Monthly Archives: November 2010

Featured Poem: release by jtwhitaker

springing forth inside a maze-like cavern
i toil in sinuous oscillation toward my destination
to be combusted by the friction between your fingertips
my purpose, your utility
building into the crescendo of our release
ebony waves crashing on the shores of our alabaster universe
i believe everyone has poetry lying dormant inside the deep wells of the soul.
blood pumps from the heart, feeding & carrying oxygen through our bodies. so too, words of passion & authenticity flow within the soul like a heavy petroleum-waiting only for the thrust of creativity and ignition of life to be caught ablaze.
we are all closet poets. we commute through life meditating on yesterday & today,
formulating a plan for tomorrow. all of this quiet contemplation is energy that if we
stopped long enough to record, would fill up volumes upon volumes of self-analysis and universal truth.
the next time life happens, write it down. let the emotions trapped inside your mind flow from your heart to your arm, to your fingertips. let your stream of consciousness bleed onto paper. you just might find that your internal poet is the kindred spirit you’ve always wanted to meet but never knew existed. without fail, you’ll experience a profound release, as the pressure bubbling inside gives birth to the tangible.
JTW writes here. follow him on twitter here.
by JTW
©2010 JTW “” All rights reserved.

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I Won a Poet at the Willow Street Fair

I went to the fair on a warm summer’s night
The Willow Street fair to laugh and play in the carnival lights
I studied the games to look at the prizes
they came in so many color, shapes, and sizes
To my amazement I saw something there
sitting behind the pink teddy bear
A poet,
He smiled as I threw my first darted verse
at the Carny,  whose manner was just a little bit terse.
“Well done, ma’am,” he said, with a tip of his hat,
I laughed, because he sounded a lot like a cat.
“but,” he continued,  “one stanzas only wins a rose.
And I’m afraid your lines were more like prose
than poetry meant to win the heart
of our poet, with your lightly versed dart.
Fear not, try again, it’s only a dollar.”
The Carny said, adjusting his sweat laden collar.
I tried once again, gilding my verse
with flowery words, but these lines were worse
The rhyming was off and the rhythm fell flat
And still on the shelf, my poet happily sat.
His smile, meant to encourage, just tied up my tongue
I’m finding this game is no longer fun.
But the light in his eyes captured my heart
So again, at the Carny, I threw a versed dart.
Hoping this time the words held more meaning
I could see on his face, the Carny was scheming
“Dear, Madame, your words were truly poetic,
But I’m afraid the attempt was still pathetic.
Our poet needs fire, warm, passionate words
Not light fluffy verse meant for the birds.”
He turned to the poet, with a laugh and a sneer,
I looked at the poet, my eyes welled with tears.
But there he sat smiling, not moving an inch
I drew in a breath, my heart felt the pinch
I turned from the booth with a heart heavy sigh
That’s when I heard him starting to cry
He called out my name as I walked through the crowd
I wasn’t expecting to hear such a sound
It gave me a start, I stopped in the lane
Up with the teddy bear my poet came
smiling, then grabbing me warm in his arms
How could I resist such masculine charms?
My heart melted quickly, as he opened his mouth,
at the lyric words that came pouring out.
I smiled, and then kissed his warm pouted lips
his hands reached down grabbing my soft, rounded hips.
And that’s how it happened, believe me it’s true
go to the fair and I’ll win one for you.

Written for One Shot Wednesday at One Stop Poetry.  Check out the talented poets posting this week at One Stop Poetry .

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Copper Headed Angel Audio Recording

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Unaltered Silence

I’m lost
in the unaltered silence
of empty words
Pouring from your mouth
poisoning my soul

hollow, burning with intention
wrapped in gingersnap dressings
may go down easier
but leave a bitter aftertaste
in my heart

Tenderly acidic
rolling off your lips
Meant to warm the skin
they char, with missed fervor
if meaning ever existed

Now tumbling
into the cavern
that consumes a chest
Once full of life
in the unaltered silence
of empty words
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Busy Death


I see busy Death’s work,
From the friend four feet away
To Mom, lips cold black.
In far too many absent friends,
Two in terror’s pyre.
While on shockwave’s path, we escaped,
With “guilty” more, Death missed.
A Midwest viewing with cake.
A suicide’s funeral,
Death Is not a friend to help.
With life there is Love.
The living do not forget,
Those brushed by busy Death.

By Sean Vessey (@Seanotd)

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Impassioned Lovers

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Impassioned Lovers

I wander through the dusky twilight
searching the heavens
for a sign of our broken hearts;
fading stars, cast aside by jaded lovers.
Though the lights have dimmed,
the passion they hold is still raging
in the darkness of eternity;
set aflame by the hope of loves renewal
from impassioned souls,
begging to touch and be touched;
Wanting…waiting for that distant lover,
traveling through the misty mountains
undaunted by a barren land,
spotted with the litter
of empty branches, once heavy with
the weight of passionate pleasures.
Carefully he floats down
the river of broken dreams,
towards the setting sun,
flying on gold dipped wings into
the nothingness of the shadowy beyond.
His soul stalks the stars,
following my sirens call
through the great heavenly bodies,
where my soul rests,
waiting for gentle fingers
to glide across my alabaster landscapes;
Waiting for my breath to catch
his sweet scent,
thick in the air…heady…musty;
I need not guess,
for I know my lovers heartbeat
like my own, steady…rhythmic as the tide,
washing over sparkling white sands,
as the full force of his passion
…washes over me.
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The Gas Station Lady

The gas station lady stands
in front of the old Arco,
screaming obscenities
 to an apathetic crowd.
Even if they took a moment to listen
to the random rantings of the “crazy” gas station lady,
it’s likely no one would catch the pain
buried deep in her words.
She speaks of society and government
and aliens dropping from the heavens;
of God’s glory and grace;
All the subjects we so carefully avoid.
Conspiracies of the heart….the mind;
leading her on a daily journey,
from Target to Arco to Burger King
and back to the old grocery store,
where she sleeps away the chilled night
in dingy blankets and cardboard boxes.
Insanity took her mind long ago;
these people now take her soul.
I glance at the uncomfortable faces,
Desperately trying to avoid eye contact;
praying she will turn on someone else.
And then I remember…
I am one of those people;
standing in the crowd,
avoiding eye contact.
Desperately hoping
she will turn on someone else.
And I cry…
Not out of pity or sadness,
but from the realization that
I am one of those people.
Are you?

I live by these words. Giving love, kindness, compassion, money should be done freely, without strings. Love is not conditional.
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A Gift of Innocence

We sit in silence;
watching the waves
roll across the bay.
The birds chirp
their happy morning tune
to the sound of her sweet hum.

I stare at the water, mesmerized,
by the peaceful beauty
captured in this moment,
the calm surrounding
this nothing of a day;
spotted with the laughter
of people passing by;
we hear a plane
flying in the distance.

She finds, in her adventures,
Nature’s wonder;
a “diamond” filled rock,
shimmering in the noonday sun.
The spider web,
so perfectly crafted;
glistening silken strands
floating in the breeze.

But it is Her beauty I see;
my treasure, a gift of innocence,
heaven sent,
so that I might see the world anew
through fresh, unjaded eyes.

Here you’ll find my soul;
rolling with the waves,
flying in the powder puff skies,
listening to the birds,
following her down a gravel path
to the water’s edge;

Eternally lost in play
with my dearest Meagan.

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Copper Headed Angel

(My Beautiful Meagan)
She plays, as always,
in a pool by herself;
comfortable with the solitude.
It saddens me to see,
the loneliness hidden
behind that bright smile.
Those sparkling blue eyes
don’t reveal the pain
of being the school outcast.
She is…you know?
An outcast from her peers;
who look at her with scorn,
unable or unwilling to understand
that quirky sense of humor.
They tease and taunt her;
this beautiful creature,
gracefully gliding across
crystal waters.
They don’t see the treasure
she holds within her heart;
The gift of love she shares
so freely, with every living soul.
She turns to me and smiles,
running across the light blue waves.
“Mom, look!” she calls, giggling,
“I’m running in the water.”
I smile, then nod
turning away so she can’t see,
…the tears I cry
for my Copper Headed Angel.
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