When sorrow cuts your soul like a blazing sword
for your mistakes in life
for hurting words you have thrown about
for all the grief you have given freely to those you love
when will you find a path forward
when will you find yourself again
is there forgivness
and life without guilt.
© Inger Morgan
Love is quiet
breathing in the gasps of lovers,
passion spent.
Love is gentle with arms outstretched to comfort those
whom life breaks.
Love is kind
it eases hurt with a smile
least damage break the glass of life.
Love is true
caring for the loved before itself
silent lest the planets halt.
© Carolyn O’Connell
Published in Dial 82 1993 & I AM NOT A SILENT POET APRIL 2015
The cityscape is laden with concrete and asphalt
groaning under yesterday’s fast food containers
trying to shrug off the pain of broken bottles
unable to push aside the remnants of plastic
the vacant lots with vacated buildings accrue it
this wasteful epitaph to scientists who discover
ways in laboratories to make our lives easier
but there he is with an unknown name to me
that I see walking along the side of the road
broom and dustpan in hand cleaning again and again
pulling scraps of litter from beneath the shrubs
he is determined that this small stretch he walks
will not be left neglected on his watch even
though his back is bent and age follows him
the shrubs will bloom and the trees leaves unfold
in thanks to this man they are honored to know
and the birdsong will sound as insects visit
knowing he cares and they are loved
© 2016 Renee Espriu
Every being on earth wants unconditional love
But their egos are like ebony, tough as old larch,
Their resin is a volatile, turpentine; thereof-
Unyielding… nought like a soft dripping, willowy arch.
But there are those the pulp of which, has love in their hearts.
Can paper mache over the cracks—be charitable!
Show some Christian love; they are like the old, ancient guards
Souls, which did pass on through before—unpalatable.
Suffering, themselves, softened, ensuring a balance-
Of compassion & benevolence; that’s absolute.
But for the most part folks, there is this counterbalance
Some middle ground. Most, aren’t made of teak, jute.
These cloths are fibrous, but that’s how we soften to silk
Our own, metal is, planished, our sharpest edges rubbed smooth
By charitable acts, meanness turns to buttermilk
& the milk of human kindness moves on & imbues.
© 2016 Mark Andrew Heathcote
She might as well have been a feral child,
mother howling like a wolf in moonlight
turning tricks for cigarettes.
She may as well have been a feral child,
lusted after and teased, uncombed, unfed,
other addicts’ children always sleeping in her bed.
Wild, as running in alleyways and yards,
wild, as stealing in every store, mother yelling “more,”
wild as a spanking, not knowing what for.
Any fool could see she never showed up at school,
yet no one called “no phone,” no one went to “no house,”
no one counted “one child,” missing.
Grandparents fought with lawyers and judges
for access and custody, visiting rights wronged,
any address, any notification, praying for proof of life.
Boyfriends jostled children whose parents were stoned.
Stray cats came and went, loved well;
tragedy fell. Grief followed, heart hollowed.
Sports for the spoiled: uniforms, schedules.
She watched from the bushes, envious,
crawling under bleachers for leftover pizza.
Wild eyes, an artist in sand, a gymnast in Pan:
drafted for a horror film that gave her nightmares,
too-long-delayed pay locked in a “trust” fund.
Who’s your daddy? And who’s your mom’s daddy,
who left you to this? What social worker libertine
has prevented any kin from finding you?
Your mother could not see past her gate,
late with the rent, late to sleep and rise,
too late, too late, to know she had a child.
Wild.
© Ruth Hill
May I have words to speak my truth in love.
May I have ears to hear others’ pain.
May I have compassion and love to spread to the world.
May you create a life that is like art.
May you create a life that is centered on peace.
May you create a life that offers life to others.
May healing rain down on us all.
© Lana Phillips
blues walkin’ like a woman
slowly down a crooked road
doin’ what’s right what she can
finishing what she began
eyes never blink her oats sowed
blues walkin’ like a woman
once upon a time she ran
staggered to carry the load
doin’ what’s right what she can
her mind stuffed with contraband
anger ready to explode
blues walkin’ like a woman
owning her path an urban
gypsy with dignity stowed
doin’ what’s right what she can
to ignore the proffered plan
to get back what she’s been owed
doin’ what’s right what she can
blues walkin’ like a woman
© Marilynn Mair
Like sculpture at first. Then, as if the sun rose in her, long
gesture.
A small smile; then very much so.
The beauty
of the rite shone; whirling.
She whirled and whirled,
flaming.
Only the body spoke. The body carried her
language.
Her dance a spell
swirling the air, a spiral she was
and
her shawl, the half circle around her,
the curve of the sea-shore and
girl,
the dancer and the dance apart…
(Transcreated by Cathy Strisik and Veronica Golos based on Katalin N. Ullrich’s translation.)
Isadora Duncan tánca
Mint a szobrok, a szobrok. Napfényes, hosszú mozdulatok.
Alig volt mosolya. De ha volt, az nagyon.
A rítus szépsége tört át a ritmuson.
Csak forgott és forgott és forgott.
Könnyedén siklott. Lobogott.
Szavának súlya volt. De szólni nem tudott.
Forgott a kígyóbűvölő és forgott a sál,
forgott a félkör, a tengerpart és forgott a lány,
külön a táncosnő és külön a tánc …
– Kinga Fabó
I don’t know what it is but very ill-
intended. Surely a woman must belong to it.
And something like a laughter.
I am rotating the city on me,
rotating my beauty. That’s that!
Many keys, small keyholes whirling.
Gazes cannot be all in vain. And the answer?
Merely a jeer.
The vase hugs and kills me, can’t breathe.
Now my features – even with the best intentions –
cannot be called beautiful.
And her? The girl? Her trendy perfume
is Poison. For me a real poison indeed.
And the vase?
It hugs and kills me.
But what am I to do without?
– written and translated by Kinga Fabó
Én nem tudom, mi ez, de nagyon rossz-
indulatú. Biztosan nő tartozik hozzá. Meg
valami nevetésféle.
Járatom magamon a várost egyfolytában:
körbeforgatom szépségem.
Az ám! Sok kicsi kulcs. Tekintet nem
veszhet kárba. És a válasz?
Egy gúnykacaj.
Szorít a váza.
Arcvonásaim most még a legjobb
indulattal sem mondhatók szépnek.
És ő? A lány? Divatos illata
Poison. Nekem erős méreg.
És a váza?
Megöl a szorítása.
De mi lesz nélküle?
© Kinga Fabó
the Christmas tree
at the gates
of this remote place
where gods
are others than God
echoes
my grandmother’s
in another country
in another century
no opaline baubles
or streams of
sparkling garlands
no filigree angels
or silver star
on the top
just nuts
wrapped in foil
small apples
cotton wool snow
to hide
the scarceness of branches
and here
in this distant country
where women dress
in waves of colour
I sense her again
the warmth
of the oven fire
and the basil scent
of her gown
when she stroked
my forehead
and chanted
to free me
from the evil eye
© Aprilia Zank
She sat on the river bank with
easel, paints and brushes
waiting to capture blushing clouds,
the heather great mountain
brooding over ripe green fields,
and the blues of the river
swirling our secrets to the sea.
She picks up a brush, dips
it into the puddles of colour, water
transferring, creating an image
of the paths we trod as girls
sleeping for our feet to inscribe secrets.
When I came she had framed it
in silver, protected it with glass,
and as we parted gave it to me.
Seated I look up, it hangs at eye level
and I see the home we shared
its life transferred to my foreign wall.
© Carolyn O’Connell
call me when you’ll be old
so old that the only thing making sense to your tired hands
will be to open the windows during sunrise
and to latch them back at dusk,
when any name you’d call
will taste round and salty in your voice
when it will scratch the silence
call me when you will have called
all else on the face of earth
and when the only name left to be called will be mine.
call me,
and I will come and curl at your feet and warm them up
and make them remember the cubic stones
of paths we took only in my imagination
and the trickle of water carrying down the road
autumn leaves that never saw November in their lives.
call me when you’ll be old,
so old that eggshells of sparrows will look like coffins
from which death escaped and feeds on earthworms and flies,
and I will come and wonder by your side
of how suddenly water will spring from the wooden doors of cupboards
mirroring the flow of words from some apocryphal gospel
yet undiscovered.
but above all, call me when you’ll be old
when the mere exercise of remembering me will exhaust you
call my name,
as small and insignificant and lacking substance as it may seem
and I will come and finally hold your hands
and nest my breath in them
and I will tell you a story about a love that wasn’t love,
a time that wouldn’t flow
and stardust.
© Liliana Negoi
Against all ponderable odds
the sky is blue today,
a blue as deep as that of God’s
forgotten depths of heaven,
one could say.
You look at me, I look at you
and none of us does speak –
the morning silence (nothing new)
allows a smile to blossom
and to sneak
into the middle of our thoughts,
and suddenly we blink,
and three imponderable dots
of colour and of meaning
let us sink
in memories of youth and lo!
the years have never passed.
We’re young again, though old, and so
the blue above has never
been so vast.
© Liliana Negoi
Gaza is a garden full of roses.
Stone roses.
Rock roses.
No petals to crush and bruise
to release their fragrance.
Only dust.
Dust and the stench
of death.
No green space left.
No sweet tranquility,
peace or quiet.
No escape.
No garden of Eden here.
No gateway to paradise.
Rubble and rock roses.
So I shall plant a rose for Gaza
in my green space,
in my tranquil garden.
I won’t bruise it,
just gently sniff its fragrance
and hope that one day
fragrant roses will bloom again
in the garden of Gaza.
What else can I do?
© Lynn White
First published by Poets Haven, Vending Machine in Poetry for Change Anthology 2014
I’m not waiting for aging or changing,
for growing,
restoring, or
recreating
the mask.
I’m not waiting for structures to collapse
and reform
and reshape
and remake
themselves
from the ruins.
I’m not waiting for the revolution
in thinking,
in acting,
in feeling,
to happen
when the walls finally fall.
No.
I’ll dig the tunnels.
Then I’ll wait.
Wait for you
to scramble through
to greet me
then we’ll be away,
through
with our waiting.
First published in Fragments of Chiaroscuro, July 2016
© Lynn White
i visualize in the warmth of the sun
or in the darkest hours of night
healing is held in the gift of seeing
i see between the wind blown leaves
pause each raindrop as it is falling
everything stops but my breathing
i listen to the silence all around
even in the midst of all the chaos
molecules of life touching gently
i close my eyes for a moment in between
for dreamers will always be dreaming
music notes orchestrate birth and death
i feel the strings of instruments hold me
soft as satin and stronger than webs of silk
healing is found in a moment of peace
i visualize oceans and mountains colliding
creating new life as gentle flowering buds
death can never be the ultimate ending
i see myself walking an ocean shoreline
by the still spray of a wave before it crashes
peace is standing between raindrops as they pause
i see there briefly a place my mind rests
devoid of wars, disease, famine and otherness
healing is held in the gift of seeing
what could be if only for a moment in time
©2016 Renee Espriu
A relaxing winding down video, poem and music, which promotes a sense of well being and peace.
GRACE
Taste the sweet nectar of life,
allow it to fill you to the brim.
And, let the joy in your heart,
walk the landscape of your soul,
in the light of wonder,
with grace to guide your way…
© 2016 Bridget Cameron
Here’s the link to the peaceful and calming video.
cheers,
Bridget Cameron 🙂
Note: For some of us, our writing – whatever it may be: poetry, fiction, nonfiction, journaling – is our daily spritual practice. It is the place where we consciously connect with our core Self: the Ineffible, which some call God.
Here I am, suspended breathless
between language and myth.
Strands of undomesticated words
weave ladders to freedom, and
a dove in the stripy-barked birch
recites the works of Homer.
I found the rules of grammar
written on my tongue by the wind
and the alphabet strung like
seed-pearls around my willing neck.
Each day I take to the quarries,
hard mining for the sweetly lyrical,
blistered from digging in hot sands
and hard stone for parables.
The very walls that bound my heart
are fairly breached by the
gentle solace of poems spun
on a vision quest, on toiling
though the hill country of
my youthful and once indomitable
dreams: like dandelion fluff,
I blow them into history.
I write as though poetry is
the only real nourishment –
. . . . . . .perhaps it is.
© 2016, poem, Jamie Dedes, All rights reserved, Photo ~ courtesy of morgueFile
The BeZine 