Again And Again!
woodsmoke, and flannel;
old couples and young lovers
curl into each other....
one travelling the roads of memory,
one writing the path
as they go...
or perhaps we're all
stepping in footprints left
by shadowed images of
life pounding the beaches
again and again...
every touch, every feeling,
pulled by the gravity of yearning;
finding form after form
on the long journey to love....
strange pilgrims talking
with their bodies in a language
that wont fit their mouths....
coming again and again
inside the seam beneath
and beyond the souls...
great clouds of frozen breath,
and the taste of our naked identities!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Children Of Love...
sometimes it seems we travel
on long journeys as far away from
ourselves as we can....
before we can find the way
and the means to come home.
often, somewhere in the seasons
of our living, love is like that.
we become so numbed by the struggle
to merely exist, that we lose our
intimate connection....
we lose our sense of taste, of smell,
our very sense of touch...
and it is this loss, if we are lucky,
that redeems us, that strips us
and brings us back to the basic
instincts of our heart...
the storm comes, destroying
all the false images we've worshipped....
yet the rain washes our bodies,
the very bodies of our souls clean....
and only then, naked and vulnerable,
without any props... are we able again
to know love... to feel, to touch, to taste....
and again, through suffering, the candle is lit.
at our best, and our worst, naked...
we are the children of love!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Tis Breath, Then.... (Part Three)
tis breath, then...
that frees both image and form.
that taking hands touches.
that shaping lips kisses.
that barks, howls, groans, and chirps...
that is the lift beneath wings.
that is both scent and journey.
that is the language between us.
defining one inside the other...
tis breath, then....
(that being fire, becomes fire.
that being human, becomes human.
that leaving body, becomes spirit.
that being lonely, takes a body.
that naming god, does not know.
that does not know, but understands.
that being filled, opens and gives.
that giving, somehow remains.
that having left a mark,
leaves no footprints...)
tis breath, then...
breaking down walls imagined.
cracking egos' fragile shells.
breaking down tribe becoming family.
breaking down difference becoming sameness.
breaking the image of god, finding presence.
that walking the smoking ruins of civilization,
births flowers from ashes!
that screaming in childbirth,
puts eyes in the darkness.
tis breath, then...
yawning with creation's dawning,
as if it 'is'!
tis breath, then....
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Naked Bodies...
naked bodies...
great love...
darkest world...
shinny bodies only...
met because of GOD needs
the man i am of yours..
the great lover...
strong one whom you need..
here we are together..
alone no with us...
only me and you...
there where we can make all what our hearts and bodies needs...
all desires all lust we will get...
there we are...
where that GOD sent both us...
to be there naked...
naked...
naked as the day we were born...
when GOD created us...
created into our souls a great lust...
lust that never go away from inside...
lust that could give more happiness to the both...
to get its completeness...
till both melts...
so no more great lust than they gets..
as humans we are...
as a lovers we are...
as our GOD needs...
so come baby...
come and don`t waste what we created for...
created to live a happiness..
created to love...
created to make great love..
created to make happiness through our lust..
poem by Hazem Al Jaber
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Forest Of Souls
The path was dark and shadowed,
They walked as their children followed.
Through the forest to the feild,
For time they shall not yeild.
Lost souls on their paths to fate,
As the reach eternals gate.
The path was dark and shadowed
They walked on as their children followed
The darkness is overcoming
As if to bow before what they are becoming.
They walk with their eyes ahead,
with nowhere to go but where they are lead.
They walk with family, with lovers,
As the mist lightly huvers
The path was dark and shadowed,
As they walk on with more coming to follow.
Their souls are lost, their hearts are gone,
As they walk through the woods as they walk on.
They carry the memories with them,
They leave all their feelings behind them.
Now they walk as one,
Until all but an empy shell is gone.
The path becomes dark and shadowed,
As more people come to follow.
The souls of men, of people,
As they all come, all the people.
They walk through the forest, through the wood,
Down the path of fate, past where they once stood.
The path is dark and shadowed,
As more and more people follow.
They walk past trees,
And plants and bushes, past all of these.
They walk, an empty shell, their emotions and their being...gone.
The souls walk on.
poem by Bethany Maxwell
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Love Whispers Intimacy Lips
this is love
the lovers' touch
when light
quivers in eyes
when eyelashes
butterfly kiss
naked caress
soft lovers' skin
love whispers
intimacy lips
in firefly flight
heard in touch
two pierced souls
share heart hearing
hands fingertip
love soft caring
bodies depth dance
love lock soul trance
beautifully described
beautifully depicted
in one soul breath
in one soul vision
touch of two souls
one in loves embraces
poem by Terence George Craddock
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In The Footprints of My Mother
In the footprints of my mother,
I shall step to you.
In the footprints of my mother,
I shall stay innocent and true.
In the footprints of my mother,
I shall not give up hope.
In the footprints of my mother,
I shall give you my love note.
In the footprints of my mother,
Lead me to a better path.
In the footprints of my mother,
I shall releive in her wrath.
In the footprints of my mother,
I shall cure all of your pains.
In the footprints of my mother,
I shall bring you great reigns.
In the footprints of my mother,
I shall unleash the angels of truth.
In the footprints of my mother,
I shall defeat the evils booth.
The footprints of my mother,
led me straight to you.
The footprints of my mother,
Shown me I have nothing left to loose.
The footprints of my mother,
Guieded me towards the compelling lights.
The footprints of my mother,
Guided me towards the love of my life.
poem by Erin Grantham
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Footprints
Footprints in the sand
As deep as they might be
Will someday be washed away
By the wind or by the sea.
The footprints have been placed
Upon the beaches sand
In memory of a creature
Proclaiming Himself as Man.
I followed this set of footprints
Placed upon the beaches Earth
To find out where Man had gone to,
And to find out His Earthly worth.
Many of the footprints were deep,
Placed upon the beaches sand,
From the troubles that Man had kept
With memories held in His hand.
And the footprints, that were placed wide
They were many upon the beach,
Were they from the trouble that Man did hide,
Or was it from happiness, that was out of reach.
And then as I noticed in front of me
The footprints were swept away,
Man again was forgotten
Until He returned another day.
Then I looked behind me,
I saw my footprints in the sand
And I know someone will follow them
While wondering, who was this Man.
Had my footprints been placed deep,
Or were they placed apart very wide,
Will they wondered if I ever laughed,
Or if I cried, from sorrows I couldn't hide.
So I closed my eyes and I wondered
About the footprints that I had placed
Someday, will Man He follow them,
While believing my life a waste.
So I continued my walk upon the beach,
I was a very joyful and happy Man,
I left my sorrow and trouble behind me,
In my footprints in the sand.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
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When I Arrive I See You Half Naked
when i arrive from my journey
i see you half naked
and you are sleeping
i do not wish to wake you up
i want to see you in that state
where you are what you are
without motion but just the form
where you cannot say anything
to all that i long for
i sit beside you and look at your
body
i am feasting i am motionless
i am speechless
to such a beauty of the one
i love
it is new all over again
the world stops right here
and i do not want it to move
to rotate to make its orbit
to complete its journey
all i want now is a suspension
of time and form and place
because you are with me
because i am with you.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Pareidolia- A Way of Perception
A depressed Guy
Was staring at sky,
Abruptly a form popped up
Assembled from
The lonely wandering clouds,
Appeared to him
Weeping inconsolably;
Suddenly, the warm joy welled up from within,
And the same clouds colluded to carve out,
A laughing form.
(Pareidolia is the phenomenon of finding familiar images in random scenes, like faces in clouds or religious icons in root vegetables)
Dr Hitesh C Sheth
24/05/2009
poem by Hitesh Sheth
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Your Footprints
You left your footprints across my life
I hate to see your photographs:
passing history impossibly frozen,
demanding out-of-date thoughts.
You left your footprints on my life
I hate it when people talk of you:
as if they were asking for my blood
to warm their own false memories.
You left your footprints through my life
I hate it when I find a letter from you:
I read a richness and a loss in them
and am torn apart by myself
You left your footprints in my life
Footprints claim nothing, offer nothing;
they do not ask to be preserved, or to be erased;
they are clean, yet they are there;
where they lead, I have yet to find
You left your footprints across my life
poem by Michael Shepherd
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The Next Life
Some say that when your life comes to an end
a new life as a spirit you’ll forever spend.
The thought of this is really hard to believe,
so difficult to picture and perceive.
It doesn’t seem possible that one can live after death,
be without a beating heart and unable to take a breath.
No need for food and drink as a necessity to sustain,
no creative touch, no passion, no embrace, no pain.
Illness no longer exists, so no doctors are required,
no work to be done, so no pressure of being fired.
Personal hygiene has finished, no toilet or shower,
time has no meaning, so no need to chase the hour.
In spiritual form there will be no need for walking,
telepathy will be the only means of talking.
Materialistic items are unnecessary in any form
and no one can cause you physical harm.
With no roads, cars, houses, belongings, or money
a spiritual life doesn’t seem so pleasantly funny.
This way of life must be looked upon as a new birth
where one learns to live again for all that it’s worth.
What a shame that the Earthly senses are not required,
our touch, smell, and taste, will have all expired.
Emotional problems and stress won’t happen any more,
pride, jealousy, hate, and the rest are gone for sure.
This existence is in the form of a pure spiritual force,
a force that is complete in it’s entirety.
It surpasses that of the Earth bound physical form
making the impossible the norm for eternity.
poem by Orlando Belo
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Cape Town Days
Streets are full of vivid bougainvilleas
while clouds start to touch Table Mountain,
white horses are running from the sea to the beaches
and the southeaster blows at its full strength.
Later in the afternoon the Table Mountain is stark,
naked and clear, the ocean stretches out tranquil and flat
with it dark blue much deeper in turning to green
and the hot Mediterranean sun basks in the sky
and you long to be on Clifton beach
between a myriad of topless girls
with shiny brown tanned bodies
and in your office you can almost smell
the coconut suntan oil,
can almost hear them talking
and their sweet laughter,
can almost taste the salt of the sea on the wind.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Fingertips Naked!
tis the day of lovers,
yet the world is ablaze!
gunfire, and bombings,
with machine like hands.
bodies broken and scattered,
mouths that quiver with hunger.
so many alone in the fury,
even the walls have names.
do you love me?
your eyes betray your heart.
be it gravity or madness,
that throws us together.
now destiny wears flesh,
the wind lives inside bones.
stop the lie, cross the bridge,
you have only one home!
napalm to phosphorus,
ice turns to lava...
fingertips naked,
rewrite the moment!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Curl
You curl, you know how to curl,
Yes you know a curl in your hair
And you curl yourself like a
Hair, in your bed,
It is so cold and no one
Sleeps here
No one comes
There is no hello
As guest and no
Hi to pretend
You are coming
Well, you curl, you know how to curl,
Like your hair,
This time, curl forever,
Nothing straight till the end,
Eternal curl,
Still
Touch it
It bounces and rebounces,
touch it again,
and be silent
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Memory Of The Kiss! ! !
This was the memory.
The memory kissed had played with the heart.
The memory kissed through fast the heartbeat.
The memory kissed made thoughts simply played with the feeling.
The kiss was the feeling of coming tempted promised heaven.
The feeling kiss appreciated each other.
The feeling kiss loved each other.
The feeling kiss gave each other.
It was the kiss through perfection.
The memory kissed had brought the wound.
The memory kissed came with yearning.
The memory kissed flirted.
A kiss not only played with the lips.
Because the kiss was destiny.
Because the kiss was to fill up the world was full of the colour.
This the kiss was the nature song.
This the kiss accompanied the prayer.
This the kiss accompanied the love.
And more significant the kiss always brought yearning.
The memory of the kiss had felt.
Shared the love shared yearning.
The memory kissed still was felt on the perfect lips through perfection.
When Love Has Found You
Sometime in your life you'll know love has found you.
You won't know quite what to do.
You'll wander around with your head in the clouds
and you'll wonder if it can be true?
Love can be found in the craziest places
and turn you inside out.
It never seems to happen when you're looking for it.
It comes and leaves you in doubt.
What is this thing that's come over me,
this crazy feeling I've got?
You came along and stirred up my insides.
Now they're tied up in a knot.
What is this thing that won't settle down?
Is this what lovers call love?
The jitters, the aching, the downright shaking,
Is this what they're talking of?
I know I can't stop it. It's got to be true.
I can't keep my feet on the ground.
Whatever I'm feeling is coming from you.
You found me and I want you around.
I don't want this feeling to go away.
I'd miss it too much you know?
Love you have found me. What can I say?
Except please, please don't ever go.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Amazon Queen
Pounding hellishly the rain has no business destroying me,
My journey is never to end.
Pounding continuously is the water of a scientific kind,
The one we call acid-rain.
Pounding relentlessly are the drops that collect and form floods,
We are too worried of them.
Pounding on us is the liquid I call a storming rain-fall,
In the Amazon rain-forest, where the long river is also.
Pounding on us is the humidity derived from the weather
That never ceases in its changes and profits only.
Pounding heavily and beating the branches is the windy-rain
That lives among the Jungle, that lifts the river
And makes it briefly breath.
Pounding the earth are the Amazonians and their Queen,
Biggest warriors of the undergrowth and canopies,
Huger in conflict than the mercenaries of a war itself.
Pounding on us is the Queen of the Amazon,
The River-Mighty,
The Bleeding-Woman,
A Woman that is Queen and aims to expell us.
We stop and stare to find our heads being shot at from all sides,
Front, Back, Left and Right Flank. We have no chance, and they are
Pounding us with arrows of a different kind -
Poisoned Arrows!
One has hit my ribs and cracked one perfectly,
The other has landed in my neck!
Alas Amazon Queen, your nature is hidden now.
I lay under the trees with the pounding of the rain, in peace.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Images
All the images that occur in my mind
have had me think of places.
I may not have seen them in this life
But then again my memory erases
where they are from or why they are seen.
Could they be from another time?
They seem to haunt my being.
Oh that I could remember
what it is I'm seeing?
They're all mixed up with love and death
and I confess my need to know
why they've surfaced in my mind
and why they never let go.
I remember the images mostly at night
right before I sleep.
They form water-colored pictures
and sometimes make me weep.
not from sadness, but from joy.
For the images have made me think
that they have surfaced for some reason.
So from them I do not shrink.
I want them to stay. I really do.
For they connect to who I am.
For I've known since I was very young
that life after death comes again.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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The Path
walking the path...
uphill, downhill,
winding amid the rocks,
leaving behind
footprints in the sand
that the wind erases...
sometimes side by side,
often alone... with no map,
no compass to point the way.
it's different for each of us;
no one else can do it for us.
this journey of the spirit
discovering itself...
and that which we call 'God'.
often lonely... we fight our way
forward for those moments
of epiphany.... when all of life
appears in a dropp of rain...
or a child's tears.
walking the path,
sun shining on my back...
a few clouds float unchained
in the limitless sky....
they, too, pilgrims going
to the feast....
walk with me?
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Footprints In The Sand
We are but pilgrims
traveling on this
journey
Leaving positive
footprints, in the
sands of time
The tide sweeps in
washing them to sea
again
but we must main-
tain
steady
through the floods
of time
When our journey has
ended
someday, we will
stand
before the master
planner
give account for our
footprints
left in the sands of
time.
poem by Heather Burns
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