A Poem-A-Day Celebration

Poem submission by Shaun Shane

Poem submission by Kerrie O’ Brien

It was years ago
a bad time of things
and you led us to Glencree.
people had left messages
all over the statues;
prayers, begging prayers
an inhaler, some pills.
you insisted we light candles
but I couldn’t bear the thought of it
even kneeling proved too much
so you coaxed me, carried me over.
we lit them from the same wick
perfect little blank sticks
the size of my fingers
we pushed them down,
together
and I went to walk away
it was too cold now
but you said
‘look, please, just look’
so we huddled there
in the flickering warmth
and watched them all weep
down to whispers and smoke.
we wept with them
in the hush and glow.
you held me up
as I had held you that night
and walked you round
that dark room
trying to rouse you,
not knowing you
were dead in my arms

“Life in the Big City as seen through the eyes of a Homeless Person”

The sun is so hot today.

I can feel the beads of sweat form upon my face,

As I try to make my way out of this rat race.

There is no finish line; I am not out to win.

I’m just trying to get back on my feet again.

But people are so unkind.

They don’t think I can do anything, even as I talk to them.

I’ve been walking all day; I am so tired.

I could end this charade if only I heard two words: “You’re hired.”

The air is so cold tonight.

As the wind whips across my face,

I try to think of a way out of this place.

I wish I had some money, some food, some clothes.

I wish I had some place to go.

But I am chased from everywhere I try to hide,

By those who tell me sanctuary is not mine to keep.

If only they could see the human soul in me,

I would have a place warm and dry—to sleep.

Poem submission by planetanarchy

Poem submission by randompoeticthoughts

i would do better

alone in this world

with no one to speak to me,

just leave me alone!

i just want some peace

can’t you see in my eyes?

i despise human speech,

it just takes too much time.

i don’t care if you sit there

and just shut your mouth,

you can be in my presence

but you need to learn how!

it shouldn’t be hard

to be silent for hours

but from my experience,

no one else has this power.

i just want to go

somewhere secluded,

no voice but my own,

and a peace never ruined.

Poem submission by Bryan Edwin

When I was young, my father told me tales of indignation
like suffering was the best way to feel alive.
Well, it didn’t take me long to realize that it was all a lie.
As righteous as the promised land was told to be,
I knew it wasn’t for me.

And he put on that white collar, one abandoned dream at a time
saying to my mother, “Honey, it’ll all be fine.”
So tell me why you spend your nights drowning your lungs with wine.
The way we pray is the way we die.

When I wasn’t quite old enough to understand,
My father took my hand
and said, “Soon you’ll be a man
and I hope you know where you stand
because I’d like to see you again in the promised land.”

And illusions fell where my soul forgot to sell,
praying that he wouldn’t send me to hell.
But if he saw everything I’ve done,
I know I wouldn’t be the only one
to die a Prodigal Son.

When I was young my father suffered and sold
every dream he could ever hold,
not because he was getting old,
but because he believed the lies they told.
They never called him a broken man,
but I found shattered pieces in his hands.

Poem submission by Dougie M.K.

This is the poem that writes itself
In the lives of the unfortunate.
That records the lives of the rich
Because they understand not the truth
Nor the life that they lead.

And when the poem is complete,
It binds itself in the sadness of its accomplishment.
This is the poem that tells the story of the truly accomplished
Because, in the end, the unfortunate pull ahead of the wealthy.
For the unfortunate know the world and its workings,
While the wealthy know only their wealth.

Poem submission by Amanda Hueli

they will never touch 
a spinning moon
against a breaking ocean.

like two parallel lines
running forever 
yearning to meet
in super-market aisles
amongst the vegetables,
or in the open park
on the frozen bench
glazing over the sun.

an infinite hole 
is lodged between them.
they want to push out
the dulling light

cup it, pure
around their fingertips
give it to the other
like something borrowed
something new. 

on lazy days 
his whispers 
come back.
they have forgotten
how

just like if the moon 
ran his fingers through
the ringlet ocean, 
a whole world
would die away.

so like the moon
they need to run
from the other,
to save them 
from themselves. 

Poem submission by artificialcensus

Worn by millennia of neglect 
As decrepit and grey as he were, 
Tired bones rattled up the steepest hill in town. 

Umbrella’s felt – faded
Submissive to Wind’s brute strength
Served little to the sheltering of the fatiguing blind man.

As if the oceans had inverted, 
The road beared resemblance to waterfalls
Carrying schools of debris – and nearly, the umbrella porter.

Reaching the summit
Digits found the doorbell
To which the sound alerted the occupants within.

Answered by the deaf man 
And greeted by the mute friend
The threesome sat down to poker and rum.

As rain battled earth and wind ravaged window panes -  
Rosy cheeked, 
Each man took great joy in the miscommunication.

Poem submission by Amanda Jo

A cracking noise and the moon fell from its place between the stars 

The weathered orb shattered on the dirt

And through the dust you saw a stormy-eyed woman, with braided hair and a gypsy soul,

Weaving a golden sunrise morning

She searches through the debris and drags away a smooth crescent piece

She walks tilted,

Like her left arm is heavy

Her hips jut forward,

As if she were being pulled by a string around her waist

In her wake she leaves a sweet-scented honeysuckle path and a fluttering trail of butterflies 

She left you spellbound; a kind of understated magnetism

You recognize her as the mystic; a woman bearing a round, owl-like face, intended for smiling

She has bent you into an emotional being;

Wearing suction-cup eyes and following feet   

As the sun’s warmth dulled behind the mountains, she tied a cord around the ancient, crescent chunk, and hoisted it into the sky

She filled your empty hand with hers and whispered,

“Leave behind anything you cannot carry and follow me”

She guided the way by the light of a moonbeam she trapped in a tin can years before she learned of catching fireflies

She taught you how to ask the sunflower heads to follow the suns path across the sky

And how to curl seahorse tails and butterfly tongues

She explained how to smell the earthy undertones of rain on warm dirt

And showed you how to open the moon flowers petals to bathe in the moonlight,

Grateful for every moment for she knows the bloom will wither in the morning sun

And at the end of the lunar cycle, as you walk hand in hand, she quietly says,

“I’ve given you a reason,”

Her eyes held tears when she twisted around,

“Remember that connection; the pure rain from the sky only comes from pure water on the ground”

Poem submission by kelwomack

Deep in desert sands they reached

High into space where rivers meet.

Twisting slithering through red giants

Standing shoulder to shoulder in grand alliance.

Spires of stone in mushroom form

Pillars where earth exploded and tore

Gorges who split the earth left scars

and monuments like golden Mason jars.

Swaths of crimson paint splatter and dry

Against coppery cliffs in morning light.

Bridges and arches plume from the earth

In hardened explosion gave their birth.

The land stretches, wrinkles, far and wide;

Surveyed by eagles in denim sky.

In the land of needles reaching for clouds,

Monstrous stones take a closing bow.

Poem submission by Nichole Knabe

ocean skies that widen
with surprise
in a big way
like the earth splitting
at its seams
like girls with
unattainable
dreams
breaking at the joints
and the sensitive
points

and at her hips
the wide world ends
reality
bends
and sends him packing
because frankly
there are components she
is lacking

so she’ll have to recover
sometime in the morning
from learning that
most truths come
without

warning

Poem submission by r0und-here

I sit straight in my chair, taking the red-eye out west.

Above me, my life is packed away in the overheard compartment. 

I can’t help but be thankful the rest of my row is asleep.

My insomnia prevents rest, 

but the idea of human interaction 

sparks a wave of depression. 

“Any trash, sir?”

The stewardess stands above me, 

equipped with an open plastic bag.

I cringe at her false smile.

and see myself in her eyes, 

filled with exhaustion and self-pity.

She privately resents each passenger:

The headsets with housewives attached, 

The screeching children who are too young to understand,

The wanderlust teenagers looking to belong.

The sight of adolescence hit her hard, 

She too once had dreams to catch.

Dreams that were abandoned 

in a distant city long ago. 

Now she longs to escape, 

to forget her broken desires,

But each sight she sees

brings a painful memory.

I look up at her.

“Why, yes, I do”, I answer, but did not move.

Her eyes flash confusion, but she walks on,

repeating her question to the next passenger.

She is a robot, programmed to assist.

She doesn’t have time for pathetic old men,

who look for meaning in their five dollar wine.

But that pretty little lady, 

one day she will be me.

For I was once her.

And now I’m taking the red-eye out west,

to catch my dreams 

as bright as the rising sun.

Poem submission by joancarr

Hamako lies in a watery grave, sad eyes watching as her life floats by.

There goes the roof of her house - her mother’s wedding kimono - her favourite doll.

There goes her grandfather’s pen. He writes such beautiful characters.

He was teaching Hamako but no the pen is gone she will never learn.

There goes the fan that her mother saved from the earthquake when all else was gone.

It was silk. It belonged to her great grandmother.

A year goes by and on a distant shore, where children of a different race play on the beach, the doll, eyeless, dismembered, sprawls unnoticed

Why are the fish dead, the children ask as they dip theri nets into the rock pools.

Why are the fish dead the fishermen ask as they pull their meagre harvest from the sea.

The world turns and the tides run and the huge wave that took Hamako from her family has spread itself wide across the ocean and brought sadness to another country where another people, smug in their western affluence, thought themselves safe from such disasters!

Poem submission by Shaun Shane

Poem submission by another-kind-of-blue

I came today to where I was

Which seems so long ago.

For days must pass

And wheels must turn

To lead us down our road.

I met a man who I once knew

Beneath the hollow oak.

From rolling stone to stepping stone,

I told him where I’ve been;

He stopped and smiled and spoke:

“Anywhere is everywhere

And here I am today.

What makes a man

Is how he walks

Not where he makes his way.”