Open Mic Encore I
Open Mic Encore II
NOVEMBER POETRY A thought, a poem, a prayer and a story Barbara Alyea-Welches 12.5.06
I wanted to read the poetry I always did, there was no cost.
I hope I have not lost that avenue, I hope it is not lost.
Each month for years, I read the lines, and it would feel my soul and bless my mine.
But, November's has coming up missing... each line and verse of those...
Who poured out their joy and misery... to us who listened close.
Shall I not hear anything from December, as the year last and before.
Give us back our poetry. Please do not close that door. -0-
HAPPY WHATEVER GEOFF WEILERT ‘Twas the night before something But alas to my dismay In these politically correct times What it is, I can’t really say. Whatever I utter, These days someone gets offended, Even though I’m just talking And no offense was intended. I should stick to national holidays But it would probably be my fate again To wish someone a Happy 4th of July An end up offending some Canadian. So I’ve decided to just talk And speak my mind out much bolder So stop being so sensitive And get that chip off your shoulder. Though differences there are In custom, language, and name, When you take everything off We’re all pretty much the same. So the generic holiday character These days now loudly exclaims, As he whistles and calls out The politically correct names Now Tyrone, now Herschel, Now Tatyana, now Juan, On Melissa, on Devesh, On Mohammed and Kwan. If I have written anything That has caused you some strife, I say a Happy Holiday to all, And just get a life. -0-
FROM THE PLANT LIFE SERIES Cate Espener - 1996
They say that plant life as we know it will have vanished by the end of the 21st century I myself am fairly uncertain about most things Especially plant life And what does a birch tree in winter really look like underneath that pale shimmering skin and musically inclined leaf Broadleaves Conifers Deciduous Evergreen Aromatic Foliage Neither opalescent sea, nor dauntless sky remains a constant blue For I have seen at least one thousand shades of every hue - and still more arising out of nature's blind imagination Perhaps one day the hand will evolve into an array of perfectly formed touch-tone buttons And seeing itself metramorphosized Will whisper a song of regret to its past life.
I WOULD LIKE TO HAVE WINGS Vivian Garcia
I would like to have wings Like a bird and fly. To look to all the countries with a bird's eye. I would like to bring peace to Humanity, Joining their hands with felicity. To the children of the world, I would like to bring, The happiness to live in harmony. The happiness to live without anguish and hate And a world without hostility for them to create. Around the countries of the world I would like to fly, Spreading rain of peace from the blue sky. Then people in earth together would enjoy, Singing hymns of peace love and joy.
Falling asleep at work Gaia
I don’t know whether I am bored, But I certainly am sleepy. I’m on a sea of tiredness My eyelids and head gently bobbing on its currents And before I know it, my mind goes blank. Not peace, but silence.
Then, I’ll slump a little too forward. The falling arch of my torso is stopped by the line of my desk Snapping out of it, I hastily refocus- (Did any one see?) And frown at my spreadsheet.
#327 Keaton banks
Yet another chance blown to actually rise from the discontent I can see in your eyes
Are you lost?
Or has the river of failures left you weak in despise
not a soul to hear your pitiful cries
To torch the salvation would be a honor well placed on the shoulders of zombies still to be braced
against the dyring throws of those who chose
to be true...
DRAGONFLY Carol Banks
There’s nothing there that isn’t here There’s no one whom I’d rather see
So why the struggle to be gone Why the need to move on?
Searching. Searching… always searching Restless like the flitting dragonfly
Incessant motion erratic and meaningless Hovering on a passing breeze with no control of its direction
The World Is Big Daniella The world seems so big to a a person As small as me My goals in life seem impossible to reach Too many things still left to be learned Not knowing which direction to turn At times, I believe that dreams Are only meant for sleeping And why bother weeping Its tough to choose which path to take The path that which leads me to the Life-changing gates And if I choose to mess up in life, It's no ones fault but mine The world seems so big to a person As small as me
THE FAITHFUL SHADOW BY LIP SAI LIN
LINGERING TO MAN
MERGING INTO MAN
LEAVING THE TOMB
AND ITS SHADOW
TO BE REMEMBERED
Never beautiful, age comes easily to those who are so molified with
Appearance, socially beyond the varied definitions of beauty,
That which turns the gaze of beings seeking its meaning, as they do truth
Years compile experiences, from which we may ferment wisdom
Applied or ignored to become the histories from which societies could learn
To avoid the errors of doom, repetitious destruction, pain evermore.
Myths of gods, goddesses playful on Olympus, translate into models
Ancient to contemporary, with stand-ins to match exaggerated heroism
Impossible for mere mortals to realize, but act as reality incarcerated
Prophets are common as sand, small as rocks reduced to grit
That sand, in times defined allotted to man, who becomes reduced
By tides of lesser surf, ebb, flow, taking its toll on present, past, future.
Match-up Eric Franks
Put em’ on, Burly Brawn, “That Roughish nose for breakin’.” “Wear em’ well, give em’ Hell.” Bright Glory for the takin’.
Battle starts, Primal hearts, Bloodlust barely fettered. Crimson haze and Feral gaze, The race to Clash together.
Form is Grand, Futile stand, Belly torn asunder. Savage cross, Shameful loss, Darkling Crash and Thunder.
Spittle spatter, jawbones shatter, Spirit Burns and Rages. And so Complete, the pangs are Sweet, A fighter for the Ages.
War William McGarvey
Aversion in the eyes of men A mother weeps, dead child embraced Rationalized hatred kills compassion No war is holy
give me your love give me your hate and then, give me your gun...
Expressless Self Mohammed Alghadfan
Can I trust that self anymore? When it's abandoned the squares Of my mind to despair in its homelessness, To dry off like a drunk tramp Embracing the chill corners Numbly, and skin my hollow hopelessness.
Trust it? when it's used to have That monish face of a moody Cloud; melt suddenly with Scottish music And stretched its angry sorrow Under the sun, Over an Irish meadow, Bursting into tears; thick and harmonic.
Wake it? when it's used to be A Gothic arch with demons, in the top, Painting dark portraits of weeping willows Shaded Sapphic women sticking tongues Out, full of themselves, of things expressive, Of action that lives and cast its shadows.
Save it? When it's used to fight Till the last breath as a dying old star with Hopes colonized but one; a magician Squeezes it into a supernova, then bombs itself To be a shameful hole in the face of Time that Stoops with his skies to the dead mortician.
Can I trust that self anymore? When my body shrinks over it And finds no place to hide its nothingness From the creaking bones whom it scorns For being motivated, inspired and boisterous, As it dries off and regain consciousness.
If God has given me life, why is it slipping away?
It hurts so bad and I can't help it. Still, I must not complain.
I know He loves all of us, and that's why we're all here. But why me? Why did he pick me, to go through all this fear?
I can't control myself, I really can't. For what i eat, drink or even smell.
It's all His fault, I know it is. For He created me, He made me go through this.
New York Subways and taxis move blindly Walking, I see the city
Soar Marla DiGiacomo
soar to heavenly heights high above the now dwell lightly on the wings of angels take flight i'll show you how
A poet died today
A poet died today like a total eclipse of the sun leaving behind his pen still full of ink the pages of his journal untouched his brain swollen from untapped inspiration every artist's greatest dream but he did not use them not because he did not know how want or to but because he was trapped in a world of fear doubt and low self-esteem
and so he did not want his writing
to disturb the waters to turn the table to change the world to wake the sleeping masses to create frowns to turn up nose by calling ugly ugly and stink stink he did not want his writing to go against the grain of society's holy laws against their Bible Belt religion against their patriotic wars so he stifled his creativity while his pen screamed calligraphy and his journal cried tears for words that will never be echoed by the souls of humanity
by Ruth Walters
The evening air was crisp and clear.
walked the streets,
had no fear.
were so small and full of cheer
Christmas soon was coming.
laughter and with glee we walked,
at the holly.
at the pretty lights,
oh so jolly.
We knocked on every door we could
sweet as wine.
Xmas, Silent Night,
money all the time.
jangled in our pockets,
skipped along the streets.
didn’t notice the cold air,
wings upon our feet.
stars were out,
moon looked kind of proud
see us feeling happy.
sign of any clouds.
the last house in the street.
ran up to the door
man came out and shouted,
lost or I’ll call the law!
beggars, he called to us.
wondered why he’d made a fuss.
thought we’d earned our money
folks such happiness.
looked into the sky.
never seen the stars looking so bright,
was sure God would forgive us,
couldn’t possibly be cross,
hearts were true and crystal was the night.
"CHAGRINED" Author: Harry
Starry skies are fire flies to my shadow eyes. And dreams I dream are dreams unseen like diamonds in a stream.
Without a touch, to feel is such that a glance is much. Born to earth my curse is birth for who I am holds little worth.
I dwell alone forsaking home to seek the answers to all unknown. And by my speed I quest to be freed for what am I without a seed
In heaven's heart I hold no court A drifting ship without a port. Thus, I am a mere footstep in sand. The wrath existence of man.
Miss Pretty mused on Death and Co: The show of dying in her lunar bleeds, The weeds and smokes that choked some ends
And sends the chain of smokers to their graves. The brave and lonely soldier in a wasting war; The why and wherefore of the stillborn child;
The wild and burnt out ends of girls of pleasure; The measure of grief in a grain of sand; The hand of betrayal and the lying kiss.
All this Miss Pretty mused with her usual flair. This life summed up in a single prayer.
Approaching the Stone Dream -Lys Anzia
It was after
the movie show. Walking up the alley behind Acequia Madre. I saw the stone wall of your house calling rising fast and high above my head. And I
asked myself. Who
built these mud adobes one
by one, brick by brick? What tired hands remembered the names of those who smoothed these walls? Who pressed the grass into this earth
to make a home stand fast
for a century as though it were
only a small room? Approaching this stone dream I see the sky. It is a chamber now where ravens follow me everywhere.
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