before dawn
Tarantino spent—fell asleep before dusk

She wrapped him tight within her silk
Proudly surveyed the tomb she’d built
By sunrise, Tarantino was quite dead
Tabitha sighed; her babies would be fed
Tarantino filled his needs at great cost

A word to male spiders everywhere
When crawling past a silken lair
Keep right on going or end up dead
One might hope his babes, well fed
Revered their father, at the very least

Sadly, this never crossed their tiny minds
In spider life, survival is all that binds
Tabitha played her part as host
Poor Tarantino lived, lusted and lost
Tabitha layed in wait for next time

4)
There was a lass named Purella
Who bedded a very odd fella
But when he refused to wed her
She locked him in his own cellar
He wished then he’d never met her

If you enjoy Micki Peluso’s humor, you can find her work on Amazon.

An Introduction to What I Found in the Dark by Clayton Clifford Bye

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These 12 poems are the first of 50 thematic poems that can be found in my collection called What I Found in the Dark. Available on Amazon, through most stores and at http://shop.claytonbye.com

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1. The dark between this life and the next, between past and future or between mind and matter haunts all of us at one time or another. Yet… there is beauty in what we can’t see and must imagine.

Headpins

Headpins
at contiguous depths
send blue lightning
across clouded voids
to be caught
by red-laced fingers
that recreate
the perfect sound
of a drop of water
splashing on skin.

Too often we look inward where shadowed rooms filled with sideshow mirrors bend the “I” to fit what we expect and want to see. Thus, it is the rare person who can state “this is who and where I am.”

Grace

Happenstance is but a way of words,
the stumbling path of fools;
yet a trail met in the wooded night
cares not for weathered rules.

Deaf and dumb goes the traveler
toward the outer shape;
glancing not beneath the rock and leaf,
a sketch of the human ape.

But in vapid searching one still learns
to scratch the inner vein.
Eyes roll and bangles burn in that light,
the answers seem insane…

For piercing the learning dark we see
new visions clear and clean,
struggling with our ever-cluttered minds
to grasp what they might mean:

I can’t speak for you my passing friend—
what beauty lies inside;
my own journey is answered below
but still seems a fair ride…

A white-winged horse and a graceful moon
seek form in mountain fire,
while I, the fool, not too simple yet
of ornaments do tire.

The excitement of a child stumbling upon one of the miracles we adults have become too jaded to enjoy and often too blind to see emphasizes the veil—darkness between one generation and the next, between past and present, and between each and every one of us.

A Hole in the Clouds

radiant beams
a hole in the clouds
gossamer strands
speak out loud
warmed heart
a child’s eyes aglow
soul is livened
I drive slow

It’s said we realize the extent of a loss only after the thing has gone into the dark, and even though we might wish with all of our being to go back, it just doesn’t seem possible.

Loss

A crystal passage from here to there
but no light with which to see.
“So what?” he asks with bitterness,
that door is closed to me.

I was playing with words when I was given a brief look at how my thoughts could touch another, one who had traveled through the dark and found me after a quarter of a century.

Found

Secret longings, mind-burnt,
now loosed from my soul,
are sweet knives outward slicing,
host-bound on the wind;

Diamond ice, time-picked clean,
will melt asunder,
a heart met in morning hours,
her dark eyes of joy.

Sometimes the veil wraps around a life, keeping all who would see out, and leaving you to walk alone in the metaphoric dark.

The Town of Me

My days have been
the passing of dreams,
not quite real clouds
built of smoke and dust,
marking each pained
but gritty footstep
with rasping laughter
to steal away
the life-blood of
this aging ghost town,
while colourless
thoughts raised without form
walk through my halls,
echoes of silence.

When love is brought to an empty, monotone life it may, at first, be difficult to see the changes wrought.

An Awakening

The heart loomed
royal purple
in a life of faded hues.
“What manner of beast is this?”
asked the startled soul,
ripped from living death;
fresh blood dripping from flat eyes
to colour white, wrinkled skin:
illustrating
new growth to come.

An old farm has slipped into the dark, yet the golden glow of life in a child resurrects it—if only for a little while…

The Farm

Down to the chicken coop,
played inside,
ghost birds chuckle
as white eggs gleam
between shadow and sun.

The silver of rooftop tin
beckons me
to gray barn boards,
twisted, bent, proud—
old scents of animal hay.

Swing do I on hand coiled hemp,
bright new wings
challenge horse flies
over watching
Calico cat named Queenie.

Heavy drops of summer rain
chase me quick
to dusty tomes,
attic-hidden
above Grandad’s model-A.

Space Operas call my name;
I visit:
Tycho on moon;
fight for my life
in airless dust;
Saved! by alien contact.

Gram’s voice floats high in the wind,
brings me back
through cedar smells:
shavings, raw wood,
to bubbling tang
of strawberry-rhubarb pie.

Love is a powerful thing: it can shine light where naught but dark has reigned for an eternity, and it can crack open the black casket of a broken heart.

Mind Places

Arriving:
soft steps,
veritas upon dark soil
alive with
light moves;
pale, warm breath undulating
catches fire
within
branches, perse and ardent trees.

I look up:
ripped wings
wind-sung in endless heaven,
virescent
in sun,
an abeyant but hungered
watching soul—
marking the path before me.

She calls me,
hard fought,
sweet pains of life taken in
without charge:
transposed;
now to shine upon my heart,
rescinding
a sentence once self-bestowed.

Unburdened,
factious
beasts of emotion vie for
a warm place
in light;
moors of heather bleeding a
desire seeks
to found a knoll of power.

Home at last:
secret
flesh opened to spoken love,
beating hard,
flutters,
butterfly wings God-given;
all tinges
hinting of wondrous eras to come.

I was lost, yet unknown to me, she had already traveled the same dark road, following a light I didn’t believe existed.

Remembrance

Her darkness beckons to me
from the distance of a winter night,
to walk upon ancient and unknown shores
without the use of seeing eyes.

Her grace is cast on the moon,
black hair glistens in the light,
and with the cold, harsh wind
a teardrop falls into my dream.

Ease by rock so wet and black,
taste the salt upon her lips;
keep those hard-found treasures:
the ice-cold stone becomes so thin.

Oh, I can see the beauty,
and find warmth beneath the darkened land,
but will I ever know from what still pool
came that pure water in her hand?

I’ve found that what we perceive as darkness can actually contain the most brilliant of lights: love.

I’m loved

There is a deepness,
not dark,
an inner universe
starlit,
emotional suns
of brilliant blue;

these freely given
soul orbs
keep alive my dreaming
life wish:
the two hearts I have—
oh, such wonder.

If a heart closes, whatever good is hidden there doesn’t die: it waits in the dark, sometimes quietly, other times raging for release. The lucky ones are found, their hearts cracked like chestnuts, to reveal that which has been saved for all time.

God Smiled

God smiled upon me yesterday:
a voice from the past
was sweet water
on a dry and dusty evening;

the voice of a resurrected
angel with dark hair
came soft and warm
from across the digital heavens;

reciting stories of sunsets,
salty ocean air,
halibut steaks,
The Barra MacNeils and clams to dig.

And love, true, pure, glistening, free;
polished by the years,
honed with worry,
then set loose with faith and dignity.

I take it in with gratitude,
open my locked heart,

speak the words there
and hope what’s revealed can make things right.

Clayton Bye is a specialist writer. And while he has written many of his own books, stories and reviews he now focuses on his work as a ghostwriter (40 books and counting) who listens carefully to the customer and then skillfully draws out the story they want to get on paper. Contact him directly to
discuss the book you want to write and to inquire about rates: ccbye@shaw.ca

Reflections on life—a grouping of poems by Kenneth Weene

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Early Breakfast

The worm – half eaten – burrows deeper
The robin’s beak is even fleeter.
Regrets the worm that he must eat her;
the apple makes her that much sweeter.

Antique

With a sneeze of nostalgia
I go antiquing.
I like things made of bronze, brass, copper –
Shiny memories that whir and clang.
I don’t want to buy –
Only to look.
I create new memories –
Reminiscences never lived.
It terrifies me when I find
My childhood in a shop,
Reminding my mortality
That I am getting old.
Wheezing with historic dust
I go antiquing
Only to see me in a mirror
Abandoned on a musty shelf.

Barbie

Sprung full boobed
Ready role model
For a generation
Willing to die
Of self-starvation
For flatter stomachs
For thinner thighs.

in time

the sweet mary and joseph flow of life
lost itself
as she wandering from man to man
sitting in the parlors of wheelchairs
touching each upon the head
in sweet caress
was lost

afeared

crossing herself with nervousness
wearing away the bodice nap
of the off-purple robe
that the angel of death
seeing such proof
might pass her by

stopping to preen her close-cropped gray
gazing in a mirror of empty air
and then again
the rounds renew
at once the sinner and the saint
without the bit
to pay her freight
across the river of her doom

I wouldn’t want to anthropomorphize

I wouldn’t want to anthropomorphize –
Not about penguins at the Chicago aquarium.
I wouldn’t want to over-identify
With the Rockhopper
Trapped on the highest ledge –
Marching un-surefooted back and forth
Not quite learning the narrow passage
Or perhaps inhibited by the Magelenites
Playing house and talking about the weather,
Which they could no longer remember
Never changes when one lives in glass cages.
I wouldn’t want to over-interpret
Her trapped marching back and forth,
Unaware of the desperation
A lesser species – such as man –
Might feel in her place.

While Love Sleeps

You stir in the dark, and I waken.
Strands of light poking through the blinds
outline your body curled beneath the covers.
Controlling my urge to reach into your dreams,
I watch – counting your breaths –
until sleep again descends.
In our sleep we breathe as one.

Ken Weene observes, “Every now and again I find poetry rather than prose expresses my mood and vision.” Ken’s poetry, essays, and prose often reflect on the irony of life. Still he celebrates the humor and the intimacy that we can salvage from the only experience of which we can be sure, our earthly existence. You can find more of Ken’s work and view at http://www.kennethweene.com

Kenneth Weene
http://www.kennethweene.com

Some poems for your consideration

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Poetry is a large part of my life. I enjoy reading and performing it, but my secret joy is writing the stuff. I’m one of these fellows who dashes off the first line or two in a frenzy of inspiration, then settles down, finds the metre and, sometimes, the rhyme and just lets it flow. I have no idea how I do it.

Poetry was difficult for me in school. Robert Frost, one of my favourite poets, was beyond me. Shakespeare was hell. It wasn’t until I fell in love for the second time in my life that poetry opened up for me and shared her secrets. I was never the same.

Yes, I write love poems. I’ll admit it. My one published book of poems, What I Found in the Dark, is a thematic visitation with my great lost love upon her re-entry to my life as a friend only. Some good stuff, there. Many of the included poems have been picked up by magazines like Dead Snakes, The Write Room, Publishing Renaissance and the blog hub, The Deepening World of Fiction.

Today, I would like to share some of the poems from What I Found in the Dark that have been included in other publications. The reason? Someone other than myself found them worthy. And that’s a rare thing in my life, as I’m a self-publisher. Have been for more than 20 years.

So, without anything further, here are some poems for you to ponder upon …

Headpins

Headpins
at contiguous depths
send blue lightning
across clouded voids
and are caught
by red-laced fingers
to recreate
the perfect sound
of a drop of water
splashing on skin.

The Town of Me

My days have been
The passing of dreams,
Not quite real clouds
Built of smoke and dust,
Marking each pained
But gritty footstep
With rasping laughter
To steal away
The life-blood of
This aging ghost town,
While colourless
thoughts raised without form
walk through my halls,
echos of silence.

The Taste of You

In another life I would have tasted deep,
Passion mounting as I would you,
Soft cries a love song to me
Until I kiss the softness
That brings to you a silent bliss,
Enjoined as the one which never now shall be.

Mind Fuck

Chemicals in my brain
Are toxic today,
Hurling spikes
Of preformed anger
Into unwary flesh.

Go away dear people.
Do not venture close:
I draw blood;
A storm of slicing,
Razor-edged, words of bale.

Sadness underneath is
Tearing me apart
As I rend
In my helpless rage,
Destruction unfettered.

I call music to me,
And the Gods, so that
Possession,
The devil mind fuck,
Is ripped from its warm hole.

Bruised from this psychic rape,
I lay on cool sheets:
Silence heals.
Don’t ever tell me
Evil is just a myth.

Grace

Happenstance is but a way of words,
The stumbling path of fools;
Yet a trail met in the wooded night
Cares not for weathered rules.

Deaf and dumb goes the traveller
Toward the outward shape;
Glancing not beneath the rock and leaf,
A sketch of the human ape.

But in vapid searching one still learns
To scratch the inner vein.
Eyes roll and bangles burn in that light—
The answers seem insane…

For piercing the learning dark we see
New visions clear and clean,
Struggling with our ever-cluttered minds
To grasp what they might mean:

A white-winged horse and a graceful moon
Seek form in mountain fire,
While I, the fool, not too simple yet
Of ornaments do tire.

Clayton Bye is a writer, editor and publisher. The author of 10 books and as many ghostwrites, he has also published a varied collection of short stories, poems, articles and reviews. Turning publisher Bye has released four books under the imprint Chase Enterprises Publishing. These books include three award winning anthologies and a stunning memoir about what it’s like to live with and die from anorexia. Visit his e-store at http://shop.claytonbye.com.

Mr. Bye also offers a wide range of writing related services, including small business management for writers.

Way Back When by Sharla Lee Shults

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Stepping back in time is so interesting . . . in fact, it is often just plain, simple fun! Whether you are a teenager wanting to learn about the eras in which your parents grew up or the adult who wants to relive the memories, the nostalgia is an alluring invitation for a trip down memory lane.

More than likely at one time or another you have said, or heard someone else say the phrase way back when. Its context could be in reference to good times or bad times but in either case reflects upon events of the distant past—a different year, decade or even a different era. Some folks refer to it as back in the day. But, whose day? Before indoor plumbing? Before electricity? Before the phonograph? Before the automobile? Before radio? Before television? Before the cellphone, iPhone, iPad?

Regardless of how you say it, distinctive spans of time become identifiers for each individual. There are countless, precious moments held dear to the heart before time erases all memory. Each footnote has its own unique melody playing out the music of life. Looking back provides reflections into who we are, how we have evolved and in some instances, where we are going [again]. Making comparisons of how things were ‘back in the day’ to present day is often hilarious. The changes in fashion, cars, appliances, entertainment and sayings about the future (which is now the present) can have one doubling over with laughter or simply smiling in amazement.

Conversations can quickly turn to making comparisons of the amenities that are commonplace today but totally void in the past. Such things as living in houses with dirt floors, having to complete private business in outhouses, boiling clothes to get them clean, bathing once a month with or without soap, etc. are considered primitive by today’s standards. Of course, we don’t have to step that far back in time. Simply disregard the cellphone, TV and Internet. Without those three, some people would not know how to survive.

Many comparisons to way back when or back in the day are derived from the changes in the state of the economy. For instance, think about the cost of gasoline. Today excitement abounds if to fill the car, truck, lawn mower or farm equipment with gas costs under $4.00 a gallon. Also, if a trip to the doctor’s office or a prescription is under $100, shouts of jubilation can be heard! It has not always been that way. Can you date either of these scenarios? Do you remember when…

Who would have thought gas would ever cost 25 cents a gallon? I hear it will soon go up to 26 cents. Up a penny now, another penny later. The rate it is going gasoline will reach a dollar a gallon before we know it. What’s the world coming to?

At $15.00 a day in the hospital, no one can afford to be sick anymore. All those doctors want to do is make their lives easier at our expense! Maw, what’s that home remedy for sore throat?

These are only a random sampling of conversations today that ultimately begin with I remember when or back in the day. These examples would place one’s when in the 50s.

Another inevitable change through the decades is the use of catch phrases. These are expressions used repeatedly until at some point in time they are replaced or simply have worn themselves out. See if you can date any of the following:

Look at that cat’s ‘zoot’ suit. It’s crazy, man.

You are ‘lighting up the tilt sign!’

‘Are we having fun yet?’

Can you dig it?

Say what?

Whatever!

Wassup!

If you recognize the ‘zoot’ suit, your memories have dated back to men’s fashion of the 40s, which consisted of a long jacket with wide shoulders and pants that were wide at the top but narrow at the bottom. ‘Lighting up the tilt sign’ was slang of the 50s when someone was not telling the truth. ‘Are we having fun yet?’ is the most famous quote by bizarre, non-sequitur-spouting comic strip character Zippy the Pinhead. This caught on quite rapidly with the general public in the 60s. The phrase ‘Can you dig it?’ was first used in the awesome cult classic “The Warriors.” It became synonymous with ‘groovy’ in the 70s. The wild and funky decade, the 80s, spawned ‘Say What’ and ‘Mikey Likes It,’ both of which ran the gamut. ‘Whatever!’ was made popular in the 90s and is the one that has been dubbed the most irritating in the English language. Then, there is ‘Wassup!’ stemming from a Budweiser commercial that definitely bludgeoned itself to death in the beginning of the new millennium. It thankfully died!

Movies are a great source of entertainment with certain movie lines sticking in our heads, much like the catch phrases, to be repeated just at the right place and time in real life. Here are but a few. See if you remember using them upon occasion, perhaps even recently.

“Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.” Gone with the Wind (1939)

“Well, nobody’s perfect.” Some Like it Hot (1959)

“Bond. James Bond.” Dr. No (1962)

“May the force be with you.” Star Wars (1977)

“I’ll be back.” The Terminator (1984)

“Houston, we have a problem.” Apollo 13 (1995)

The memory triggers during a visit to the past vary greatly. Hopefully those shared here are ones that have brought on smiles, adding a bit of humor to the day. To end our trip down memory lane, do you recall who said…

“Love is being stupid together.”

“Ever notice how “what the hell” is always the right answer?”

Both are still very apropos in the 21^st century. The first is credited to Paul Valéry but made popular by Lucille Ball in the I Love Lucy show. The second is said to be attributed to none other than Marilyn Monroe but not credited to her as an original.

And life goes on beating to the rhythm of the changing times…

Way Back When

Way back when could be days gone by

When leisure reigned and time didn’t fly

Back in the day brought a blissful vision

Summer nights with no television

We’d play hide-n-seek way passed dark

When shadows played tricks as we embarked

Wearing socks emitted soundless steps

Muffled strides which slowly crept

Good ol’ days forged many a fable

When conversation ruled the dinner table

Freshly cooked chow incited a snicker

“Peas, please, and the pot liquor”

Way back when could be days gone by

When things remembered made you cry

Reminiscing brought an unwelcomed vision

Summer nights with no television

We’d play inside after Jack Frost

When darkness reigned and time was lost

Sounds of the night repeated all week

Rocking chairs that steadily creaked

Now the days pass much too fast

Memories still linger holding on to the past

Remembrances prompt the slyest grin

“A way of life, way back when!”

“Let each day begin with happy thoughts that return to remember when.” ~SLS

Poem excepted from Remembering (http://goo.gl/C5PZcP) by Sharla Lee Shults. Sharla’s passion for writing is poetry: Historical and inspirational. Become acquainted with her writing by visiting http://sharlashults.com/ where links are accessible to her books, blogs and social networks. Sharla previously shared here at The Write Room: A Woodsy Morning http://www.thewriteroomblog.com/?p=1060, A Day That Will Live in Infamy: December 7, 1941 http://www.thewriteroomblog.com/?p=1538, Why do you celebrate Memorial Day? http://www.thewriteroomblog.com/?p=2082 and joined Linda Hales in Turning Winter into Summer http://www.thewriteroomblog.com/?p=1695.

The Reality in the Fiction by Bryan Murphy

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I’m working on a novel set in Portugal in the 1970s: the time of the country’s “Carnation Revolution” that put an end to a very nasty dictatorship.

I’d love to say I was there, but I wasn’t. I spent six months living and working in Oporto, in the north of Portugal, before the Revolution, was back in England when it took place, and returned to Portugal to try my luck some months after the event. As that luck would have it, I arrived in Lisbon on the day of an abortive counter-coup. I was overjoyed to join the revolutionaries who took to the streets that evening; the demo was a great introduction to the city, because all Lisbon’s major landmarks lay on its route.

That experience went into a poem, below, which appeared in The Pygmy Giant in April 2011.

The main character in the novel is very different from myself. He is a businessman, a man of action, affable, outgoing and down-to-earth. This forces me to look at the events of those years from a viewpoint that is not my own, a salutary experience, I think. He shares some of my experiences, but, in most cases, he does not see them or react to them as I did. One such experience, though, troubles him as it did me. It comes at the end of this poem: finding yourself part of a crowd braying for blood. It was exhilarating at the time, but is devastating when you look back on it.

Marching

Lisbon! Grungy, unfresh from the train,

I arrive the evening a coup fails, eager

to grab the smudgy, press-hot leaflets

thrust out by enthusiastic scruffs –

revolutionaries for real.

I find my two friends – keys to a new life –

dump my shabby case of battered belongings,

sample wine, cheese, coffee: ready for action

in the warm September night.

Politics and sight-seeing: sensory nectar

for an eager-eyed anarchist. Better

than Aldermaston, as we flow

from the Bullring to the Edward VII Park

(statue of Marquis with lion)

then down the Avenida de Liberdade, yelling

undying devotion to freedom saved today,

into Trafalgar, no, Rossio Square,

our slogans failing to bring down Emperor Maximilian

(bought cheap from the Mexicans who’d shot the real thing,

re-baptised as a Portuguese king, erected too high

for hoi polloi to scrutinise his features),

through the commercial district, laid out in a grid

for the king’s men to navigate fast, not this red tide

of want-it-now millenarians plunging with victor’s joy

into the elegant waterside square, Terreiro do Paço,

where, by day, a river that seems a sea

reflects Lisbon’s unique light.

Above us, on our left, Alfama, the walled Arab town

(where storming 13th century crusaders,

blind to tolerance, murdered everyone,

Christian archbishop and all).

We turn right, follow the river mouthwards,

heaving with indignant, righteous, solid noise,

past a fascist monument to the Discoveries

of long-inhabited lands, past a tiny fortress

squatting on the water, past the delicate fluted columns

of Jerónimos’s closed cloisters

to our destination: the president’s palace at Belém,

cradle of the new-born, military-guided democracy,

where after-midnight campaign euphoria

gives vent to chanted blood-lust:

“Spínola, Osório, Galvão:

execução!”

Doubt, distaste flash among three friends,

then we rally our voices to the cause:

a mighty shared demand

that the revolution finally begin

to devour its children.

Happy endings.

I went back to Lisbon last year and met old friends I had not seen since those days. I mentioned my shame at the poem’s final incident, and one of those dear friends, who has become more Portuguese than the Portuguese themselves, put my mind to rest by assuring me that it had all been “só bocas” – just mouthing off.

The Revolution had a happy ending for Portugal. It got rid of fascism for good and brought the country into the free international community. Forty years on, people were taller, less poor, better-fed, better-housed, better-dressed and better-spoken; they no longer sacrificed their cities to the automobile; creativity had free reign. The Revolution was long past, but, perhaps because its worst face had been “só bocas”, no-one ever devoured its children.

Bio:

Bryan is currently working on a novel set in Portugal in the 1970s. He welcomes visitors at http://www.bryanmurphy.eu . You can find his e-books here: http://bit.ly/19vt7Ts and several of his poems and flash fiction pieces here: http://thecamelsaloon.blogspot.it/search/label/Bryan%20Murphy .

A Poetic Journey

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The following poems are tied together by a common theme. They were taken from my book of poetry called What I Found in the Dark. But they also follow each other chronologically. Think of each of these poems being written by one man regarding the same woman. Watch the story develop. Get a sense of the love involved. And I hope that maybe, just maybe you will get a sense of what it was that he found in the dark. – Clayton Clifford Bye, 05/02/2014 –

Age and Onyx

Near an ivy covered castle wall,
down among the leaves and dirt,
an old, black-stoned necklace lay.
Have you a story, my dear old friend,
of these many days passed by?
Does the fire of love live on?
Is her heart yet young enough to care,
and her hair still raven-dark?
Or have these years been too long,
my war making me a stone killer
on those plains so real and red,
that the heart, as the stone, lost—
left the lady to cry once again.

A question

You are beautiful;
I am no longer:
sleek angles, dark shine
to softness and gray.

The miles hide so much,
a gloss of bright words
drawing passion out
to become new love,

strong behind pictures
etched in minds by time—
childish hopes still held
against beating hearts.

When I step to you,
does the drum falter
as dreams are ended
by light on faces?

Or, perhaps, love lives
in a deeper place
where the wrath of time
falls on blinded eyes.

I hope in waiting,
warm thought and cold truth:
for that day to come
when you touch my skin.

The Reunion

You drew down the moon, but I didn’t see;
no Jim Stewart and Donna Reed are we.
Pain and love can blind the searching soul
from what might be a most fitting role.

Now, layered clothing keeps my embers low.
Was it on purpose? I’m sure I don’t know.

Yet nothing can hide the face or the eyes:
your calm exterior gives up its lies.
The pain of love suppressed is there,
eddied smoke those dark orbs do wear.

So, my passion still released strives for the smile—
a flash here, a moment there, makes all worthwhile.
For in the eyes your smile reflects
more than one such as I expects.

A day, then two, three and part of four,
our weekend ends on a marble floor.
You turn away to hide the tears,
walking forward through all the years.

Time, the beast, is now again,
set right with a flash of pain.
No looking back, no warm smile,
your shoulders braced all the while.

But we have our joy, the days we shared,
those secret moments our hearts were paired.

Don’t Be Sad

The crying beauty of the rose
always fades and dies;
so too the blush of youth.

Yet the searing passion we had
melts in deep comfort
to the full grace of love.

Clayton Bye is a writer, editor and publisher. The author of 9 books and a varied collection of short stories, poems, articles and hundreds of reviews, he has also published (under the imprint Chase Enterprises Publishing) 3 award winning anthologies of excellent short stories by some great talents from around the world. The 1st book featured general fiction, the 2nd offering is horror and the 3rd is a book of detective short stories. His current releases are 2 children’s books and a memoir.

Mr. Bye also offers a wide range of writing services, including small business management for writers.

You may reach him at:

http://www.claytonbye.com

1 (807) 466-7642

ccbye@shaw.ca

If You Love Me… by Marta Merajver-Kurlat

56 Replies

IF YOU LOVE ME…

Marta Merajver-Kurlat

If you love me, do not clip my wings. Let me soar high up in the sky of my youth before the twilight dims the sun. Fear not for me. You carried me inside you. Now your sweet voice, a shield against venom-dipped spears, dwells in me.

If you love me, do not lock me in the golden cage of easy comfort. Let me fight my own battles with the weapons you taught me to wield. I cannot promise victory after victory, yet defeat will not take me to my knees.

If you love me, do not ask me to become your double. Do not wish me to succeed where you failed. Celebrate my choices and accept our difference. Take pride in my otherness, for it grew from your lessons and example.

If you love me, do not fret that I will walk the path alone. My eyes are sharp and my steps well guided. Think that on the train of life I will find fellow-travellers. Some will keep me company till they reach their destination; others will sit by me to the end of the way.

If you love me, do not weep when the door closes. Rejoice in my strength, for you spent long years building it. Rivers flow. You were a river once. When you conceived me in your desire for a child, a miracle of nature turned you into a mountain.

River and mountain feed on each other. Trust the bond between them.

Love me.

http://www.martamerajver.com.ar/marta/