'MONSTER'S INK' by Matthew Kreuter

MONSTER'S INK


I can feel myself connecting
to the teeth in my neck
growing weak in the knees
no sign of a pulse

I try to pull myself together
little piece by piece
the view becomes clearer
when you narrow the focus

The hands are reaching deep
taking all that's left behind
here to collect the relationship dues
somehow I always walk away broke

Until the shadows are lifted
and the spirits have vanished
they never hide in the closet
that's only safe for my storage

Now I'm becoming a monster
time to make the people scream
how could I ever live in fear?
I'm the one they're running away from



Written by Matthew Kreuter, first posted to the People's Poetry Bookshelf on 28th June 2013. 

'WITH THE DREAMS' by Nilim Kumar

WITH THE DREAMS


Mother chided
For playing with the dreams
in the morning

I left making a face
To play with the dreams 
Far away
Mother wept bitterly

At high noon
After a long bout of play
The dream left tearing
my shirt to tatters
Making a face at me

I have returned at high noon
like a pauper
To my mother
Craving
dying for a plateful of rice !


(tr. by - b.chaudhury.)


Written by Nilim Kumar, first posted to the People's Poetry timeline on 17th May 2013.

'MY LAST POEM' by Eddy Ongili

MY LAST POEM


Penning my emotions despite my fears
Livid with pain for injuring my soul
I scribble my last poem on this page
To remind the world I am sick of words
My infinite pen has refused to cease leaking
Sketches of verses have multiplied into books
O how I used to think that was wonderful
Very few issues have escaped the blitz of my pen
The world has cajoled me to pen my mysteries
Word by word, I have layed it all open
My blithe nature dosen't suprise my adversaries
They keep knocking, mocking they want more
I have heard poets preaching from street corners
And wishing someone could resue their souls
For poetry with gusto has refused to go away

I have seen ingraines bustling with joy
On my incapacity to write and be recognized
I have read pieces that shouldn't have been written
To sages I have cried, is it an honour being a poet
At times I have convinced myself of how boring
poetry is
Revealing my fears on how writing lays me open
I am at risk for all my secrets shout in my pages
Claiming "we've got him, Ha! Ha!, Ha! Ha!"
My life has become a search and find game
Though my amoury of words has defended me on
some instances
They made a woman fall in love unitentionally
But I had my defence, she was the one bent on
poetry
I have had it in me and I feel I can write about
everything
I have delved into darkness searching for purpose
Hoping light shone there too but nothing

The idea of souls clinging on my pen has washed
my hopes
Crude thoughts surfaced in me, wondering if am a
prophet
Led me to believe my pen could start a cult
So this is my last poem for I want to be free
Free from the shakles of ineptitude, infatuation
bigotry, insanity, hullabaloo, blasphemy and
jotting
My expression of self has made people think I am
proud
I thought writing was an indulgence maybe an
insult
But with each ink splattered providence sets in
I've seen cliffs dancing and angels murmuring
About the supreme wisdom my pen lays claim to
Should I postpone my fate if I wish
Do I have the power or could I change flowers
It has been more of a lullaby as I weaned myself to
death
This is the beginning of a new revolution, I'll let
God guide me

© Eddy Ongili 2013
PenAftermath


Written by Eddy Ongili, first posted to the People's Poetry Bookshelf  on 9th May 2013

'Spring Dew' by Steven Fortune

SPRING DEW


The lotion must have landed coldly
on your wistful lids
How my fingers want to crawl on you
like satin arachnids

but I felt the twitch in your reflex
and now I must confirm
the report that what I triggered
was a shiver not a squirm

for you shiver when fixated
and you squirm under duress
I can't halt the moisturizing process
after an undress

but your points of no return
uproot like tickled wisdom teeth
so I feel on, praying for the lotion
to be laced with drops of Lethe

Bear a cheekbone and a temple
I appeal inwardly
The anointment to your face
shall be delivered tenderly

Only fingertips, say one or two,
apply to the attention
granted to the pale pillow
of your neck before the tension

is spread out to the perimeters
of my unfurling hand
for ascension to the broader
reaches of your promised land

An ascension physically inverted
to enlighten to the south
cuing me to multitask
with rubbing hand and kissing mouth

Mortal are the goosebumps
anticipating application
of the oil that will lubricate
your cylinders for activation

Brittle feet will culminate
the ceremony of your glisten
and our centers will align
and for a sound of sorts I'll listen

Written by Steven Fortune, first posted to the People's Poetry Bookshelf on 25th April 2013.

'The Woman' by Eddy Ongili

THE WOMAN


The proverbial angel incarnate
She sits at the throne akin to thou's perfection
More so in the case of love and care
Beauty and brains, she carries it all
Humbleness and honesty; companions to her soul

The essence of humankind
The epitome of a mindful heart
The Woman

I praise her for her deliberations
Her constant afflictions, which she dares much to
face
The whisker of pain, from the ocean that's her eyes
She deprives hate and pain the ability to stand

I am endeared to her; the woman
Who is bright and wise
Who shines the duty that is bestowed upon her
She nutures, feeds and educates
She loves, cries, smiles and hugs
She upholds the care of our Lord and Father
She is in nature, a priceless jewel

I hail the woman

Who is the ingredient for the perfect recipe who is
concerned about her character and seeks to
enfranchise the mystique of herself as a woman

Whom the mythical Gaea is her perfect apparition,
for in someway she resembles the mother goddess
in being a queen

Whom some cheap nail polish dosent make her
pretty but her words and actions voices her heart
as beautiful

Whom the principles of honesty and submission
reflects her dignity and earns her respect for being
the noble woman in the niche of society

The Woman

She has the timbre to comfort
Her tier supercedes the typical lass on the street
For she is indeed gratifying to a man who sees her
as a queen
'Cause she respects herself and upholds her
virtues.


© Eddy Ongili 2013

Written by Eddy Ongili, first posted to the People's Poetry Bookshelf on 24th April 2013.

'Imagine That' by Tlotli Mendoza

Imagine That


" Imagine there's no country,
it isn't hard to do."
I don't know about that line
Juan....I love my country!
I would rather sing the one
about the revolution!
We must sing out loud about
the killing that's going on!
We must show the world that
we will fight to be free!
There are too many people
dying in the streets.
Too many innocentes being
shot down.
Families torn apart....
" Peace isn't just a dream
it's a revolution! "
That my friend Juan
is why I fight for peace.
" When this is all over
and we are old men,
we will sing songs of
peace! "
Imagine that....


© Tlotli Mendoza



Written by Tlotli Mendoza, first posted to the People's Poetry Bookshelf on 23rd Aprill 2013.

'Anzac Day' by David George

ANZAC DAY


We instill the ANZAC spirit
and the town was quite abuzz

with Bill the blacksmith's helper
and Joe the fuzzy-wuzz-

the kangaroos were languid
but the kookaburras laughed

when Jack the Kiwi trooper
asked the RSL for draught.

The bar-room girls they sniggered
and the diggers nudged their pals

and the bar-man looked to heaven
with his gaze took off the gals.

:"now here's a dandy rooster"
as he wiped change off the bar

and the punters wiped their noses
in that dry back country bar.

The kiwi was stuck for answers
as Jack Bunbury dropped his cue

and the silent wind grew drousy
and the eucalypts drew in their dew.

The pause was growing pregnant
and love might turn to hate-

but the barman smiled and poured a beer
as the kiwi uttered- "mate!"




Written by David George, first posted to the People's Poetry Bookshelf on 23rd April 2013.

'The Nightly Prowler' by Ross Caplin

THE NIGHTLY PROWLER

Silenced day flight birds
dreamily twist and toss,
in comfy soup bowl beds
of woven twig and moss.

Swivel parabolic ears,
to catch the remotest sound.
The chatter of radar bat
missing objects all around.

But I am graceful feline
not a canine sniffy dog.
A stealthily prowling tom
to other cats known as mog.

Not one of those alley cats
chasing young girl up rain-pipe.
I am something more than that
an aristocatty type.

I prowl the grassy banks
of a moon beam’s watery bed.
Searching for the mice and voles
as they snuggle down their head.

This is my lordly jungle
in scale I am the lion.
The grassy tufted tussock
is no less than lofty Zion.

My eyes are shiny beacons
un-reflective in the day.
Eye-lashed bright headlight beams
to freeze my nightly prey.

Humans don’t see me a hunter
as I purr upon their knees;
thinking in all innocence
only they I aim to please,

Cat-play toys are training me
for my night-time foray trips.
Then as pet return to them
and my willow basket kips.

The morning birds sing loudly
my prowler thoughts have come back.
If I hunt in the day-time
I will always find a snack.

Written by Ross Caplin, first posted to the  People's Poetry Bookshelf  on 22nd April 2013.

'Out of Their Inevitable Misery' by Steven Fortune

OUT OF THEIR INEVITABLE MISERY

They are a firm fraternity
The remnants of the last storm
lingering like facsimiles of fossils
in a last stand against the irascible
bullets of frozen rain
and their grey pimples of abrasion
They are no match for
the crusty rock meringue I imagine
being whipped up by the plow of
the snowbound Philomelos and
blanketing the once-exquisite
drifts of despondent Demeter
like a dutiful but misguided son
They are mini-ramparts scoffing
at Spring's impatient innuendoes
of 7:30 sunsets
I am happy to be human for a change
and illiterate as any other animal
against the implied though
inexplicitly declared dialect of
warring seasons
It would be an exercise in hurt
to inform these stolid hills
they can meet the challenge of
departing Winter's insistence
on joining them under the divine
intimation of hibernation
before it's too late
for behind the rain
the golden veins of Helios
prepare to feed the flex of
heat's pectorals
and will come to mock the
frozen rain's failed bravado
with its syringes of Spring rays
They are no match for the Sun
and for once I'm happy to be human
illiterate as every other animal
against the unspoken though
obvious dialect of
warring seasons

Written by Steven Fortune, first posted to the  People's Poetry Bookshelf on 22nd April 2013.

'Couple' by Stephen Adinoyi

COUPLE

the freshness of her touch
i sweetly munch
she mutters a moan
mine is like a groan
when i am coming
real and refreshing

she stands satisfied
but i unsatisfied
she said no more
for me till morn

you are a wife
not a knife
to cut short my desire
cos i am still on fire!

She says no
and ready to be my foe
i pleads for desire
she says she is no more on fire!
And that is d truth
i becomes mute
then she sleeps
but my feeling is deep
i untie the wrapper
and enter
she wakes (TO B CONTINUED) 

Written by Stephen Adinoyi, first posted to the  People's Poetry Bookshelf on 22nd April 2013

'Wishing Well' by Andrew Cogan

Wishing Well 



Ohh moonlight, ohh moonlight cast thyne golden spell
Waiting patiently for my love, by the old wishing well

A reflection that shimmers in midnights darkest hour
To appear from the shadows, springs first flower

So drift from my sleep and take her hand in mine
Kisses from her lips, so sweet and divine

To pause and to stare into eyes so deep
Black pools of magic, heaven could not keep

Entranced and entwined we dance with the night
With the wind in our sails, the moon in our sight

To sip from these pools of heaven or hell
Until dawn doth awaken like chiming of a bell

In depths of the water my love she doth flow
Reflection of beauty shroud in suns first glow

For now I sit and wait by the well
Until the sun sinketh down and our love shall excel

Written by Andrew Cogan, first posted to the People's Poetry Bookshelf on 19 April 2013.

'My secret' by Gulnoza Odilova

My secret

I locked up you in the castle of my heart,
Thought no one know about you.
I adored you and loved by heart,
Because you were just dreams dew.
You suffered,
You cried,
“No!” you said:
“Let them know
Show them how,
How am I!”
As I tired of living in a suffer,
Opened heart to my friend
As you offer
Wide world was informed by my secret.

Written by Gulnoza Odilova, first posted to the People's Poetry Bookshelf on 19 April 2013.

'Passe' by Sand Tucker

Passe

Now that the ebbing tide has caught my life
Dragging it ever faster to its end
Now that I am no living man's goodwife
And have no children to whom to attend
I have no purpose left to need my hand
No niche to fill, no dire necessity
Leaving one set of footprints in the sand
Affecting naught, outpaced my destiny
Cooking and laundry is light for just me
Dodging spiders, who'd weave me a cocoon
In which to wait for something I can't see
Governed by neither day's eye nor by moon
Not so much clinging as floating along
Nothing to show I'm present but my song

SMT 04/04/2013

Written by Sand Tucker, first posted to the People's Poetry Bookshelf on 19 April 2013.

'Que pensamientos....' by Tlotli Mendoza

Que pensamientos....


This is what you are to me..
My breath is in you
Your breath is in me
You sing to me with every look
Your breath is in me
My breath is in you
No words written in any book
Could describe how I feel
The way you look
When I touch you
When you whisper my name
How deliciously different
Each part of you tastes
How you wish you were me
And I wish I were you
For just this one magical night
Just to feel the intensity of
each others pleasure.
Isn't this what soul mates do?
Hold me tight this sultry night
My little palomita....
And dance naked just for me
Gently swaying to the sound
Of Feliciano's Sabor a Mi
My breath is on you
Your breath is on me

Que pensamientos....



Written by Tlotli Mendoza, first posted to the People's Poetry Bookshelf on 19 April 2013.

'War on the Shadow' by Mandi June

War on the Shadow 


Without the curse of midnight
Leering silent overhead,
With no apparent shelter
But, the cold, dark air instead,
There cannot be a shred of fear
From dreamers in their beds,
Regarding all the evils
That appear inside their heads.

Beginning then to manifest
Into a golden arch,
The chosen dreamers rise again,
Unsheathe their blades, and march.
And, into midnight's darkest vein
The sound of war imparts,
Within the dreamers' thoughts and minds
But, never in their hearts.

Overcoming shrouded hate
And swearing then to win,
The dreamers enter sacred veils
Of suffocating sin.
Forgetting not, the time is drawn
To look from deep within,
And conquer night, with all their love
Restoring faith again.

Bring forth the simple warriors,
Who's vows are more than words!
Let them storm the gates of Hell
Releasing hate like birds!
Wielding strength in swords of truth;
Destroy the damned in herds!
Protecting honor, justice, life,
And split the void to thirds!



Written by Mandi June, first posted to People's Poetry Bookshelf on 17 April 2013.

'Epitaphs for rent' by William Schmit

• epitaphs for rent
  
  
  "My skinny ass
  is only a little behind
  the times."
  
  "Once more,
  with feeling,
  is twice my dream."
  
  "I'd drink to your health,
  but my heart
  leaks."
  
  "You go your way,
  as long as it's yours,
  and then ..."
  
  "Carve in stone
  the things to do
  today."
  
  "There's nothing stranger,
  than being kind
  to strangers."
  
  "If you can read this,
  I'm too far."
  
  
  
  
  Written by William Schmit, first posted to People's Poetry Bookshelf on 17 April 2013.
  
  
  
  
  
  

'Mice or Men?' by Phil Gibson

Mice or Men?

You may call this life a rat race
But to me the only rats
Are the ones in spangled uniforms
Or suits and bowler hats

The rest of us are only mice
All chained to life’s tread-mill
While the rats ride on the gravy train
And eat and drink their fill

They are living in the manner
They have grown accustomed to
While the masses pay in blood and sweat
For the lifestyle of the few

They enjoy all of life’s comforts
Never wanting for their needs
While the masses live in penury
Victims of their leader’s greed

To them our fate is just a game
As they play dice with our souls
The masses are expendable
To their power crazy goals

And when the final war arrives
They will be the first to hide
In concrete bunkers down below
While the masses burn outside

Don’t you think it’s time to show them
Whether we are mice or men?
We should put the rats back in their cage
And then try to start again

© Phil Gibson 2011

Written by Phil Gibson, first posted to People's Poetry Bookshelf on 14 April 2013.

View more at Phil's blog, the Garret.

'To Rhyme or not to Rhyme' by Chris Roberts

Many more here: Poems Gedichte

'Lonely Heart' by A Bermudez

Lonely Heart

Winter´s cold fingers grip
a breath can be seen leaving the lips
this room is just as cold
as the inner depths of the soul

No glimmer nor light can be seen
as the frost settles making all gleam
releasing any warmth left
in a room of color bereft

Emptiness abounds
as the cold air surrounds
there are only frozen memories and emotions
soon to become only notions

As the winter comes to an end
no warmth or spring comes to transcend
for the cold has come to stay
capturing a victim as its prey

As the flowers seem to surround
no life is felt to be found
no warmth or love in this soul
that a spring day could console

A tear has frozen in time
of pity not sublime
on a cheek so tired and drawn
from begging for love now gone

As the day leads to the night
there is no hope for the plight
of turning a heart now cold
warm from feelings and love untold

A Bermudez

Written by A Bermudez, first posted to the People's Poetry Bookshelf on 18 February 2013.

See more here: Whispered Notions Poetry and Memories from a Magical Box Photography

'IAM TIRED OF POETRY' by Eddy Ongili

IAM TIRED OF POETRY

My pen refuses to stop
I get so twisted and Iam laid bare
of all the themes I wear
of all the ideas I share
My poetic wit disobeys my orders
Poetry stop please, you are killing me

Iam in a state of poignancy
I pity myself
I loathe my gift
Poetry is evil
But Plato disagrees
He claims 'the poet's job is to bear witness'
And I witness that 'witnessing' is tough
Iam tired of poetry
Iam tired of poetry
It is to me belligerent
It sneers on my energy
Who will save me from myself
Iam baffled by its effect on me
All I want is more poetry
Reading one leads to the next

Iam disturbed by the comfort others find
I write and someone calls me 'sweet'
Iam told I inspire
Iam told Iam 'set to be' Shakespeare'
Words; words fill my mind
My pen is always on its duty
Traverssing the lonely pages of my books
Iam blind and cant see my soul is dying
I milk it daily/ I beg for complete surrender

The BIBLE or QURAN all poetic
All God's prophets were poets
Please, please, Iam no prophet
I receive no divine light
Poetry please release my mind
Experiences please block any inspiration
Iam tired of poetry
Its disease i get no cure
Poerty let me percieve
Your words let me not receive
For I always believe
Without you I cant live

I see and hear writers perform
some good, others do great injustice
to your name poetry-they cant form
Iam called mystical, satirical, romantic...
Iam none of this,
I deserve not even the name "poet"
Iam ashamed at my writing
Iam ashamed of you poetry
I encipher diatribes into your mailbox
Hoping that you'll desert me
Because I promise if you remain
I'll strip you naked
I'll expose all your forms
And you will suffer from my pen's wrath
I'll decapitate you completly
Poetry is fire, a fire that burns me
In light or night it opens my sight
Iam tired that I cant even sleep
I seek no apologies or reconcilliation
For poetry to me is 'me'

Eddy Ongili©

Written by Eddy Ongili, first posted on the People's Poetry Bookshelf on 18 February 2013.

'Not an Ode to Tofu' by Jo Simons

Not an Ode to Tofu


Oh tofu, I try so hard to love you.
You are what my heart and arteries supposedly prefer.
You save the animals from their frightful doom.
You are our hero.

But you sit there on my counter
trying to look like something edible....
and I see modeling clay or soft white building bricks
meant to be a sculpture or a fun playhouse.

But you claim to be food as you challenge me to make you flavorful -
to smell like anything - to convince me you really are edible.
You staunchly refuse to taste like anything
unless we vigorously infuse you with strong spices.

I am beginning to think you are just a clever hoax!
You're a stubborn, unappealing block of nothing.
Oh sure, you're a cousin of the soybean.....
then why aren't you green?

I need more from you, oh lifeless block.
I need you to try harder to seduce me.
I need a luscious aroma, a beautiful form, a nice color.
Then, perhaps I can learn to love you.



Written by Jo Simons, first posted on the People's Poetry Bookshelf on 18 February 2013.