FRIDAY
by John David K.
Finally
Realities
Influx
Declares
Another
Yippee!
I’ll drink to that.
Happy Friday world, here’s wishing you a fabulous weekend and welcome to the world of poetry J.D. 😀
Author: Janna Hill
A Poem & A Picture (Till Justice Comes)
April is National Poetry Month; it is also Sexual Assault and Awareness Month. I was reminded of the latter while reading a post by fellow blogger Kurt Brindley.
I wrote this poem (some years ago) after hearing one too many gut wrenching stories of sexual assault, rape and molestation. It has happened to women [and men] I know personally and you know what — One is one too many!
Till Justice Comes
by Janna Hill
I cut the stained satin, the sheets where you laid
The mattress beneath them, I sliced & engraved
But despite all my cutting you won’t go away
I stabbed at the pillows till fine downy flew
I stabbed and I jabbed – each aim meant for you
While white lifeless feathers fell without clue
At the semen and slobber – I stabbed all the more
I sliced at the blood and prayed it would pour
Pour from your body wherever you are
When I was done, had cut them to shreds
It wasn’t enough, you didn’t feel dead
So I sat them on fire and burned every thread
I raked up the ashes and ground them with stone
To a fine wispy powder I thought were your bones
Each minute grain- evil seeds you had sown
Then I placed the damned ashes deep in a hole
Inside a corked bottle I hoped held your soul
And just for today I had control
I’ve nothing but anger to ward off the numb
To a million vile deaths I watch you succumb
My imagined revenge… till justice comes
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A Poem & A Picture (A Limerick to Lighten Your Mood)
I don’t know about you guys, but I was in dire need of some humor to get me through NPM. I scrolled & scrolled through my inbox and found nothing to make me grin. 😦 But then I remembered a fella named Regis…
Molly
Poem & Picture provided by Regis Auffray
I once met a lass named Molly,
Who made me vulnerable to folly;
I fell for her charms,
Took her in my arms,
Molly was a sweet Irish collie.
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A Poem & A Picture (Last Sleep Best Sleep)
Last Sleep Best Sleep
by Brenda Shaughnessy
Life, this charade of not-death.
Amnesiac of our nights together,
overheard talking in some other voice.
The great fruits of my failure:
silk milk pills with little bitter pits.
Who talks like that? Says we are
ever-locked, leaving everything
petalled and veined the way nature
pretended. Synthesized within
an inch of its life. O the many faces
of facelessness, breathing in the dark –
as if we could shape softness itself,
mold it around us like yams mashed
against a trough by a snuffling snout.
Our own. There’s no way out. Born
to such extra, we are born to lose.
No hairy fingers tapering to threads,
grasping for some lost last use.
Once we were hungry on earth,
soon buried like root vegetables—
to starve the soil as beets do,
growing in our graves.
But now we must remember
our way back to face-to-face,
to eye to eye and hand in hand,
and lock and step and key in hole.
Remembering how not to fall asleep,
we become so desperately drowsy,
and all cells strain to slow to a stop.
All desire to choose otherwise quiets.
No, no one can say we didn’t suffer,
that we weren’t swallowed whole.
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A Poem & A Picture (Incognito)
Incognito (Your Eyes Disguised)
by Cagy Sly
Why do you care who I am?
What is it that makes you hide
the color of your eyes
in sky blue hydro-gel?
Combing smooth your tussled hair
striking up an odd conversation on the pet isle at Wal Mart
inquiring about the breed I am feeding.
Each look, each question — a motive
I comply, casually converse
knowing full well it has nothing to do with dogs
unless you plan to get past my pet?
No.
You are frantic… governed by paranoia
I empathize
my own demons guarded , withering in chains
Why not introduce yourself
ask me outright
what you have spent so much effort to learn
I have no secrets
other than the fact that I know who you are
Fear not – I have a dungeon
full of mysteries
Tit for tat –
What do you see of me behind those tinted blue eyes?
Can you rest now?
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A Poem & A Picture (Being)
Being
by Ale Pena
Memory
is the feeling of cool, April rain
dancing in your hair; seemingly weightless.
Doubt
is the way shadows creep slowly in your eyes
when I ask you about belief.
Your retinas slowly expand,
slowly bloom like the firecrackers we watched explode
in a different season.
“Do you believe in God?” I asked.
You shake your head and
the droplets in your hair somehow fall, slip, break in light;
1000 rays of colors
being reflected,
condensed,
forgotten,
as you answered:
“Sometimes I think God is in everything.”
I touched your wrist then and
felt the tendons of life moving only by a miracle
that cannot be explained by Math and Science,
whose seemingly useless scratches on paper
cannot begin to comprehend
the feeling of
your heavy arm and your dense Being;
your pulse pumping through every crevice;
or how every vein in your body
forms a map of Existence.
The motion of your hand is a work of Art,
vibrant and alive; a Masterpiece,
Van Gogh’s Starry Night.
I then felt your spirit,
somehow thunderous,
somehow booming,
loud; pulsing through me.
Every nerve alive:
a Universe inside me; inside Us,
together: one.
Moving forward
is a heartfelt release shaking our very core.
You closed your eyes and exhaled.
In and out: the sound of your breathing body from the exhilaration of finding
truth and faith.
We sit in the God-rain and become free.
Ale Pena was 1st place winner of the 2014Teen Poetry Contest sponsored by inForney.com
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A Poem & A Picture (Time Passes)
Time Passes
Joy Ladin
Time too is afraid of passing, is riddled with holes
through which time feels itself leaking.
Time sweats in the middle of the night
when all the other dimensions are sleeping.
Time has lost every picture of itself as a child.
Now time is old, leathery and slow.
Can’t sneak up on anyone anymore,
Can’t hide in the grass, can’t run, can’t catch.
Can’t figure out how not to trample
what it means to bless.
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A Poem & A Picture (Waiting 2 B Written)
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A Poem & A Picture (Thirst)
Thirst
Laura Cronk
Unclouded third eye and lush
red wings. I’m pouring water
from cup to cup.
This is the water we are meant
to drink with the other animals.
There are daffodils by the water,
a road leading from the water
to the shining crown of the sun.
My white hospital gown—
off-the-rack and totally sane.
My foot unsteady, though,
heel held aloft, missing its stiletto.
Nine months sober emblazoned
on my flat chest in red
below girlish curls and mannish chin.
You can’t see my eyes.
You’ve never seen them.
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A Poem & A Picture (Skeletal Beliefs)
Hard to believe this young poet is barely eighteen years old.
Skeletal Beliefs
by Miranda Krase
This skeletal figure dances in the dark shadows of the night.
Trapped. Waiting for her partner,
She dances in hopes of his return,
Content to be waiting forevermore.
…And waiting she shall remain.
A faithful wife to a dead life,
A future now no more.
I don’t have the heart,
To look upon her brokenness,
Her empty face, same as mine.
An ever flowing river,
Comes from our skeleton eyes.
If only I could tell her the truth,
It won’t save her…
But could it save me?
The Real Janna Hill in 