Tag Archives: Poetry

Gatsby’s Abandoned Children | I’m Jeremiah Walton. I’m 18 years old, traveling cross country, and write poetry for Gatsby’s Abandoned Children.

I’m Jeremiah Walton. I’m 18 years old, traveling cross country, and write poetry for Gatsby’s Abandoned Children.

I’m currently traveling cross country distributing my publications, and hitting every open mic and slam I can find.  I’m attempting to broaden and promote the poetic community to those who don’t necessarily appreciate / care for poetry.  Through doing this, I hope to promote creativity and creating for Self.

Busking is my primary form of income during my travels, and you may find me on a street corner screaming obscenities and visuals.

My last chapbook before traveling is Smile W/ Sparks (of a shotgun shot) from W.I.S.H. Publishing.  The ebook edition is non-profit, and available free. Donations are appreciated.

I was born Febuary 12, 1995. I began writing poetry when I was in 7th grade, but I called them “lyrics” because I was young, even more so naive, and fell into social pressure severely.  I victimized myself in scenarios I had absolutely no understanding off, and wrote Blink 182 knock offs.

I ditched calling my writing lyrics my Freshman year.  I was open about the fact I wrote poetry, and basically gave everyone who laughed the middle finger.   Sophomore year I became enveloped in writing poetry, and began participating in the local poetic community. Junior year I founded Nostrovia! Poetry, and started hitting slams and open mics frequently.

My Senior year, having a better grasp of publishing, marketing, and social media management, I founded Walking Is Still Honest Press and joined UndergroundBooks, representing them and Nostrovia! Poetry at the 2013 NYC Poetry Festival.

The Traveling Poet is another publishing project I manage.  The Traveling Poet accepts submissions from poets ages 12-25 in order to show that it only takes the right amount of effort to obtain publication, but takes bashing your skull into the brick wall of the collective voice again and again in order to be heard.

I try to fight indifference without succumbing to my own.

I try to write what I know, though I would love to write an advertisement for the sky.

I have a couple free books you can read. The newest is Smile W/ Sparks (of a shotgun shot).

If not poetry, create something else for yourself. Go skateboarding. Write graffiti. Write short stories. Paint. Do something that no one else benefits from directly.


jeremiah walton busking buffalo ny

via Gatsby’s Abandoned Children | I’m Jeremiah Walton. I’m 18 years old, traveling cross country, and write poetry for Gatsby’s Abandoned Children..


One And The Same | Catching up with Poetry on a Roll

One and the Same

\”Free verse\” poetry from the soul

I shout.
You scream
things get worse.
I don’t listen.
You don’t listen.
things could be better
I get mad.
You’re foaming at the mouth.
We are both showing off
in each other’s faces.
no one wants to back down.
Bright lights on,
our true colors on high beam.
We are one and the same
in our actions and reactions.

Copyright © 2013 Kimalee Jones

via One And The Same | Poetry on a Roll.

Aural History |Catching up with Poesy plus Polemics

Aural History

"South Street Seaport" Photo by Frank Romeo From

“South Street Seaport”
Photo by Frank Romeo

iron-rimmed wheels

    drawn by iron-shod hooves

gave a clattering cadence

    reverbing dull bells

ringing atonal peals

    along ill-masoned lanes

of Belgian block cobbles

    and dredged



bilge-pitted from urine

    of a hundred stout lads

crude ballast unshipped

for a nickel a ton

from heart-of-oak vessels

    of mercantile Brits

singing Cockney crew lingo

    with cargo commands

over heaps dropped in nets

    upon creaking tarred wharves

Schermerhorn Dutch

    gave out guttural barks

to the breaking breeze humming

    through neatly reefed yards

slung up high-crossed on masts

    overtowering docks

where a nautical polyglot

    spilled its cacophony

up and down gangplanks East

    Indiamen hove in place

with great bangs and hard crashes

    that echoed across the wide

swift running current dividing



Brooklynfrom my forty-floored glass

    looking down on the seaport

when sail-masted schooners

    or frigates would moor

all the sounds of the centuries

    rose up to reach me

transporting me back to

    that wild newborn world

of rapscallion romance

    and mean edged adventure

where men grunted glory

    for merely surviving

another new day

    all the time feeling wistful

that I had been born

    too long after my time

(Note to readers: the glass tower in the photo was the location of my office)

via Aural History | Poesy plus Polemics.

900 seagulls at a time | Welcome to a new friend: Alexandra Bodman

Fevered Crenellations

Short stories, memoirs, and thoughts to get me thinking about eventually writing a book.

Alexandra Bodman

I studied illustration and Art & Design for a few years in Chicago and have been taking the past year off to reevaluate my priorities. This fall, I plan on going back to school. I have been writing prose and poetry since I can remember, and it’s influence has been becoming more and more important in my life recently.

via 900 seagulls at a time | Fevered Crenellations.

900 seagulls at a time

On a misty morning before the sun is up or any overcast day there waits several miles from shore a haunting dark gray. Lurching like the jilted overflow of a retracting mug in a young waitress’s lovely thin-fingered hand it extends from above and it devours slowly and steadily. Beneath the waves are restless and white caps shatter into 900 seagulls at a time, producing them faster than they can fly off. Many suffer, feathers tarred, honeypot flies pushed under viscous waves. White bodies flailing become adhered, hearts beating louder than their silent submergence. Chaos of singular droplets on curling iron seas,  the lurching gray is ever moving closer much like the hours pass through days. The grayness is all pervading yet still several miles from shore, growing heavy and stagnant within and without.

via 900 seagulls at a time | Fevered Crenellations.

I will occasionally become a burrito

Sometimes late at night I lay in bed

restless haphazard blankets

switching my feet and head

sideways across the bed

legs up the wall

refuse to look at glowing screens

or anything that has numbers or hands on it

Stress does not invade my insomnia anymore

I take time to think about things like

rusty rail road tracks that continue a bit off the edge of a cliff

birthing something out of my head

and the way sounds touch me

I will occasionally become a burrito

light a candle and feel the liquidness of flame on my tongue

position a book within the lackluster, tempermental emission

the book has been 1984

I know this character will die

he hasn’t for the 5 months I’ve spent with him

The 365 Poetry Project Welcome to a new friend: Charlotte Cuevas

The 365 Poetry Project

One poem a day for a full year. Think I’ll make it?

via Day 59 – Literally | The 365 Poetry Project.

Day 59 – Literally

I’ve had enough of liars-
jokers, clever poets, and satirists-
skirting around what they mean
by proclaiming what they don’t.

Hiding behind a grey screen,
treading water in the middle
of two extremes
and murking it up with their sass;
it isn’t so funny to me.

For would the world not be better off
if all wore visibly their intent,
and made completely known their
point of view?

I haven’t time for deciphering,
unfurling riddles and hypothesizing
whether a no is really a no,
or a deceitfully disguised yes.

I find no fun in figuring
and believe that everyone ought
to aspire to be taken straightforwardly-
to be an honest and genuine man-
to be an honest man
like me.

Day 67 – Florida Winter

You’d think we all gave our lives to be here-
retired early in a condo on the beach
after decades of shoveling horrible snows,
the way we carry on.

We trump out our fanciest pea coats
for three weeks of December discomfort,
grumbling and wiping the dust off
the red part of the thermostat.

But most of us don’t know it, never got
the heart-thrill of thawing something frozen,
never suffered through the negatives
to earn that blessed warmth.

But I have had my fill of swimming pools,
tans I have no use for, ugly flip-flops,
because I know there is no sweat
like the sweat under fleece-
the maddening contradiction of fear and joy
that accompanies a blizzard, wondering whether
we’ll wake alive or dead
in the morning.

I Ain’t Doin’ NaNoWriMo: An Aside

Today begins a month-long project that most of my writer friends are obsessing about, and that most of my non-writer friends are completely unaware of: National Novel Writing Month, lovingly shortened to NaNoWriMo. The challenge is to write a novel of 50,000 words or more in 30 days. (I know you’re doing the math so I’ll spare you the trouble: that’s about 1700 words per day just to make the minimum word count… yikes.)The whole project is supposed to be this uplifting, self-challenging exercise that not only tests your capabilities and willpower, but motivates you to create something you wouldn’t otherwise have had the gumption to complete. Plus, since there’s a whole bunch of other people doing it at the same time, you’ve got this expansive community of writers to hold hands and sing Kumbayah with (or beat your heads on your desks in unison, whatever the case may be.)

As the clock has wound down to NaNoWriMo’s commencement today, lately I’ve heard numerous excited friends hailing its perks and trying to convince me to participate. I thought about it, honestly I did give it a good once-over, but I’ve come to the conclusion that no, I ain’t doin’ it.

Now immediately I know some of you are gasping or scoffing or making some sort of choking noise, I can tell (because yeah, I’m in your computer screen, deal with it.) But before you deal out a swift judgment about my literary merit, allow me to explain.

I’m not doing NaNoWriMo because I don’t need to. If the point is to push/torture yourself into tackling a huge project or to stretch the limits of what you think you’re capable of, I’m already doing that, trust me. My 365 Poetry Project marches ever on, in which I somehow squeeze in enough time to write and publish one poem a day for a full year, the only rule being that I have to be proud of whatever I end up releasing to the public. Believe me, it ain’t easy. I write through my lunch breaks, or in the car, or at restaurant tables surrounded by quasi-offended friends who haven’t yet decided whether it’s mostly amusing or mostly annoying. I wake up in the morning thinking about poetry, scan billboards and boring paperwork for inspiration, cancel dates if I’m not finished yet, and go to sleep thinking about tomorrow’s poem. In short, writing already runs my life. You’ll have to excuse me if the idea of pushing myself any further makes me laugh and want to jump out the window.


Interview with Cat Forsley, Author of 100 Days of Love | Poetic Parfait

Interview with Cat Forsley,

Author of 100 Days of Love

Posted on November 12, 2013 by Christy Birmingham

Cover of 100 Days of Love, by Cat Forsley

This book, this book, I’m excited to talk about this audiobook!

100 Days of Love is a beautiful compilation of spoken poetry, by Cat Forsley. Can you say, “A breath of fresh air”? I can, do, love it!

I recently won a copy of this book (how cool!) and could not wait to interview Cat about her audiobook. It is 40 minutes of beautiful poetry. I played it on my computer and enjoyed this soothing collection of romance; it focuses on sweet ties between one man and one woman. I felt my soul elevate as I enjoyed the artistic words.

Of course, what else would I expect but beautiful words and enchanting voice from talented Toronto-based musician Cat Forsley? If you don’t follow her work, she is the lead singer in the band  As The City Rumbles Underneath. Now that the introductions are complete…

Here is my Interview with Cat Forsley (CF):

>>Hi Cat, welcome! Congratulations on your first book! So tell me, why did you write this book?

CF: I wrote 100 Days of Love because My heart was in a place where I just couldn’t stop writing. I write every day : Lyrics , Poetry , prose and stories and after my band As The City Rumbles Underneath uploaded the final cut of Hearts Expire in early October, a new story started to form itself in my heart . And it came out so naturally , so fluidly .

It’s about a Boy and a Girl / man and woman and explores the Lightness of love . The Questions and the answers are Love . And so It came – with a hard rush and was recorded at Morph Productions about a week after I wrote it .

Quote from poem "The Everlasting Now"

Quote from poem “The Everlasting Now”

>>That’s awesome! What do you hope listeners will get out of the book?

CF: I hope that listeners will Get a good feeling when they hear this prose . It’s prose that carries, and explores Love in a metaphysical way. It’s Part Of my dream world : spoken .

The First time i Listened to the final version , i Myself was put in a lullaby world , where all is always alright . I hope that Listeners will also take the underlying theme with them – and that is – that there is no separation. We are Love, We are made to loved and be loved .

>>I feel your soul, your melody, your heart in this book. Why is the book in audio format?

For The Rest click over THERE ===> via Interview with Cat Forsley, Author of 100 Days of Love | Poetic Parfait.

Catching up with valeriu dg barbu | writing, poetry, poems, lyrics, remedy of soul,


it seeps through the rheumatic walls
mild canzonets
the girls open one button, the boys, two
dance begins simulated among the curtains,
each one is careful to not to step on his imaginary partner
passers has heard the murmur hot not realize where it comes from
the statue of porter by organ pulls the zipper to the sounds, which still echoes
the night it undress of dark, it dress in bride
the groom accompanies the girls single to single guys
clover climbs the walls


si insinua attraverso i muri reumatici
canzonette lievi
le ragazze aprono un bottone, i ragazzi, due
danza inizia simulato tra le tende,
ognuno è attento a non calpestare la sua partner immaginaria
passanti hanno sentito il soffio caldo non si rende conto da dove viene
la statua del portiere da parte dell’organo tira la cerniera per i suoni, che echeggia ancora
la notte è spogliarsi di buio, si vestono in sposa
lo sposo accompagna le ragazze singole per ragazzi singoli
trifoglio scala i muri


se preling printre ziduri reumatice
blânde canțonete
fetele își deschid un nasture, băieții doi
dansul începe îngânat după draperii,
fiecare singur are grijă să nu-și calce partenerul imaginar
trecătorii simt freamătul cald și nu-și dau seama de unde-i
flașnetarul statuie trage fermoarul sunetelor, ele continuă ecouri
noaptea se dezbracă de întuneric, se îmbrac-n mireasă
mirele conduce fetele singure spre băieții singuri
trifoiul urcă pe ziduri

via valeriu dg barbu blog | writing, poetry, poems, lyrics, remedy of soul,.

Ups and downs while writing my first novel |welcome to a new friend: tyroper

Time to Write

Time to Write

I started writing as an act of vengeance upon the red number 2 pencils that teachers used to drub my head in the late 60′s. My first major unpublished work was a trip diary of a family vacation spent driving from Wisconsin to California and back with Dad, Mom, sister and a Starcraft tent trailer. The book was bound in brown paper bag. The paper was angularly folded typing paper penetrated near its middle by staples.

I became a bass player in my pre-teens. “Sunshine of your love” & “Smoke on the water” anyone? Nuff about that. I played and smoked, read, but didn’t write.

When I got older and more mature, I moved on to writing insult poetry. You know “‘s so smelly, he doesn’t wash his hair, he smells like your nose is in the shit of a grizzly bear.” Awesome stuff. Me and a friend wrote these anti-love poems back and forth targeting each other, and sometimes targeting one of our non-poetic friends. I was soooo into Edgar Allen Poe at this point of my ’development’.

From there I headed back to music with my immense experience in writing over a hundred insult poems. This translated into a “Alice Cooper & Grand Funk meets an illiterate Neil Peart” style of lyric writing. My poor lead singer. Nuff said. I smoked, drank, and wrote.

Between 18 and 20 I took 3 semesters of Creative Writing at Fresno City College. This is where I learned to love language. Seriously. My teacher, DeWayne Rail was a stereotypical loveable grumpy writing teacher. It was a fantastic experience. I owe my love of language, and knowledge of great poets to Mr. Rail. My writing is still influenced by time in that class. (I was referred to anonymously as a “primitive punctuator”). Favorite authors from that time period: Theodore Roethke, James Dickey, Peter Wild & Ted Kooser.

Then I got married. I wrote a wedding prayer which was read at our wedding. I wrote a couple poems for my wife over the years, and started/stopped writing a few times over a 20 year period.

About 10 years ago I thought I would get serious about writing again. Mostly a cheap pen as my cheap psychiatrist/psychologist/medication/meditation. I started out writing description heavy awful poetry at a 24 hour diner in downtown Seattle a couple times a week. My writing improved a bit. I was at least enjoying myself. I wrote volumes of poetry and lyrics on flights to and from the east coast – business.

In the spring of 2012 I took a course from Berkleeonline called “Finding Your Voice”. Our most excellent teacher, Caroline Harvey, made this class a life changer for me. Now I am trying prose.

I am in a great writing group, and am taking whatever writing capabilities I possess and channeling them into prose. We’ll see how this goes.

via About | Time to Write.

I can’t believe I drank that many cups

I can't believe I drank that many cups

What? I think maybe 5 or 6 cups this weekend. Nothing like trying to edit when your arms are shaking. Caffeine. Must have been the answer though. I got through my latest six chapters. Even ran them through Word’s grammar/spelling checker, through Grammarly (which is great btw), and Ginger. Read them aloud twice this weekend too. I’m so done with these chapters. Off to my editor. Did you have a successful weekend, too?

Editing Schmediting

Editing Schmediting

For me, the first puff of editing is like a drag off a God-knows-how-old cigarette. I’m expecting this pleasant experience. I loved my cigarettes the last time I smoked. Sure I gave them up for a week. But I’m back. I’m ready for this experience. And, arggh what the hell is this. This reads/tastes like crap. I can’t believe I wrote/smoked this. It’s enough to make me want to quit. But, alas, there’s always an alas, alas I am addicted. I’ll smoke this old, stale, crappy cigarette because it is in my mouth. Perhaps the next one will taste better.

The Tragedy Of Unanswered Letters «Catching Up with A Shade Of Pen

A journey of exploration of my ownself and yours as well!

The Tragedy Of Unanswered Letters

I loved writing this with Alex- The Blue Eyed
(Lol, I can’t get the color of his eyes out of my mind).
You must read his wonderful poems. I loved a lot of his lines that he penned here.
It’s been endless years since I wrote to you
It’s been forever since I waited for your reply
And yet, every day when the sun rises;
My eyes gleam with the hope to hear from you
And yet, every night when the moon glitters
A silent tear slowly escapes as I still wait
unanswered letters
The tears of the lonely show life in its glory
An eternity alone, a devastating story
At the surface it may appear that we’re gone
But we’ve been silently waiting here all along
On the surface you may see what you will
But deep underneath the tears eat their fillThe heart though broken sings a song
Despite the wait, it hungrily longs
To belong to the one for whom it still beats
And yet Destiny plays foul and doesn’t permits
Two long lost lovers to unite again
As each suffers silently in unfulfilled love’s laneTo rise above passion and beauty skin deep
And transcend differences and secrets they keep
Reaching forever for one combined goal
Sticking together, two halves of a whole
A fixture of time, steadfast it remains
Love breaks down borders and releases the pain.


The Tragedy Of Unanswered Letters « A Shade Of Pen.

The Monotony of Life, A Brief Analysis of Waiting For Godot |Meet a new Friend: Understanding Weakness

Understanding Weakness

Welcome to Understanding Weakness, a place for poetry, stories, and essays. My name is Sean Lynch, and I’ve been writing poems and stories since I was ten. I’m currently working as an editor for Rocky Wilson’s upcoming poetry collection, which will be published by Whirlwind Press. Also, my own debut poetry collection is in the works. Thanks for reading and above all the meaningful dialogue.

Summer Solstice poetry reading at Peace Park in South Camden, photograph by Lamont B. Steptoe.

via The Monotony of Life, A Brief Analysis of Waiting For Godot | Understanding Weakness.

Seep into Skin

In foreign air where your ancestors breathed

no longer than a century ago,  you

comforted a belle whose fiance was

lost in twisted charred metal. Look back and

think about how that should have been your fate;

the poison in his system only tasted

sweet for so long. When words came out of his

mouth the acrid smell of death lingered, and seminal thoughts

rush back through your mind and below your spine

in tidal waves of lust, touching thighs under

the table, that was enough of a contact

in order to transfer the tension of

a dead man and his now tranquil lover.

Accidental gravity remains as

the only not so distant memory.

Who will be Philadelphia’s Next Poet Laureate?


Sonia Sanchez has been remarkable in her tenure as Philadelphia’s inaugural poet laureate, which began in 2012, and ends in two months due to the mandated two year term limit. Sanchez, who just turned 79 in September, is an internationally renowned and influential poet whose poetry is often categorized under the Black Arts Movement, which is often called the sister to the Black Power Movement. Sanchez, in spite of her frail health, has propagated poetry in Philadelphia during her tenure, and her most tangible accomplishment was the “Peace is a Haiku Song” mural on Christian street, a beautiful painting featuring children, poetry, and origami swans; the mural was “inspired by Sanchez’s belief that the haiku form is inherently non-violent in its intent and structure and engenders beauty, serenity, and brief reflection.”

click here for much moreness

Cycle of Chance

A sack of flesh and bones

controls a machine at a

weight of two tons,

(including the sack, two tons,

one hundred and fifty eight

and a half pounds) moving

in spite of all the friction, at

a velocity which can almost

guarantee a different kind of trip

if circumstances, (a bump, a thought,

indigestion, another sack) cause

the mind to shift its own gears

into uncontrollable dimensions.

It’s almost always uncontrollable.

Although somehow that thin blade

between almost and always allows

the sack’s muscles to react and

lets the undeserving mind go on

on borrowed time.

Chill Tanka |Catching up with Black and Write

Black and Write

The Poetic Musings of Dom DIFrancesco

Chill…Rustle of trees

Winter is fast approaching

Usher in the dead season

Like the cycle of our lives

One dies another is born


~~ Dominic R. DiFrancesco ~~

via Chill Tanka | Black and Write.

For J.R. | Poesy plus Polemics

Livingston NJ Police Officer Badge

Livingston NJ
Police Officer Badge

(My first attempt at the tanka form)

my son wears the badge

lives the honor of service

no less than the day

he raced off to ground zero

or sailed into Desert Storm

via For J.R. | Poesy plus Polemics.

[Terry:  I’ll bet 10 bucks that no one in the Livingston NJ Police Department has EVER had a tanka written about them before. They may have lifted a coupla tankas…]

The stormy sea |Catching up with johncoyote

The stormy sea

The Pacific

The Stormy Sea

A Poem by Coyote Poetry


When dreams die. We have no reason or purpose. Need to keep hope and love alive.


The stormy sea

The beauty of the Monterey bay.
Leave us feeling peaceful and thankful.

The Poets read at the Pacific Grove coffee shop tonight.
The 20 or so people enjoy hearing the words of the Poet’s
willing to share their words.

Six Poets old and young after the reading share some wine
and beer on the cliffs of Pacific Groves.

The cliffs are amazing.
Can see for miles the powerful Pacific ocean.
In the daytime.
Whales swim by in the distance.

I’m 34 years old.
I feel like a century in age.
Young girl sit at my feet.
She read poetry of suicide and cutting.
I read my poetry of my brothers.
killed by their own hands.

She is holding my hand.
Tells me life has become a useless journey.
25 years old.
Condemn to sadness and destitute by bad decisions.

I try to dilute her pain and affliction with stories
of possibilities and a new day.

We walk the beach of Monterey.
We watch the waves dance upon the shore.
The melody of the breezes whisper secrets of
Lovers who walk before us.

Only the ocean and the moon know the secret of
passion and sadness hidden safely.

I watch her run into the cold ocean water.
Her red silk dress and bare feet.
Her long brown hair flowing in the wind.
So beautiful.

She ask me.
Her blue eyes searching my eyes.
Would you stay with me? Then smiles.
I wrote a poem for you.

Open the door to my heart.
Night has fallen.
Let’s ascend slowly.
Dance with me under the
Monterey moon.

Let’s remove the barricade
of disappointment.
Even if we are just
a mirage.
Please entice my heart to
come alive.

I tell her.
I blunder and betrays many in the emotion of love.
You are exquisite and so beautiful.
Your kiss would be a elixir to open my heart.

She smile and pull me up.
She bring her warm body against me.
We dance the waltz of dreams and hope.
The music of the waves are our orchestral.
The wind whisper a sweet love song.

She begin with gentle and sweet kiss.
Her body tremble with fear as her wall of
fear begin to fall apart.
Longer and sweeter kisses lead us to opening
new dreams.

The light of morning.
Two strangers. Now friends.
Open new doors to emotion and love.

Her eyes are bright and hopeful.
She ask me is it too late to know love?
To swim in the real passion and desire?

I smile and bring her close.
I tell her.
We must rise from the ash and asphalt.

I have tasted your sweet lips.
Now neither night or sleep will keep me
from trying to bring joy and laughter into your life.

She smile and told me “My sweet and sad Poet.

I want your dreams to  flourish to hope

and great possibility.”

I whisper.
Love take time and kindness.

1 August 2009

via The stormy sea | johncoyote.
sweetheart rewrite COMBINE

Poetry about Courage | Catching up with an email buddy: Poetic Parfait

Poetry about Courage | Poetic Parfait.

Poetry about Courage


Hand (Photo credit: yorkville)

A poem. A hand full of courage. Blurry vision.

My poem contains all of the above images and my inspiration came from a quote that I read at tiny buddha.

Here is the quote, followed by my poem Courage and Coats.

What may look like a small act of courage is courage nevertheless. The important thing is to be willing to take a step forward.

~Daisaku Ikeda

Courage and Coats

Step, turn, find and ponder,
Courage holds itself strongly within your
Hands. What you reach is within sight,
If only you choose to wear your glasses.
Your vision gets blurry when you
Step sideways, and your sadness grips your
Tread, as hopefulness could never do.
I want you to top those challenges while
You take off your coat of fear –
The buttons are wary from your alterations
But I stand behind you and
Urge you to keep moving forward.

©2013 Christy Birmingham

Dry Rivers or God Doesn’t Play Dice | Catching up with The Arkside of Thought

Dry Rivers (or God Doesn’t Play Dice)


I smoked the ashes

of the concubines I met in the hereafter,

and when the reality hit me

like an opium rush straight to my melon,

all I could hear was explosions;

all I could hear was laughter…

Wait, can you hear too?

Can you?

There are voices,


America wasn’t the great Satan;

that was a Cleric in bed with an oil tycoon from Texas

and cardinal from Rome

and a fashion mogul from Milan

and the Koch brothers…

Islam didn’t have an enemy in the Christian or the Jew…

and I didn’t have an enemy in you…

Suddenly I get it;

martyrdom is a myth

because omnipotence has entertained thoughts of universes

beyond this universe,

little baby bubbles born out of nightmares

made of the remains of dead stars

with voracious appetites,

and even Einstein knows the truth now,

the beast hidden in an equation,

the indifference of a god who has nothing to lose

because God doesn’t play dice…

God plays poker

with aces, kings, queens, jacks and tens

up His sleeves…

via Dry Rivers or God Doesn’t Play Dice | The Arkside of Thought.

Love Is………. |CUP with helen midgley

Love Is……….

Posted by helen midgley on September 29, 2013


(Image from

Love is the touch that renders me still,

And Love is the hunger that I cannot fill,

Love is the kindling that feeds a wild fire,

And Love is the flame that reaches up higher.

Love is the scent of an apple blossom tree,

And love is the flower that you open in me,

Love is the daisy that is linked by a chain,

And love is the sunshine that comes before rain.

Love is the breath that is whispered on skin,

And love is the blood that simmers within,

Love is the heat of the passion beneath,

And love is the wanting that I cannot sheath.

Love is the melee that rages for peace,

And love is the prisoner that yearns for release,

Love is the conflict that fights as we mate,

And love is the soldier whose battle I sate.

Love is the essence of all that we share,

And love is my reason to think that you care,

Love is the words that still lay unspoken,

And love is the wish for just a small token.

Love is the ache that I carry inside,

And love is the struggle I have with my pride.

Love is the one thing I know you won’t give,

And love is the reason that makes me forgive.

via Love Is………. | helen midgley.

Thunder -Love Walked In | Catching up with old friend Steve Fox

Thunder -Love Walked In

Check it out !

So tired of waiting, I walked an empty land
I was looking for something to help me understand
But bad luck kept turning my dreams into sand

I didn’t want pity, I had my share of friends
I wanted somebody more special than the rest
I was aching inside like I was approaching the end

Just about that moment the timing was so right
You appeared like a vision sent down to my life
I thought, I was dreaming when I saw you that night

That’s when love walked in through my door
That familiar feeling I had once before
Love walked in through my door and it felt so strange, ooh

It’s hard to remember being on my own
Ooh, that kind of loving makes a hard man lose control
But I sleep so much better, now I’m not alone

So promise me, baby, you’re always gonna stay
I don’t think I could take it, seeing you walk away
You don’t need to doubt it, I remember that day

That’s when love walked in through my door
I found just what I wanted but I got so much more
Love walked in through my door and it felt so strange

Like a long lost friend that hadn’t changed
Giving me hope again
Love walked in, love walked in, love

Ooh, just about that moment the timing was so right
You appeared like a vision sent down to my life
I thought, I was dreaming when I saw you that night

That’s when love walked in through my door
That familiar feeling I had once before
Love walked in through my door

Oh, love walked in through my door and it felt so strange
That familiar feeling I had once before
Love walked in through my door and it felt so strange

Like a long lost friend that hadn’t changed
Giving me hope again, ooh
Love walked in, ooh, love walked in, love
Love walked in, love walked in, oh

via Thunder -Love Walked In | SFoxWriting’s Blog.

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City of Prawns | Catching up with old Friends:Poesy plus Polemics

City of Pawns – Kindle

My new book of poetry City of Pawns is now available in Kindle e-book version at:

City of Pawns

City of Pawns

Buy from Amazon

via City of Pawns – Kindle | Poesy plus Polemics.

[Terry: Ooops. Guess I got the name wrong. Well, make it up to Paul and race out to buy the book. I’ve posted his material here and he has yet to disappoint.

I do wonder, however, what a City of Prawns would be like…]

Welcome to a new friend: carmen | Sharing and expressing… through words.


 Writing is my outlet and Photography (we’re molding each other)

VLUU L110, M110  / Samsung L110, M110466216_3771854863654_1835529047_oVLUU L110, M110  / Samsung L110, M110 VLUU L110, M110  / Samsung L110, M110VLUU L110, M110  / Samsung L110, M110202461_4253254858353_1277687822_o

Hi, I’m Carmen. Welcome to my blog of poetry and thoughts :) I hope you enjoy your visit and will pop in again :)

I write as a form of release… sometimes I’ll share something I have written recently, unedited- if I have the courage to do so :)

Oftentimes, I’m sharing what I’ve been writing over the years- if you look carefully you’ll see that I have grown somewhat as I write. I usually write in a passive voice and sometimes you’ll see where I get upset at myself for being so dormant! I love the fact that my heart is changing because I’ve found a Love that never fails- my God is always there for me even when everyone else has lost patience with me- He sticks around and helps me grow even if ever so slowly.

Wisdom-courage-strength-healing-brokenness- peace-yearning-hurt-love all depicted in what I write. These are not unique to me but I’m sharing my experiences and I hope I may inspire you to write and heal as I am doing.

Take care and blessings to you!

Of Ghosts Past

This moment

this life

is what matters

you define it

by being you

learn who you are

and you’ll be fine

let the past

rest in peace;

look to tomorrow.

Silent Rain

As the rain kisses the Earth


we hear the ground thanking the


we share our own intimate kisses


and thank each other silently.

#NAKED #OPINIONS |Catching up with old friends: hastywords


About a week ago I asked a question.

I wanted to know if men/woman thought woman are sexier on average clothed or naked.  Christopher with Long Awkward Pause decided to help me out….on my question not my clothes.  Some of my favorite bloggers are collaborating on this amazing blog and they are not only funny and NOT boring (MIke) but kind of smart sometimes so we should all listen to their perspectives.

Tell me ….them….what you think.  You can find what I think in the comments on their blog if you are curious.





Cobweb City | Catching up with friends: Gotta Find a Home

Cobweb City

Posted: September 13, 2013 in Poetry, Prose 




It was cool this morning with a forecast of rain. The patrol car with its red and blue flashing lights was at the corner, again.  Joy was huddled up with her sweater pulled over her knees.

“How are you feeling, Joy”

“I’m really freaked man. I’m tweaked. I’ve got to get back on my meds. I didn’t sleep at all last night. See my hand, it’s shaking. I was watching BTN (Black Television Network) last night an Steve Harvey was on. I was laughing so hard I said to myself, I’ve got to tape this.

“I must have fallen asleep, because I woke up in some kind of nightmare. Really scary shit, anyway, I was awake for the rest of the night.”

I asked, “Since you don’t have your health card, what if you went to the emergency department of one of the hospitals? Wouldn’t they give you your meds?”

“They’d get me juiced up on Delantin. That really screws up my brain and when I take it I’m not supposed to drink. My doctor gave me a prescription for a lower  dose of the pills, that I’m supposed to take on a regular basis. I haven’t seen him for years. He’s across town. When I moved in with Chuck, I decided to go to his doctor since he was close by. He was really creepy, so I stopped going to him. Then, I went to another doctor, but he’s the same nationality as my landlord. I don’t get along with them.

“I really hate doctors and hospitals. A couple of years ago I was in and they told me that I had an ovarian cyst. They tested it and it was benign. That means it won’t hurt you , right? The next time I went in they checked it again and said that it had grown. I said, ‘Cut the sucker out. Give me a hysterectomy.  It’s cobweb city down there — I can’t have any more kids, my period has to stop sometime. I won’t miss that. I’m not with a man so I won’t be losing out there.  While I’m here anyway, just do it! He said in a deep voice, all proper like, ‘I’ve never heard it described in those terms, but you understand the situation. We can’t operate because it isn’t causing any secondary complications. If that changes, then we’ll consider a hysterectomy.’


via Cobweb City | Gotta Find a Home.

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I #write #poetry and #stories | Welcome to a new friend: keith garrett

keith garrett poetry


               I write poetry and stories, If you would like to respond or just

Speak about things then e-mail me at


Rhythm, a sequence in time repeated, featured ...


              She stands there dressed in a gown of white satin,

On her feet, soft shoes that sparkle in the light, tonight.

Her hair made up like a princess at a ball, she’s beautiful,

Awaiting her handsome escort as he moves out on the floor.

Dressed up in a tailored made suit of black, he stares into her eyes,

Taking her hand as the music echoes into this magical night.

Around and around they bounce and sway, waltz a lovers waltz,

These two become one as their body’s dance a lovers dance.

Romance is in the air for two hearts searching loves mystery,

A waltz for lovers, a night like no other, a love between two.

Keith Garrett

via keithgarrettpoetry |  


             Dressed up in black, not to loud, driving down the road,

Music in my head, the boss sings out a tune, i’m driving.

Sunglasses to match this beautiful machine of black,

Eyes wandering, scenery passing by as i ride, dreaming.

In a black car driving, I’m moving down the road to you,

In a black car driving, eyes fixed on the horizon, driving.

With the window down i can feel the wind, listen to the sound,

My dreaming mind takes me to you, the way to you is complicated.

Down the road as you are not so far away, just a touch away,

A smile shows through on your face, everyday this way.

Keith Garrett

Headless Lines | Catching up with friends: The Arkside of Sahm King

Upon My Chest Turn Up Thy Brow: Headless Lines

 This piece is…well, I’m not exactly certain.  I fully intended to write aArk3 couple of quatrains, then I got distracted by Chant Royals after looking at one of Tim’s pieces (distracted by reflecting on the sheer brilliance of it, and an epic piece it is).  Then I got distracted again when I came across catalectic verse.

If I understand correctly, catalexis is achieved by dropping off a single syllable in a line.  It appears this can occur at the beginning or end, and this is also called headless.  I’m not certain.  In my case, I went with iambic tetrameter and dropped a syllable in every other line up to the sixth line.  The last two lines were in iambic trimeter and headless iambic trimeter (the last line has 5 syllables instead of six).  The form follows as such:

a / 8, b / 7, a / 8, b / 7, c / 8, d / 7, e / 6, d / 5

Clearly, I took a lot of liberties here.  So, here’s the piece.  I’d be pleased to know what you all think.  My honest opinion of it: iambic trimeter and headless iambic trimeter are awkward…but the number 6 is my least favorite number and doesn’t feel as if it meshes well with five.  I’m not sure what kind of feeling it evokes, if any at all.  What do you think?

Upon My Chest Turn Up Thy Brow: Headless Lines

Upon my chest turn up thy brow,

wilt me with thy soul this night.

If forever should be as now,

death itself shall serve no fright.

As breath resigns to pallid grays,

reflections, bones, grief and grains,

let us at time’s ways laugh

and from qualm abstain.


No Love Poems | Catching up with friends: Gatsby’s Abandoned Children

No Love Poems

  by · in Poem

poem heart fossil fossilized

The bruises along her legs are not memories
but empty spaces.

There is no fossilized evidence

love ever existed.

via No Love Poems | Gatsby’s Abandoned Children.

[Terry: Wow. Just Wow]

My blog is my own kingdom and words are my subject| Welcome to a new friend: Shifa Naseer

Shifa Naseer

This page is just to give you an idea as to what this blog is all about. If you came to this page to find answers, you may not get them here as I am as confused as a person can ever be. ;)

My name is Shifa Naseer. I love to write. I find writing a way to express my feelings.

I have my own battles and my own victories ( sneaking potato chips into my room without mom’s knowledge. Trust me, I could win the Nobel Prize for that! :) )

I am lousy at describing myself. Go grab a post and see if you can make out what kind of a person I am. Reading these lines, I am sure you already think I am lazy. Well, I am afraid its true.  :P

My favorite color is blue, all shades of blue. I am a sucker for reading.

I say what is in my mind and apologize if the other finds its offensive. Thats me and if you are unfortunately acquainted with me, you got to deal with it.

I am at sea with my heart as company …. The steady rhythm … My shore is nowhere near me … The water stretches out as far as I can see … I am afraid, believe me!  But I will find land, find my mark. Someday, somehow!

Enjoy my blog and do let me know whether you liked it or not.

Shifa naseer.

A Bed Of Roses

My life, a bed of roses, you say?
So easy as breathing, so effortless
If hurting at every point of life is what you call a bed of roses
Then I agree with you
If pain be my companion for life
Then add to the roses you see
If loss is what you think is bliss
Then add that too into your list!
If betrayal is what you call the beauty
Then be it, say that too!
Envy me for all those roses with thorns
Wish for all that you say I have
But only He knows what I am
What I have and By God
It totally isnt the red and the roses
Its way far from it
See my pain, feel my loss
Feel the betrayal, know the cause.

via 1. About Me | Shifa Naseer.

Last Speech In School

by Shifa Naseer on September 5, 2013

Today I made my last speech as Head Girl of my school. It feels so weird to know that I wont hold that mic again and that I wont ever deliver a speech like I have done for the past three years in a row. It was Teacher’s Day today and we had prepared a programme for them. I was supposed to give the final vote of thanks.  As I was giving my speech, I felt as if a part of me was lost. Sigh. I wont miss school but I am going to miss things like these. I love to speak publicly, on a mic, with an audience. Long live my school. :)

Also I would like to wish all the teachers out there a very HAPPY TEACHER’S DAY. You all make our lives a living hell in school but help us so much that we cannot thank you guys enough. The love you give and the unwavering devotion through the years of adolescence is truly remarkable.

Thank You. :P

I know I am very strong
But I am afraid which makes me weak
I cannot stand alone for long
The world is crashing down around me
I am angry for being deserted
Yet I hope that I will find you
My light in my dark times
A bright ray of sunshine
I ask for nothing but a helping hand!
To pull me out of the maze
Erase the fear from my heart
Make me brave and hardcore
Help me fight my battles with fate
My saviour, my pretty angel
Will straighten out my life
And bring me my own self back
Full of energy and fun!
For now my being is empty and hollow
Even the echo refuses my company
But it wont stay for long
It will all go away
I will fall in love with the shiny sun
The moon will tease me while I laugh with glee
All this will happen one day in my land
When I will find my lucky helping hand.

Heart That Can Love

on September 7, 2013Find me a heart that can love
That can love beyond boundaries
Bound to be limitless
Something which goes deep, down to the bottomless pit
Like the light to light up the way
Like the shine to brighten up the day
Find me a soul that is so pure
That they fall to their feet
Bow their heads in such purity
A soul with love so hard, so intense to give
That I bathe in its glory
That I let it sink into me
Find that heart with such a soul
Together they will make me whole
Love so true, soul so pure
I wish to die wrapped around it
Warming my heart, removing the doubts
A heart that can love, a soul I can cherish
To be mine forever
As I wish this wish to the silver star
Which seems so near yet so far

Backpack Bradie

“Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn’t do than by the ones you did do.” – Mark Twain

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