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Editor's Pick:

PAGE OF WHITE

To grasp the power of belief
And scroll it on a golden leaf
For other souls to then behold
Is much more precious than the gold

To seek a dream, though worn with age
Inscribing it on parchment page
Is but a gift of hope you give
To those who never learned to live

The visions etched in prism light
When written on a page of white
Bring rainbow colors to one's life
Enveloping the moment's strife

The beauty in the hills of green
When placed upon a paper's sheen
Become alive, an Eden home
That flourishes beneath God's dome

The joy of love, the pain of loss
That dwell within an inkwell's gloss
Are treasured words that cause a tear
To fall upon a listening ear

To lay your heart in morning's glow
On crest of crystal virgin snow
Is but a dainty print that gleams
Of who you are or what it seems

A poem that speaks in depth and grace
That mirrors eyes and soul and face
Will find a harbor in the minds
Of all of those who've read your rhymes

A poem is made of words you sift
Ethereal sands, a treasured gift

-- Submitted by Elizabeth Santos from Pottstown, PA
e-mail: mesantos1@comcast.net

 

Editor's Pick:
ALMOST GROWN

 She digs inside my make-up drawer
And claims she's almost grown.
Only three, this little one,
Heartaches of life as yet unknown.

 Upon her cheeks she puts on rouge
And paints her lips a shade of red,
She views herself and says she's pretty
And then she jumps up on my bed.

 I look at her and I wonder,
Was I ever, like her, so young?
Did, I too, say I am pretty,
As on the bed, like her, I flung?

 Her cheeks so fair and lips of pink,
She has, for now, no need of paint.
Into my world she wants to go,
She thinks it's something that it ain't.

 She smiles wide with ruby lips,
And claims, that now, she looks like me.
I smile at her and then I wonder;
What it is she views that I can't see.

 On her, I see, her eyes of blue,
On me, I see, my mousy brown.
I see her face so soft and smooth,
While my own, more like a clown.

 I close the drawer and wash her face,
Returning her to a child of three;
I kiss her cheek and head out to play,
With the dog and Heather and me.

-- Submitted by Gloria Sarasin from Trinity, North Carolina
e-mail: sara689@yahoo.com



I WALKED IN THE DESERT

Dusk in the dessert where quietness lies
Indigo blue under lavender skies
Young Golden Eagle in breeze of the night
Last beams of sunlight on wings edged in white

Sun drops down slowly beyond mountain's ledge
The last golden beams fanning out from the edge
Canyon is silent, the heavens are strewn
With bright little stars and a glorious moon

Skies light the footpath of silvery sand
That changes at dawn to the color of tan
And morning will also bring joy to the eyes
Mountains of purple beneath crimson skies

So very few flowers, yet beauty unfurled
In this ever surprisingly colorful world
I walked in the dessert, alone in the sand
God stood there beside me with paintbrush in hand

  -- Submitted by Elizabeth Santos from Pottstown, PA
e-mail: mesantos1@comcast.net



Writing words
because I'm bored
needing to see
black ink
on these sheets
the connection between
head and heart
outlayed
for all to peer and wonder about
their opinions are voiced
as if I have no ears
or wits with which to understand
their words
they criticize
and belittle
yet
they themselves will not dare
to put their soul on display
they will not
tear a hunk of themselves away
and give it to all
who might need a piece
so that they themselves might find
a little
peace
words have a rhythm
all their own
they fall
where they choose
how we feel
determines
how we write
determines
what you feel
now do you see?
connection
black ink
white sheets

-- Submitted by Carra Wilmoth from Pearl, MS
e-mail: mscriquet@aol.com



HIGH HEELED SHOES

Little one in my high heeled shoes;
She wants to play all grown.
Oh, precious one, don't move so fast;
It's not fun, this being grown.

Don't rush to climb inside my shoes;
Stay within your child's world,
It isn't fun to be all grown;
Don't cross into my world.

Sing your silly, happy songs
And stay a child for a little while;
Let me hear your sounds of laughter
And on your face your happy smile.

Wiggle, wobble in my shoes,
I'm glad that they don't fit;
Come and climb upon my lap
And let me cuddle you a bit.

-- Submitted by Gloria Sarasin from Trinity, North Carolina
e-mail: sara689@yahoo.com



SKYLINE

Billowing mounds of ivory,
Trace imaginary skylines,
Floating in a world created by their own.
Pure white masks gray,
Pinks and oranges cover navy,
Shifting, changing, colliding in space.
Massive works of God's clay,
Continually mold into figures of
Clowns, rabbits, or whales driving cars.
They are foreboding parents hiding the world
From the glittering celestial bodies.
Refreshing the earth with calming mists,
They drizzle down to reincarnate growth.
Suddenly pounding at the window,
Acknowledging their anger and unleashing their wrath,
Until the emotions drain, leaving only puddles
Of the past to be sloshed through.
Muddy filaments of joy and relocation.
Troublesome spots that force me to acknowledge
That I am moving too fast,
And noticing too little.

-- Submitted by Katie Wilkinson from Mt. Prospect, IL
e-mail: dusty_sparkle@bolt.com



Softly birds rise
from the meadow at dawn
shaking dust of moonbeams
from their wings.

 -- Submitted by Margy from New Orleans, LA
e-mail: markeybird@cox.net



I'D LOVE TO WRITE A SONNET

I'd love to write a sonnet just for you
To tell you of the love within my keep
Some gentle phrases just to see you through
Another night of soft and peaceful sleep

 My verse would soothe your mind and touch your heart
So sweet would be the words that I'd employ
From out my pen would tenderly depart
The most enchanting wishes for your joy

 My love for you cannot be scrolled in ink
Nor would it fit within a sonnet's phrase
So sad it is to love you and to think
My words must still remain a misty haze

 I touch your face, your lips, your lovely hands
So tiny yet, too young to understand

 -- Submitted by Elizabeth Santos from Pottstown, PA
e-mail: mesantos1@comcast.net



The snow falls softly to the ground
it takes its journey without a sound
A blanket on the world it makes
that hushes noise throughout the streets
A time to sit and think a while
as the snow begins to pile.

 Crisp and white, the arctic snow
brings smiles to those young and old
Then the wind will whip the air
and snow will circle everywhere
Flying up to where it came
then gently falling down again.

 The snow will meet its maker, though
when the sun sends out its glow
We watch it melt and float away
only to come another day
When winter's kiss gives it life
and once again we're blessed with white.

-- Submitted by Leslie Prichard from Albuquerque, NM
EMAIL: twplaw@sprynet.com



LUCIFER

 Hello Lucifer
Nice to see you again
Things haven't changed much
How have you been
I'm glad you came calling
We need to talk
I've tried everything else
You're my last thought

 The trouble is heavy
It weighs on my mind
I've carried this burden
For such a long time
The things that I tell you
I'm sure that you know
Hey, it's my nickel
One monkey wants stop this show

 Kick back in comfort
Light up a smoke
This is my life
With all of its ghosts
Their once was an angel
That I chanced to meet
She rocked my world
She shattered my peace

 We danced a dance
Not knowing it was death
From that moment forward
She was my quest
Now I realize, I finally see
She wasn't real
Just a dammed fantasy

 I've tortured myself
Plus the ones that I love
It's time to let go now
To just give up
She yours now, Lucifer
I give her to you
The soul of an angel
Out of the blue

 Lucifer glowed
Said with a grin
The soul of an angel
Too good to win
In return for this angel
I'll give you a child
Flesh, blood and bone
To hold for a while

 The need inside you
Will not be filled
Yet for awhile it will be
Quite silent and still
If you meet this angel
It never can be
The soul of this angel
You trade to me

 The bargain was struck
The trade made
The soul of an angel
Lost that day
Yet neither one asked her
What she thought or felt
Just took what they wanted
The cards were dealt

 What of the angel
Who never knew
I fear she got hell
Because she loved you

 -- Submitted by Angelfire from Lumberton, TX
e-mail: Angelfire67@msn.com



LOST CAUSE

The blue and grey of yesterday
Still haunt the red hills of clay
The blood moon rises slowly
Stained forever with the names
Born here in this agony
Lived in tortured pain

 The mist is slowly rolling
Over battle fields and graves
Blood, pain and glory
Is all that can remain
The screams of the dying
Echo in my brain

 I struggle to breathe freely
My senses on alert
What draws me
To this deadly ground
What makes my heartbeat hurt

 Who are these men
These children
Of this useless war
That sleeps in phantom slumber
To laugh, to sing no more

 Something dark inside me
Trembles, I go weak
As the past gathers round me
Daybreaks I can't speak

 The world is moving forward
Beginning to come alive
Yet I am trapped and haunted
By a past I can't deny

 I see them there together
The blue and the grey
As they hold their breath in silence
Alone, afraid to pray
Death waits in the sunlight
As the blood moon fades away

 Friend, Foe or Enemy
Father, Brother, Sons
Defending their precious honor
The cause to which they were born

 The connection that always lingers
Between the living and the dead
Is the mist that walks around me
Is the raging in my head

-- Submitted by Angelfire from Lumberton, TX
e-mail: Angelfire67@msn.com


VILLANELLE ON A VILLENELLE

It has the ringing echo of a bell.
The words at each line's end must reconcile.
How I love the lovely villanelle.

Its' quality is that of a carousel.
Jean Passaerat of France defined its syle.
It has the ringing echo of a bell.

One can introduce the spirituel
Or emphasize what he finds most worthwhile.
How I love the lovely villanelle.

The message of this form one can foretell.
Its' poets must to litany be servile.
It has the ringing echo of a bell.

Like the terza rima or rondel,
Its' manner centuries past was given trial.
How I love the lovely villanelle.

If this poetry is authored well,
oftentimes to hear it makes me smile.
It has the ringing echo of a bell.
How I love the lovely villanelle.

-- Submitted by Andrea Dietrich from Pleasant Grove, Utah
e-mail: Pandie55@hotmail.com



THE CREATURE

I awoke! I didn't know if I'd been asleep;
I couldn't remember anything at all.
Where was I? Who was I? I started to weep
At my inability to recall.
I looked around, and as far as I could see
Rolling meadows flowed like a sea of green,
And lying, amidst the flowers, next to me
A creature I had never seen.
I felt no fear and, in a very strange way,
I experienced a deep rooted affinity,
As if I had known it not just that day
But far back, into infinity.
At some distance I could see rivers flowing
Amidst tall reeds and clumps of fruit trees
And a gentle breeze was lazily blowing
Cooling the land by degrees.
Further afield strange forms moved about
In an aura of peace and tranquility
And, but for the occasional screech or shout,
They look'd content and carefree.
Above, the heavens seemed permanently set.
A lacy, misty canopy reflected the sunlight,
And like a translucent, shadowy net,
Kept away the dark of night.
I gazed in awe at this wondrous landscape,
A scene as close to perfection as it could ever get,
Where beauty and serenity would never escape,
And dreams and reality met.
And as I pondered how this wonder came to be
The creature stirred, sighed and turned over,
And stretched its arms, slowly, towards me
As if to say "be my lover".
As our eyes met I felt a deep, bubbling emotion
That rose and took over my heart and mind;
A feeling so warm and replete with devotion
I never thought I could find.
For a brief moment, which felt like an eternity,
As we gazed at each other I knew deep inside
That I would forever lack in full potentiality
If I didn't have it at my side.
And then I heard a gentle voice from above
Which told me: "This creature to you I now give
For you to cherish, protect, and hold in love.
You are Adam ... She is Eve".

-- Submitted by Vic Fenton from Empangeni, South Africa
e-mail: mwfenton@iafrica.com



THE OTHER SIDE OF THE POND

Rain falling in your eyes
Drifting down to the ground
A pond gathers at your feet
As you stand there and drown

Looking around at the world you know
How many hurtful things that blur your way
You want to just stand there dying
Then fight the hurt away

When I look at you
I see past the tears you cry
I see how bright your spirit is
And how much love you keep inside

I can't stand here holding you hand
And watch you drown
So I will pick you up
And walk you across the pond

I want to take you away
From all the hurt you feel
There are so many wonderful things
Waiting for us on the other side of the water

-- Submitted by Ashley Crofts from SaltLakeCity, Utah
e-mail: silverstar_182@hotmail.com



C.R.A.Y.O.N.S

 Crimson, Terra-Cotta, Burnt sienna
Decorative Henna for Brides of India
the deepest depths of classic red wines
blood looks like this when oxidized
heat, passion, love, danger
with all we've been much familiar

 Tigers back drop, papaya flesh
will appear as yellow and red do mesh
Halloween ambiance, pumpkins and such
reminds me of youth's fun and sillyness

 Puker all one can do, beyond tangy
sugars opposite as ying is to yangy!
as sun lights the world for most of its day
so lemon to all senses, so toes must wear shades

 Nature, freely living displays itself
lending its folige and healers for health.
Grasshoppers, wisunaubi, and kelp,
these all the color of wealth

 Saddness we all reffer to often as blue
exciting when revlon carries this hue
our most discriptive of discribers second to black,
see: blue skies, blue eyes, bluest oceans, I feel blue. . .
It represents baby boy, it's calm tranquil and cool.

 -- Submitted by Phoenix from North Fort Myers, FL
e-mail: Shammah2000@hotmail.com



TRY ME

 Savor Peppery Black
Inhale green,
Dream in Blue
Lick Purple,
Let lime green make you smile.
Wear dark chocolate brown
Admire Gray--statues are gray.
Chew Pink Cotton Candy
and Bubblicious Bubble Gum
Tremble in a thick,
Shadowy Midnight forest at dark,
Then stand in awe at the same forest at dusk.

 -- Submitted by Phoenix from North Fort Myers, FL
e-mail: Shammah2000@hotmail.com



LITTLE LOG CABIN

 Up on top a mountain, over looking a running brook,
a little log cabin stands alone, smoke billowing through the pines.
I envision sitting there before a burning fire, eyes closed in dreams.
The simple life with only calm and solace in my soul.

 I can hear the sound of the running brook as it flows ore the rocks,
the sound of a chickadee responding to an owl's screech.
In my vision, I can see an old rocking chair, and yes, there's me,
my crocheting in my lap and a kitten at my feet, I rock and rock.

 A little log cabin up on the mountain top, brook running below,
this peaceful vision, I will never see, nor that rocker be me.
Muted colors of browns, orange and greens, with splashes of blue,
this painting on my wall is the closest to that life I will see.

 -- Submitted by Gloria Lee Sarasin from Trinity, NC
e-mail: sara689@yahoo.com



A green transparent crystal ball,
A stained glass window in the hall,
Sunlight drifting through the two,
Moon light sparkles, amber, green and blue.

A jaded refraction of the scene,
Imaginary images in the mind are seen,
A kaleidoscope of ancestral apperations,
A conjuring of past fear and superstitions.

Parents great and greater saw the wonder,
On lesser days, nights, lightening and thunder.
The stained glass window holds transparence,
The green crystal will silent ever be

-- Submitted by Edward J Page from Pickering, Ont., Canada
e-mail: joepage@sympatico.ca



FROM THE MOUTHS OF BABES AND POETS

 Cultivated eloquence,
the soft and velvet prose,
delicately wrapped
as sculptured petals of a rose

 Can bring a tear to surface
with the beauty of a phrase
as did the chimes of lyric voices
heard in former days

 The grace of hand in writing
that most celebrated speech
are heights to which the tentacles
of scholars seldom reach

 Some spoken words of noted men
are twitterings of birds.
From the mouths of babes and poets
come the most enchanting words

 -- Submitted by Elizabeth Santos from Pottstown, PA
e-mail:
mesantos1@comcast.net



ONLY A POET

 Before a foot had tread upon
the green of grass, the edge of pond
Before a lover had been kissed
a poem already did exist

 Before the song of lark was heard
Sweet lyrics swirled around a bird
A phrase of beauty lightly dwelt
in summer breezes yet unfelt

 It was an inner dialogue
with nature's song, the voice of God,
that would in gentle phrases part
from chambers of a poet's heart

 Hushed voices swept the eastern wind
with murmurs of a sacred hymn
inspiring a poet's hand
to scroll a psalm in powdered sand

 The sweetest phrase, the joy of rhyme
were waiting on the fringe of time
for fingered words to set them free
unleashing echoes of the sea

 Not every spirit reaps the bliss
of snowflake's soft and icy kiss
Nor soaks in splendors of a dream
that bathes the eyes in sights unseen

 A fragile phrase, the loveliest,
lies just beneath the morning mist,
transparent wings of butterfly
unfolding in a poet's eye

 There is an unknown slumbering rhyme
that waits to toll its lyric chime
There is a silent mystic phrase
in winds of autumn's crimson days

 -- Submitted by Elizabeth Santos from Pottstown, PA
e-mail:
mesantos1@comcast.net



THE CANDLE

A candle casts a flickering light
Upon my empty page of white
A lonely trembling paper stage
Where phantoms dance across the page

My eyes are drawn, not to the flame
But images within a frame
of shadow dancing silhouettes,
Small figurines in pirouettes

As long as candle wick will last
The wavering flame will kindly cast
these ballet ghosts as they rehearse
on stage intended for a verse

To silent music shadows prance
To silent dreams the spirits dance
in quivering light of candle's glow
they spin and waver to and fro

I've become like one of them
A twisting figure with a pen
A lonely heart in midnight moon
Twirling to a silent tune

My eye in hypnotizing stare
At dancing feet that aren't there
Enchanted with the swirling caper
Staged upon my sheet of paper

A tragic figure I must be
To think these shadows part of me
My own dilusions place the blame
On dancing glimmers of a flame

It's but a dreamer's vivid mind
Imagination's stewing brine
that stirs the melting taper's tears
into a dance that now appears

When fire consumed the waxy wick
the phantoms of the candlestick
vanished into midnight's dark
'til dawning sound of meadow lark

In early glow of rising sun
I saw what dancing flames had done
In every spot a foot was placed
a ballerina's slipper traced
her swirling marks across the stage
and etched this poem upon my page

-- Submitted by Elizabeth Santos from Pottstown, PA
e-mail:
mesantos1@comcast.net


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