My mind is a battlefield
Daryl Hunt.

My mind is a battlefield,

All thoughts crossing over,

Analyzing and analyzing even when the day is over,

Feel physically drained even if i slept for a day,

Spending my energies in all different ways,

Like a battery system in a car,

I need to be constantly recharged,

My alternator that recharges me,

Is my thirst for knowledge on astrology,

Like a moth dancing about a light,

I just seem to keep hanging around,

Never satisfied with what i have found,

I must know more, I must know all,

And I will this is for sure,

Like an exotic tasting dish,

Astrology is so appetizing,

Maybe it has something to do with my Scorpio Rising.

Simple

by  Paul Ryan

What turmoil holds the human heart

what dark things has it seen

as much sometimes as it can bear

enough to squash its dreams

With talk of war on centre stage

the worlds heart fills with worry

an ambient sadness all be it dim

moves round in such a hurry

Inside it all you know yourself

you've felt it times before

there is a strength that knows no bounds

that leaves you wanting more

there is a name that's thrown about

for this gift that we all know

and once it is most truly felt

it purpose to you will show

It is love

and its real

find it

know it

   

~^~

BEHIND THE SCENES

Stop looking under the light,

Watch the person in the back,

Observe the bag that's being filled, not what they pack,

At the end of each verse sung, she'll take in her breath,

Pay attention at this time, for once ignore the rest.

Behind the fist throwing the punch, is an angry mind,

Instead of jumping the gun, find out why he's unkind,

The waves you like to surf on, don't keep themselves alive,

May this thought run through your mind next time you take a dive.

All birds that fly through the sky rely on air,

This force although is never seen, of it we're aware,

Look past the tree, into the space between it's leaves,

Given time, you'll perceive far subtler energies;

Don't just focus on the scenes, but what lies behind them too,

Because the scenes wouldn't exist, without the backup crew.

 

Time

We wind up the clock, and time it goes by.

Life has been low, life has been high.

So we step back to wonder and think and then sigh,

Who can answer the question, And the question is why.

We wind up the clock as time it goes on.

Most we have lost, a few we have won.

We start off alone and we finish as one.

Life’s never quite ready, to say when it’s done.

We wind up the clock as time it goes past.

Sometimes it goes slow, more often its fast.

When you hold something dear, you must know it won’t last,

Like a boat in the gale, that is losing its mast.

We wind up the clock, but time never goes back,

When all you can see is so terribly black,

You escape into dreams, of that time life said “What?”

And the fun in the sun, when your life was so hot.

THROWING THE STONES

 (c)Jude Adebosoye Ogunade

Who will throw the first stone?

Let he who has not looked lustfully at a woman do that.

Who will throw the first stone?

Let he who has not misappropriated public funds order that.

Who will throw the first stone?

At the woman who is haggard to the bone.

Who will throw the first stone?

At the woman who has no house but a hut.

Whilst no one throws any stone:

At those in big mansions who commit more heinous crimes.

Throw the stone! And give her child the streets to roam.

Throw the stone! And make the child grow up with the self same shame.

Throw the stone! Leave the child without a home.

Throw the stone! At your hearts' hypocrisy.

Throw the stone! At your supposed holiness.

Throw the stone! At the applause of your sinful hearts.

Throw the stone also at the man who shares her shame.

    

My Life:

Water engulfs me

Soft encompassing wetness

Sound vanished calm

Water bears away

Thoughts turn to life absolute

Refreshing feelings

Rise up and stand tall

With eyes seeing creation

Resolve not to lose

Determined go

Forward with woes departed

Life’s novel approach

Problems forgotten

Greet all with gusto and smiles

Leave agonies all

WINGS IN THE WIND.

    Angel, Angel

Wings in the wind

My spirit will guide you

away from sin

Always remember the times when

I said that i'd see you

somewhere again

    Angel, Angel

With your wings in the wind

~^~

 

~^~

 

~^~

TIGERS

by Charlie Messemer

In it's youth thought is driven by something inside itself;

As it ages it begins to look outside itself,

at the world, for it's direction.

The problem is the world can be hijacked by metallicity.

Since I am anti-gravity and anti-time,

my thought holds on to it's inside.

What's inside? a bunch of tigers -

set the tigers free and let the rooster crow!

Tigers pack a boat straight out of the mind

headed for the new world;

they leave behind old t-shirts and train tracks.

A rocket launches and singing tigers sway their heads outside.

At the edge of their height a patrolling eagle is alerted;

prepared tigers fire a needle at the eagle and he falls from the sky

like a toasted chocolate and marshmallow pop-tart.

As the tigers escape the barrier

hearts everywhere begin to burst with love.

Those who misguidedly seek comfort in the opposite of the tigers

dive for cover

and the tigers spread out over the newly glittering wilderness.

SUFFICIENT GRACE

RHONDA LOLITA JACKSON

Sufficient grace? Oh but how

Is God's grace sufficient for me?

Right here? Right now?

When everything is in such a disarray

So tossed! So torn!

With the way the world is today

Too many tragedies to be mourned.

But to each of us God has given a sufficient measure

Because our lives He does continually treasure.

So waking up this morning was an example of God's grace

Being able to get out of bed

Regardless of the problems that I must face.

My eyes are opened and I can see

My hands, my feet, my legs

They all work It has to be

Because of the wondrous grace of God

This is how

God's grace is sufficient for me

Right here! Right now!

 

" The Highland Heart"     
by M.W. McDermott

What lies in the Highland heart?

That song or poem turns to Art.

A beast so grand, in shape and form.

Man and beast in this are one,

They share the Heart of the Highlands.

The blood runs strong, no matter where.

What's hidden in the Highland heart?

That lends its skills to science and art?

In dance and rhyme from now through time.

The pounding of the Highland heart.

What vision is thus perceived?

To keep Man and Beast across the Seas,

Ever that which they were...

In culture and tradition,

Always of Highland heart,

Of Man and Beast, a breed apart.

I give you pearls of wisdom

you toss them into the sea

You are my treasure, my jewel

a gem for all to see

You are a piece of silver that tarnishes when ignored

the reason for constant polishing you so much abhor

The greater the resistance, the deeper the shine

a diamond reflecting a gleam so bright it blinds the eye

Precious gems increase in value

That's why I am so rough, you see,

keeping your brilliance pure and true

Tis' better than my treasure lying on the bottom of the sea.

Deborah Smith

~&~

 

~&~

Katia HACENE
James W. Rapp

~&~

Jonathan Henderson

~^~

~^~

         

~^~

LJ HOLMAN

~^~  

~^~

  Meg Frederich
 

 

~^~

Angel Berrios
       

~^~

 

~^~

Gillette

~^~

dianna  crystal
         

~^~

  Lindsay

~^~

brrahim Khatib
Zack Columbus
                 

~^~

The pain is clear and obtuse, the forms are ever-changing creatures. I gaze at the dreamy pit of lost empties, gazing into the shadow. For gracious is the burning of ten stream, as she cries to the waving misfits. Soulful dance does the catching crow crow call, and pull from the earth the stray blade. In the emptiness does she linger, ever hiding her path. The crashing at the bottom awakes her mind, and the blue draws at the bottom of the dawn. If a call from the being wasn't enough of a misfit earthshake. Stemming the vapours are, cursed with the shapes upon them. Effortless pools of obscure latitude, reach for the firm gravity. Her snapping voice is clutched, she struggles to no avail. Peace seems further from the kissing moon with light. Oh hell and fury to take to the belly of fire to her breast. Hope does seem to fall under the yoke of pain. Will evil gain its noose, or peace reign. Long and drawn is the the answer which many men quibble and bleed.

benjamin grainger 

I am headed out, almost gone

Things are moving on

I'm going to achieve my goals

I'm looking for a place

I'm searching for a face

That will help do what I'm told

Not all is said or done

Still time to have some fun

With my work my friends and school today

Except when things are getting tough

And Life's a little rough

That's when it seems to all come down

And then I feel the pain

It feels like lightening in the rain

I feel so stressed with everything

So I have to sit and rest

And only hope just for the best

And maybe life will have a happy end

But until then I can say

It will all be great some day

For now I just have to wait!

Song of the Storm

as i sit inside my house

and look out of my window

i see the rain fall upon the ground

and try to catch the shadow

as the last vestiges of the sun

sink behind the darkened clouds

this is a thunderstorm

that will do God proud

the steady drum of rain

on the room of my little home

makes me feel less by myself

less like i'm all alone

the thunder creates a crescendo

of beauteous melodies

and the lightning lights up

the rain-drenched trees

as i retire from my perch

near the window on my door

i turn right around

and begin to watch once more

i want to swim in the rain

and sing with the thunder's melody

i want to dance with the lightning

it doesn't frighten me

so i leave my safe haven

and enter into the storm

don't think i've never done this before

for me it is the norm

after bone-soaking moments

i've finished the singing with the rain

and i climb the stairs to my room

and can't wait for a storm again

People tell me to do things

things I don’t want to do

they will hand me a cigarette and I think of you

I think of what you told me and how it was so wrong

you tried to tell my brother, but its too late he’s gone

I remembered his funeral and how everyone cried so much

what I would do for one last hug or just to feel his touch

then I remember the cigarette and drop it on the street

I say no way and walk on home staring at my feet.

As The Clock Ticks
By: Stacey Renee Hodgins

As the clock ticks, time goes by.

Minutes, hours, days, nights and eventually

Years pass by in a matter of seconds.

The time passes so slow, but yet people and things

Change, as well as they grow,

So quickly.

I have waited for the first sixteen years of my life to

Come for what seemed like forever.

Now, almost eighteen years have passed. 

What happened to the last two?

Where did they go and where was I?

As the clock ticks and the hands of time

turn, I have seen so many things occur. And yet

Have many more to see.  The clock still

Ticks, but it ticks to a much different clock.  The

Clock that is timed by the

“real world.”

This is the clock of realization.

 

SAME DIFFERENCE

                  By:  Gene Miller

I am Christian I am Muslim

I seek happiness and peace

I am Jew I am Hindu

I seek religious freedom

I am Black I am White

I seek love and respect

I am Asian I am Native American

I want health for my family

I am Rich I am poor

I seek success for my family

I am Man I am Woman

I seek to be compensated for my work

I am educated I am illiterate

I dream of a better world

I am different I am the same 

Education to understanding

Understanding to compassion

People for people

Hand in hand

Is Age Just a Number?

As we slowly decay on our journey to death,

To the time when we take our last mortal breath,

There's one myth we preserve in our saying that age

Is just one little number on our lives' splendid stage.

I'll agree with you, buddy, but to one certain point,

As I feel its advance in my body's each joint

It's a number all right but a number of what?

It's the number to count our coming to naught.

It's the number of wrinkles around your eyes,

It's the number of groans and tired old sighs,

It's the number of creaks as you walk up the stairs,

It's the number of backaches that you have to bear,

It's the number of layers of fat 'round your waist

It's the number of years that you must remain chaste,

Cause no woman will cast her eye's sensuous dart,

At the fat bald senile and dirty old f**t...

It's the number of hairs you find in your sink,

It's the number of age spots the color of ink,

It's the number of teeth that fall out of your gums,

It's the number of friends who are also old bums

Just like you with pink wattles underneath their chins

And a number of ugly, and toothless old grins,

It's the number of jobs you don't qualify for

Since because of your age they will hire you no more...

It's the number of salesmen that call you at home,

With that cemetery plot that they want you to own,

But the saddest of all in this grisly age math,

As we scuttle along on our journey to death

Is the number most painful to me and to you:

It's the number of dreams that just didn't come true.

It's the number of countries we visited not,

It's the number of women that left us to rot,

It's the number of dollars that we didn't earn,

It's the number of thingies for which we did yearn,

But we couldn't obtain them although we tried,

So we simply gave up and got old and then died.

Yes it's true that by numbers we our age count

But for losers who age, greater is that amount.

Polka Champion, Anchorage Alaska, 1963

He could dance them all under the table.

Every year on the Fourth of July

they had a big picnic and the whole neighborhood would come.

After a while the music would start

with Grandpa leading on the accordion.

Then he’d start the phonograph and would play his 78s.

The polka dancing would last until late at night.

I can see the dancers now the way he told it.

I can see him whirl my Grandma Lillie around the yard.

A polka contest and Grandpa won the polka championship

every year in Anchorage Alaska.

I can see it now the way he told the story.

And when everybody was too tired to dance

he keep playing the accordion.

It’s funny how the mind can deceive us.

Like a good reporter I check my facts

and learn from my mother that there was no such thing.

My Grandpa never danced.

My aunt ­ who would have been there ­

doesn’t remember it either.

Mom says she doesn’t even remember seeing him playing the accordion.

But I do remember that and so does my dad.

And so does my aunt, who was there.

Even after he left Alaska he played

until his hands got so arthritic he couldn’t push the yellowed buttons.

I know that part is true because I saw it.

I went to visit mom and dad when they came home after his funeral

and there it was on the kitchen table --

next to the old wallpaper book photo album ­

Grandpa’s accordion

It’s not like one of Grandpa’s stories

or my ghost dancers.

It’s real.

The Skater

As I sat in the huge arena all covered up in wraps

The crowd became so silent as someone lowered the lamps,

The orchestra played a crescendo as the spotlight shown so bright

There in the midst was a Girl, she skated and danced that night

She careened to the left and to the right, then skated into a spin

She twirled around so quickly it made her look quite thin

She stopped, then skated to the edge, leaped into a backward flip

While landing on one foot, she skated into a very fancy dip

The crowd just roared and clapped their hands, blew kisses in the air

She seemed to glide around the ice with dignity and flair

Excitement seemed to abound when she leaped and draped her arms

Into an arch so perfect with gracefulness and charm

Up from their seats the crowd arose, quite excited and loud

Applauding the spirit with which she danced, also her moves so proud

Through the air the Roses sailed, then landed on the ice

Picked up with love from the Graceful Girl, who curtsied not once, but twice

>^< IN THE LIGHT OF THE SETTING SUN >^<

--> As the day becomes night once more, I look at the colors of the setting sun. Though alone, it is still a sight that will remain a treasured memory forever. But as much as I enjoy memories, it can never replace the moment when it happened. Sunsets are far different from love. You can take a sunset for granted and it will be there tomorrow and the days that follow. This is not true with love. When you take love for granted, you are setting your own trap. The sun does not care if it is seen or not, but love will fall apart if not cared for. Though love and the sunsets are different, they also are the same in some ways. Love is a beautiful thing that is best shared with someone as is the sunset. But the truest, deepest similarity is that the memory of love will never replace that moment of existence. I feel a tear roll down my cheek, and I know not if it is brought from the radiance of the setting sun or by the memories of our love. Both have a place in my heart. I only wish !

that one day I could wake up, and with the sun, our love would rise again. It may be a foolish dream, but when you've known a love so great that it can be compared to a sunset, then who's to define what dream is foolish?

Bee

I too smell nectar.

So while you work to gather,

I will wait and see.

I Am What I Am

A child of fighting people

The blood of a misunderstood race

Belonging to many

Half me, half someone else

A product of a world filled with hatred

Strengthened from many

Problems I’ve overcome

And some I haven’t

A daughter of two strangely different people

Whose names are strong

I come from the swing my grandpa built

From the big back yard with a garden

Those of which I once had happy times

As a child

I am not my father

I cannot ignore problems

And hope they go away

I would not look down on people because

Of their race

I am not judgmental

I am not my mother

I am not loud like her

I am not as open as her

I am not as strong as her

I am new

A variety of different things

Part of me hungry for understanding

And contentment

The other not caring

Tear a path to my soul

Scatter the worries

Try to solve the problems

Bury the sadness

I don’t think it will stop me

It will not hurt me

I will be what I am

  

I AM WHAT I AM
Jessica Torres 

i am what i am, a child of crazy females

the blood of brown skin, half tan half brown

a product of Incan Warriors and Spanish Grounds

a daughter of Latino Immigrants,

whose names are strongly known in spanish

i live american culture with my mexican traditions

I am more my father, who is greedy and mean

i do not settle for enough i know more is better

I am less my mother, who is gentle and has a strong heart,

always wanting to know what gets around

I am new, part of what makes a melting pot melt

part of being foolish, but knowing when to turn wise

Tear a path through my background, passing the children fetching water

the Mexicana's sweeping dirt, through Jalisco and Colima,

breaking through beautiful beaches, oceans and sand,

who's ancestors ruled about

It will never frighten me,

I will always stand brown and proud

It will never be forgotten

I am What I am

I am what I am

A child of over protective brothers

The blood of the Hispanic race

Belonging to housewife chores but city wise

A product of difficult times

I never went through

Sadness, I never felt

A daughter of immigrant

And Mexican flesh

Whose names brighten my day

I am not my father

I cannot be angry at the whole world

Without a reason

I am not from a city

With only two houses in it

I am not my mother

I cannot be a top-notch

Cook like her

I cannot be as patient as she is

I am new to the world

I have much to learn,

So my parents say

Nothing will ever stop me

It will give me more strength

To carry on

I will not be afraid

Tear a path through my life

Scatter the beans in the pot

And make the chile in the molcahete

Everything I am

 Will never stop me because it’s

Just who I am

A Nursing Career

         By steven shaw

         A nursing career is not years ­ it’s moments

Moments that turn into a lifetime of fulfillment

Moments when…

   your eyes meet a dying trauma victim ­ the moment that

     conveys courage ­ hope ­ serenity -  peace ­ love and compassion

The moment you touch a frightened child and sooth their tears and ease

    The fears of pain

Moments when you hold an elderly patient’s hand and listen patiently to their life story

         Telling you about their love and need for care ­ and yes

The loneliness

The moment you are too tired to care ­ yet you force a kind smile and answer the

Call lights graciously

  Moments when hate and anger roll across you like thick fog

Moments that turn into eternity as a coding patient gasps for breath and you

feverishly try to hook up Oxygen

Moments so tender ­ tears well up in your eyes when you think about them

Moments of despair and anguish ­ throbbing pain ­ biting fatigue

Moments where the flood gate of tears never seems to stop and

Times so joyous that laughter melts into tears like pristine snow

cascading off a wall of ice

Moments passing too quickly into years and years into a life time

But the moments that last forever are the moments you touch some ones heart with

Love - Kindness

Caring and Compassion

The moment you know..., you make a difference

       Doubt, fear, disappear.

       Unmarked path, perfectly clear....

       putting forth the foot.

Woodheart