Judith Ann Levison

Lemonade

I continue my embroidery
Of a butterfly upon lace-leaf greens
Simple enough to sew blind,
Then in nerves you ask
Will I 'bury' you and we laugh.

You tap your frosted glass,
Waiting for my years to entwine
Yours like small, yellow
Roses trapped through a fence.

But, aloneness is a treasure.
That can feign affection,
Unwrap the in and out weave
Of love's uneven stitchery,
Of eyes that see roses bouncing
Yes, no, in the breeze.

I sip the lemonade,
It is cruel I know,
That money plays a part
And roses turn to rot.
Embroidery has a fierce needle,
To calm any emotion down,
And I can do it blind.

{Poem by Judith Ann Levison}

Bobby Geans

The Wings of A Swan

She is spotlight glamour, in her youth.
Her body is a swivel.
Her arms are the wings of a swan.
She is gracefully swirling and swaying.
Her long black hair is flying away.
Is she tiptoeing on hot coals of fire?
I have never seen such class.


God's Coloring Book

Somewhere in the hills of Virginia,
Just off some old two lane.

We could hear the distant rumbling,
Of an old freight train.

We kissed beneath a dogwood tree,
Where only the creatures of nature might see.

A mild wind blows,
While a yellow butterfly
Is kissing a red rose.

Just beyond a sunny slope,

Were the sound of murmuring brooks...
Virginia is one of God's coloring books.


If I Were A Kitten

If I were your kitten,
A cute little ball of fur.
I would sleep upon your pillow
And purr and purr.

On wintry nights,
You would receive a treat.

I would sleep at the foot of the bed,
And warm your little feet.

I would purr and purr,
To the rhythm of your heart beat.
And purr and purr until you fell asleep.

{Poetry by Bobby Geans}

Tom Wilson

Stinging in the Rain

I walked in the rain
Poesy on my brain
Out to pick some verse
Profound yet terse
But in my poetree was a beehive
I'm lucky to be alive
I was stung so many times
I suffer for my rhymes.

{Poem by Tom Wilson}

Jonathan C. Holeman

Quotidian Year

Summer's shade fades away, to a dreary fall of gloom.
Within the thrall of Autumn's call, snowflakes block the moon.
Honey bees make their rounds, in springtime flowers bloom.
A gentle Ebb into the light,
celebrate an ordinary sanguine life.

{Poem by Jonathan C. Holeman}

Henry Sosnowski

Life Force

Toes tangled
hair too
lost in each other
like sun fed moon
all light
all reflection
all same.
Tide runs
fear ebbs
washed out
to sea.
Tranquility
covers us
in salty fluids
of our own making.

{Poem by Henry Sosnowski, www.henrysosnowski.com.}

kalifornia

Aim Low

destitute, abandoned and scared no more time for crying I share my gifts amongst the world all the while I'm dying my body mind and soul they wither and they crumble I sit alone in blood soaked clothes hearing voices as I mumble I try to pray but can't form words so I carve my prayer into my arm with a blade blood drooling down the stairs my prayer's complete my prayer is carved I seal it with a kiss with blood soaked lips I hit my smoke and ash into my piss It's below me mixed with blood I crack a smile my prayer is answered and I'ts this to be here bleeding on these stairs aim low you'll never miss

{Poem by kalifornia}

Courtney Rhoades

Snow

The slowly falling snow
adds a blanket of freshness
hiding the long forgotten grave
a single flower
long since past its prime
across the still young grave
no headstone carved
not even a passing glance
alone she lays beneath the ground
never to see the time
the first snowfall of the year.


Music

Time passes slowly
When your all but forgotten
Hide behind the mask of years
Intoxicating love is reduced
The hazing clouds of sweet suffice
Gone.
Open your eyes
In this nightmare known as life
Turn away
Friends turn to enemies
Sick of lies
Sick of hate
Lie down in your fears
Surround yourself in that hate
Turn off thought, turn off sight
Sink down slowly
Enclose yourself, withdraw
Into the music

{Poetry by Courtney Rhoades}

Ron Koppelberger

What’s Given

Convening beasts in sweetwater paths of evening twilight,
Motley in array and design, by legged thirst and raging
Winds, by the drooping abeyance of indigo
Fray and communion in blessed union, in sure
Precious divinity, the wild oasis in sated
Measures of happenstance and expectant
Encouragements of what’s given
By heaven and earth.

{Poem by Ron Koppelberger, will806095@bellsouth.net}

Malyssa Christman

The Cruelty of the Mind

Vultures fly around my head,
Ready to pick
At my every thought,
Bit
By
Bit.
Incessant things that tear away my sanity
I beg them to stop,
I'm on my knees
Let me be!
Please,
Please.
Thoughts keep rushing,
Your face flashes across my mind
Like a slideshow
A million miles an hour
Laughing, crying, singing, smiling
Where have you gone?
Vultures tear,
At my chest
Picking out my heart
Bit
By
Bit.


Keep Me Here

Strands of black lay softly on the pillow
Melting into blonde
Whispers brush past my ear
Singing me to sleep
Hands like ivy entwine together
Lost in the dark
Lost in your arms
The storm stops at the door
Nothing can harm us now
Miles from those who know our names
We don't bother looking back
Far from my house
I'm right at home
Keep me here
This is heaven.

{Poetry by Malyssa Christman}

Kyle Paul

nothing

he walks through the world of blank
there is no sense he will ever make
he only drifts from place to place
a blank expression upon his face
this man of nowhere
this fool of nobody
he sleeps alone
he lacks a home
only walking, walking
in his land of nothing
but this man has hope indeed
all he must do
is the deed
it is this deed
that will help to lead
the nowhere man
with all his plans
into the magical lands of ni
for it is in these lands
that our nowhere man
will find that he is free

{Poem by Kyle Paul}

Danielle Clark-Williams

Albert De'Salvo

Any other person would have walked away,
But I admire your body, helpless and fragile.
You don't mind, do you? NO, of course you don't.
I've always noticed your eyes are at their

Best when you're scared-they're fuller,
more vibrant. I blocked out your screams
and cries for help; no one came to help me
when I was suffering, or when I asked for pity.

Self-inflicted, loved-deprived, I confess.
Holding it in only intensifies my hunger to hurt.
The more you resist, the more excited I got.
Twisted thoughts full my head.

Knowing I've imprinted fear in you seems
to make this gathering worthwhile. But as
I watch you take your last breath,
I must confess.

{Poem by Danielle Clark-Williams}

Jacquelyn Stenman

A Song

The clink of piano keys
And guitar strum
Resonate in my ears, causing goose bumps to crawl over my skin.
My heart beats along with the drum.
Every word sung,
Every note struck,
Is like a flower blooming,
My sorrows left behind for another time.
If only the world could be solved so simply.
A small song played,
And the wars raging would end,
The hungry would cease to be hungry.
All of humanity would stop and just listen.
Even the wind would stop blowing,
The rivers stop flowing,
And the whole world would be at a stand-still.
The only thing that would exist would be the song.

{Poem by Jacquelyn Stenman}

Shelby L. Bryant

Vinemaker

By the cedar trees near the sea
Minerva pressed her bosom to the rock
And cajoled forth a jasmined fountain, sweet
    and pure known as "The Vinemaker."
A cacophony of laughing sound from the fountain
    pervades the shores.
A calendo forms from the black crows calls.
The waters are vicariously routed down the grey
    slopes that produce
The black grapes and wine which
Fuel the cups of Roman concubines.

{Poem by Shelby L. Bryant}

Help Support a Good Cause

Empty Shoes: Poems on the Hungry and the Homeless, edited by Patrick T. Randolph and his wife, is a collection of 151 poems by 80 different poets on the theme of the hungry and the homeless. Many of the poets have either been homeless or worked with the homeless. ALL proceeds from this book are going to benefit food pantries and homeless shelters across the U.S. My wife and I have already done readings in both Florida and Wisconsin. The proceeds from books sold at those events have gone directly back to the community or area in which the readings were done.

Available for purchase at: http://www.amazon.com/Empty-Shoes-Poems-Hungry-Homeless/dp/144951779X/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1265637773&sr=8-1

Elizabeth De Sa

Refraction

Her eyes are two panes of cracked glass,
Distorting reality,
Scorching reality, into
Withered skeletons of discrete truth.
The landscape is rich, an enigma of mystery.
And the panes refract and blind and magnify.
And this she believes.

{Poem by Elizabeth De Sa}

Peter Lattu

cinnamon

an elephant marches
across the page
a man
atop his back
a procession
people marching
banners waving
saris billowing
headed to the temple
bringing cinnamon
harvested
from the new crop
an offering
to their gods
under cloudy skies

{Poem by Peter Lattu}

Holly Day

Until It Breaks

there are some places you
walk to without
watching you and things
that shouldn’t hurt do why
never listen when I
scream inside quiet
places


Enigma

I don’t want you to know me.
I want to remain
an enigma.
Familiarity only brings
contempt
and children.
I want neither.

{Poetry by Holly Day}

Patrick T. Randolph

Fisherman

Eternal
Silhouette
Against the sky.


Tiny Musicians

Ants’ feet sing
Songs on soil—
Earth’s grin listens.


True Sage

Grandma’s grin,
She watches,
Listens with eyes.


Ground of Being

I am my
Ancestors’
Dreams—incarnate!

A breath poem is a strict, meditative syllabic poem that I have been working on for a couple years. You inhale the first three syllables, exhale the next three and inhale the first three of the last line and exhale the last syllable. The breath poem is a dance of the psychological with the physical elements of the human condition.

{Poetry by Patrick T. Randolph}

Ray Gallucci

Roman Rumination

I went to visit ancient Rome,
But found it never fell.
Its buildings may seem crumbled stone,
But it's alive and well.

Its mighty temples still exist
Though in an altered form.
Its rings of gold and amethyst
Still fingers rich adorn.

For in the City Vatican
The emperor still reigns,
Descended from Octavian,
Worldwide now his domains.

The trappings of pomposity
Are fully on display
To glorify antiquity
The Roman Catholic way.

Upon the Hill Capitoline
Sat Caesar on his throne
Until the rule of Constantine,
Who eastward looked to home.

Successor of St. Peter took
The reigns of Rome in West.
He found when its foundations shook
Himself sole ruler left.

The statues of the Roman gods
Were chiseled into saints,
And temples where the Vestals trod
No more would pagans taint.

Now priests still Roman togas wear
(But claim they're "sacred robes").
And Pope is carried in a chair
While incense burns in globes.

So what has changed from Rome
That Romulus and Remus deigned?
An emperor still sits upon a throne
And holds the chains.

But visitors like me are awed
By Rome's reputed ruins,
Until the Tiber's banks I cross
Where Rome Eternal looms.

{Poem by Ray Gallucci}

Roger Singer

Without

I am folded, pressed into corners,
neatly stacked in the suitcase of her
thoughts.
My words are like letters, spelling me out,
signing with care who I am;
exposed as if naked.
The painting of me crackles, my colors
once passionate red have drained to
the gray of time.
Her fear, the wall of her heart,
profited in alone, welcoming the without
others sharply feel as an end.
I see her walking in the city,
content in her without.

{Poem by Roger Singer}

Carly Anderson

1 December 2009
Cabrillo College, Aptos, CA
Author Darryl Babe Wilson Speaks

“Every time I come here, it’s a full moon. I don’t know how that works.” Darryl Babe Wilson, author of the book The Morning the Sun Went Down, among others, is seated calmly in front of a packed fluorescent-tinted classroom with many eyes peering at him, willing him to speak again. What comes next? His appearance is a study in experience; short wiry black hair, touched with grey like an aged Scottish terrier and silver above the ears. His eyebrows are a curious mix of silver and black, tapering into thin creases on the end of his eyes. His eyes are unavoidable, though they gaze mostly to the right side of the classroom where I am sitting slightly towards his gaze. From this vantage point, his cheekbones cut an angle sharp enough to almost pierce the leathered skin that protects them. Despite the constant inflation and deflation of dialysis, a strong octagonal-shaped chin remains. It is emphasized by the evenness of color: a perfect shade of lightly roasted coffee, in a glass, with the sun shining through it. “Good evening, everybody.” There is a murmured reply, to which he replies with humor, “Louder, please.” He begins to speak and takes his glasses off and the gaze lands upon me, as compelling as if a half-moon in eclipse could gaze; its surrounding sky a subtle, quiet white. His conversation is punctuated with singing phrases that recall the highly quotable lines of his writing. In regard to the Universe, Wilson says, “If we get to be friends with it, it’ll talk with us.” The simplicity of his words but their expansive meaning leaves me in wonder. He deals with the confusion of scientific progress and Native American religion as simply as he deals with the Universe: “I looked science in the eye. I looked science in the heart. I looked at science in a dream. And I realized science does not have all the answers to any thing, at any time.” Strange silence follows, but it is a meditative silence. Eventually somebody asks the question that seems always in the back of our society’s collective mind: what will we do about the destruction of our earth? Wilson takes his time to think, and says, “Ancient wisdom says the Universe loves the voice of children. The Universe loves the sound of children singing, talking, playing. The children have a song in their heart. Take the children to the mountaintop. Sing with those children a love song with the mother Earth. The Universe will hear the children. The bad, the ugly, the sickness will go away. The power of the Universe will cleanse the earth again.” The flat light of the classroom throws a shadow on his face where none of the flatness remains. Instead, the light throws sfumato arrows of shadow under his cheekbones that point upwards towards his eyes. He speaks with a confidence that surprises me; his voice is louder than expected. There is an inscrutable note, a warble, as if any moment he may cry, or laugh. He looks around at the pensive faces, and advises us to “have coffee, and cry” and laughs.

{Piece by Carly Anderson}