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I Use To Believe Any Moon Could Be Blue

I use to believe any Moon could be blue.
Before I discovered there were actual Blue Moons.

Feeling depressed and selfishly centered.
Waiting for someone or something,
To find its orbit around me.
On days like the one I am having...
I wished to be spoiled.
I'm tired of doing that for myself.

All that talk about being happy alone...
Doesn't work on the weekends.
Or on rainy, cold or full Moon lit nights.
Don't listen to anyone who lies and says the opposite.
I've squeezed my foam filled pillows flat.
I have to fold them and hold them in my palms,
Just to feel my head lifted at a comfortable angle.
And that is sad.

I use to believe any Moon could be blue.

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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I Started Rumors On Myself

It dawned on me...
Several years ago,
That there were folks
In actual discussions
About 'who' I 'was'...
And 'what' I did!
And vice versa!
As 'if' the court had appointed them authorities.
But then again...
You would have to be exposed,
To the environment I currently live in.
One would think,
These folks live just to get up to gossip!
Or look out of the window!
Well anyway,
As I was sayin'...
It dawned on me...
Several years ago,
That there were folks
In actual discussions

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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On Hearing Of A Death

We lack all knowledge of this parting. Death
does not deal with us. We have no reason
to show death admiration, love or hate;
his mask of feigned tragic lament gives us

a false impression. The world's stage is still
filled with roles which we play. While we worry
that our performances may not please,
death also performs, although to no applause.

But as you left us, there broke upon this stage
a glimpse of reality, shown through the slight
opening through which you dissapeared: green,
evergreen, bathed in sunlight, actual woods.

We keep on playiing, still anxious, our difficult roles
declaiming, accompanied by matching gestures
as required. But your presence so suddenly
removed from our midst and from our play, at times

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poem by Rainer Maria Rilke
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And then the voice came out

Some heard the sibilant siffling of Cerces' hordes
Some heard the oration of a great states person
To others the sounds resembled the squabbling of high flying geese
Or a yard full of primary school children
A monotonous drone buzzed in some ears
While the in-crowd claimed to have witnessed
The auditory incantations of a collapsing wizard
As yet others grooved on the suspended Om
Of an old Om Mane Padme hummer

Was it not Swami Satchitananda-ji who said,
Way back in '72: In every home there is an OM
His Om lasting a full half-hour - for effect
And the crowd totally blissed out on the vibe, man

To the fringe element, hallucinatory displacements of air waves
Yielded harmonics akin to the World beat

Of course there were those who heard speak
The devil incarnate

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poem by Winston T. Gylles
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A short poem

this poem is the shortest I've written
however it may appear long
because the actual poem
is hidden somewhere far away
it is not in this website
the poem bounces off stars
it floats across the milky way
and dances with rock stars

The actual poem is so short
that in trhe English language
it would be impossible to say
because it fits so much in into a short
time frain, the meaning is compacted
into a single alien word
but in that word there is meaning
of a thousand words of praise
the poem could be analysed
for days and months and years

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poem by Torben Duncan
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What Would Be The Purpose

Taking it to falsify someone's character,
Eventually results in the discrediting...
Of the person making adverse comments.

Not only is the person who has been defamed,
Discovered not to be the person believed to have been known...
But also those who become aware of this,
Realize the only information they get about anyone depicted...
Has never come from the mouths of those,
Who are themselves the 'horses'.
You know what I'm sayin'...
Those who actually lay down their own life track.

That information has always been given by someone,
Running their mouth giving opinions to have others quickly believe.
And doing it as if they've been annointed an authority.
Whole families have been ruined by people like that.
People who are jealous and lie about the actual facts.

When people eventually meet someone who has been scandalized.

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Replaced By a Hasted Waste

Has the season of crooks come to an end?
Are people finally awakening,
To witness these actions as actual sins?
Nothing is gained in fulfillment long term...
When thieves retrieve something,
From others not earned!

Has selfish satisfaction lost its gratification?
Consequences must be repaid,
After pretentions lose an ignored sensation!
There is nothing like reality,
To come to stare in one's face.
Especially when disgrace comes to visit...
And replaced by a hasted waste!

And when these affects start to bleed those of greed,
It's remarkable to see...
The speed at which they are prepared,
To feed those of need!
Hoping a forgiveness unconditional...

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Pantoum Of The Great Depression

Our lives avoided tragedy
Simply by going on and on,
Without end and with little apparent meaning.
Oh, there were storms and small catastrophes.

Simply by going on and on
We managed. No need for the heroic.
Oh, there were storms and small catastrophes.
I don't remember all the particulars.

We managed. No need for the heroic.
There were the usual celebrations, the usual sorrows.
I don't remember all the particulars.
Across the fence, the neighbors were our chorus.

There were the usual celebrations, the usual sorrows
Thank god no one said anything in verse.
The neighbors were our only chorus,
And if we suffered we kept quiet about it.

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poem by Donald Justice
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Welcome To My Hometown

Has anyone ever tried,
To tell you the kind of childhood you had?
Or the environment you spent,
Your yourthful days in...
As if you were on on tour,
And they were explaining it?

Has anyone ever told you,
About those grade schools you attended.
With an embelishment done,
As if you were on the sidelines...
Looking on for fun.
And they attempted to tell you,
About those teachers who taught...
And you seldom saw them in a classroom at all?

Welcome to my hometown.
Where any visitor who comes,
Would think what took place...
Was straight from a portrait painted,

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Hartley Field

And place is always and only place
And what is actual is actual only for one time
And only for one place . . .
T. S. Eliot

The wind cooled as it crossed the open pond
and drove little waves toward us,
brisk, purposeful waves
that vanished at our feet, such energy
thwarted by so little elevation.
The wind was endless, seamless,
old as the earth.
Insects came
to regard us with favor. I felt them alight,
felt their minute footfalls.
I was a challenge, an Everest . . .

And you, whom I have heard breathe all night,
sigh through the water of sleep
with vestigial gills . . .

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poem by Connie Wanek
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