The Boy Inside The Turtle
Yesterday was an extra-long day
for the boy with no arms
or legs. Neighborhood children
played outside his window.
A soft machine, they circled,
joined hands, closed eyes,
jumped up and down: shoelaces,
giggles moving in time.
One caught the boy peering.
The boy contorted out of sight,
his breaths lumped on one another
like cows in a mat house.
He twisted too slow. Look,
it's the turtle! The children
gassed like an audience
responding to a laugh sign.
He shifted his weight left to right
back left, again right,
then felt from his chair- a pilot
balling out of a crashing plane.
He was familiar with this
Falling. So was his mother.
She'd surrounded his chair
with six layers of towels.
He waited there like a spilled bucket
of green paint. When he no longer heard
any semblance of playing,
he called his mom for help.
poem by Jeffrey McDaniel
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Someone Keeps Moving My Chair
Mr. horrible
Mr. horrible
Telephone call for mr. horrible
But before he can talk to the ugliness men
Theres some horrible business left
For him to attend to
Something unpleasant has spilled on his brain
As he sponges it off they say
Is this horrible?
Is this horrible?
Its the ugliness men, mr. horrible
Were just trying to bug you
We thought that our dreadfulness
Might be a thing to annoy you with
But mr. horrible says, I dont mind
The thing that bothers me is
Someone keeps moving my chair
Would you mind if we balance this glass of milk
Where your visiting friend accidentally was killed?
Would it be okay with you if we wrote a reminder
Of things well forget to do today otherwise,
Using a green magic marker, if its alright
On the back of your head?
Mr. horrible
Mr. horrible
Were not done with you yet mr. horrible
You have to try on these pants so the ugliness men
Can decide if theyre just as embarrassing as we think
We have to be sure about this
But mr. horrible says, I dont mind
The thing that bothers me is
Someone keeps moving my chair
Someone keeps moving my chair
Mr. horrible says, I dont mind
The thing that bothers me is
Someone keeps moving my chair
song performed by by They Might Be Giants
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Memory Of Love
I came upon a house so bare.
I knew there could be no one there.
I wished to enter so I knocked.
No one answered. The door was locked.
I saw a window through which I peered
and saw it looked just as I feared,
lonely, deserted, cold and musty
cobwebs hanging, everything dusty.
The need to go inside
was an urgency I could not hide.
Should I break the door or shatter the pane?
Encouragement came when I felt the rain.
I entered slowly and looked around
amazed and astounded at what I found.
Every room was empty but for one,
a bedroom with chair facing towards sun.
Beside the chair was a frame
holding the picture of a girl with no name.
Curiosity got the best of me
so I turned it over and I did see
her name scribbled hastily.
'Janette, my love I give to you
this picture I love to sit and view.'
and then I placed it back.
The house was no longer cold to me
for it housed a loving memory.
I left it right beside the chair
as if the lover still was there.
Upon leaving the bedroom I closed the door
so it would stay as it was before.
My intrusion on this private place
as I exited left a smile on my face.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Along Came a Spider
Three small children played under the trees,
giggling as the crimson leaves
floated down onto their soft, innocent hands.
They ran about after eacher other
until they collapsed on the roots
holding the forest together
and their breath came out as a flutter,
their giggles came out in bursts,
and their hair stuck to moist skin.
They were tired.
They decided to go hom for their supper,
as they knew that their mothers would worry.
But, along came a spider.
This spider was no monster.
It was no towering beast coming
to attack the children. To do them harm.
It simply scurried past them,
and somewhere in their human nature,
the children were told to follow.
The children did as they were told.
To a feast the children came, following this spider,
and grinned at a tiny table set for a hundred-
each guest sat in his chair.
Their friend, the spider, took his seat and awaited
his applause, for he had brought,
as the party knew,
their dinner, fresh and soft.
And so the insects climbed the children;
they giggle as the tiny feet
caressed their untainted skin,
and the children ran in circles
with their new tiny friends,
until the insects could hold on no longer
and the children were safe at home.
poem by Zoe Guillory
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Vivaldi, concerto for flute
Children playing on a green playground
Mothers watching
Closely watching
The faces of children
Smiling
Cool air
Green leaves brown leaves yellow leaves
Soft wind
Leaves falling down to the slow soft wind
Children running
Chasing each other
They are playing
A mother feels the soft wind
Cool air
And sees the trickles of leaves
Blending green brown yellow
With sunshine as canvass
Nature and human figures of mothers and children
Blending
Amazing
What a beautiful painting has God
In quick short brushes
Effortlessly with perfect strokes did make
The frame is laughter of children.
I am taking the whole picture for home.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Christmas Story 'believe
she was awoken with a loud thunderous sound
she jumped up and looked around.
it can't be santa claus? it just can't be.
mommy did'nt even have money to buy a tree.
she heard the sound one more time
and upon her roof they did climb.
the little pitter patter of hooves
above her head
made her turn and jump out of bed.
she ran to the window and
looked to the roof
she wanted to tell her mother
she did have the proof.
she saw something red
moving to the chimney
then she knew it had to be.
that santa claus is not only
in our hearts and minds
and will live throughout all time.
all children are supposed
to be asleep.
but through half closed eyes
they would peak.
she then heard the sounds in
the room below.
as she opened the door very slow.
to her surprise there was a tree
decorated 'oh so beautifully'.
and there under the tree
there was gifts galore
who would think - that they were poor.
as she started to look around
at the fireplace he was found.
he was having the milk and cookies
that were left that night.
' oh my gosh what a beautiful sight'.
he then put his finger to his nose
and just like the book
up the chimney he rose.
she went back to her room, and climbed
back into her bed, said her prayers
and laid down her head.
she awoke the next morning
thinking it was a dream.
when she heard her mother scream.
how is this possible? how can it be?
'all these presents, and with a tree.'
as she ran to her mothers side
the tears started to fill her eyes.
i don't know who did this? i have no clue
and i don't know what i should do.
she then told her what she heard
and saw the night before
when she opened up her bedroom door.
as we opened up the first package
from under the tree
we saw a metal frame with one word.
BELIEVE
now we put this question to you.
do you believe? is this story true?
poem by Louis Rams
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Visiting Home
Today I took a trip back-
in time
Standing in a puddle of
deja vu, smack dab
in my childhood
neighborhood
Oh how things had
changed-
It was full of
chipped paint
dying flowers
and broken cars
I guess age took
it's toll-
Things looked old and
broken
I closed my eyes and-
clicked my heels
hoping for a
gift from Oz.
Finally I ran into
something familiar-
We called it
" the big tree"
The place where
we shared our blood
oath secrets
and carved our
initials and
scared club
vows-
I climbed aged
twisted pretzel branches
and found my prized seat
Aged oak still felt the same-
comfortable and safe
All the carvings were
still as we had left
them
I even managed to
remember our
secret language
Somethings still remain
the same-
As the neighborhood
crumbles around it
That tree holds
some of the
best years of my
childhood.
poem by Robin Bennett
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Youth
The chair seldom rocks,
The music has been thrown away
All the toys have been broken
And the laughs have gone away.
Across an ancient playground
Where the children once did play
I no longer see or hear them laugh
The Children have all gone away.
The swings they no longer swing
The trees stand ancient and bare
And the birds they no longer sing
For the children are no longer there.
I close an attic window
As I take off a childish mask
And as I think, the tears do flow
As I wished again, youth had last.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
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Crashing Down
I've never see the sky like that
I can't believe that it could do that
I closed my eyes before the sun could set
I slept and waited for my, waited for my...
I waited for my dreams to land
I waited for my dreams to touch down
I waited patiently to hear the sound
I waited for the song to get me out, to get me out of
And I was up above
Watching myself crashing down
Yes I was up above
Watching myself crashing down
I've never seen so many lights
I've never heard so many voices
No one will tell me how I ended here
No one will tell me where, oh tell me where, oh tell me where I am
Where I am
And I was up above
Watching myself crashing down
Yes I was up above
Watching myself crashing down
Watching myself crashing down
Yes I was up above
Watching myself crashing down
Then I was up above
Watching myself crashing down
Watching myself crashing down
song performed by by Eagle Eye Cherry
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Absence
i have long waited
for this time
when
you cannot seduce
me anymore
like no matter what
you do
whether you spread
your legs
at 180 degrees
or lick the muscles of my
legs for
a day
all these
cannot cause a tremor
to my
layered existence
i have long waited for this
time
when i become a wall
and you wilt
as a vine
when you are but a
forgotten tendril still
fighting for a hold
in my trellis
now that time has come
and i am calling some of my friend
to dine and drink with me
and we had
a good time
recalling what you have done
to me
i told them you ruined me
and i was like a house that fell down
on the ground
dynamited
and then they all left me
when the wine is all consumed
when the food is nothing
but left-overs for the dog
now it is just me and my dog
and then the dog is asleep on the rug
beside a door
that i have not closed
somehow, i am back to this emptiness again
and i still wonder
how can i ever be a void to be filled again
like an empty glass still wishing for
the pouring of
the old wine
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Little Cripple's Complaint
I'm a helpless cripple child,
Gentle Christians, pity me;
Once, in rosy health I smiled,
Blithe and gay as you can be,
And upon the village green
First in every sport was seen.
Now, alas! I'm weak and low,
Cannot either work or play;
Tottering on my crutches, slow,
Thus I drag my weary way:
Now no longer dance and sing,
Gaily, in the merry ring.
Many sleepless nights I live,
Turning on my weary bed;
Softest pillows cannot give
Slumber to my aching head;
Constant anguish makes it fly
From my heavy, wakeful eye.
And, when morning beams return,
Still no comfort beams for me:
Still my limbs with fever burn,
Painful still my crippled knee.
And another tedious day
Passes slow and sad away.
From my chamber-window high,
Lifted to my easy-chair,
I the village-green can spy,
Once I used to frolic there,
March, or beat my new-bought drum;
Happy times! no more to come.
There I see my fellows gay,
Sporting on the daisied turf,
And, amidst their cheerful play,
Stopp'd by many a merry laugh;
But the sight I scarce can bear,
Leaning in my easy-chair.
Let not then the scoffing eye
Laugh, my twisted leg to see:
Gentle Christians, passing by,
Stop awhile, and pity me,
And for you I'll breathe a prayer,
Leaning in my easy-chair.
poem by Ann Taylor
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Our House With The Rotary Phone
I sit in a room that no longer exists
On a chair long since splintered and gone
While I pick at a meal I once would devour
in our house with the rotary phone.
I sit in the room that doesn’t exist
Enjoying my choice of ice creams
Recalling the window in Tiffany glass
Forgive an old man his daydreams
A simple “A” frame with three beds and a bath,
obsolete, yes, but our home.
It stood with its’ sisters on Queens borough Hill,
where the L.I.E. jams are well known.
I had known for some time that her best days were gone
A plywood fence circled our home
Title had passed to a contractor’s hands
Neglected, our house looked forlorn
My past like a picture ripped from its frame
They left not a stone on a stone
Not even the numbers on wood painted green
of our house with the rotary phone.
Our house and its twin have been wrecked and removed
And replaced with a modern brick “home”
So pardon my tear as I stand at the bier
Of our house with the rotary phone
poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Chair
We sat at the table talking
when we noticed from the corner of our eyes
the door seemed to open and close again.
No one took much notice of it;
each thinking it was a draft that had caught it.
Then we watched amazed
as the chair at the far end of the room
began to move on its own.
Each time it caught our attention the chair stopped.
Turning back to our conversation
from the corner of our eyes,
we watched the chair move again.
Each time it inched closer
towards the table where we sat.
Our guests and we were hypnotised
by the spectacular of the moving chair.
We had lived here for many years
and nothing like this had ever happened before.
We all watched intently the chair
with not a word being spoken.
Whatever was moving it
could clearly not be seen.
Someone smiled and said,
“That is a neat trick you must tell us all
just how you’ve done it.”
I shook my head and replied,
“It is not us doing this.”
Faces paled at the thought
of the chair moving on its own.
The chair then stopped
and the outline of a figure appeared,
its eyes were flaming red
and it stared intently at us all.
“Who are you? ” Someone asked.
“Who do you wish I be? ” The reply came
from a voice that seemed to surround us.
You could see the fear begin to inherit everyone’s eyes
as the eyes of whatever looked around at everyone.
A crackling laughter then arose.
“Who are you? ” I asked,
“You are frightening everyone.
I tell you now you were not invited;
your presence is not welcome here.
Be gone I say, be gone and leave us in peace.”
The flaming eyes stared at me
as if to devour my soul.
Outside a lightning bolt struck,
its explosion made us jump.
When we looked back,
the chair was where it should be
and the flaming red eyes were gone.
Was this an hallucination
or did we really see a ghost.
Whatever, when we returned to talking,
we abandoned the conversation
of strange phenomena we were discussing
before our encounter.
15 November 2009
poem by David Harris
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The Chair Don't make the Man
People see me in this chair and whisper look at that poor man over there. They believe my life is wasted all because I’m in this chair. Well I got some to say that I want you all to hear. Just like clothes don’t really make a man neither does a chair. The chair is just what I use to get me for here to there. Just like people who walk use their legs to get them everywhere. Because besides the chair I’m just like you; I laugh, I cry and yes I have sex too. Now that you all know the next time you see me don’t whisper look at that poor man over there. In fact don’t say anything just remember the chair don’t make the man.
Our baby boy....
When your mother was crying in pain,
I took her to hospital, then I heard your
mother's loud scream along with your soft cry
Your mother brought you into this world as an angel.
You were lying next to your mother innocently
My son, your cry brought tears of love in my eyes
When I looked at you first my heart filled with happiness
You were looking very healthy boy
You were trying to look at me through your fresh new eyes
I saw your tiny legs were rocking in the air
and your tiny hands were clapping for me
I gave one of my fingers to you to hold and you held me tightly
and you want to kiss my finger too
When I wrap you in my arms I felt that my dream come true
We waited for you so long and your arrival made our house lighten
God has listen to our prayers and given you as his gift.
I will be watching you growing up and teach you all the good things
You will be learning all the best and I am sure that you will show me
your best when you wear your cap and gown on your graduation day.
poem by Ravi Sathasivam
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Back On The Train
When I jumped off, I had a bucket full of thoughts
When I first jumped off, I held that bucket in my hand
Ideas that would take me all around the world
I stood and watched the smoke behind the mountain curl
It took me a long time to get back on the train
Now I'm gone and I'll never look back again
I'm gone and I'll never look back at all
You know I'll never look back again
I turn my face into the howlin' wind
It took me a long time to get back on the train
See my face in the town that's flashing by
See me standing at the station in the rain
See me standing there beside the car
I left it all behind, again I'll travel far
It took me a long time to get back on the train
When I jumped off, I had a bucket full of thoughts
When I first jumped off, I held that bucket in my hand
Ideas that would take me all around the world
I stood and watched the smoke behind the mountains curl
It took me a long time to get back on the train
It took me a long time to get back on the train
It took me a long time to get back on the train
song performed by by Phish
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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What The Priest Said
What a Priest told me.
I was young, fourteen, late at night, I was hasting home, jumped over fences,
crossed a garden when I saw a naked woman by the fireside, wood fire casted
a warm glow on her body, washing herself with a cloth she dipped into a sink
bucket placed on a chair in front of her. She slowly cleaned her arms, neck,
breasts, legs feet and finally she washed the part where legs meet the body.
All in slow caring motion. She put a kimono on sat down and opened a book,
after a few minutes she put the book down looked out of the window, I was
petrified and hoped I looked like a bush, she smiled, to me or herself, I shall
never know. At this point I hastily left, woozy, confused and in love. Later
I saw her at the grocer’ she had bought flowers, looked up and smiled at me.
Of course I didn’t know, at the time, that she was one of Ruben’s women put
there to tempt me into a life of infidelity forever seeking perfect, chaste love
and not involved in the physical side that smells of under- arms transpiration.
If I see one of Ruben’s women, and she smiles at me I now her love is a dream
and with aching heart and regret I walk away.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Future Is The Children's
The future is the children's and I am of the past
And I too had my young years but nothing ever last
On looking back the Seasons how quickly the years have gone
Old age is fast approaching and the clock ticks on and on.
The future is the children's the children of today
They have the gift of youth with them though youth with them won't stay
On looking back decades from now when time has left them slow
They will wonder as I do where did the years to go.
The years are catching up one me and time has left me gray
And the future is the children's that would be true to say
The people in their sixties are running out of time
And few of them will be living when today's children are in their prime.
The future is the children's and to them alone belong
And those who will tell you differently have somehow got it wrong
But the hands of time keep turning and time on none does wait
And all of us are branded with an invisible use by date.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Praying For Help
she felt the baby move,
unconsciously dropped
her hand to her belly....
staring out the window
at the empty parking lot,
listening to the rain
a chair, a mattress,
an old table pushed back
against the paint peeling wall...
nothing to eat, no money,
he'd been gone for two weeks,
no phone calls, no one to call!
seventeen years old, and the
whole world crashing in....
two church ladies came by,
left her a New Testament,
and a couple of tracts...
and the law keeps circling
the parking lot each night;
roaches gather in the corner
praying for help!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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A Chair Is No Longer Just A Chair
it is your experience that
gives you more meaning to all those which
you think
have been too common and
insignificant,
perhaps
now you must have realized as you sit upon a chair
that someone used to sit there
and that someone waited for another to be with her
that on the same chair
there were some fears
and pains and even longings
and hopes
unrealized and by then
you see that chair not just a chair
you sit there
and you ask it
for this chair though muted by wood
will always have
a story to tell....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Sam For Short
Samantha is a German Shepherd toy,
Sam for short makes her name like a boy.
She really looks like a real dog,
my puppies jumped on her like leap frog.
Playing with her tail, biting her she never yelled.
She was a mother to them, she was their best friend.
They bonded with her like the real McCoy,
There surrogate mother who brought them joy.
Shieka and Shiekee slept by her side,
dreaming peacefully, they felt good inside.
Now pups are full grown and left home,
but Sam is still there laying by the couch or chair,
smiling her smile with brown eyes and hair.
poem by Suzae Chevalier
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