Poetry 360

Dark indigo sky

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 18 Oct 2019 23:21:00 +0000

Everything was silent

for while. I stared

out the window,

the sky a dark indigo

and the further up I looked,

the sky was fading to black,

then the moon

bright and white.

By Henry Stinson.
Copyright 2019 by Henry G. Stinson
All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Fred

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 20 May 2009 02:10:00 +0000

Listen to me
My dear dear friend
Listen to me
For I have this to say

I need you to know
I will always be here
I will never leave you
I will never fade
I want you to do
These few things
So that you may have
A happy life
Fred...
Fred you must try
Try to forget
those who hurt you
Try to forget
those ones that broke you
Try and forget
All those bad things
Because life has not ended yet
So don't give up
You say you
"I wont love again"
You say
"I have no heart"
but if you dont give up
and you never look back
Then one day you'll see
That you do have a heart
And you can love again
Fred...
I will always be here for you
I will always protect you
I wont ever hurt you
Never ever, will I dare
So Fred...
Dont give up hope

who needs a dog?

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 20 Jun 2008 14:53:00 +0000

my carpets are stained with the muck
children bring into my life
sunshine and smudges upon my walls
painted with little finger marks trailing the banister

once golden, now brown the carpet gleams
colors of red, yellow and green grace my fridge
on a tattered piece of construction paper
stickmen tell the tale of my life

men I cannot understand steam the dirt away
while the children watch in childish fascination
plotting a new way to bring color to the world
the smallest stands on the table and pees on the cleaned floor

The world is on fire, baby

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 11 Jun 2008 00:35:00 +0000

It's time to come inside.
The smoke is thick as a deep Indian tea,
The southern sky aflame with orange and red
As you call up honey
A smattering, a glitter, in
The evening's candle light.

It's time to come inside; the
Hearth draws near and the
Air shimmers as if alive.
Too often, have I felt the love
Upon my neck, a shuttering,
Even in sooty air.

It's time. It's time for something
other than the melancholic moans of
Dissatisfaction lingering like
Smoke on a barbecue, the coals white
Hot and desirous of fat and meat
Drips into the smoldering ash.

It's time to come inside; the
World is on fire, baby.

Not Today

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 07 Jan 2008 21:12:00 +0000

5 am. Light breeds optimism. New day. Changes are eminent.

Alarm shrieks the reality of responsibility. Snooze always a possibility.

Purring friend delights in your presence. Warming acceptance.

So many possibilities to make the day great.

Noise fills the room. Unnotable occurrences broadcasted by smiling, lineless faces. Murder, robbery, celebrity this, celebrity that, flood, death, fire, car wreck, celebrity blah, celebrity blah.

530 am. The pure smell of coffee beans invaded by Glade. Starbucks always wins.

Smiling at strangers met with blank eyes and half nods. Misanthropy sets in.

Brake lights, my kid is smarter than yours, roadkill. Coffee – cold.

700 am. Cubicle window overlooking downtown. Phillip Morris, an eyesore in my view. Suits in big chairs, smoky windows killing my hope.

When will the day begin?

Preventable Epidemic?

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 20 Jul 2007 22:36:00 +0000

Inspired by and dedicated to the Youth
(especially Adam Smith of the Unitarian Church of Norfolk,
Unitarian Universalist).

Yes, education is the remedy
   To cure the malady called ignorance;
But hatred and deep-seated bigotry
   Can build rock-hard impregnable defense
Against known facts as mighty as the sea.

So racism and fears of difference,
   And festering, phobic longtime bigotry
Surround the hater with a shield that's dense
   Enough to render vain the pounding sea
Breaking in vain against the rocks of ignorance.

Education grows vast like the ocean,
   With ideas coming in with every tide;
Facts and attitudes, even emotions
   Expand and grow, becoming deep and wide;
But bigotry arrests all growth, all motion.

Therefore, it behooves the School of Light
   To shine its beacon beams upon the youth,
And teach them to seek out the good and right,
   To explore various routes toward the truth
that makes us free to fight the righteous fight.

By William "Bill" Carroll First published in Songs, Scenes, and Sentiments, 2003. Subsequently published in The New Journal and Guide, 2003. Copyright 2002 by Bill Carroll. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Sowing Seeds to Succeed

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 09 Jul 2007 01:37:00 +0000

(The Garden Sonnet)

A serious gardener, I like to think that I
   Have faith enough to trust in Power Divine
To bring a fruitful end to most of my
   Attempts to grow a veggie, tree or vine.

Likewise, I tell myself that through my years
   Of teaching, writing, mentoring and speaking,
I have assisted person, lives, careers,
   And helped some students reach some goals worth seeking.

I plant the seed, with hope that it will grow,
   Producing fruit that's wonderful to see;
I plan with faith, and faithfully I know
   The sweetest fruit is called Sweet Charity.

The harvest that comes forth from class or sod
Is all the proof I need that there's a God.

By William "Bill" Carroll First published in The Virginian Pilot, 09/14/2003. Subsequently published in The New Journal and Guide, 2004. Copyright 2003 by Bill Carroll. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Catch On The Fly

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 20 Jun 2007 01:29:00 +0000

Full barrel up 53 north,
heading to Lake Zurich, IL,
Christian talk radio 1660
on the radio dial,
crisp winter day
sunbeams dancing down
on the pavement like midgets.
85 mph in a 65 mph zone,
just to aggravate the police,
black Chevy S10 pick up,
shows what a deviant I am
in dark colors.
Running late for a client appointment,
creating poems on a small hand held recorder
knowing there is not payment for this madness
in this little captured taped area of words.
Headlights down the highway for a legacy
into the future, day dreaming like a fool obsessed.
Working out the layout of this poem or getting my ego in place,
I will catch up with the imagery when I get back home.
This is my life, a poem in the middle of the highway.
Scampering, no one catches me when I'm speeding
like this.

Norwich

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 03 Apr 2007 19:50:00 +0000

You and I walked arm in arm through
Yawning streets-- warm evening light
Reflected off sale signs and dowsed us both.
Light like the heater I kept turning off and
You kept switching on. I pulled at your arm
Interlocked with mine.

You moved in that loose limbed way
Like unformed bones.

What is this thing the English
Have for tea? The teapot steeping, the thimble
Cups staining like teeth. From all this tea,

From all this coffee, from all these cigarettes,
There's no wonder why teeth here remind me
Of little gold pips.

Bananas

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 24 Nov 2006 20:08:00 +0000

We all need to eat the bananas
That are sitting on the counter
In the kitchen in the white bowl
With a delicate filigree of blue
Pinstripes, two of them, on the
Rim where the tips of two of them,
The bananas I mean, are jutting
Over

And starting to turn from pure yellow
To brown and yellow with a cluster
Of spots on each flat of the fruit
That tomorrow will be connected
With a fine filigree of brown lines
Linking them, and, after that,
Well everyone knows what happens,
All the fingers will be pure brown
With the hidden, soft pulp under
The skin jutting out and swollen.

Isn’t it strange how the one who
Buys the bananas eats just one
After she comes home from the
Market with a load of other things
That do not so quickly turn brown,
Even in the refrigerator, though
Putting bananas there won’t make
Any difference, and how she adroitly
Avoids the bowl, the blue one with
Pinstripes right on the counter where
Anyone can see it as he enters the
Kitchen, even for breakfast when
The lights aren’t on yet. But she

Remembers the bananas when he
Comes in, and after a few days
Begins to ask why he isn’t eating
Them, doesn’t he notice they are
Turning brown and soon will be
Too soft to eat although he says
They are best when the brown
Spots are all one, and he will eat
Them tomorrow at breakfast on
Cereal, if it isn’t too dark to see
Them, and he doesn’t maybe
Forget

By David King Copyright 2006 by David King. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Lazy Days

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 08 Nov 2006 18:01:00 +0000

Lazy days on the boardwalk;
plodding along; distended belly bouncing
as my body sways to the beat of music
drifting from open shops.

Finding a shaded spot,
I settle between permanent vendors,
melding into the backdrop,
oblivious to all who stroll by.

Elderly men and women stroll
along the wooden walkway,
a salty ocean breeze
lifting their shirts and skirts.

Triumphant yells pierce the air as a man grasps his kill
from the jaws of the claw machine;
both exhausted at the hunt and capture,
victorious he waives the flopping animal.

My unborn child lurches at the scent of pizza and fries,
so I purchase sustenance as
dogs walk their owners and
wheel chairs squeak.

Sighing contentedly, I prop my feet,
ankles resting on a vacant bench;
a pathway beneath me
for scavenging birds of the day.

A memory poem by Jennifer L. Stinson. Copyright 2006 by Jennifer L. Stinson. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

childhood

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 27 Sep 2006 20:12:00 +0000

Prison bars of childhood
against false promises
in the morning sun,
against the moon
who never warns
about the lies
the sunset tells.

By Pete Freas Copyright 2006 by Pete Freas, The Mindworm. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author. See The Mindworm's website for more of Pete's poetry.

Bus Meeting

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 04 Jun 2006 03:57:00 +0000

It could have been one day
When the salt spray blew across
The road from the boardwalk, smelling
Of creosote and taffy, or the
Wind just carried a swell from
The rolling of the sharp Atlantic,

But, waiting after her job at the Albion Hotel,
She notched her coat tighter and held
The lilac scarf more firmly about her face,
As he, stumbling at the curb in the half done
Twilight, lurched at her.

So they met in apologies and found
The loneliness in their faces like the
Emptiness of the great hotels across
The way, in the gray solitude of long
Winter nights, sparkling with indifferent
Stars that wheel in false patterns.

Perhaps they went to the boardwalk the
Next night and bought stringy sweet taffy
From the only open shop or just watched
The strings of lights blaze on the joints
Of the creosote ties bending light
Far out to ocean where the waves
Unsteadily, yet predictably, wander.

The next night, he took her salt fishing,
She wearing her best mauve
Dress, he smoking an old pipe,
And casting into the clear water out from
The boiling of the surf with sure eye
And steady arm, for a time content
With nothing. Then she talked him into
Going to the Asbury Pharmacy
For coffee and a sandwich,
And they gazed in each others' eyes,
Full of their oneness,

But they both remembered how the
Bus, warm with sticky diesel fumes,
Felt that first night while they stood
Holding the straps hand on hand
For the longest time, and how
Her fingers, pressing the hard flesh,
Left a faint dimple on his.

By David King Copyright 2006 by David King. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Grandpa's Wars

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 18 Jan 2006 23:20:00 +0000

There was no Verdun with rows on
Rows of bodies, neat as sacks in a
Coal bunker, or Battle of Jutland
With ships blazing into
The sea, entrails half exploded
And half drowned,

But only the heat of a greasy
Boiler in the pipe thin hull of a
Sub chaser hissing through the solidity
Of the near Atlantic.

There he tended
The shells, fifty caliber and
Five inch, handing them
To the gun captain in staccato bursts
As the barrels pitched or fell silent. Between
Shots, he cleared the deck by rolling the
Empty casings over the side or pitching
Them into a can by the bulkhead to save
The brass, when full lowering them bucket
By bucket into the nothingness of the
Magazine or etching the ship's name and
Dates on the side of the shells after cutting
And brazing them into ashtrays.

They patrolled from Sandy
Hook to Portland in lazy circles,
Listening to the staccato bursts of the
Marconi set and rushing from longitude
To longitude looking for invisible
Things under the surface. Once they
Saw a conning tower with a Maltese
Cross and fired until a wound of
Oil rolled on the sea. He lowered the
Shell bucket until it filled with debris
And splashed the contents on the
Deck.

The surgeon picked through
The few brass casings, still hot from
Firing, pronouncing this kidney
And that lung, finally holding upright a stingy
Pink rope he concluded was fresh entrails.

In age, after the stroke, Grandpa showed
Me the ashtray he made of those shells,
Brazing the smaller ones along the cupped
Bottom of the five inch rifle, so they
Made a convenient rest to hold pipe
Stems in, but by that time, he had forgotten
The story, so we had to help him by
Filling in the details he didn't remember,
Since the date and ship's name etched
On the brass were so thin that they
Could only be known by feeling.

By David King Copyright 2006 by David King. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Jetty Fishing

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 01 Dec 2005 21:30:00 +0000

Grandpa would fish on the
L-shaped jetty at Shark River Inlet,
On the north side where the
Rocks calmed the sea summer nights
As the moon faded out of the
Flat horizon.

He’d walk the mile of boardwalk
From Ocean Grove in the dusk
With the same chipped rod he’d wrapped
And varnished on the kitchen table,
Clamped to it the one decent piece of gear
He owned, a twenty-year old Meek reel,
With new line each spring and a small bucktail
Lure at the end of the leader, waiting

For the water to clear after a tide-rise
That rolled the water clear from tip
Of the jetty to the north tide-pool where the
Summer flounder feed in the flat sand
Just near the boulders.

He’d cast out from
The breakers and drag the line in staccato
Jerks again and again, saying nothing to
The others except Al who’d not fish but
Come with pipe tobacco and a dry match.
If there was no action in a half-hour or so,
He’d add a piece of pork rind usually
Used for the blues earlier in the season
And swear it’d draw em like laughing gulls
Chatter at the shadow of Venus
Reflected on the sea’s inconstant surface.

Once, in a low tide of spring,
When the foot of the jetty was dry and
Open, he took me walking across the sand
Ripples and troughs where salt water still
Pooled, and showed me spots where,
In such-and-such a year he’d hooked
A flounder, always remembering the exact
Conditions of tide and weather and
How the fish had fought, he following
Its capture line back to the jetty leaving
A trail of confused foot prints in curves
And swells across the untouched sand.

Then we’d walk back the jetty, and
He’d show me the spots from there,
Pointing to each as if it was
The one sure thing in the world, even
When hidden below the savagery
Of the tide pulled by a pale moon.
By David King Copyright 2005 by David King. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Midlife Chrysalis

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 07 Oct 2005 11:39:00 +0000

When you were just a babe

(you still are, but you know what I mean)
lying around in a crib
the mobile over your head
was like a fan,
going around and around,
about as exciting as life got those days.
You got a little older
And to fan changed meaning.
You ran around in the yard
Flailing your arms over your head
You were “fanning” around.
Life was sweet
Before long,
Boys had caught your eye
And a fan was something
Used to dry that nail polish.
Had to keep yourself looking good
(what’s that you say . . . still doing nails huh?)
Next stage of a fan-
Music groupie
Hard core
Dyed in the wool
Music groupie,
Be it Elvis,
Dave of the Monkies
Or Manilow…
Pretty soon
College came
Hot dorms
No air in sight
You came to naturally
Dry your hair
And you bought a fan.
That helped some.
Next stage in life
You became a wife
You got a house
And a spouse
Mantel there with fireplace
Now your fan had a different face
One of floral décor…
But oh, there’s more…
Now fan means
To make a dash
And grab a magazine
For hot flash
means fan like crazy.
Fan away Miz Daisy…
And get the oxygen tank

There’s a boa ‘round her neck.

Is it constricting?

Can she get air?

Get an ambulance

We’re all a nervous wreck.

She’s passing out-

Does anybody care?

What’s that you say?

“There’s six snakes now-

all red-“ Great day-

Save us all somehow!

Train those snakes

Don’t make ‘em too tight

Look, now some are purple

Oh what a fright.

Loosen that thing

Drape it on your chest

Let it just swing

Yeah, that feels the best.

Take a deep breath

Now exhale- ahhhh.

Isn’t that better?

Yeah, better by far.

‘Cause word was
that like me…
she walked on the wild side
This former PTA mom
The one who always baked cookies
Kept everything all neat and clean
Kept her feelings on the inside.
Must have been that midlife thing
The one that had her buy a Mustang
A convertible, red to be exact,
It matched her hat…
Such change her age did bring…
You’d see her coming
Purple boa stretched out in the wind
Hat beside her on the seat
Usually with a red hat friend
Both of them smiling… sunning…
And maybe just to be wild
A pair of dice hanging down
In utter rebellion against good taste
Besides at fifty, she dared anyone
To denounce that smile…
Especially on the romance aisle
We like those books
Both her and me…
One day I felt a lust for lust
And found a lookout I could trust.
No one around the romance aisle
‘twas there a frown replaced my smile
When wandered my friend from lookout post
‘Twas her betrayal that hurt the most.
Just to browse through one or two
Or three or four
Heck, before I knew it
It was even more.
And my friend back there
With the eagle eye
Had seen some shoes
She had to try
To my dismay,
My pedestal got lowered a bit
When I turned around
I had a fit.
“Reverend Thomas,” I stuttered
as my face turned red.
I closed the tome of bath and bed.
He had the tact and blessed grace
To help a woman save her face.
“Comparison shopping today I see,”
then he looked and laughed at me.
“The subtle ones are over there,”
with sweeping hand, he pointed where.
“My wife reads ‘em every one.”
My face glowing like the sun.
Then came friend with shoes in hand
Ready for the checkout stand
I smirked at her with hint of malice
“Just don’t work at Buckingham Palace.”
Her face turned red
As the hat on my head
But I shook it off instead
Cause I’m
Living life to the brim,
I’m full of spunk and desire.
My red hat runneth over
Ready to set the world on fire
Hobbies to try, places to go
Classes to take
New folks to know.
My nest is empty
My mind is not
A busy calendar
Is what I have got.
Fill it to the brim with enthusiasm,
fill it to the brim with fun,
fill it to the brim with compassion,
Until my days are done…
And when I die,
please don’t wear black
Put some purple on your back…
Play some jazz
Eat some cake
Don’t just cry
For heaven’s sake.
Or better yet
You can wear red
To celebrate my life instead.
Just like I’d wear on girl’s night out…
When I’d even circled the date
Making sure he wouldn’t forget…
He did anyway.
“It’s girls’ night,” I laughed
as I put on my feather boa
adjusted my hat – fixed my face,
pushed my worries away…
“A frozen dinner’s in the fridge.
I won’t be home ‘til late.”
He glanced up from the classifieds
And then had this to say…
“You go charge your battery dear.
Have fun with your friends.
let down your hair and chill a while,
Go enjoy your stay…”
“I’ll stay home with Sara Lee.
She makes a mean cheesecake.
Go off in that bright red hat
And celebrate the day.”
He knows when I come back home
With batteries all charged up
The Energizer Bunny’s back
And sometimes wants to play…
After Girls’ Night Out.
So wouldn’t you say…
That fifty is the new thirty
Sounds good to me
I’m just getting my second wind
How about you?
Fifty is the new thirty
That makes sixty become forty
And seventy is fifty girlfriend…
Do you agree too?
So look out life, here we come
A force to be reckoned with
Each and every one
And our numbers aren’t few.
No fading into the woodwork for us
Invisible we are not
Gaining the attention
To which we are due…
How about you?
Cause you’re One Hot Mama-
There’s a song by that name

You’ve heard it before

But ain’t it true

You’re one hot mama.

Reading romance books

You brought home from the store

It stokes your fire

You’re one hot mama.

Wearing shells when it’s cold

Almost nothing when it’s not

Yeah ain’t it true

You’re one hot mama.

Who cares if you’ve got lines

Yeah maybe one or two

But what lies beneath

Is one hot mama

who remembers periods
When they weren’t just
Something at the end of a sentence,
Punctuation like a dot or a dash-
Now my life is punctuated
By fanning myself from a hot flash.
In younger days, we studied
Dangling participles and split infinitives,
Now there’s something quite definitive
About my taste-
It’s for dangling earrings and banana splits
And I don’t give a rip if it’s good for my shape.
The bigger the fish…
The bigger the SPLASH!

By Phyl Johnson Copyright 2005 by Phyl Johnson. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Not Merely Friends

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 12 Sep 2005 08:01:00 +0000

Not Merely Friends
but Lovers Past
with feelings still uncertain

And when we meet
the kisses warm
but only on the cheek

The arms embrace
in tender touch
strange and yet familiar

The caring real
the wishes warm
but passion in restraint

Somehow so strange
to care for you
Unnatural not to love

By Robert E. Downing Copyright 2005 by Robert E. Downing. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Be Gentle

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 28 Jun 2005 02:54:00 +0000

Poet Eddie Dowe reads his work at the Rally for Social Justice held in Yorktown on Saturday, 25 June 2005.

PLEASE NOTE: This photograph is Copyright (c) 2005 by Cathy Dixson and is used here by permission. This photograph may not be used further without the written permission of Cathy Dixson. All rights reserved.

Across this field their words
leap like suicides from their lips
and rise above them like knives
but be gentle

Across this field
in this same blue air we breathe
they plan our murder
but be gentle

Across this field
where our shadows are the same
beautiful and black
be gentle

Across this field
as the dark birds gather
in their arms let our arms
cradle children
so be gentle

Across this field
today is not tomorrow
and even though yesterday
wears the black dress of a widow
be gentle

Across this field
of bodies and blood
bones and ghosts
they are afraid of the graves between us
so be gentle

Across this field
drop the stones to the grass
and open the wide prayer of your arms
to call their names
and be gentle

Across this field
where love lurks like a thief
where hope bleeds in its cage
here where we gather with the dead
be gentle

Across this field
I have seen them smile
and they have given birth
and their kness have touched this warm earth
be gentle

Across this field
you can hear them calling
calling for help
kiss them when they arrive

By Eddie Dowe Read at the Yorktown Rally for Social Justice, June 25, 2005. Copyright 2005 by Eddie Dow. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Quintessence of Dust

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 27 Jan 2005 01:42:00 +0000

. . . lost between two infinities,
the infinitely large and the infinitely small.
- Blaise Pascal -

Among the khaki husks of last Fall's weeds
in Henry Second's Umberland a small
white flower leans in slightest zephyrs, bends
beneath the weight of but a cabbage moth,
then bobbing once again erect when free.

The chill of early evening settles on
a field beside a clear May stream about
a boisterous Saxon band emerging from
marauding raids against the Norman king’s
dominion over lands that once were theirs.

Through star-pricked deepest night, an aging fire
beside the forest’s foot protects the warmth
of slumber’s innocence while not one league
away, among the cooling ashes of
a manor house the grotesque slaughtered sleep.

The gray beginnings of the day arise
above the coughing embers’ dying glow,
while horses and dark grumbling men awake
to preparations for the violence
ancestral vengeance passed on to its kin.

Inside the great depression of a boot
beside a fire's heap, a small white bloom
lies flat among the skeletons of last
Fall's weeds where yet another flower will
tomorrow sway to merest thoughts of wind.

By Peter Freas As published at The Mindworm. Copyright 2005 by Pete Freas. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

On the canvas

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 19 Jan 2005 00:18:00 +0000

Dreams are like
white clouds spread against
the blue skies of my thought.
The rain drops fall
making me recall,
the typical smell of a
newly furnished room
and of flowers in half bloom
in the dim light
of your lies,
sitting crossed legged,
you begged.
If only I could forget and forgive
and your dreams live.
I enigmatically weighed,
the sorrows
you had given me,
and without looking
in your eyes,
I knew something would die
in you and me.

Copyright 2004-2005 by Asma Karim Mirza. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

The Stairway

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 26 Dec 2004 00:07:00 +0000

Inspired by Les Escaliers de Montmartre, Paris

Landmarks by day
Beacons of light by night
always there
Like a quiet reassurance

A succession of stairs
Like so many rites of passage
Wrought iron, stately,
Victorian, cool to the touch.

Casting light at nightfall
Making the way clear
For those who stroll
By heat of day or cool of night.

A mist lingers
Kissing the metal
Leaving its whispery trace
Of dewy wetness behind.

The whispering wind whistles through
A crack in the lamppost glass
And branches crack and pop
As a slight breeze blows

A voice is calling
Faintly, in the distance
Someone heading to the top of the stairs
Stops to listen

But sees no one
It isn’t until the journey to the top
That the voice becomes more clear
And the trip is now complete

It is a voice he has heard
All along but knew not
the source from which it came
Yet it is clear

He glances back down
The lampposts are pointing the way
Even though it is daytime and they burn not
Yet he sees someone in the mist

It is her
He hasn’t seen her in real life
Only in dreams
Sometimes faceless

Yet very real
He always saw her
Always almost reaching her
To catch a glimpse of her face

And then the subway
Or bus in his dream
Would pull away
Leaving her once again faceless.

Then came an answer
His dog bolted
Ran down those steps like crazy
Headed straight for her dog

Two needy souls
Being walked by their dogs
On a misty morning
Up a flight of steps
By some stately lamp posts

By Phyllis Johnson Copyright 2004 by Phyllis Johnson. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Being Frank With Anne

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 22 Nov 2004 21:46:00 +0000

At the request of the poet, Phyllis Johnson, "Being Frank with Anne" has been removed from Poetry 360. If you would like to read this poem, please check out Deunant Books; you can download this powerful poem from here.

Grace Church, Yorktown

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 27 Oct 2004 01:03:00 +0000

Still, colored shadows. It is not
The building that is still, but we
Who stand at twilight by the red-
Stained walls, eroded to curves,

Yet changed by the same hands
That laboriously cut and

Shaped convenient rectangles of
Marl, the leavings of unbelieving
Creatures, accumulated through
The passage, heat, and pressure of years.

The shells, once articulate, bivalve
Dissolving to blunt rock, made the walls

Sufficient to have stayed, but we have
Not the faith to keep them as they
Were placed, through the fallow years
The yard destroyed as the walls.

Blocks, though brown, are red in the
Light of certain sun, like we who shall pass.

By David King The sixth poem from Virginia Churches, a series of 8 poems on colonial churches. Copyright 2004 by David King. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

St. John’s Chuckatcrk

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 22 Oct 2004 00:16:00 +0000

Between the roads, among the trees.
Twisting in a course above the
Green scummed pond that lies,

Has lain, the centuries, the circle
Of water persists from vapor
To piercing drops that fall upon

Us who live. The faith, too, lives
In our minds as in the English
Bond that stays as it was known,

Then the only force solidity.
Six by one and ten lives thick, the
Faith considered permanent as

Clay borrowed from the river’s edge
Convenient for use and dried
In sunlight by the stalking wheat

And reflecting pond, waiting for
The faith to place each course
With faultless line and enduring love.

By David King The fifth poem from Virginia Churches, a series of 8 poems on colonial churches. Copyright 2004 by David King. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Glebe Church

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 13 Oct 2004 19:59:00 +0000

Repointed arches, one door, and the
chuff chuff of a tractor on the glebe,
not the dray of horses. To speak
with a voice more suddenly my own.

As silently as time can whippet,
swallows wicker on the evening air.
Return to brick, few remain
between directions of modernity.

Though plumb and fast, square at least
upon one corner, little is
placed where they left it, matchlocks
and steel plows against the wilderness.

Is it less now, when we have made
a monument and token for
ourselves among the spoken walls
and, redolent of singing, choir?

Once fallen, are they the less, so
laboriously as they were piled,
sunlight angled on the mortar
stippling a prayer to evening?

Is this past dead, or do we have
in it a vision of a purer
arch, completed rondel, and a
firmer door like the faith that was?

By David King The fourth poem from Virginia Churches, a series of 8 poems on colonial churches. Copyright 2004 by David King. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.