Who am I

image

What is this huge lonely garden we call home
How did it become so full of thorns, tell me?
Or maybe it’s the stings of wasps that I feel

Attempting to wake me from this deep slumber
My inclination that this is just a dream

Intruders display true nature of nightmares



(11-11-11-11-11-11)

The Traveller Who Could Not Be

The Traveller Who Could Not Be

Really like this quatern poem.

Last Stand of Kuolema

I stopped too long to run again,
burned midnight oil, worked in disdain.
brought bread to the table each day,
in free wanderings my heart lay.

Life’s tough, we all live in fast lane,
I stopped too long to run again.
Yet every night I close my eyes,
and dream of lucid brilliant skies

A world so big, so much to see,
with our duties, so much to be.
I stopped too long to run again,
all I have is this fate mundane.

Someday you’ll find me on strange lands,
being content, my yearning withstands.
I imagine, it keeps me sane,
I stopped too long to run again.

~AJ

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Echoes of Grace

Really nice echo verse poem by lindakruschke

Another Fearless Year

The prompt at dVerse Poets Pub Meeting the Bar yesterday was to write Echo Verse. Most of the examples of the traditional form included the word “echo” before the echoing second line of each stanza, but an option without the word “echo” was offered and I like it better. So here’s my offering for the day.

Echoes of Grace

I desire to pen words that are right

Write

But that won’t lead to my disgrace

Grace

I don’t want to write of You what is untrue

True

I long to feel Your loving embrace

Race

Running, praying, ’til I get to You

You

Learning how to offer Your sweet grace

Grace

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from Issue #8: Poetry by Floyd Salas

Really enjoyed reading this.

Contrappasso Magazine: International Writing

Photo (CC) G&R @ Flickr Photo (CC) G&R @ Flickr

*

My Brother

He was bent in the shadow
of the same father
wore the same anvil of ignorance
like a hexer’s charm
round his neck

But he glowed like a dark sun
while I was shrouded
black and white
and dusk grey
where the skin showed

Grey is the truer color
I wear it like a dark shroud
White is seen at dark
when only the lamp has eyes

But black catches the light more
like windshields in July heat
and hot tar on a wide street

.

 *

New Year’s Eve  

The moon goes down in the crowd’s eyes
by half
sinking into the sunken lid

The black night cups the crowd’s horror
It will spill it back again
in the cold day
when vacant eyesockets hold yellow pools
of stale rainwater
and face powder
streaks its white masks

Pinpoint the spot

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