47 match(es) found in poems

Mike Fitzgibbons and His Morning Paper

For 35 years, Mike Fitzgibbons had never missed a day driving off at 4 a.m. to buy the newspaper at his local convenience store. Snow, sleet, hail or rain couldn't stop him. There was only one paper being published in St. Louis at the time but Mike was addicted to newspapers. He had spent his early years reading four papers a day in Chicago- two in the morning and two in the evening. He worked for one of them and enjoyed every minute of it. However, an opportunity to earn more money as an editor for a defense contractor required his large family's relocation to St. Louis. Mike needed more money to feed a wife and seven children.
'Words are words, ' Mike said at the time. 'Being paid more money to arrange words for someone else seems like the right thing to do.'
Donal Mahoney

Infernal Regret

GOD: Mr. Shabbir Ahmad.
SHABBIR: Yes, my Lord-God?

A Song Of Man

We argued,
a lady and I
Nikola Vaptsarov

Eve's (E) den's in the dictionary

Eve’s (E) den’s in the Dictionary
(I wrote this in the order the E words are written in the dictionary after Egalitarian, because I saw Egalitarian means equal rights)
AaI Harvey

no prisoner of deafness

In the Testament of 1802,
written in despair, Heiligenstadt,
gershon hepner

And Should I Ask Forgiveness

And should I ask forgiveness, who do I ask it of
and for what, being unredemptively what I must be?
Patrick White


Live or die, but don't poison everything…
Well, death's been here
Anne Sexton

bach means brook

Bach means brook, which turns into a stream
of consciousness that flows
gershon hepner

wounds of non-meaning

You have to leave a space for thought
to heal the wounds nonmeaning causes;
gershon hepner


You can’t hurry love, they say,
but shortcuts may be taken,
gershon hepner

Seven Ages Of Woman

With Apologies to William Shakespeare
All the world's a stage
John Knight


Some people are easy going
and some are so uptight.
Edwina Reizer

Hopkins at the Window

Past darkness he pitches bits of plaster.
Bats wobble and dart. My eyes are small
Shara Lessley

win vs lose

Win is difficult
However give up easily.

The Forest

The first act begins, as the sun bursts through the canopy,
Each beam like a distant star; set in an emerald sky,
Daniel P Martin

Market in Tel Aviv

Clotheslines run between temple-stone and shutters. The laundry, a symbol of humanity: mundane—and yet a totem of daily life. Although the styles have changed somewhat, this totem has strung together centuries of neighbors, whose private underthings flap next to one another openly, dried by the same wind. Below, the colors of the trinket-selling stalls overwhelm the beige temple-stone. This dust and sand city resists all attempts at beige monochromaticity, refusing to be a beige city. Holy men and women navigate the same throng and bustle as ordinary men. Tourists snap pictures of architectural oddities: a lion adorning a doorway, a winding alley home to numerous sunbathing street cats, a door knocker shaped like a eagle’s talon. I do not want to experience this moment through any lens, camera or otherwise, standing separate behind a device. I want to feel the heavy tapestry and time-worn carpets and the cool glass basins of heavy hookahs, standing tall with Persian-looking motifs in candy colors. Rows and racks of red kabala bracelets, evil eyes, and hamsas—excitable vendors, pushy and eager, who usher you in with sweeping gestures and raised voices. Everything here is negotiable; so I haggle, argue and bargain until the nick-nack is mine or I hold in dust-caked palms a trinket for someone at home. Shwarma carts, heaped with pitas, mounds of falafel and hummus, entice the tongue and the belly.
I think of how I will hate to leave this place; how home seems somehow less alive now. I have nowhere near enough time to take this all in, I rush from stall to stall, my feet catching on cobblestones. Still, I feel I have found something here—not bought from a cart or a stall but rather soaked in through its streets. ...
Alexandra Reiss

Oh Night

O, Night! How I love thy thunderous silence
And thy busy stillness.
Stephanie Savage

Quiet [Creation Myth #15]

now your brother is near -
Simon Huggins

Ireland on a Sunny Day!

Ireland on a Sunny Day!
Ross DixPeek

Bog lifemad

Advertising death
Technicolour dreams awash with grayscale.
Benjamin K Duncan

Many-Faced Love.

Facets of affection fluctuate ascetically,
undulate from mere fondness
Fay Slimm

Twilight Friend Of Mine

Giving sparkle of sunshine,
every moment you smile
merry(merrypens) virgo

Existentially Painting Love Original 01 14 2011

Original 01 14 2010
Lee B. Mack

'Me' The Poet

A poets first words whether; a cry of anguish, or a scream of anger, the gentle pulse of a love stricken heart, or eerie silence of a heart left in tatters; remain an angels last thought, Godly or Evils seductive whispers
A poets first thoughts whether; of pain or regretful sorrow, joy or excitable confusion; remain unique, creative and unchallenged. Flaunting the spectacular difference that exists within the rarest of persons
Karabo Ramasodi

The Thousands of Confections

Kidnappings in the flickerings of the spin thrift features
While they all get up, cartoonish and busy-eyed
Robert Rorabeck

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