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The Stairs....

the stairs show us
a door, and we focus
to the moment when
we arrive at the very
doorstep
anticipating about
a day of an opening
and see finally what is next
what is there

we step upon each
plank
ascend every next
stair
each stair
and the next stair
all the days of our
lives
spending time
with little rest

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poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Sonnet: To The River Otter

Dear native Brook! wild Streamlet of the West!
How many various-fated years have past,
What happy and what mournful hours, since last
I skimm'd the smooth thin stone along thy breast,
Numbering its light leaps! yet so deep imprest
Sink the sweet scenes of childhood, that mine eyes
I never shut amid the sunny ray,
But straight with all their tints thy waters rise,
Thy crossing plank, thy marge with willows grey,
And bedded sand that vein'd with various dyes
Gleam'd through thy bright transparence! On my way,
Visions of Childhood! oft have ye beguil'd
Lone manhood's cares, yet waking fondest sighs:
Ah! that once more I were a careless Child!

poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
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To The River Otter

Dear native brook! wild streamlet of the West!
How many various-fated years have passed,
What happy and what mournful hours, since last
I skimmed the smooth thin stone along thy breast,
Numbering its light leaps! Yet so deep impressed
Sink the sweet scenes of childhood, that mine eyes
I never shut amid the sunny ray,
But straight with all their tints thy waters rise,
Thy crossing plank, thy marge with willows grey,
And bedded sand that, veined with various dyes,
Gleamed through thy bright transparence! On my way,
Visions of childhood! oft have ye beguiled
Lone manhood's cares, yet waking fondest sighs:
Ah! that once more I were a careless child!

poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
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Sonnet

To the River Otter

Dear native Brook! wild Streamlet of the West!
How many various-fated years have past,
What happy and what mournful hours, since last
I skimm'd the smooth thin stone along thy breast,
Numbering its light leaps! yet so deep imprest
Sink the sweet scenes of childhood, that mine eyes
I never shut amid the sunny ray,
But straight with all their tints thy waters rise,
Thy crossing plank, thy marge with willows grey,
And bedded sand that vein'd with various dyes
Gleam'd through thy bright transparence! On my way,
Visions of Childhood! oft have ye beguil'd
Lone manhood's cares, yet waking fondest sighs:
Ah! that once more I were a careless Child!

poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
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For All The Words Dished Up - Two For Emily Dickinson

1

For all the words dished up,
A plate without meat. Maybe, bone.
No love fattened you,
never used your flesh.
Green as grass you stayed.
Dauntless, no narrow fellow passed.

2

This talk of death, dear Emily,
I know it intimately - plain talk
describes it best, as you know,
this Mystery grotesque -
concreteness like tombs hard in
the eye or that slant of light
obscured by a fly.

OK. It's done now. And ever will be,

[...] Read more

poem by Warren Falcon
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Preaching Vs Practice

It is easy to sit in the sunshine
And talk to the man in the shade;
It is easy to float in a well-trimmed boat,
And point out the places to wade.

But once we pass into the shadows,
We murmur and fret and frown,
And, our length from the bank, we shout for a plank,
Or throw up our hands and go down.

It is easy to sit in your carriage,
And counsel the man on foot,
But get down and walk, and you'll change your talk,
As you feel the peg in your boot.

It is easy to tell the toiler
How best he can carry his pack,
But no one can rate a burden's weight
Until it has been on his back.

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poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Empty Paper Cups

i do not wish to be great,
to turn and bow on the final stage.
i have no desire to be the train,
just a common plank on the track.

i do not brandish light for the blind,
i walk among shadows without a noise.
my name could be key, wellhouse, or pump...
my voice the sound of a sparrow hatched.

i taste like old trees,
and rain falling from a rusted gutter.
i've had long conversations with dogs,
walked window ledges with cats.

i know the stories of old tires,
i've hung my hat on rusted nails.
i pray in the moonlight with spiders,
and sing praises to the ants.

[...] Read more

poem by Eric Cockrell
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Lies

Your suave ambience
...Makes for a clever ploy;
Words of gratitude- are unnecesary singles-
....And gone our your play pretty toys;
Routine forgiveness comes so easy for you-
...As the curtain on your play begins-
Reading your sheet music- i linger-
And trace the lines of your face once again;
...The sweat upon your heavy brow-
Contrives forgiveness- in sorrows fold-
Releasing for you the heavy weight of burden-
...While i so tired- as your tales grow old;
Walking toward the oceanside for fresh air-
...I could see a ship complete with a plank-
My head- in a dizzy spin-'Of Can't never Win'-
I blacked out and came to with a mind gone-
...Completely blank...

August 3,2009

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poem by Theodora Onken
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So We Sat And Waited

We sat on hard, naked, long plank chairs
Choked by anaesthetics and painkillers
Waiting with bated breaths
To cry tears of joy and ululate
Calling her the greatest things we’ve come to know
We waited…
The sun turned askew above the mountains
Our ears crowded by the awful silence
Eventually Sisters came out without smiles on their faces
Overwhelmed by curiosity we stopped them
Before they could pass us by
‘Doctor Bezuidenhoud will inform you’, they said
And dragged their feet and disappeared in the hallway
Doctor Bezuidenhoud followed
His eyes locked firmly on the ground
Afraid to meet ours
Ours confronting his despair
He told us things our ears refused to believe
Our little Cinderella was stillborn

poem by Stella Sisanda Qishi
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I felt a Funeral, in my Brain

I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,
And Mourners to and fro
Kept treading — treading — till it seemed
That Sense was breaking through —

And when they all were seated,
A Service, like a Drum —
Kept beating — beating — till I thought
My Mind was going numb —

And then I heard them lift a Box
And creak across my Soul
With those same Boots of Lead, again,
Then Space — began to toll,

As all the Heavens were a Bell,
And Being, but an Ear,
And I, and Silence, some strange Race
Wrecked, solitary, here —

[...] Read more

poem by Emily Dickinson
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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