Note: † A Link to the poet's home page or e-mail address is usually provided below each poem. Poet's name is linked to his/her Positively Poets page when applicable. † Followed links may be opened in a new browser window. † A Little Poetry will remain open in this window.
August, 1998 Of The Month
Impasse† †By: CK Towerď...not a single answer had been found...Ē -Oliver Rising full with chantings, rustling with cobalt mantras I cannot unravel, having been born of things other than fierce and fragile breaths, this warm spell rising incites my own unsettled prayers invoked to blackened skies. One bleached luminary against the framework of night. Tonight the trees are possessed. The oaks standing naked or draped reluctantly in the frigid clinging fabrics of this drawn-out season. I too, have been clothed in material not of my design and am tired of wearing this shade... nothing like August cerulean. But Iím uncertain of this temperate promise of green, wary of sapphire kisses offerred to flesh still quivering with the remembrances of December. If I trust this invocation stirring, calling me out into late March dusk, tempting me to discard my winter adornments, it may only leave me as it has before, wrapped tighter in this blue.
Copyright © 1997 CK Tower
AnastasiaBy:† David Hunter SutherlandNo high-strung chords, promenades or artifice. Beneath flashing eyes, imperfect order leads you and threads a crowd in a kingdom, whose gossamer pales to your skin. Lodged in sculptured grace, pride cuddles about your throat and reigns in the midst of a desolate seclusion. Hung like pearls across your chest, brubers, bettors, and sordid eyes feed this new political famine. And I am cast in your glow, the cutter last to share in your presence. The handmaid scribed to this sanctimonious deed. Jealousy binds to the pull as the scaffold folds you in these arms. (God save the queen.)
Copyright © 1997 David Hunter Sutherland
† My Mind Hovers Over You† †By: K.R.S. MurthyPurged with the dreams of the companionate beatitude, hyped by the hopes of your amorous enamor, day dreams of you fly me in the air of ecstasy, longing to share the breath with you, your curly hair springs bouncing on my finger tips. Stone deaf, did you cocoon prisoned in your routine, pasting a label of smile on the face. Emptiness peaks through your contempt disguise, making you a victim of vulnerability. Your sight is a delight a few feet away so near, yet so far. That lascivious instinct in you would sway my senses to unknown heights Warmth of your presence raises my hopes so high, for your blank eyes to beam the desire hidden deep in your heart. Over your sensuous body, the heaven's abode, rides free and wild my mind. Though shapeless, shapes up, becoming your curly hair, bouncing on the shoulders, springing on the temple, the temple of your charm, caressing the cheek, lowers to the honey dipped lips. No! you cannot wipe it away! Behold! It is not the breeze, but my mind it is, soothing you off the surprise, turning into water deposits all over, cooling you all over. Yes, with you, day and night, a feat not your shadow can do, leaving me with fever long desired.
† Copyright © 1986 K.R.S. Murthy
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October 1997 Of The Month
Bargaining For Time is A GambleBy: Patty MooneyHe lays an Old Spice hand on the side of my face tracing how far he wants to go after a foot-in-the-door pizza pie, one glass of pale blood Cribari and some parking-lot sweet talk. His surf-blonde hair feels like the down in my goose pillow and his passion is commendable. But he is shorter by an outstretched palm and sometimes I want to be over- taken so I donít let him kiss me and he swells up like a frogís throat. "Itís not all that complex," he says, "Donít you want to understand me?" he says. "Youíre so tense," he says, and he says, "I need you. Now." like ďCome out or Iíll shoot.Ē
Copyright © 1997 Patty Mooney
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September 1997 Of The Month
SoupBy: Kevin CroneI wish we had some soup. Something like chiken soup Without the ethno-religious Stigma attached to it. Just some good old fashioned soup. Something to take the burn Out of my stomach like when I was a kid and soup healed Everything. Maybe if the whole world Ate some soup at a certain time Every day. Potato. Tomato. Gaspacho. Cream of Mushroom. We wouldn't have to worry about Peace. Nobody ever fought over A bowl of cream of celery. I really wish we had some soup.
Copyright © 1997 Kevin Crone
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One For The Money!By: Truthtable@aol.com
Anticipating, We will wait Bide our time. For we know Things will get better, Improve. Real living starts later. Right now, we must prepare Study learn save earn. Later, we'll reap, begin, start. OK? Anticipatingly, we watch for The Right Moment. When it comes, We need to be ready. When the Real Signal comes, We'll be ready To live, Sing, Die... Die?? Two for the Show! Things are just about right. Just a little longer. Hold your horses, Settle down Be prepared. Almost ready for love. Almost ready for life. Almost ready for letting our Real Self flourish... Almost ready. Almost ready. Liftoff minus one and holding... Three to get Re
Copyright © 1997 Truthtable@aol.com
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December, 1998 Of The Month
Like the mad horn
Of Charlie Parker
She bursts with
Tragically hip polyester dress
Green barrettes restraining the curls
Copyright © 1997 Vincent E. Baca
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Truths The World Has Taught Me By: Michelle A. Bartley
This world has taught me many things, It's served its purpose well, Encased my heart, entrapped my soul, Within it's phantom shell. The first thing that it taught me, Was life's a wicked road, To prove it's point it taunted me, With dreams I bought and sold. Holding bait before my face, Then snatching it away, As I struggled endlessly, To keep the wolves at bay. The second thing it taught me, A lesson carved in stone, Is other's can't be trusted, So it's best to be alone. Don't think about companionship, For it's merely an ideal, A senseless flight of fancy, None of it is real. The next thing that it taught me, Was love did not exist, "Only fools and idiots, believe" The world had hissed. And just to add validity, Each one that I've held close, Has gone and left me trembling, When I needed them the most. It's taught me things I never knew, Or really cared to hear, Ruled my life through tyranny, While casting doubt and fear. Counterfeit realities A story packed with lies, Obscuring truth and vision, With well versed alibis. These truths the world has taught me, So contrasting they are, To everything you've taught me, My precious guiding star. This path in which we tread upon, Etched in this earthen ground, Although there may be perils, Dreams can still be found. And trust, although it's very hard, It's been the given key, To open locks within my heart, To set my spirit free. The love I thought did not exist, I see within your eyes, While the truths the world has taught me, Are a great big pack of lies!
Copyright © 1997 Michelle A. Bartley
March, 1999 Of The Month
Fear of A FloorBy: Rich Lovejoy
The drone of delerious melody wraps itself around the smoker's cage from out of the light comes a young woman with raven black hair that your eyes just slip off within her mouth is a knife which playfully dances around your throat and you dare not speak lest your muscles adjust ever so slightly causing a fatal prick She's dressed mostly in the breath of a dozen strangers and the haze of cigarette smoke she's so wispy you could breath her in if you wish to risk a trembling throat expansion
Copyright © 1997 Rich Lovejoy
Comments to author: RELovejoy@aol.com
July 1997 Of The Month
WarmthBy: L.M. Cunningham
Sensation, Skin On paper. Warmth could come from you, From me, From electric creatures Prowling nights like back alley strays into small colorful boxes, humming motors can suck you in, but Touch, Skin, Even Paper Are worth more
Copyright © 1997 L.M. Cunningham
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From Plant to PioneerBy: L.R. PowellBeauty burst into the room a whirlwind, her smile chasing sunbeams like little tufts of dust before a broom. Her voice gently tapped at doors closed tightly so many years ago. Unconsciously she cooled her feet while throwing terms upon the board, and this tired heart skipped a beat to see a silver ring of attitude that another's mind once knew. Familiar freckled hands danced quickly in and out my vision, erasing chalk, while too excited with the sharing to find and use the proper tool, and painting shades of another's touch. A distraction this, and ill afforded when time is short and quickly flees. I have no time for chasing ghosts, and I don't think my soul could bear to ache with want once more. So I race on toward other goals, and 'tho my feet be lighter on the road I'll always wonder, " Did she know?". Chalk dust and imaginary numbers will cheer me as I go.
Copyright © 1996 L.R. Powell
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April, 1999 Of The Month
Four Hatchlings Near My WindowBy: Glen FaurťFor each of them a day will come when dawnís tempo will be urgent. When something in the clouds will nod and a song in the wind will have them. When the world of the air steps back and loosens making roomó and they will find their way.
Copyright © 1997 Glen Faurť
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June 1997 Of The Month
Sun and RavenBy:† † Diane EngleSuch a private person could never write openly, especially from Alaska. Perhaps the totem on your postcard says it all, fantastic with its skewed features and atitled "Sun, sea and raven." I see wings but no raven, precious little sun. No smile. I'm not sure it says anything about love. Sleepless without you I fill these squares in the crossword: "Love for Caesar," says the clue, and I know, I know. Words fall into place-- amo, amas, amat, amamus, each dependent on the last. The scowl on the face of the totem is frozen in place. Seals nuzzle snouts, lids drooping, as they glide in and out icy waters. I have slipped under crossword and postcard into sleep, where you wait like a lie, like a weight on my dreams. You move only in whispers. When I wake the postcard lies crushed on the crossword. I'm not sure they say anything about love.
Copyright © 1997 Diane Engle
Comments to author: 76557.3463@CompuServe.COM
Coffee ShopBy: Alan W. Goodson
Old men with nothing to do,
Who havenít gotten started yet...
A circle of old friends...coffee hot and bitter,
like some memories of youth gone by.
Reliving the past with half-remembered stories,
half-baked lies, and imagined truths only half-discovered.
Their days nothing more than fallen leaves
swept up in the cold, hard winds of time.
Remaining days of their lives measured in cups,
Cups of sorrowful lament, filled to the brim
with memories of paths not traveled,
choices never considered, chances never taken,
love never found, or lost in the haze of soft regret.
Untapped wells of knowledge...life experience seeping through,
to form stagnant pools of advice for youth
who donít listen, donít care, donít know or wonder
about frail words spoken in meaningful jest,
by old men whose lives donít seem to matter anymore.
Old men with nothing to do,
Finished before the day begins...
Left to compare scars of battles with life
and secrets of success never quite obtained.
Steam rising from their cups, like the spirit
of their youthful dreams, drifting off into thin air,
to mingle with the stale smoke of bridges burned.
Weathered faces hiding behind wrinkled masks,
sculptured by pain earned from hard work,
harder lessons, and hardest times.
Arguing over the bill that comes due
because they feel all their debts have
already been paid in full, with interest.
The hands of the clock move more swiftly now,
speeding onward towards eternity, towards rest,
towards another world where the coffee is free,
the waitress doesnít expect a tip,
and the tables are always clean.
Old men with nothing to do,
And an eternity to finish...
Copyright © 1997 Alan W. Goodson
There is a place
just this side of yesterday,
but not quite tomorrow,
where time runs still as silence
and voices still as time,
in which we cannot stray
from the hidden shadowed whisper
of what we know is truth
beneath a pall of desire.
Waters do not ripple
and leaves are never stirred
by breaths of errant winds,
and standing in that place
the center is seen as the whole,
and the one can only be
Copyright © 1997 Michael Loose
August 1997 Of The Month
The ClownBy: Peter Wastholm
My name opens doors,
† † my face is known,
but no one sees
† † that I come alone.
† † in the gleeful crowd,
I say nothing,
† † but I say it loud.
I sing and I laugh,
† † I joke and I jest;
at lively parties
† † a popular guest.
As morning breaks,
† † the party ends.
I bid farewell
† † superficial friends.
A clown so amusing,
† † so clever and shrewd,
heads for home
† † in solitude.
Where's my companion,
† † who cares for me,
who can truly hear,
† † who can truly see?
Copyright © 1996 Peter Wastholm
(For Vartouhi Yeranos)
By: † David Hunter Sutherland
And its been raining mostly folderol
gush and puff of silver thaw,
squalls of verse and hoarfrost ballads'
rime riche song.
And we've been swept along as casualty
bedewed and cordoned in refrain,
life's sudden showers, swift denouements,
Beneath umbrellas fettered parasols,
below a canopy of cloud,
blow nimbus parables whose metaphor
announce a spectral sky
in thunderous outbursts,
fount anew neath fir and pine,
as falling leaves on limb and meristem
augur a season's slow demise.
And tonight this forest green ephemeral
deciduous alike our lives,
toss fragile keepsake, time's memento
to earth then stars on stormy night.
In thick of wind and violent tempest
in tumult waves on sand and dune,
our precious dreams find sentried breakers
or wash up beach with each monsoon.
For all these shelters in our firmament
the fierce and gentle both abide,
and move in silent admonition
forever through us and through time.
Copyright © 1997 David Hunter Sutherland
April 1997 of the monthBy: Alan Reynolds
Our geriatric acrobatic dance,
our subtle art, goes sometimes undiscerned
by passers-by. And by you too. Your glance,
pale pilot flame from passions banked, has turned
my head for decades, and today. The trance
the orderlies assume I'm in is one I've learned,
to masquerade my yearnings. They run sweet,
while I doze sitting, silent. I'm discreet.
Copyright © 1997 Alan Reynolds
Word WrapBy: Anne Johnson
We wrap our words
each in our way;
we wrap them all
throughout the day.
We wrap our grief
in wooden smiles
pasted on for
just a while.
We wrap our pride
in humble words.
Why canít we sing it
like a bird?
We wrap our love
in hidden thoughts,
afraid to show
we care a lot.
we wrap our anger
to keep our pride.
You see word wrap
is not just seen
looking at a
Copyright © 1997 Anne Johnson
ThunderstormBy: Daryl Kessler
Sleeping Between Us
May 1997 of the monthBy: † William Dubie
The purrs settle between pillows,
indenting the linen that wrinkles with us.
We stay rhythmic with our breaths,
and counter the dark while one
we content ourselves with this heartbeat,
fur imitating wisps of hair,
claws curling like small knuckles
in a parent's palm.
We tell ourselves this is how
the soul takes its form,
and whatever blood we share
will be warm.
CandleBy: † Jerry H. Jenkins
March 1997 of the month
One star has faded from our evening sky.
Millions remain; its loss is meaningless,
but on some world in bitter emptiness
of space, what terrors did its death imply?
What navigators watched their pole star die,
what shrines, whose majesty was somehow less,
burned incense to their gods and goddesses,
their avatar oblivious to their cry?
Although this happened long eons ago,
in reaches far beyond our present sight,
it may yet be important that we know,
for at this edge, that vanished stellar light,
that darkness where its fossil remnants glow,
reminds us we are on the rim of night.
Musings on a September AfternoonBy: Alisha Freeman
February 1997 of the month
Somehow, it seems futile to write today.
For the things I wish to convey are such
That words are an inadequate tool.
I wanted to write the rhythm of the rain
The smell of fall in the air, the color of the leaves
If I could write such things, I would give to you
The sound of the croaking frog outside my window,
The touch of the cool wind September brings,
The laughter of children walking home from school
And the warmth of their mothersí smiles
Greeting them with after-school snacks.
Were they mine to give, I would bestow
Upon your senses delightful presents:
The cheer of bountiful harvests, and the fragrance
Of their produce baked into pies.
The glow of a warm-hearted conversation
Full of laughter and love
Taking place among a family gathered
Round the fireplace on a chilly night.
But I am the owner of such things only in that
I cherish within my heart, their lasting impressions
And a desire to impart the same to you
Copyright © 1996 Alisha Freeman
Peeping through the bubble of her sleep,
fisting the covers, she defends her other self,
clearly unready to be born again.
Emotions came in
to devour my soul-
it had already