A Showcase For P H Poets: October 2015: Section ' A '.... [sharing Poems; Not A Contest; Monthly On Bri Edwards' P H Site] Poem by Bri Edwards

I’ve started a 'showcase' on my PoemHunter site,
which is NOT a contest; it’s no arena for a fight,
but instead a place where once a month I shall post..
a poem* from you, a PH member, which you’d like read most.

NO title, topic, nor length* do I plan to require.
Just send in a poem to set the PH members on fire.
Send to 'A Showcase For PH Poets', care of me.
Let's show off our stuff, and this also is free!

I was intending this to showcase poems by you, the member,
BUT, heck, send someone else's ** if you'd like, BUT remember....
to NOT get me involved in copyright disputes, please.
Of course if I were sued, there is NO money from me to squeeze!

(February 28,2015)



>>>>>>>>(note well)
P.S. AS MENTIONED BELOW, I HAVE RESERVED THE 'RIGHT' TO BREAK THE MONTHLY SHOWCASES INTO SECTIONS IF I WANT TO.

THIS MONTH [OCTOBER,2015] I FEEL, FOR THE FIRST TIME, THAT I SHALL HAVE TWO SECTIONS [A AND B]. WITH THE EXCEPTION OF TWO POEMS ALREADY PUT IN SECTION A FROM BRIAN JOHNSTON, I PLAN TO PUT THE second OF TWO POEMS FROM EACH POET, AND ANY 'LATE ARRIVALS', i.e. poems received after I close 'Section A', into Section B. Section B shall be found in a second October title by me, in my poem list, probably:

'A Showcase For P H Poets: October 2015: Section 'B' '

bri :) :)
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******POEMS MAY BE 'old' OR 'new TO PH and THE WORLD! ” In most cases they will NOT be 'BORROWED', though some may be 'BLUE'.

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CHANGE IN JULY and AUGUST and onward into the future:

Starting in July showcase I plan to list the poets and list their poems in DESCENDING order, starting with the most recent entry. That way, if you visit the showcase more than once, the poets or poems previously near the top of the lists may have descended below more recently entered ones. This should make it easier for the readers I hope, and more likely that ‘newer’ poems will be read.
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I hope some of you will decide to share poems in September and also read some [or all] of the submissions.


*I now allow and welcome TWO poems per month from each PH member. At least one of them should be not much longer than 24 lines in length, but I’ll judge each case separately, trying to be fair to all.

So, now for some information about my monthly SHOWCASE for PH poets:

In anticipation of a great response for my first showcase, in February,2015, [I sent notices to about 75 members from my inbox and my list of PH friends], I added to my poem's title: “section ‘A’ ”, but there MAY never be a “section ‘B’ “. In following months I have likewise “advertised” my upcoming or current showcase on PH.

I plan to submit one of my own short (24 lines or less) poems, and one of my LONG ones (which may go on for a couple of pages) . Therefore, and since I will allow other members to also submit two poems per month [if one is 24 lines or less], I may well add a second, third,4th, etc. 'section' so readers will not have to scroll up and down too much to refer to poems and the comments area below the poems. Understand? I hope so. This first 'section' is 'A' and I shall follow the English alphabet: A, B, C, etc. IF I FEEL A NEED (or desire) TO DO SO.


I also plan to have a LIST OF POETS [whose poem(s) are included in a following section] above the posted poems.

**I WOULD LOVE TO HAVE ALL POEMS BE WRITTEN BY PH MEMBERS, and be submitted by the authors. If you choose to submit a poem by another PH member I will try to verify that the member agrees. Poems attributed to non-members I may want to ask about also.


[PLEASE READ THE POET'S NOTE ALSO FOR MY 'A SHOWCASE FOR PH POETS'.]

I WILL ALWAYS GIVE THE AUTHOR’S NAME WITH THE POEM POSTED.

My first showcase was in February 2015, and I consider it to be a success, with almost 20 poems to view, from almost as many poets. My thanks go to all contributors! ! This is meant to expose poems and poets to readers and to provide some entertainment and/or enlightenment and/or knowledge to PH members [and I guess non-members who, I think, can also view the poems but not comment].
Some of the poems may not be on the authors’ PH sites. But if you are enthused about a poem, I hope you will visit the poet’s site and read more and leave comments.

Did I forget anything? ?

[[some ages of poets' may be age+1.
AND I trust the individual poet’s page to give me accurate names/pseudonyms/pen names and countries and gender as well.]] (but I don’t necessarily believe when I see 99 or 100 for a poet’s age!)

[AND I TRY TO keep typos etc. out of the poems, but if I miss some, OR if the poet(s) want(s] their poem(s) added as they/he/she has/have given it/them to me, then I'm NOT going to edit the poem(s) ! ]

[In last month's (September’s) showcase, there were 25 poems from 19 poets.]
[[ Here is the abbreviated “Poets” section from SEPTEMBER’s showcase (AS OF SEPTEMBER 27TH) :

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'THE POETS' & 'THE POEMS': [from SEPTEMBER's showcase]

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TWENTY-FIVE: SAVITA TYAGI (United States; Female; 67)
The River Calls Me
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TWENTY-FOUR: BRI EDWARDS (United States; Male; 67) (2nd poem)
Creation (Maybe Not What You Think) ......[girl-To-Woman; Baby-Making; Long; Relationships]
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TWENTY-THREE: DELLA PERRY (United Kingdom; Female; 41) (2nd poem)
Cheated Childhoods
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TWENTY-TWO: DELLA PERRY (United Kingdom; Female; 41) (1st poem)
Poetry Widower
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TWENTY-ONE: KIM BARNEY (Brazil; Male; '100') (2nd poem)
Which Doctor?
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TWENTY: KIM BARNEY (Brazil; Male; '100') (1st poem)
The Ugly Brother
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NINETEEN: JOHN WESTLAKE (United Kingdom; Male; 31) (2nd poem)
243. The River Of Life
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EIGHTEEN: GREG DAVIDSON (Australia; Male; 61)
The Face In The Mirror
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SEVENTEEN: JOHN WESTLAKE (United Kingdom; Male; 31) (1st poem)
244. All I Can See Is You
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SIXTEEN: RAY HART (Australia; Male; 69)
Under the Willow.
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FIFTEEN: VALSA GEORGE (India; Female: ; 61)
A Desert Trek
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FOURTEEN: IS IT POETRY (United States; Male; 100..ha ha)
The Lizard
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THIRTEEN: DARLENE WALSH (United States; Female; 21)
Half A Heart
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TWELVE: RUTH WALTERS (United Kingdom; Female; 63)
September
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ELEVEN: LORA COLON & BRI EDWARDS (United States; one of each;
old enough! !) (1st for each; an 'Echo Poem')
Wetness (an echo poem)
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TEN: SHAHZIA BATOOL (Pakistan; Female; 43)
My scattered Thoughts
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NINE: M.J. LEMON (Canada; [see below]) (2nd poem)
Feeling Older
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EIGHT: M.J. LEMON (Canada; believed to be Male & 'older' than
some poets!) (1st poem)
Everyday
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SEVEN: JJ EVENDON (United Kingdom; Male; 66)
Smile
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SIX: CLARENCE PRINCE (Canada, via Jamaica and U.K.; Male;
75) (2nd poem)
My New Friend
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FIVE: CLARENCE PRINCE (Canada, via Jamaica and U.K.; Male;
75) (1st poem)
Mothers Are Special!
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FOUR: CHARLES DARNELL (United States; Male; 65)
Yahoo Buckaroo
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THREE: AKHTAR JAWAD (Pakistan; Male; 70)
The Ice Cube
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TWO: MELVINA GERMAIN (Canada; Female; 70) (2nd poem)
Longing Still For You
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ONE: MELVINA GERMAIN (Canada; Female; 70) (1st poem)
Sensual Thoughts (Sharing A Sensual Delight For All Of You)
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(PLEASE leave blank. i SAID 'BLANK'! !)




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HERE WE GO……………OCTOBER’S POETS AND POEMS:
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THE POETS AND THEIR POEMS …………………(listed in REVERSE ORDER of when I entered them into this showcase) . After the list of poets and their poems you will find the poems. Enjoy!

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THE POETS:

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TWENTY-FOUR: SAVITA TYAGI (United States; Female; 67)

Playful Moon

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TWENTY-THREE: DELLA PERRY (United Kingdom; Female; 41) (1st poem)

Holiday Cocktails

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TWENTY-TWO: ELENA PLOTKIN (United States; safe-to-say Female; ?)

Writers Of Yore

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TWENTY-ONE: JAK BLACK (United Kingdom; Male; 41) (1st poem)

La Femme Fatale

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TWENTY: RAY HART (Australia; Male; 69)

Her Song...

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NINETEEN: AKHTAR JAWAD (Pakistan; Male; 70)

I Made God Laugh

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EIGHTEEN: VALSA GEORGE (India; Female; 61) (1st poem)

Women- of the West and the East

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SEVENTEEN: DOUGLAS SCOTNEY (Australia; Male; 62) (1st poem)

Stylishus Or Stylee

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SIXTEEN: JOHN WESTLAKE (United Kingdom; Male; 31) (1st poem)

[[POEM TO BE CHANGED AT jw's request...to a Halloween one.
I would not do it except that Halloween is/wsa one of my favorite 'holidays'; candy AND blood! what a combination.]]

255. Last Halloween

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FIFTEEN: XELAM KHAN (Pakistan; Male; 96)

An Act Of God

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FOURTEEN: KELLY KURT (United States; Male; 57)

Grasshoppers

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THIRTEEN: IS IT POETRY (United States; Male; 100...hmm?)

Crooked And Bent Yet Straight

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TWELVE: GERGANA TEOFILOVA (Bulgaria; Female; 29) (1st poem)

Blue

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ELEVEN: RUTH WALTERS (United Kingdom; Female; 63)

Planet Strangeways

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TEN: M J LEMON (Canada; Male; ?) (1st poem)

Nostalgia

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NINE: BRIAN JOHNSTON (United States; Male; 72) (1st poem)

Dings In My Paint

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EIGHT: CLARENCE PRINCE (Canada; Male; 75) (1st poem)

Okay At Christmas

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SEVEN: EUGENE LEVICH (United States; Male; 78) (1st poem)

The Girl On The Street (Late September In Manhattan)

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SIX: BRIAN JOHNSTON (United States; Male; 72) (1st poem)

World's End

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FIVE: CHARLES DARNELL (United States; Male; 65)

Daughter

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FOUR: MELVINA GERMAIN (Canada; Female; 70) (1st poem)

Stretched To The Limit

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THREE: DARLENE WALSH (United States; Female; 21)

The Monster Beneath The Bed

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TWO: KIM BARNEY (Brazil; Male; 100) (1st poem)

I Want To Sing With Willie

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ONE: BRI EDWARDS (United States; Male; 67) (1st poem)

(Not-So-Pretty) Alice Threw The Looking Glass.... [ Rock & Roll Fairy Tale; Fantasy? ; 1970s; Short ]


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THE POEMS:


[[ Please NOTE! I have put two of Brian Johnston's poems into this 'section A' of the October showcase.

It was done before I decided to just put ONE POEM from each poet (who submits two) into this 'section A'. I have not had a 'section B' in any other months, but it is time this month I think to add 'section B'. Section B shall accommodate the other '2nd' poems submitted for October.

Also, coming in November, I am planning to allow up to three poems (maybe) from each contributor IF one is FIVE LINES OR LESS in length, like a limerick. Let me know if this sounds good to any of you.

bri :) :) :)

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TWENTY-FOUR: by Savita Tyagi


Playful Moon

It is the whole truth and nothing but the truth!
In Middle East the moon feels so close
You could easily make it your friend.
For instance when I took a walk
In warm and dry desert night
Upon brick pathway of housing compound
Moon above played my childhood game.
In a back and forth short walk of about thirty feet
It would change its position three four times
Jumping from one roof to other in zagged fashion.
I swear he played hopscotch all along!
You know the way we played in our childhood!

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TWENTY-THREE: by Della Perry


Holiday Cocktails

She was allowed to buy the alcoholic drinks from the bar
She was eighteen, England is lower to buy booze,
She held the tall glasses with a multitude of colours in front of my jealous eyes each evening in the club,
She, smiling falsely, teasing me,
She sipped through the black straw
She crooned in delight at each new flavour on her tongue
She swirled the plastic sticks with little animals on the top
She was collecting these as mementos,
Wouldn't even give me one!
Little monkeys with long tails, parrots, cats,
She placed the little umbrellas in her hair
Flicking her head around, all grown up,
Giggled and smiled at the men
Who smiled in return or leered,
She showed off, she made me fume.
Back at the caravan
I laughed hysterically
A twelve year old taunting her eighteen year old, hot head sister,
As she spewed up her fancy cocktails
Down the toilet and groaned
'Never again...'

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TWENTY-TWO: by Elena Plotkin


Writers Of Yore

I know you won't believe me but... oh way back when
There was a time before computers, paper, and pen.
There were still writers who wrote with sticks in sand,
mud on rock, perhaps even blood on their body and hand.
And the reason they tried to write their thoughts and ideas down
Wasn't because they wanted to have them shared or passed around.
But because they realized as the years were passing them by
that their memory capacity was dwindling down... that's why.

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Bri's note: Elena, I knew it all the time!
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TWENTY-ONE: by Jak Black


La Femme Fatale.

Women, he thought, a weird crew,
Except for maybe one or two.
Those one or two may pass him by,
No hello, nor yet good-bye.

He’s attracted like a moth to flame,
Or a pop star to the hall of fame.
Her twinkling eyes entice him in,
Surreptitiously, like a Mickey Finn.

Once trapped inside her cloying net,
With powers of reasoning now upset,
It’ll come as no great surprise,
His brain resides between his thighs.

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TWENTY: by Ray Hart


Her Song...

I hear her singing hymn or secular,
Phantom to Mighty Fortress in particular.
All stops to take her in,
I’m captured by own warming grin.

Vases of flowers lean toward her song,
Brooks envy her melody day and night long.
Birds carol outside her door,
Lost in rapture their hearts soar.

Clouds cease their wandering across the blue,
To take in the wonder that is you.
Each note you sing resembles the artist touch,
As he brings to life a Mona Lisa or such.

Crickets hard to find, stop their noisy throng,
Intent to take in an Angel’s song.
Fortunate is the husband whose heart does swell,
For when he hears her notes they lift him from his hell.

(10/7/2013)
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NINETEEN: by Akhtar Jawad


I Made God Laugh


I was walking on the roof of my lovely house,
being annoyed of my hysterical spouse,
I saw energy being converted with a flash of light,
a strange human, an amazing sight,
converted matter watched was an alien, 'Male or female? ',
I asked the alien. 'Not matters, you are old and stale',
but I can renovate you in a youth, be it so,
by the way, bisexual, don't need a spouse,
we are gypsies, don't built a house.'
I felt within my heart a to and fro!
'Thanks Mr./Ms. Allen, now I shall marry once again,
I am a charming youth, why should I refrain? '
The alien laughed like a cut throat knife,
'Have a look at the garments of your wife.',
The garments I had washed in the early noon,
looked quiet new in a light of the moon.
Smaller in size dancing like a teen aged girl,
Appeared shrink with a diamond and a pearl

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Bri's note: I'm waiting to find out if the 'alien's' last name is 'Allen', or Alien! Either one is fine with me. :)
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EIGHTEEN: by Valsa George


Women- of the West and the East


East or west, women are stressed
Concede it or not, they are beguiled n’ choked

Women everywhere have hang ups
But often thrive on cover ups
Complex is their mental make up
Excuses come to them tacitly made up

Inscrutable are their ways
None can, their actions, appraise
With intuition, they do amaze
But are often duped by praise

An enigma, they often remain
To suit to the need they may feign
It is hard for them to take strain
In the eyes of men, they are vain

With such common traits, as they fare
Women widely differ in the West and the East

Bold and fearless is the lady of the West
There she is almost on par with men
In a ballroom she can sing and dance
Even after sundown she roams round
She can sprawl on the beach
And ski over the Deep
She is well coiffed
Has cherry red lips and glossy face
In parties, her flowing frock sweeps the rugs
Diamonds flash in her ear lobes
They adorn her neck and fingers
But Alas! Often is seen with eyes sad
Spirits low and face drawn
No smile lights her lips
While revelers sing and dance
She looks eternally glum
For her, future is far from promising
With relentless insecurity shrouding

What is it that nags her?
What steals her inner calm?
A stark desertion, she fears by her lover/ companion
As beauty fades and age withers
She dreads the absence of children near
To relieve her of her drab existence

For women of the East
It has been far tougher for centuries
Here a girl struggles to be born
The mother’s womb can be her sepulcher
Once born, no guarantee for survival
Fate like a haunting falcon
With claws sharp and eyes intent
Targets and preys on her
Like a piece of organic garbage,
Unscrupulous hands may hurl her to the bin
Or bundled and cast on railway tracks
Or discarded on crowded platforms
If she out lives this
Still vultures may circle round
To feed on her flesh, raw and red

No oracle or miracle
Could ever change her life
None knows what awaits her
Despite these daunting odds
She grabs life’s better moments
Raise happy kids
Keep the family intact
Stick to the wedlock
Be it loop or lock
Like a balanced acrobat
She does the tight rope walk
For the storms that rage without,
To her, is less insidious.
Never is she tossed by the unseasonal blizzards

For she is born in fire
And can easily brave the burning heat!
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SEVENTEEN: by Douglas Scotney

Stylishus Or Stylee?

Wear and wen
a pome hazn't much
ov a chairns or charns,
a stylish won haz less
(perhaps unless
it's fu-knee or
poynting 2 a floor.)

In n-knee cays,
in theez teksting tyms,
it's 'stylish' no mor;
it's the sekund choys in the tytul,
az shortness iz vytul
(tho not at the ekspens
ov sens.)

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Bri's note: Gee, why are so many words underlined in RED?

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SIXTEEN: by John Westlake

[[POEM TO BE CHANGED AT jw's request...to a Halloween one.
I would not do it except that Halloween is/was one of my favorite 'holidays'; candy AND blood! what a combination.]]


255. Last Halloween

Last Halloween night was just so weird
I had a crazy one
hoping that this one with be a little less so
but last time I did have some fun

A vampire dropped in for a quick bite
because he thought I wasn't awake
he ran off crying
when I threatened him with a well done steak

I had a bone to pick with a skeleton
who managed to get into a fight
locked up three ghosts in a spirits cupboard
I guess I gave them a fright

I hit a zombie with a bat
before it flew off in a huff
it ran to its mummy for help
and it told them to not be so rough

I played chess with a werewolf
who was so crazy he was barking
he'd be in trouble in the morning
as he'd failed to pay for parking

I had an argument with a witch
who wanted to ask for her broom
and when the zombies turned up also
I knew I was going to run out of room

As the sun rose the next morning
through the leaves the colour of rust
all my visitors just disappeared
leaving behind their dust

Yes that time was rather fun I thought
as I finally got back into bed
but worry ye not dear friends
because it only happened inside my head

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FIFTEEN: by Xelam Khan


An Act Of God

Like a shadow in the dark
do not follow me, O easeful death!
Come, hold me closed
in your white wings.
would it be an act of god
if i kiss thy coldest lips?

A cabaret in the backstage
is not much scandalous
as a razor sharp Stripper
of the weekend nights.So am i,
In frosty years of life
tried to read a blueprint
of fate, designed in haste.

And it
revealed unto me
a secret, has never been told...

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FOURTEEN: by Kelly Kurt


Grasshoppers

The old, pea-graveled alley behind the church
Over-grown with grasses and weeds
Came alive today
Chain reactions of bounding chaos
One camouflaged cricket cousin would spring
Landing among his brethren, setting them to leap
Cascading north and south, east and west
Like popcorn in a skillet, the motion swelled, then subsided
The seven year old in me couldn’t resist
I waded carefully into the swarm
Mindful of where I stepped
Intent on triggering a riot, and securing a slowpoke
The alley erupted in anarchy as I snatched for my prize
Pelted from my waist down by the panicked pouncers
A few, clinging to my clothing
Quickly, I placed my palm over the one on my hip
Enfolding it gently into my hand
Just as I remembered from my childhood days
The anxious insect was strong
Tickling my palm as it tried in vain to escape
I held it for only a few seconds
Those seconds took me back fifty years
As I opened my hand, the grasshopper immediately sprang
Landing almost ten feet and five decades away

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THIRTEEN: by Is It Poetry


Crooked And Bent Yet Straight

Some while back
I was within and without
it was not a thick hazzy fog nor that of a long fading dream
here where I stood near you.
I could see most of you
looking out of the bright green stained window.
There were women and not too few were the men
and the colours they shone none the same.
I thought you knew she said unto me she was straight
I was bent backwards in an awkward way sitting up straight
losing time far away from the center.
Living one life I over heard another one speaking of death
having lived such a life where none lived.
There were readers like you watching people like me
doing what they do not to you.
When people like you can have such a deep need for.
Some few were neck deep into sex
while others engaged in promiscuous ways that none
like you had a need for.
Others drank and smoked crack
there were many others I saw and described that reminded
you of me yet mostly a view of your mirrored selves.
Those that have egos as big as the void
were down on all fours giving out favors to those
that held a higher office but hidden from you.
Your imagination's how it runs wild
knowing the same you wish you could do to your selves.
Is this why subconsciously you love what they are.
Knowing they are what you aren't I've said they are not
the twisting of bodies into ungodly straight knots.
He screams of pain where she gets him off in some old mans world
where Thirty's too old to get up.
Hence you don't fear what you should and another ones gone.
This should make you warm and warm to cold when it's hot.
For those whom have lived in the light they now share and it's
all what they promised to you
and false prophets they have delivered to you.
Now capitalism is to take some of your lives if they can
and thus your children you will eat out of tin cans.
The water will rise not like in your dreams no more nights
will you dance in the rain.


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TWELVE: by Gergana Teofilova


Blue


Blue the solitary color of sadness,
Pressed against a tower of smiles
It epitomizes blurry points of madness,
Hidden deep beneath a pile of guile
A color only understood by people,
Been through ordeals in black and grey,
Who’ve been locked up in a kind of steeple
That prevented them from the light of day

Blue the shade of childhood tears,
Leaving cold traces of hurt in the night
Blue the shade of painful years,
Spent all alone and embraced in blight
Blue the shade of a heart in love,
Cruelly forsaken and betrayed to pine
Blue the shade of a snow-white dove,
Lying broken on the street for a cat to find

Blue the shade of a mother’s smile,
Who’s lost her first-born baby in demon claws,
Blue the shade of waiting as long as the Nile
For the return of a loved one, so full of flaws
Blue the shade of dreams all forgotten,
Where hope has long written a message in dust
Blue the shade of visions, forbidden and rotten,
When fading away causes nothing but rust

Blue the shade of an animal’s fur,
Hideously hit and ditched by a drunken man,
Blue the shade of all things that occur,
And crash down ruthlessly and are never planned
Blue the shade of the rain falling down,
When there’s nobody to share it out
Blue the shade of the clamor in town,
Heard by a speechless witness, anxious to shout

Blue the shade of the morning sea
Gently kissing away yesterday’s joy,
Blue the shade of a table with fresh made tea,
Surrounded by wooden chairs and a sobbing boy
Blue the shade of the twilight sky,
So lonely without its evanescent stars
Blue the shade of the eyes of a guy
Who sold his own future like they do used cars

Blue is a color often selected,
Mostly related to subjects and clothes,
It is modern and seldom neglected
When shoes get chosen and hand-bags disposed
But it’s also the color of misfortune befallen,
Which may only be felt, not heard, touched or seen,
And when one realizes that their soul has been stolen
It’s usually too late to cry or redeem

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ELEVEN: by Ruth Walters


Planet Strangeways


Melanie preened,
she licked
and she polished

green spindly feelers
and scales on her
body.

It was a warm day
on planet
Strangeways

and she’d planned
a large picnic
with alien titbits

Of course she’d
been waiting
some years for this treat

but wouldn’t give up
although
a bit miffed.

By the time that
the spaceship
eventually came

her stomach
was churning,
she’d grown very thin

but the human
was plump
and all would be good

if she soaked it
in worm juice and
added moose pud'.

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Bri's note: Look up 'moose nose pudding'. do it now!
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TEN: by M J Lemon


Nostalgia


All that has happened
is so good that it
deserves the memory,
the recollection, the vanity?
A war story?

Nothing would have changed
should have changed
Needed to be forgotten
long, long ago?

Some things you cannot forget
Others you want to keep alive
Either way, do they both belong
in the best of all possible worlds?

What about those times your mind raced
At the speed of sound but
the body couldn't move around,
Weighed down, as if lumber or the slumber
of rotting meat? Surely, that was defeat?

You forget that only a moment earlier
It was the other way around.

Eighteen months later
and all was normal.
But that was then;
this is now.

If all is so right with every single moment,
Why look so much forward
To the past?

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NINE: by Brian Johnston


Dings In My Paint


Well I don’t know about you long suffering friend,
But there’s hardly a day that goes by
I don’t wake up and notice the dings in my paint
How the sun is now rising up high in the sky
While I think of my tasks still undone,
That the finish line clearly is someplace I ain’t.

Please allow me to move my analogy on
Just to say I could use some new parts
For there’s clearly hair missing in front, more in back
And its color is faded, in fact almost white
Though I don’t like to think myself vain
It sure feels like that somehow I’m under attack.

That the bloom’s off the rose is in fact a sure thing
My voice too is beginning to fade
For my high notes are lower, my perfect pitch gone
And at times even sound of my voice disappears
It must rest for a while, it’s grown old,
As if musical talents have been overdrawn.

Of my trunk, oh my trunk, God, my trunk, dare I speak
Of the mess that is found deep inside?
It’s a moving trash bin that took one on the chin
Down for nine counts and flat on the mat, what a fight!
Does man live that’s not stained with remorse
And spare tire that fills each woman’s heart with chagrin?

But at last as my tale of woe comes to an end,
I have found myself feeling relief,
It seems possible my life may still produce seed.
Though I know that not everyone likes the same tune,
Am I dreaming that I hear you laugh?
What a joy if my poetry filled such a need!

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Bri's note: 'Get thee to the 'body shop', pronto! ' :)
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EIGHT: by Clarence Prince


Okay At Christmas


First let me say merry Christmas
Hope you haven't yet spent up to the max
For again this is such a time of the year
When you should take a little more care
And for Christ's sake do what's fair
Prepare yourself to do a little charity
Then let those with much help others fairly
Even if you can't afford to do a great lot
The Saviour sees and knows what you've got
Just do your best He will do the rest
Do the work of love you'll be blessed
He whose birthday you're hoping to celebrate
Doubtless you guess He requires no less
Than for everyone to have a merry Christmas
Join me with a cheer for who takes care
To help the less fortunate share a Christmas
Happy be your spirit all along the way
The Child who was born upon this day
He reigns, our Saviour Christ the Lord
Three cheers to all for a merry Christmas
Let everyone give thanks for Christ the Lord
The beloved Son of God came to us at last
Who went on the cross and paid the cost
He did it to stop man from getting lost
Lift your hands and say merry Christmas

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SEVEN: by Eugene Levich


The Girl On The Street (Late September In Manhattan)


She walked by so quickly
Her beauty touched only like a feather
About twenty or so
Impossibly slender, lithe, and lovely
The Goddess Diana
Small upturned breasts
Apples in the Garden of Eden
What the Italians call
“Piccoli ma sinceri”
Small but sincere
And for a second under her dark hood
One glimpsed a pale pretty face
And blond hair

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SIX: by Brian Johnston


World's End


Part 1

This is a true story about world’s end,
But don’t freak out for it was long ago
God’s message must have been garbled...
That the prophet’s prophecy failed you know.

And since those days in sixty eight
Such prophecies I now dismiss
Quite easily, I know the score,
For Bible says no man knows this.

In South Dakota, there’s a river meander
Called Lower Brule, on Indian land,
With twenty-eight sections of grass inside…
The Missouri corralled Dad’s cattle brand.

Two thousand cattle roamed unbroken land,
My summer job to mow and stack
Enough grass for food the whole winter…
For in it’s icy grip there’s no way back.

Our days were long and we worked hard,
New food supplies two hours by car
No TV helped to change our view
Of what was normal, what bizarre.
 
But how can I communicate the loneliness
Of such a life, though it is true day’s works
And meals brought us at least a taste
Of civilization’s near forgotten perks.

Near forty minute drive to nearest farm
As well, where lived a girl my age it seems,
As soon as I discovered this, though yet unmet,
Her aspect soon was fodder for my dreams.

This knowledge occasioned visit to her farm
Our very next road trip to town for supplies
And was she a cute farmer’s daughter
With skin smooth as cream and mischievous eyes.

Oh let me share how first visit ended,
With church invitation on coming Sunday,
Which I of course could not refuse
Although its denouement was not fun day.

How my excitement rose when Sunday came,
Drove to their farm to join their ride to town
And quite enjoyed the family on the way
Embracing warm acceptance like renown.

Part 2

Well the Chamberlin church we attended,
Was an hour by dirt road from their farm,
And the building of non-descript nature
That was simple but still had its charm.

The church chapel was longer than depth was,
With three folk on raised stage also long
An accordion, bass drum for rhythm,
And harmonica supplements song.

We were led by the preacher’s hands waving
His drum’s foot pedal gave us a beat,
And with instruments played by two women
Seemed our little church band was complete.

Well the music that day was familiar
As we first sang one song and then more
Something strange, the time given to music,
Growling stomach was hard to ignore.

Wooden pews that we sat on were comfy
Perhaps two hundred folk in the flock
But when music went past forty minutes,
I was starting to glare at the clock.
 
I’d been thinking of lunch for some time now
But at last singing stops, sermon starts
And most saw something strange on the altar
With a sense that their path’s off the charts.

I could hardly believe the unfolding
But the “good news” was end of the world,
There were gasps, many tears, and prayers swallowed,
As his message from God was unfurled.

He invited us all to the altar,
A last chance for confession of sin,
We’d just days for loans needing repayment
To help purge all the evil within.

All alone, just a boy, I reflected,
As the whole crowd moved up to the stage,
Where with great fear they bemoaned this outcome…
My choice tough for a man any age.

Yes our Christ will return for He promised,
That is just why I trust so in Grace,
Feel no need to convince God of birthright,
In Christ’s love all sin gone without trace.
 
The one Christian perhaps who I see here
Was the one who just walked out the door.
It felt good stepping out of this melee
And God’s justice all I’m looking for.

Now I’ve finally come to the best part
How the preacher knew World’s End was near
For Canaveral’s rockets disgraced man
His faith based not in Love but in Fear.

Yes, our shooting those holes up in heaven
Was now finally causing man’s fall,
And our Scientist’s quest for more knowledge,
Was just bringing destruction to all.

Just a postscript about farmer’s daughter,
Couldn’t spend my life focused on sin,
For the world in my world has future
And with Science and Love man can win.

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Bri's note: this computer 'says' 'nondescript' is NOT hyphenated, but I'll allow it. poetic license! :)
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FIVE: by Charles Darnell


Daughter


Heart-shaped face
Framed with curls,
Ice-blue eyes,
She had three.

Covered her forehead
To look normal,
Then jerk her hand
Away with a shark tooth
Grin.

Blackie steered clear,
Spit and hissed
When cornered,
Laughter like
Razorblades.

No sitter would ever
Come,
Despite extravagant compensation.

Her kiss goodnight
Lingered too long,
Cold compression
Shivered.

She looked back
As she sauntered to bed,
And winked at me
With the middle one.

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FOUR: by Melvina Germain


Stretched To The Limit


In all my unhappiness rivers do run cold
an ancient body tires in a state of old.
When trials become the worded tale,
an old woman becomes the pale.

A wretched time of life, rude and cruel
false promises turn smart people to fools.
To pause from reality, live in delusions midst
presents the mark who laid down for a kiss.

Wiped clean a mountain years to build
took hope and trust away, an old cads skill.
Mourn, mourn though death has not occurred,
worse than death hell happened in a word.


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THREE: by Darlene Walsh


The Monster Beneath The Bed


What is that you're seeing
in the corner of your eye
Stealthful foot steps following
never passing by

In the corner of the mirror
watching when you blink
It is patient and silent
and deadlier than you think

It's biding time for years
until the time is ripe
Until you've grown enough
and are just the right type

When you have grown enough
to be a tasty morsel
From beneath the bed it comes
through a secret portal

In silence it is waiting
needing to be fed
Out in darkness slithering
from beneath your bed

In your sleep it comes
needing to be fed
Nibbling a tasty morsel
until you are dead


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TWO: by Kim Barney



I Want To Sing With Willie


I want to sing with Willie;
I know most every song
and the parts that I'm not sure of,
well, I'd just kinda hum along.

I want to sing with Willie;
he shouldn't have to sing alone.
I could plug one nostril
to get his same nasal tone.

I want to sing with Willie;
we're almost the same ripe age.
We'd look about like brothers
together there on that stage.

I want to sing with Willie;
my beard could be just as big.
My hair I don't like long, though,
so I'd need a braided wig.

I want to sing with Willie
now that Waylon's not around
so if you hear he needs a partner
please tell him one's been found!

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Bri's note: Kim's poem's page has a great photo and Poet's Note.
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ONE: by Bri Edwards


(Not-So-Pretty) Alice Threw The Looking Glass.... [ Rock & Roll Fairy Tale; Fantasy? ; 1970s; Short ]


Author Lewis Carroll might have a freaking stroke, if....
he knew I sullied HIS title to make a PoemHunter joke.
Yet MY Alice was not from Carroll's amazing 'Wonderland'.
She WAS an 'immoral singer' in a famous 70s Rock & Roll band.

Not Cinderella either, but my Alice often smoked a fat roach...
while lounging in her chauffeured pink Rolls-Royce touring coach.
And she sipped too much whiskey from her shoe and fell on her ass,
but her shoes, unlike Cinderella's, were of alligator, NOT made of glass.

Not pretty Snow White was she either, of the 7-Dwarfs-fame,
though 'coke', white as snow, Ms. A. snorted; don't (you) ME blame!
I had tried to straighten her out, to keep her happy, along with her crew.
The thanks I got was ten stitches......... when (the looking glass) she threw.

Just two wild months after that unfortunate night, way back in 1978,
I got a wake-up call from the police one day, at 1 p.m. (we stayed up late) .
Alice had been found dead (by a maid) in her hotel suite in Canada (lively Toronto) .
Now, her manager no longer, my new McDonalds boss yells 'Two more burgers! Pronto!

(March 19 2015)
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