Friday, November 30, 2012

Wars Air of Ambiguity for: Lt. Laura Walker in SPANISH and English

Wars, air of Ambiguity

Dedicated to 1st. Lt. Laura Walker
(From an old soldier/Vietnam Veteran)

[Advance We fight in foreign lands not because we necessarily love its culture or land, but because we believe in pragmatism (life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness); simply as it may be, it can be costly.

The Poem:

We all lose something in war
And sometimes gain something:
Idealism, physical, cynical
(no blood in the face),
Psychological, innocence;
Were all victims of violence
For sure (accepted or not).

A character in a book dies in
The clap of an eye,
In real life, it is not so simple,
No dreamy solution.
It is the duty of the soldier to kill
(Or accept being killed);
Just when, is when it becomes
Complicated?
Disillusionment creeps in,
As does an air of the unknown.
In war there are only epigraphs;
Death, to a part of the human race
Is really what takes place ?
It starts as it ends, with
The human effort exhausted.

There is nothing more admirable
More brave, more flawless,
Than one who gives their existence
For anothersespecially in
A foreign land! for pragmatism

In Spanish Translated by Nancy Penaloza

Guerras, aire de ambigedad

Dedicado a la 1r. Teniente Laura Walter (De un Viejo soldado/ veterano del Vietnam)

Por Dennis siluk

(Avance) Que luchamos en tierras extranjeras no porque necesariamente nos gusta su cultura o tierra, pero porque nosotros creemos en el pragmatismo (la vida, la libertad y la bsqueda de felicidad); simplemente como esto, puede ser, puede ser costoso.

El Poema

Perdemos algo con la guerra Y a veces ganamos algo: Idealismo, fsico, cnico, (Sin sangre en la cara), Psicolgico, inocente-: Todos nosotros somos victimas de la violencia Pero seguro (Aceptado o no).

Un carcter en un libro muere en un abrir Y cerrar de un ojo. En la vida real, esto no es tan simple, Ninguna solucin, soadora. Esto es el deber del soldado para matar (O aceptar ser matado): Solamente cundo, es cuando se hace Complicado?

La desilusin entra sin ser sentido Como un aire de desconocimiento. Con la guerra solo hay epgrafes: Muerte, para una parte de la raza humana Esto es realmente lo que ocurre? Esto comienza como termina, con el Esfuerzo humano agotado

Nada hay ms admirable Ms valiente, ms impecable, Que uno quien da su existencia Por otros, especialmente en Una tierra forgion ! por pragmatismo

Note by Rosa: I don't know much of war, my husband was in one that is all I really know, but in my heart they are the brave, who are willing to give to strangers, freedom, at the price of their own lives. And I think Mr. Siluk sums it up quite well in this dedication poem.

A Poet, Dennis Siluk if you wish to see his website please select another article, poem or short story of his, it will be on those. ..


Author:: Dennis Siluk
Keywords:: Poetry
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By Him The Music Lives

It's in him. The music. All the notes, and melodies, words, and lyrics. His music so strong it reaches out through his finger tips to bring the keys he plays to life. It flows through his lips and produces a sound that only the great ones know how to make. Music emerges from the depths of his soul, and orchestrates itself in the deep recesses of his mind. Harmonious sounds, encased in walls of brilliance. Creating new mysterious lyrics. Mystical content mixed in with unimagined pieces of a man's soul. Released into the world. Inviting the hearer into his place for a listen. A chance to get a taste of what's been stirring in his mind, and now is seeking to find a place in yours. And when it does; because that kind of music never fails to reach us. It leaves its imprint in a way that elicits an appreciation that lingers long after we've heard it. An impression that never fades. It's there. Alongside all the others he's crafted, and waiting for the ones he'll bring still. His music. The essence of who he is, and more than what he does. He's devoted to, skilled in , and all about his music. And by him the music lives...

Faith McDermott is an aspiring writer, and currently oversees the blog: http://insiderdating.blogspot.com. Contact her via: faith2041@aol.com


Author:: Faith McDermott
Keywords:: article submission, Articles, Writers, Writing, Publishing, Ezine, Email marketing, Email newsletter, Email
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Spider's Web

I watched a Spider weave its web
From tiny little bits of silver thread
It grew into a masterpiece.

In awe I saw it catch a Fly
And while I watched it slowly die
It became wrapped up like a present.

The Spider stored his meal away
To be eaten on another day
When it hungered for a treat.

It ran out to repair a rip
That the Fly had made at the end of its trip
And the Spiders new home had been broken.

Fascinated I continued to watch
As it darted out each time to catch
Its dinner, lunch and supper.

Every time the web vibrated
The Spider appeared and deliberated
Over which meal this one would become.

Raindrops now falling from the overhead cloud
The Spider checks the web; hes very house proud
And finds the web now dripping with crystal jewels.

The rain has stopped, the sun has appeared
And to the web I found i've neared
To see the amazing light display.

What a perfect hour i've just spent
Watching the Spider become content
And seeing the delights of Nature unfolding.

** 9th September 2006 **

I have received notification today that this poem will be published in a book called The World Around Us, by Forward Press Ltd, due for publication on 30th November 2006.

I have been writing poetry for many years and regularly have it published in print. My poetry is published by Forward Press and in many other publications. So I'm now putting my poetry online. I'm married to my husband Peter. I publish my poetry on my Blog jo-hale-poetry at http://jo-hale-poetry.blogspot.com/ and on 8hop.com My poetry on 8hop.com. I also have information about my poetry at http://www.squidoo.com/jo-hale-poetry.


Author:: Joanne Hale
Keywords:: Nature, Spider, Fly, Wonder, world around us, Design, Natural
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"Jenny Kissed Me" by Leigh Hunt A Discussion of the Poem and the Poet

Jenny kissed me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in;
Time, you thief, who love to get
Sweets into your list, put that in:

Say Im weary, say Im sad,
Say that health and wealth have missed me,
Say Im growing old, but add
Jenny kissed me.

Leigh Hunt was a 19th century English essayist, critic, Poet, and publisher. Hunt was not a renowned Poet, though his Jenny Kissed Me has been enjoyed and often quoted for nearly two centuries. However, Hunt lived during an age of English Romanticism and was influential in the lives of Percy Bysshe Shelley, Lord Byron, and John Keats. He was also contemporary with Samuel Coleridge, William Wordsworth, and Charles Dickens. Such great company has given Leigh Hunt a distinguished status.

About Jenny Kissed Me

In 1835 Leigh Hunt and his large family moved to Chelsea in London and became neighbor to Poet and author, Thomas Carlyle, at his suggestion. The two became close friends and Hunts home was always open to his circle of friends, of which there were many.

Two stories exist. One story is that Leigh Hunt visited the Carlyles to deliver the news that he was going to publish one of Thomas Carlyles Poems. When the news was delivered to Carlyles wife, Jane, she jumped up and kissed him.

The other story is that during one winter Hunt was sick with influenza and absent for so long that when he finally recovered and went to visit the Carlyles, Jane jumped up and kissed him as soon as he appeared at the door. Two days later one of the Hunt servants delivered a note, addressed, From Mr. Hunt to Mrs. Carlyle. It contained the Poem, Jenny Kissed Me.

The second story is the one most often repeated.

Thankfully, Hunt was a wise editor, because in the original draft Jenny was Nelly and the word jaundiced was used instead of weary in the fifth line.

Reputedly, Leigh Hunt was a flirtatious man, often in trouble with his wife. Also r eputedly, Jane Carlyle was a bit sour and better known for her acid tongue than for impulsive affection.

The Poem, Jenny Kissed Me has been described variously as whimsical, charming, simple, and unaffected. Many readers encounter it for the first time during their school-age years and remember it all their lives. Numerous girls have been named Jenny as a result of the fond memory of the Poem.

The first striking structural feature of Jenny Kissed Me is the trochaic meter. This is characterized by a foot that contains an accented syllable followed by an unaccented one. This meter is not commonly used in formal English Poetry because it can sound singsong.

The trochaic meter is more common in childrens nursery rhymes where a singsong rhythm is welcome. Think of Twinkle, twinkle little star, How I wonder what you are.

The singsong effect is offset by the abab rhyme scheme in the Poem, as opposed to an aabb rhyme scheme. The former rhyme scheme prod uces a four line verse as the basic unit of the Poem, as in Jenny Kissed Me. The latter rhyme scheme produces two line couplets which enhance the singsong effect, as in childrens nursery rhymes.

Trochaic meter can also sound solemn or heavy due to the fact that the trochaic foot has a falling pattern (stressed syllable followed by an unstressed syllable). However, Jenny Kissed Me is a lighthearted Poem and is supported by the use of feminine rhymes.

Lines that end with a stressed syllable are said to be masculine and lines that end with an unstressed syllable are said to be feminine. In Jenny Kissed Me lines 1, 3, 5, and 7 are masculine, but that rhyme pattern is not carried throughout the Poem. Lines 2, 4, 6, and 8 are feminine, helping to offset the masculine rhymes and helping to make the Poem feel lighter and brighter.

The insightful ending to Jenny Kissed Me invariably brings a smile to the readers face.

About Leigh Hunt

James Henry Lei gh Hunt was born in England in 1784 and died in 1859. Many English Poets and writers were contemporaries of Leigh Hunt, including Keats, Shelley, Byron, Coleridge, Wordsworth, Dickens, Carlyle, Jeremy Bentham, and Charles Darwin.

During Hunts lifetime England engaged in the Revolutionary War and the War of 1812 with America, and the 23 year period of the Napoleonic Wars with France. During Hunts lifetime the French Revolution occurred and Napoleon became Emperor of France. Later, steam engines created an industrial revolution, and Darwin sailed to the Galapagos Islands and reported his findings. During a three year period Hunts friends and supporters, Keats, Shelley, and Byron all died at young ages.

Leigh Hunt was born into a poor family near London in 1784 and attended school in London at Christs Hospital, a school founded 240 years earlier for the education of poor children. Following his schooling, Hunt took a job as a clerk in the war office.

In 1 805 Hunt partnered with his older brother, John, a printer, to establish a newspaper called The News. Three years later the brothers abandoned the newspaper and created a political weekly that established their liberal reputation called the Examiner. Among other topics, the Examiner called for many reforms in Parliament, criticized King George III, and called for the abolition of slavery.

The power of journalism came of age during this period of English history with the publishing of numerous critical newspapers which collectively became known as the radical press. Consequently, the government became very busy, though mostly unsuccessfully, prosecuting the radical press for seditious libel.

In 1812 the Hunts wrote an article in the Examiner that called the Prince Regent, the future King George IV, a violator of his word, a libertine over head and ears in disgrace, a despiser of domestic ties, the companion of gamblers and demireps. As a result, John and Leigh Hunt were convicted by a jury of libel and sentenced to two years in prison.

Though he continued to write for the Examiner while in prison, Leigh Hunts separation from his family convinced him to turn away from political writing and to focus on literary writing.

Shortly after being released from prison, Leigh Hunt moved into his favorite house in Hampstead where he was able to spend precious time with his wife and three children and with his literary friends. Among those friends who stayed with Hunt for periods of time in his Hampstead house were Percy Bysshe Shelley and John Keats.

Hunt had earlier introduced the world to the writings of Keats and Shelley in the pages of the Examiner. His section on Young Poets gave Keats and Shelley access to valuable space where some of their first works were published.

Keats welcomed Hunts tutelage for about a year. He broke away from Hunt when a critic labeled Hunt and Keats as members of The Cockney School o f Poetry.

In 1818 Shelley and his family decided to move to Italy for health and financial reasons. His friend, Lord Byron, was living in Italy at the time and the two corresponded for several years while each lived in different parts of Italy.

In 1821, when Shelley and Byron were both located in Pisa, Shelley envisioned a new magazine called The Liberal, which Shelley, Byron, and friend, Leigh Hunt, would publish in Italy. Shelley sent money and an invitation to Hunt and promised to provide a house and income for Hunt and his large family.

Hunt liked the prospect of joining Shelley and Byron in Italy and took his family to Genoa and then to Leghorn to meet Shelley. After their meeting Hunt and his family went to Pisa to join Byron, and Shelley set sail in his boat, the Don Juan, for his home up the coast at Casa Magni.

Shelleys boat was caught in a thunderstorm and sank. Shelleys body and his crew washed ashore in Corsica a few days later. Local health laws prohibited the moving of the bodies to Rome or Pisa, so a month later Hunt, Byron, and family members attended a cremation of Shelleys body. After the cremation Hunt ended up in possession of Shelleys heart, which he eventually returned to Shelleys wife, Mary.

Lord Byron was not interested in The Liberal and soon left Italy to take a commanding interest in the civil war unfolding in Greece. Byron died in Greece of respiratory disease in 1823.

Hunt and his family were left in Italy without their friends and without an income. Hunt published a few editions of The Liberal, but it lacked heart and soul and failed. Hunt received an advance for literary works and took his family, which now included seven children, back to England.

Hunt was impoverished most of the rest of his life. Charles Dickens was instrumental in agitating the government for the grant of a pension to be paid to Englands needy authors. In 1847 Hunt began receiving the pensio n which eased, but did not eliminate, his financial constraints.

Shortly after returning from Italy, Hunt moved to Chelsea, where, as he had done at the Hampstead house, he opened his home to his literary friends.

The publication of Dickens novel, Bleak House, considered by some critics to be his finest work, though certainly not his most popular, included a character said to be modeled after Leigh Hunt. The book caused a rift to develop between Dickens and Hunt.

The Bleak House character, Harold Skimpole, was described as airy, improvident and objectionable. Skimpole claims to be a child when it comes to finances and manages to have everyone else pay his way through life.

Though Dickens denied that this was a characterization of Hunt and offered apologies, Hunt and his literary friends were offended.

Leigh Hunt died at age 75, well-remembered by his many friends. William Hazlitt, the painter and writer, said that in conversation he is all li fe and animation, combining the vivacity of the school-boy with the resources of the wit and the taste of the scholar.

********************
Garry Gamber is a public school teacher and entrepreneur. He writes articles about politics, real estate, health and nutrition, and internet dating services. He is the owner of http://www.Anchorage-Homes.com and http://www.TheDatingAdvisor.com.


Author:: Garry Gamber
Keywords:: Jenny Kissed Me, Leigh Hunt, Byron, Shelley, Keats, Dickens, Hunt, Poem, Poet, Hunts, Hunt's
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Key Largo Frater Albertus

Key Largo:

The fans turn lazily in front of the door

They open wide showing mangroves galore

An egret in the everglades stalks its prey

Haltingly it walks along its way

On another bright and sunny day

A womans floppy hat shades her beauty not so brittle

The silken scarf that holds the hat flutters just a little

She pauses in the threshold of the door

Surveying what shes looking for

She is looking straight at me

Her beauty flaunted all to see.

Where are you from? while noticing I had a frown

On the other couch she elegantly sits down

In the small hotel lobby bar

A city north and very far.

My heart begins a frantic beat

Her flush was not just from the heat.

Let me guess Toronto, it is pretty

A New Yorker?.. It is gritty.

The open lobby with chaises rattan

Encompassed us as the hours ran

Mimosas came and munchies went

Philosophizing led us to invent

All manner of reasons the head to spin

While we shared a special grin.

A friend of depth and through much time

When years after the greatest crime

I returned to the lobby of that Inn

Recalling how she cooed

Remembering that special mood

We never got to raise a brood

The waitress noticed as I cried

I mumbled She should not have died.

FRATER ALBERTUS MAGNUS:

He huddles over the little bowl I've been told

He expects my arrival so I am bold

I wait in a room on the ground floor

And wonder what's behind the massive door

I inspect its' symbols, carved complete

I recognize Bathomet down near my feet

Ptah's T-square and gargoyles replete

A 'spagyric' toque, a familiar eye

On top the Pyramid reaching for the sky,

And You might wonder why, am I

Here in Salt Lake City to see Frater Albertus Magnus

The leader of a worldwide group some call th e 'Magus'.

He comes to greet me from downstairs

Cobwebs dangle from his hairs

His look and manner are quite welcoming

I feel almost like it's my homecoming

'Hello my son, you come, well recommended

Before that night was therein ended

I learned the truth about 'the Stone'

Now with means and methods known

He told me of his looking into man's future

And we talked of ways that WE must nurture

The iron 'hot' to strike it, NOW!

I told him soon I'd make the' Vow!

However, another pact I'd make

Which led my knees to ever quake

There is truth of many things

Do not worry about 'toe rings'

The twitching touches nerves complete Can sense the earth beneath your feet

And lead you past your 'vision quest' Make you at home on Gaia's breast

'I wish you well along your WAY!

The door he closed, I heard him say!

No, call for elixir of youth for me

No gold from le ad are NEED for me I wait with all, the World to see

My 'vow' to join soul quite FREE

And all in all, LOVE with the 'World Mind'

For me - you might think is seldom kind!

Author of Diverse Druids Columnist for The ES Press Magazine Guest 'expert' at World-Mysteries.com


Author:: Robert Baird
Keywords:: Albertus Magnus,
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Thursday, November 29, 2012

Only In America

Only in America
land that was free
now everyones a terrorist
from sea to shining sea

Only in America
home of the brave
whose agents will throw u
in an unmarked grave

Only in America
where once you could protest
no one will dare say B.mb
even though in jest

Only in America
with our Liberty Isle
will elected official
be a pedophile

Only in America
where eagles soar above
will our natural resourses
be sold off to a foreign gov.

Only in America
that oh so beautiful place
can the Vice Pres shoot
you in your face

Only in America
the place we all protect
will the Govt stalk you
on the internet

Only in America
the land we all love
is now a place where we
are afraid of our gov.

Only in America
our soldiers die on foreign soil
so companies can corner
the world market on oil

Only in Ameri ca
our Govt holds power so dear
know the only way they keep
their jobs is thru the use of fear

Only in America
citizens use to be free
its time to stand up and be counted
from sea to shining sea

athenalouise

www.athenalouise.com

my book - Psychics, Psychos and Positive Energy will soon be available. My next one - the Pathe to Spirituality is almost completed.


Author:: Athena Louise
Keywords:: America, Govt, Freedom, Terrorists,
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Nature's Tiny Lantern Lights

Amid indigo layers of twilight,
stars wink brightly in to sight.
Verdant grasses, cool and plush,
quiet footfalls; in the glen--a hush.

The sultry night enfolds me,
in a Summery embrace.
It sighs and whispers at my ear,
Look upon the lea, find the magic that is near.

From the ground they slowly rise,
the dusk-enchanted Fireflies.
Nights escorts putting on a show,
flashing pulses of yellow-green they glow.

These tiny creatures of twilight,
are the Earths heartbeat, given form.
They that herald each Summer night,
carried on the breath of dreams,
are in fleeting beauty borne.

The color of sunlight on new winter rye,
is captured in natures tiny lantern lights.
And a smiling part inside me, soaring . . .
. . . floats with them, in their flight.

:: ~ ~ ~ :: * * * :: ~ ~ ~ ::

Magic in the Touch

How I savor Summer nights,
and evenings in Spring
when days grow longer,
and the dusk doth bring,
like jewels capering
on a spider's silken string,
tiny lanterns gliding
on invisible wings.

How seeming right, I realize,
the color of their light.
How like a precious gemstone,
the sweet, familiar sight.
There surely is no mistaking,
that their golden-verdant glow,
is like the gorgeous hue
of the August peridot!

And should by happy circumstance,
I'm allowed to join them in their dance,
I'll lift my outstretched hands high
and if one of them doth alight
I'll cup it tenderly and draw it nigh.

I'll laugh and smile, dip and twirl
When breathless, I shall pause
to gaze up at the stars awhirl
and offer my silent applause.

If then my tiny visitor decides
the time has come to depart
to join its twinkling kindred
adancing in the dark . . .

I'll bid goodbye
and give my thanks
all with a happy sigh,
for the magic in the touch
. . . of the gentle firefly.

~~*~~

Copyright 2005 Kathy Pippig Harris

Kathy lives in Central California where she shares her life with her husband and furry family. She says, I work full time for a living, and write in order to live fully. She is also a weekly columnist for the publication Frank Talk, which is distributed in several counties in the tri-state area of Michigan, Ohio, and Missouri. Her fifth book, For the Spirit-Soul, is a collection of her short stories and poems was recently published.


Author:: Kathy Pippig Harris
Keywords:: Fireflies,lightning bugs,Summer,Spring,glow worms
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Emotion in Poetry: Using Metaphor and Simile

Poetry needs Emotion, but we need to create Emotion with words, the creation which is called Imagery. To enhance the Emotion of any writing, we can use poetic devices. Using Metaphors or similies is one way to strengthen (intensify, vigorize expression, support, vitalize, justify, stimulate, enhance)Emotion.

A Metaphor is the comparison of two unlike things by saying one is the other. An eample would be love is honey poured over life. Love is not honey, but the comparison creates a mental image of sweetness added to life.

A Simile is the comparison of two unlike things by saying one is like or as the other: Love is like honey poured over life.

Metaphors and Similes are very like in what they do in writing. Both compare unlike things.

Remember the nursery rhyme, author unknown:

< p>Twinkle, twinkle little star, How I wonder what you are Up above the world so high, Like a diamond in the sky.

Comparing the star to a diamond is a Simile. But that comparison doesn't show about Emotion, right?

So, let's think of an Emotion. Shame is an Emotion that most people have felt one time or another. Now, to what can we compare shame?

Shame is like a dirty, smoothering blanket that clouds our sight. Shame is a monster that steals our self-worth. Shame makes us feel tarnished, unworthy, like a statue that has sat in the rain until worn and dull. Shame wraps us in gray, obscuring us from others' love. That gives us a start for a poem that includes the Emotion shame and some ideas for Metaphors or Similes.

Shame by Vivian Gilbert Zabel

I stand nude before the world, My faults and shortcomings Exposed for all to see. Like a tacky, tattered blanket, A cloud of despair smothers me. Layers of gray with streaks Of blinding black press me To the ground, a broken statue, Tarnished by relentless rain And worn by whimpering wind.

I cannot lift my head to watch In case others turn from me, Disdain displayed in their eyes. Shame turns confidence into Disgust for myself, burning Like a fire without warmth, Only a chill leaving no comfort. How can anyone love me When I remain disgraced in life By being who and what I am?

The preceding poem has two Similes and one Metaphor. The one Simile states that a cloud of despair, like a tacky, tattered blanket, smothers the narrator. The other says that disgust burns like a fire without warmth. The Metaphor compares the narrator to a broken statue. All help strengthen the Emotion in the poem, enhancing the feeling of shame. Alliteration is also used: tacky, tattered; blinding black; relentless rain; worn, whimpering, wind; disdain displayed.

Hopefully we can improve our Poetry and add to the Emotion and Imagery by using Metaphor or Simile or both. Lets try practicing the use of these in our writing to see how we can create more power in our poems.

Vivian Gilbert Zabel taught English, composition, and creative writing for twenty-five years, honing her skills as she studied and taught. She is a author on Writers ( http://www.Writing.Com/ ), and her portfolio is http://www.Writing.Com/authors/vzabel. Her books, Hidden Lies and Other Stories and Walking the Earth, can be found through Barnes and Noble or Amazon.com.


Author:: Vivian Gilbert Zabel
Keywords:: Metaphor,Simile,Imagery,Emotion,Poetry
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You Are In My Thoughts

Yet another Woe
Has made you Low
Facing Life without a smile.
If you ride the Storm
In whatever form
It will start to pass in a while.
Though the road you tread is a struggle
Seeking Light along your way
The Path will ease for you
At the start of each new day.
May your heart be healed and lifted
And let Sunshine dry your rain
Let the darkened Clouds around you pass
And may you enjoy your Life again.


My name is Joanne Hale, known as Jo by friends and family (except for my Mum, who still calls me Joanne note the two syllables Jo and anne always got me two smacks whenever I was na ughty as a child!). I was born in Bristol in May 1970 and have lived in and around there all my Life. I married in 1999, which did not work out and ended in divorce less than a year later. I married for the second time in February 2001, to Peter, who I love with all my heart and soul we truly are soulmates. We currently have one cat. I have a really good imagination, which can sometimes be a hindrance, but it is what Helps me with inspiration to write my poetry, which I do as a form of relaxation and to give pleasure to others that read it. I write about everyday occurrences and events that have either happened to me or to others. I had my first poem published in a magazine when I was 10 years old since then I have had poems published in a variety of things, and over the past few years, quite a few in antholo gies with Forward Press and others.

I have been writing poetry for many years and regularly have it published in print. My poetry is published by Forward Press and in many other publications. So I'm now putting my poetry online. I publish my poetry on my Blog jo-hale-poetry at http://jo-hale-poetry.blogspot.com/ and on 8hop.com My poetry on 8hop.com. I also have information about my poetry at http://www.squidoo.com/jo-hale-poetry. I'm married to my husband Peter. I was born in May 1970 and am a Taurean star sign.


Author:: Joanne Hale
Keywords:: Woe, Low, Storm, Sadness, Depression, Hope, Help, Light, Path, Thoughts, Sunshine, Clouds, Life
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The Legend of Mummy Mountain & The Parrots of the Andes

5) The Legend of: Mummy Mountain

(De Per: Valle del Mantaro))

Advance: in the Valle del Mantaro by Huancayo, Peru there resides three enchanting sites, where all seem to be tucked away together (in the area of Chupaca/Ahuac): Here resides Laguna Nahuinpuquio (where legends have come and gone, some forgotten), and the 9th Century (800-1400 AD Wanka site) Ruinas De Arwatuno, overlooking the valley below and the Laguna. But there is a third legend, almost forgotten, it would seem hidden from the minds of the youth of the area today, but not from a few old timers: the legend of Mummy Mountain (that resides nearby, and can be seen with the naked eye from any location thereby), a tall tale possibly, or perhaps as true as the mountain itselffor it looks its name. I will leave that for your imagination to deliberate and make a decision on, I can only tell what I have heard, and so I shall tell it to you:

In the year 825 AD, there was a great man by the name o f Uraurampi, who appeared in the valley, and brought with him his faith in a god called Tunanmaca. The valley was rich with rain and here he founded the Wanka culture. But in time he knew he would pass on (as Tunanmaca had told him, To each man, a time and place is assigned him to die), and so he skilled all his sons in the art of warfare lest some foe take this rich valley away from them.

He lived to a ripe old age, and before he died he asked Tunanmaca a favor,

Take my body; make it into a mummy, place it so I can watch over my people and land.

And the favor was granted. And thus, as the years passed, the landscape changed, where his people buried him, into a hung mountain sculptured into what looks like a resting body, one resembling a mummy.

And so the legend ends with these final words: should there be war to where Uraurampis people need him, they need simply awake him, and he will make the earth tremble and swallow the rival.

Afterward: T oday standing below the old ruins, perhaps the very ones his sons built (Arwaturo) one can see this Mummy shaped mountain, and with rain clouds, its silhouette even more so; it is not hard to realize (without a doubt) why it is called, Mummy Montana.

Note: written after leaving the archeological site, about 35-minutes ride from Huancayo, Peru (in the Andes) 8-13-2006, No: 1424.

6) Los Loros (parrots) de Andes

(De Per)

During the time of harvest

Parrots (loros) of the Sierras

Search high and low for food

Like hungry children of the Devil

They flyhundreds of them

(Like a swarming plague, in packs)

Through mountainous passages

Into villages looking for corn,

Wheat, grains, fruits, foods!

Always in a group, never alone,

They echo their noisy voices

Unto the high heavens,

Like a dark overlooking cloud.

Now, overlooking the farmers fields,

In the clap of an eye, they theyv e eaten

Every trace of corn, every crumb of wheat

Every seed of grain, planted by the farmers

Leaving only tears and pain!

And the youth of the land

(Early in the morning they wake

And wait, anticipate,

Wishing to save the harvest)

Grab slingshot, rock and hand

Trying to kill the ascending foe

In the wheat and cornfields.

But lo, the Loros are keen and swift,

They hide in trees and bushes,

Wait for the youth to fall to sleep:

And with wit, and yellow beaks,

Green wings and red necklaces

They eat everything!

Note: No: 1423, 8-14-2006 (Written while in the city of Huancayo, Peru, in the Andes)

See Dennis' web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com


Author:: Dennis Siluk
Keywords:: Poetry
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Wednesday, November 28, 2012

I'm an Independent Woman

I’m an independent woman, I don’t meet the norm,

An independent woman, I just don’t conform.

Rules of life are meaning less, don’t mean much to me,

An independent woman, I’m happy and I’m free.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I follow my own direction, don’t take no heed of rules,

Leaving men with shattered egos, this girl don’t suffer fools.

They think they can come on to me, and I’ll fall in line,

Soon find out they’re mistaken, what I’ve got is mine.

Try to woo and love me, but they just got it wrong

I’m an independent woman, just listen to my Song.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I’m an independent woman, I don’t meet the norm,

An independent woman, I just don’t conform.

Rules of life are meaning less, don’t mean much to me,

An indep endent woman, I’m happy and I’m free.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

They think I dress, to impress, because my skirts are tight,

But I don’t follow fashion pages, I just wear what feels right.

Men just crowd around me, when I walk into the bar,

Not realising, their worn out lines, wont get them very far.

I don’t need their admiration, I’m happy all alone,

I’m an independent woman, just standing on her own.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I’m an independent woman, I don’t meet the norm,

An independent woman, I just don’t conform.

Rules of life are meaning less, don’t mean much to me,

An independent woman, I’m happy and I’m free.

An independent woman, I’m getting on just great,

An independent woman, controlling my own fate.

John Roberts is a Freelance Train ing Consultant Trainer in the UK. Always open to discussion regarding training and training techniques, contact John by email. John is a prolific writer and publisher of Training and associated technical articles, as well as poetry and childrens stories. http://www.jayrconsulting.c.uk


Author:: John Roberts
Keywords:: Poem,Song,Lyric,john roberts
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A Beautiful Person is Like a Flower at the Edge of the Clouds

Chinese Poetry can certainly be an eye opening experience. And Tang Dynasty Poet, Li Bai, can take us to the outer edge.

In Long Yearning, a dark description of a poets' never ending search for spiritual transcendence, Li Bai creates bright fervid images, as beautiful flowers preen, green waters billow, and a human spirit flies just below the surface of a heavenly mountain gate.

In a poem that creates a sad sardonic tone, he writes,

In Changgan...

As the grasshoppers weave their autumn song by the golden railing of the well,

Frost settles on my bamboo mat changing its color with the cold.

My lonely lamp is not bright; and I would like to end these thoughts.

I role back the curtain.
Then I gaze at the moon.
I sigh a long sigh in vain.

A beautiful person is like a flower at the edge of the clouds.

And above ... the black night is high in heaven.
But below is the green water that bil lows on.

The sky is long; the road is far.
Bitterness flies my spirit.

This spirit I dream can't get through.
The mountain pass is hard.

Long Yearning.
It breaks my heart.


A Flower at the Edge of the Clouds....But a Long Look and Bitter Blue Comment from Here, on Earth

Written in a simple style, this poem, Long Yearning, like other examples of Li Bai's work, creates powerful images that can dance and dart across any open mind. But perhaps the most intriguing image is the flower at the very edge of the clouds.

Like a silver lining in a rain filled cloud, a lovely flower may bring hope and beauty to any desolate person. Its real promise however often remains unfulfilled. It can bring desperation and sorrow to anyone who considers what might have been.

Gerald Marchewka is an American freelance writer currently living in Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia. Gerald Marchewka may be reached at geraldmarchewka@yahoo.com.


Author:: Gerald Marchewka
Keywords:: Poetry, China, Taoism, Buddhism, Philosophy, Tang Dynasty, Confucianism, Analysis, Literature,
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Difficult Times

I am walking in my normal Life now, Difficult Times ahead. The Times working in my Life, I cannot stretch how far theyll go.
Existed for many generations upon this earth, how many more Times do I have left. I ask for salvation, I ask for strength, the only thing I seem to receive is a loss of wisdom.
My wisdom is strong, my knowledge is deep, I know the simple facts of Life. Many men try to understand what I have to say, but only some take the time to listen.
All I ask is for access back, down the path, into salvation of the mortal The only thing I ever wanted was access to the portal.
My writing strengthens, my heart grows, and it all begins with the path of the Woman and the great love that shows.
She walks, she works, she talks, she speaks, she looks and listens; the Life begins with True Love. Which in essence is the signs of a true dove.
Her hair in the sky, her hair as bright as thy, walking, working and shaking her beauty to the left, to the right, I know now nothing guides me as much as her.

Nick Jacob
http://www.electronicsathome.com


Author:: Nick Jacob
Keywords:: Difficult, Life, Times
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Bringing Creativity to Poetry

There are many factors that create poetry. There are many factors that create all types of Writing. With a poem, not only do you have to focus on meaning and style of Writing, you also have to deal with size and form. Some people choose to use already made and famous forms, such as a sonnet, while others prefer free styling it. Either way, there are plenty of creative ways to make the poem stand out even more.

This is all about adding something more visual to the poem, not about actually altering the Writing. Though it may seem unimportant to some, bringing the poem out of just being a piece of Writing and more into a visual art can really capture the feeling and expression in the poem and make the readers experience more enjoyable.

The simplest way is to add artwork. This is the simplest way because it doesnt involve actually dealing with the poem, but rather just adding some images near it. Depending on if the poem is on a website or a page of a book can determine just exactly what type of images you want to add.

The most complex would be scenery that brings the imagery of the poem to life. This can be very helpful for longer poems, those of more epic proportions, and help strengthen a particular scene or moment in the piece. For a smaller, sho rter poem, this can be overpowering and not necessary.

Smaller images, a sketch of a character or object, can be effective too. It can put emphasis on certain meanings and focus in the poem. The key here is to not go overboard. You dont need an illustration for everything mentioned, but one per page or so can just compliment the piece enough.

There is also borders, headers, or similar types of images. These dont at first glance really have to do with the poem, meaning that sometimes the items or designs in them are not even mentioned in the poem, but they can be visually stimulating and help express a certain feeling the poem is getting across. Lighter designs, like using objects like flowers, butterflies, stars, etc, can bring a happy or romantic poem to life, while darker designs, like using weapons, bones, scary eyes, etc, can bring a sad or scary poem to life.

Another thing to consider is adding color to the poem. It doesnt necessarily have to be in the whole piece. Like all the other visuals, this is to compliment the poem, not to overpower it. The key is to use colors that benefit the poem, such as using blue for a water poem or a sad poem, red for a scary poem or a romantic poem, green for a nature poem, and so on. There are a few ways to add color effectively to a poem.

One is to emphasis repetitious lines, phrases, or words. Not only does it make it clearer that these are repeated, it also puts more dramatic effect to them.

Theres also using color to make patterns. Even subtle hints in color can create beautiful designs, weather it makes the poem looked striped or something well-known, or a completely different and unique design. Putting a few blue letters to create a swirl might just be the thing to make a water poem pop out of the page. Or maybe it is some browns and tan diamonds to emphasize the ruggedness of a mountain poem, or green spots to compliment a tree poem.

The third way to add creativit y to a poem is to play with its form. This doesnt necessarily have to effect its style so to say. This could be as simple as indenting a few lines and making the outline curvy. It could also be making the poem look like an object: a poem about butterflies shaped as a butterfly, a poem about water shaped as a drop of water, etc. This can be very unique for short and medium sized poems.

Even putting the poem into an abstract form, with sentence breaks and not following the rules of grammar and typical poetry, can provide something different. It doesnt half to look like a real object, or look like a common poetry style. It can be your own unique and quirky form.

Poetry doesnt need visual aids to make it powerful. Visual aids can however make the poem more than just a poem. It blends literature with art and not only shows the authors other talents and creativity, but can make people think differently about how they view your Writing. Its not a bad thing to think outside of the box. Its not a bad thing to think outside of the poem once in awhile.

Jake Rose is an artist and an author on http://www.Writing.Com/ which is a site for Fiction Writing.


Author:: Jake Rose
Keywords:: Writing,Writing poetry,poetry resources,Writing poems,best poems,inspirational poems
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Three Poems Lima Judges and Evil's Creation

1.

Evils Creation

Thou knowith evil clings
To tender peace;
Nor does it heed ones drowsy
Un-enthralled grief

But softly it darkens
Twilights dunes;
With sprinkling shadows
Straight from the moon.

O Night! Who giveth birth
To Evils plight?
As mighty murmurs
Reached my breast:

His name has no beginning
And no end!

But why! O why?
Everlasting King,
Have you created!
Such a thing?

As mighty murmurs
Reached my breast:
To see, whom you love
The very best!...

#609 4/1/05

2.

Lima,
City with the Stretched out Wings

Its an ink-black night: no stars: no moon in sight
Just dots of: red, green and whitewhite lights
As the plane descends, descends, slides down
On the long-drawn-outflat lingering city of lights
Flat as a pancake, lit up like a Christmas tree
The sleepless city, with its stretched out wings
Stretching from the mo untains to the sea
Winding through the valleys, forests, and streams
Stretching, stretching its naked wingsendlessly

As,
Im descending, down, over and around the city
The city with stretched out windsendless lights
Down, down, behind, downward, its immune to me
Im just part of its evening, a baptism in its inky, sky

Invisible: people, cats, dog, birds, and rats, infinite
Uncountable: dots, dot-streams of lit, dot-lights;
People: walking, talking, sleeping, eating by the dots
People: waiting, killing, robbing, praying by the dots
For tomorrow, tomorrow and another tomorrow

They say:
You are ruthless, and I know this can be true
And they tell me you have thieves, and murders
And this, I dare say, but shall, is also true, very true
But show me a city to the contrary of eight-million?
I shake my fist and say: show me, but no one does
So alive, so brave, with strong and hungry hearts:
I sa y, show me one that sings in poverty, and smiles
Prove me one that, celebrates year-round of its heroes
Show me painters that are as good that sell on streets
And that welcomes the world with stretched out arms
Show me all this, or some of this, I will say no more

And so,
I descend to its streets, its crowed, winding streets
And to its neighborhoods with dust and soiled air,
And hear the laughs of the children, the dogs on roofs
The Shoe-shine boys, men, and numerous food carts
And with its naked featherless wings, covering all
Under its wrinkled aged men, women, standing tall
From drudgery, and toil, sweat, strive, grinding away
Each and every day, praying in the Christian way
You are like a mighty ship that sails and never sinks

3.

Rose's First Poem:

Minnesota Judges

By Rosa Siluk

In Saint Paul, good judges are rare!
their judgments are personal,
and they dont care.
To stim ulate virtue,
they shake their hips.

In due course of time
I hope theyre replaced,
And all Saint Paul will have a new face.

For the Cussedest Rascals, in all the city
are those big horned judges
legal, but sissies.

And so I remark,
to the little and big
to the claimants they skip,
and nitwits they give.

Dennis L. Siluk is the author of 29-books, and has traveled the world 25-times around. His wife has been trying to catch up, but has only made it 10 times, and this is her first poem. I hate to see her next year, she will have me beat. http://dennissiluk.tripod.com


Author:: Dennis Siluk
Keywords:: Poetry
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Tuesday, November 27, 2012

Three Poems (While in Transition/English and Spanish)

Here are three more poems by the author, Dennis Siluk, while traveling througout Central and South America.

Three Poems
While in Transition
(In Spanish and English)

Poem One

English Version

Orange Timid Moon

Oer the Copan sky

an arch of shadows
weave their webs

with low-lights,
as the moon rises...

orange and timid
as one more night

passes by...
by the shadows

of the Maya gods
de antigua Copan!...

Note: written while at the Copan Ruines, in Honduras, April, 2005.

Versin en Espaol

Luna Tmida Anaranjada
Por Dennis Siluk
Traducido por Rosa Pealoza

Sobre el cielo de Copan

un arco de sombras teje sus telas

con bajas-luces,
como la luna se levanta...

anaranjada y tmida
como una noche

ms que pasa ...
por las sombras

de los Maya dioses
de antigua Copan!...

Nota: escrito mientras estaba en las Ruinas de Copan, en Honduras, Abril de 2005.

Poem Two

Cyclye of the Buterfly

First they were an egg
Then a worm without legs
Then a Butterfly;

Then the new cycle begins
Were back to the egg again.

But who was first?
The Butterfly or the Worm?
As all things are, it seems...
It was the rib of the butterfly,
Like Adam and Eve.

Note: written while at the Butterfly Conservatory, in Copan, Honduras, 4-24-2005.

Poem Three

The Simple Things

I was trying to think of great things to write
But I can only come up with simple things,
perhaps, that is where it is at?

(that being:)

The humming of the plane
An attendents voice saying:
Can I help?

What greater gift has God given, than
The flow of little, simple things...(?)

How often do we meet kings?
Fly around the world?
Win the lottery?

It is the simple things you see!
That keep us wise and healthy;
Busy, and free from mischief!

And so I shall close my eyes
And listen to the movie on the screen
While waiting in this flying machine...

(flying from Panama to Lima)

...sitting in this damn plane
Waiting to get home to do little things!...

Note: While flying from Panama to Lima, Peru, the author wrote this poem, waiting to get home to his casa in Lima, 4-26-05.

Poet and Author Dennis Siluk, is presently in Lima, Peru finishing some Poetry he has written while in the Andes, and Honduras, and Peru in General. Waiting to go to Colombia.

Web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com


Author:: Dennis Siluk
Keywords:: Poetry
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Stars O'er Germany (Five More Poems Part II)

6.

The Old Roman Wall

In Augsburg there is a Great Roman wall

Of stone, Not dark, and open to the sky of blue; Homeless looking, old ruins, under the

Somber sun: Soundless and secretalone.

Profound its nature is; I cannot

Answer why: No doors, no locks, just mortar and rock

Face the sky; perhaps, It is that its cryptic past is seemingly

Murmuring unceasingly!

#1181 2/7/2006 7.

Heidelberg Castle (Fortress on the Hill)(1975)

Be meek, I said, when I first marveled

At her face (a strong fortress, with a restful

courtyard): Be meek, who knowest how thy story

goes; From highye, stands, above

The river: Spirit filled with indifference. Mangled-stones with footprints of

Lost battles Reluctant-days, and woe!

Notes by the author: I visited Heidelberg Castle one afternoon, in 1975, this 13th century castle, with 16th century buildings here and there. I stayed for what was called th e Illumination, where they light up the castle, and have fireworks, a most inspiring event. In its ancient, and most gracious looking courtyard I relaxed and took the day in; my son Cody at that time was with me (about three-plus years old), he was running here and there; thank God I was young; it has a slope, or walkway, or rampart, to its top, a long walk its seems, as I look back, perhaps because I had to carry Cody some of the way.

#1182 2/7/2006

8.

The Baroque Staircase

Wuerzburg, once bombed to Hell(WWII),

No voice has said, Farewell! And now she stands, the finest of them all: Along the banks of the Main River,

Bavarias southern heritage city.

I walked her Baroque, staircase,

Stepped into Napoleons room: Looked about the vast Garden Chamber, Built in 1744.

Note: From 1974-1976 the author traveled a lot in West Germany, France, Switzerland, Belgium and Luxemburg; especially witnessing its many castles and rivers. #1183 2/7/06. Introductory Poem

German Ramparts

There lies a country with no time or space, I roamed her cities and streets; castles, riverbanks, in my youth; forests and creeks, bars and fests, paths that I shall never remember, nor trace again.

Our love for each other is desolate, yet it is ours, fall leaves, summer heat, the winter winds, all ours to keep, remember or notso many memories stirredthe old spirit seems to have arms, with voices and memories of long ago, of long age. Thus, I stand irresolute, a ting; lonely: you could sayfor one I shall never know.

#1185 2/7/06

9.

Red Sandstone

Aschaffenburg down, The River Main, Red-sandstone, Simply majestic!

Note: The author lived eight-miles from this beautiful castle, 13th century, made of Red Sandstone, of which on the weekends hed take his son Cody to the castle, park the car, and if it wasnt open, theyd simply play, and look at its beauty. And when hed drive off, h e could still see its pinkish color in his mirrors.

#1184 2/7/06

See Dennis' web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com


Author:: Dennis Siluk
Keywords:: Poetry
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Freedom From A Mountaintop

In a fleeting moment of timeless transcendence, Li Bai writes,

As a flock of birds fly at their greatest height, a lonely cloud drifts idly on its own.

But as we gaze at each other, neither of us will ever grow tired.

There can only be one .... Jingting Mountain.


An affirmation of faith

Perhaps an affirmation of faith for a poet known for the depths of great despair, Li Bai describes a brief moment of happiness to which each of us may aspire.

Within this poem however, there are two major themes that are contained in much of his other work. They are loneliness and freedom, both experienced in his life upon the road.

These themes, perhaps an unlikely pair, have created lasting images that may dwell in any reflective mind.

There real value however, may lie in their ability to describe an existence that could often be described as bittersweet.

In just two brief lines, Li Bai writes,

As a flock of birds fl y at their greatest height,
a lonely cloud drifts idly on its own.


The image of birds above a drifting cloud

And while it may be impossible to gain a complete understanding of these images as they exist within the poets mind, it is reasonable to assume that the flying birds may be a symbol of natures' unrivalled beauty.

At the same time, as a drifting cloud is described as lonely, it takes on an overt human form. It is also quite beautiful as well.

Yet beneath this beauty lies an underlying sadness that adds to the great poignancy of the poem.


The loneliness of a traveling poet

And while loneliness often seems to follow the poet wherever he may go, it would seem that within this one fleeting moment, it vanishes far beyond the clouds.

Or perhaps, as the poet comes to terms with the nature of his own loneliness, he is able to experience a great moment of spiritual transcendence, however brief.

In a description of this event, Li Bai writes,

As he gazes into the eyes of his friend,

Neither of us ever grows tired....

There can only be one Jingting Shan.


The great significance of this brief fleeting moment

Perhaps a symbol of hope, or arguably an acceptance of reality as it really exists, Li Bai creates another striking scene that captures momentarily, .... a lonely travelers' dream.

.... A brief moment of spiritual transcendence in the life and Poetry of China's great archetypal traveler.

Gerald Marchewka is an American freelance writer currently living in Ulaanbaatar Mongolia. Gerald Marchewka can be reached at geraldmarchewka@yahoo.com


Author:: Gerald Marchewka
Keywords:: Poetry, Philosophy, China, Tang Dynasty, Taoism, Buddhism, Confucianism, Metaphysi cs, Rock, Mongolia
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Mixing Poetry with Prose

Mixing Poetry with Prose

In writing modern, or contemporary verse it is easy for anyone to make fun of, or point out what they feel is obscure to their eyes in Poetry, as it can be in any writing I suppose, but verse seems to get its share of pro and con, in more than sufficiently amounts, normally attacked, mostly by those not all that interested in verse in the first place. I am not about to turn this writing into some kind of account, but I do want to say a few words on this issue. Some modern Poetry is what I call defeatist, grant you, and perhaps too fantastic, and too abstract, or too unreal or perhaps too eccentricbeyond the psychological reality of mans mind. I try not to go in that direction, but I do like plays and prose mixed with Poetry, a good narrative in Poetry is real life at its highest expressions. And produce good ideas in verse. This freedom I use, and others have, is not new, it was used by Homer, and even the poem of Gilgamish, have threads of this mixture; Shakespeare does it quite well also.

Yes, it is obvious that Poetry and prose are different. Prose can flow actually better, free from poetic hang-ups; Poetry on the other hand seems to have more solid points to it, and is slower to read usually, and write of course. In prose you can bring up issues, or matters in the moment, in Poetry, you are working on moving the individual, emotionally, more so than in thinking. Nowadays, people have a hard time understanding modern Poetry, in comparison to thousands of years ago. Perhaps we lost the plot, theme and insight into much of the story in Poetry, and need to make adjustments, and so in prose mixed with Poetry we can do that, as long as we remember the poetic value resides in the solid elements it brings.

Commentary on Poetry and Prose: 10/28/2006

See Dennis' web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com


Author:: Denn is Siluk
Keywords:: Commentary on Literature
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A Day at the Beach

Bodies powerfully hewn, clad in black neoprene,
magically conjure imagines of would-be aliens come not
to visit, but to conquer, march with ancestral bearing
to and fro, their surf boards modern shields of armor.

People swimming and wading have drowned
here the sign declares. More related to the sand
the tiny specks of mica, like a zillion silvery
stars forever surrounded by sweet tans, smooth
browns, hard blacks, fragile whites, sober
yellowish-orange grains of sand, I can fend
off lifes ocean of dangers.

Beachcombers parade in fiery reds, pinks, and
limes kicking balls, molding doomed castles,
(chasing wet canines chasing wet tennis
balls) cant perceive how in a handful of sand
is World history more or less.

And the ocean is waiting, the undertow a vice grip,
pulling and pullingits a lighthouse not warning the
living of peril but inviting, enticing, asking us to come
home like t he desperate beckoning tricks
to tongue-in-groove once more on both sides please.

Absorbing the suns heat, tiny grains cradle my feet in
stinging warmth that burnsa bed of lighted matches.
I like it! I stay put, on the beach with my family.

But I still see light off in the distance. The call
of the waves continues to tug and pull me
toward my tomb, a home outside the womb.


Author:: Ramekon O'Arwisters
Keywords:: A Day at the Beach, Balck, Race, World, Worldly
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Monday, November 26, 2012

Peruvian Poems While in Transition (3 and 4)

3)Shadow in the Wood

I got lost in the dark part of the wood (the moon is up, dark with the shadows in the wood,): Look dark? I said You are by yourself!

come to this crevice, in the wood, a voice said to me; and now Im a leaf on its tree.

#888 Oct 9, 2005 (Lima, Peru)

4)Limas Intangible Garden

Laced with light, the Gardens bright which stands between things dimly seen; the planetary mornings sun lovingly

beyond the orb of Earths sky Shows crimson burning rays, beams of light For limas first light.

There is something about this garden I like something in the way of watching it grow grow, from a plot of black dirt, to something more. From seeds, small trees, planted foliage to: towering thickness, bountiful green leafage, All glowing rims, from the sun.

It has touched my hearts desire: something risen before unseen; fragile--, only laced with light, now bearing limbs and leavesmy intangible garden, that now lives before unseen.

#889 (10-10-05) Dedicated to Armando (for once I write about something rising, instead of dying).

Note : Cesar Hildebrandt, International Commentator, for Channel #2, in Lima, Peru, on October 7, 2005, introduced Mr. Siluks book, Peruvian Poems, to the world, saying: Peruvian Poems, is a most interesting book, and important.

Nota: Csar Hildebrandt, Comentarista Internacional, en Canal 2, en Lima, Per, el 7 de octubre del 2005, introdujo el libro del Sr. Siluk, Poemas Peruanos, al mundo, diciendo: ...Poemas Peruanos es un libro muy interesante, usted debera leerlo...

See Dennis' web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com


Author:: Dennis Siluk
Keywords:: Poetry
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The Mist in the Hollow

In the Hollow of the night; it takes many shapes...
A blanket--soft, like brushed suede.
Wispy and frail, like a newborn soul.
Ephemeral and ghosty, gathering in ragged bits.
A vertical sheet, numinous and glowing.
The Mist strokes the earth, grass,
surrounding trees,
and takes a part of them with it--
a breath of pine, an exhalation of damp soil,
the fragrance of autumn dried grasses.
And the Mist leaves a moist zephyr of its self behind...
a shivery, wet caress.
The Mist revels in the dark shroud of night,
or the dim gray of a wintry cold morning.
Winter and autumn are its preferred seasons,
yet it will pay a visit on the odd spring day.
It is dark and creeping on a moonless night--
bold and daring when the moon is full and bright.
In the harvested fields of an October evening,
that blanket of white hugging the damp earth, beckons--
Calling all souls.
The Mist in the Hollow embraces me. It does not part for me when I enter,
but instead becomes me,
fuses with me--the shimmer of it...
the mystery.
The hidden aspect of its Nature reveals to me
what others only perceive as gray, and obscuring.
On a still night, the eddy you espy in the Mist, is me;
my spirit, going for a moonlit stroll.
The sole bit of shredded gray, which rolls o'er the headstone of the dead--is me.
There, in that frothy nimbus above the lake, or the river; I can be found.
Welling up from the Hollow in the weald, to ghost amid the trees; you'll find me in the brume.
When you enter the Mist in the Hollow, does it part for you?
Or do you get wet?

Obsessed, am I--this night--with the Mist.

~~*~~

The Mist is the pall that hangs like drapes over the lake, or swamp during the twilight hour.

And, it is the drizzle that mingles with sea air and ghosts over the breakers, then scurries past the beach and on to the cli ffs. It is thick and tangy with brine as it creeps under doorways, wends 'round drowsy towns, knocks on the door of the widow on the hill, brushes the children's swing back and forth in the churchyard, and then travels on.

Copyright 2000 by Kathy Pippig Harris

Kathy lives in Central California's San Joaquin Valley with her husband and furry family. She is a weekly columnist for the publication Frank Talk and a published author of five novels. She states, Were it not for her need, desire, and love of writing -- she would surely go mad!


Author:: Kathy Pippig Harris
Keywords:: Mist,Hollow,Nature,Fog,Mystical,Magical,
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Writing Inspirational Poems and How They Must Inspire

Writing Poetry is not so difficult, but writing really good Poetry is something, which takes talent and deep thought. Some poets can rattle off Poems in streams of thought, just give them a cup of coffee and a good view of the meadow, while others take weeks to finish the next line. What makes one Poem better than the next?

Well first lets look at a Poem and analyze it shall we? Inspirational Poetry is the easiest to judge for the novice as it is something that reaches out an d strikes an emotional cord, carries you thru and then leaves your mind focused in thought, longing to return and re-read it over and over again? Does that sound about right? Is that the kind of Poetry that you wish to write; something that inspires the soul and wastes no time in tripping your emotional inner self? Lets us look at this Poem, by a novice poet, not well known, but it meets all the criteria of the top Poetry of our present day.

http://www.finaltransmission.com/Poems.html

Now then this Poem on that page indeed inspires in that it speaks to the very heart of Inspiration, the Inspiration you, yourself must find. Do you understand what Inspiration is? You need to understand what it is to write about it and convey it to others if you are to write a truly inspiring Poem. For me, well I understand the Inspiration; I got it. I was kind of thinking of you know like find the Force be with you, find the force; in the back of my head while reading it, but then at the end, well it grabs you. Just find me, find Inspiration. Poems, which pull you and then make you think can inspire, because they sHow you the mirror to yourself you see?

In this Poem for me I saw the background, the road ahead and thought of all my travels, like searching to find meaning, reason to press on, you know like Why? I agree with that Poem and see Inspiration as a personal thing. I like it, do you like it too? I think it would make a great screen saver on my computer. I actually caught a tier on that one. The writer got me! HA. Good one; points on the board for that poet indeed.

For those of us who have pressed on, against the odds and found character in the long road of adversity, Inspiration is like a magical thing. Indeed, as a long distance runner and a 4-minute mile r in college, you look back and feel it all over again when you read a Poem like that; it is a great Poem. The training requirement to make your body perform at that level in running is intense and you dig deep as you pound the miles under your feet. I am sentimental when it comes to overcoming adversity; like the Rocky movie. I think this Poem would be a great Inspiration on the back of a shirt for a marathon trainer.

It should be sent to the NYC Marathon Committee, because it would be worthy on the back of the T-shirts or on posters along the way or for that guy who is 400 Lbs, walking across the country? Or the Frenchman who crossed the Pacific Ocean in a canoe, Hello! Put that Poem on the front of his boat. I think it is perfect for that. You know people who have never pushed beyond or experienced the character, which is built from triumph over adversity may not be able to relate, but I can. Can you? Can you share that with all of us too? When you read a Poem like that all you can say is Thanks, I needed that.

Now it is up to you to find your Inspiration and help others find theirs in your Poem. Writing Inspirational Poetry is difficult, but the rewards for getting it just right are worth the effort. You may be able to write it in an hour, it might take you weeks or a decade to say it; to say it in a way that offers a tier of hope from the reader as it grabs them, makes them think and sends them searching for the Inspiration to press on in their chosen endeavor. Do think on this.

Lance Winslow


Author:: Lance Winslow
Keywords:: Writing Inspirational Poems, How, They Must Inspire, Inspiration, Poetry, Poem, novice poet
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Heaven is Here!

The kingdom of heaven

Does not come with careful observation

Religious hesitation

Mental reservation

Lukewarm resignation

Devilish deviation

Self-exaltation

Neither is it a denomination

Made by men

No!

The kingdom of heaven

Is within

Hard for some to understand

So simple

It takes a theologian

To complicate the matter

Mess up the message

Interpret and expound

Push deacons around

Settle the congregation down

Dull the service

With a funeralistic frown

God however wants to bring

The kingdom of heaven to town

To turn the nation

Upside down

To dunk us all in the river

No, you won't drown

It's a river of life

Liquid love

From the Holy Spirit

The good news is for all

Though few will hear it

After Jesus rose from the dead

Heaven received Him

And the peoples on earth

Who leHeartedly believed Him

Yet Jesus did not leave us

Without a guide

You don't need to look very far

If you are born again

He's deep inside

The Holy Spirit bears witness

To the cross

On which Jesus did bleed

To forgive humanity's sin

And meet their every need

Heaven has now come to earth

It's all in the Holy Spirit

Righteousness, peace and joy

More fun than a toy

You can experience it

Get it, got it, give it!

New birth for you

In Christ Jesus

For me, you and us!

Heaven is here

The new wine of the Spirit

Better than beer

Corona, Bud, or Becks

The devil's power is broken

He's off our necks!

Newness of life

For whosoever will

Just begin to feel

God is nearby

Heaven is here

There's no need to cry

Nor reason why

Just enjoy it now

It is no lie.

Paul Davis is a life coach (relational & professional), traveling minister and fitness trainer. Paul is the author of several books including Breakthrough for a Broken Heart; Stop Lusting; and God vs. Religion.

Paul is a popular worldwide keynote speaker, creative consultant, humor being, explorer, mediator, minister, liberator and dream-maker.

Paul's compassion for people & passion to travel has taken him to over 50 countries of the world where he has had a tremendous impact. Paul has also brought revival to many in war-torn, impoverished and tsunami stricken regions of the earth. His nonprofit organization Dream-Maker Ministries is building dreams and breaking limitations.

Paul's Breakthrough Seminars inspire, revive, awaken, impregnate with purpose, impart the fire of desire, catapult people into a new level of self-awareness, facilitate destiny discovery and dream fulfillment.

Contact Paul to minister, speak at your event or for life coaching: RevivingNations@yahoo.com 407-967-7553.

For additional info: http://www.DreamMakerMinistries.com, http://www.CreativeCommunications.TV


Author:: Paul Davis
Keywords:: heaven is here,kingdom of God,Christ Jesus,God,Holy Spirit,Righteousness,Spirituality,Eternity,Heart
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Work of My Hands

The people of the Middle-east have been enduring Wars for thousands of years. Hear this original Poem about the feelings of those who left because of War. Abraham hailed from the city of UR in ancient Iraq. Israel has seen its share of tugging for Jerusalem. Middle-eastern countries feel the tug in a different way, for the Oil rich ground.

Work of My Hands by J. Kenneth Ezra


Oh to live as descendents of you.

The land in the Fertile Crescent grew.

Your long wavy curves are soft and split to extend.

The top flowing freely effortlessly it ends.

Scattered and dizzy like a lifetime we lost.

Referring to the past with multitudes it cost.

Lion like and Lovely, with its head up high.

Your muscles stand tall as seen the bulls- eye.

Our tongues remember the ancient text.

To clear the way for what is next.

We licked her from head to toe, oh savor every bud

Water now angered a drowning flood.

Where shall we go and who are we?

Our past lives now distant the ground never free.

Watching the Warring for her precious hand

A flower of hope will flourish the land.

Take this advice from the people of seeds.

Your appetite for Love may lead you to Greed.

With it in hand you will hunt her down.

One day to wonder you have no crown.

J. Kenneth Ezra is a successful entrepreneur, writer and artist. contact: ken@nationalhomeclub.com


Author:: J. Kenneth Ezra
Keywords:: War,Poetry,Middle-east,Oil,Jews,Assyrian,Love,Pride,Greed,Money,Iraq,Israel,Poem,Jewish,Lebanon
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Sunday, November 25, 2012

When You Think of Liberty Think of Me

When you honor the red, white, and blue
When you celebrate our nation's Liberty
Think of the one who's been beside you
in spirit, in heart, in body...
No being could be as loyal as me, for I am
your best friend, your partner... your family

When our nation was young
I was the runner, carrying messages
in a war that would leave us undone
where brother fought beside brother.

And, alone in the face of terror
I moved through enemy lines,
as families fought one another,
my mission foremost in my mind.

I was the one waiting for you even though
I sensed you would not be coming home
I languished on our wooden porch
growing thinner, until the war was over
and my days on earth were done.

I was in the trenches, fields, and meadows
accompanying you into foreign lands.
With you in the jungles and swamps
and at your heels on hot, dusty roads
or on blistering, desert sands.

I have been first in the line of fire
first to enter a field laden with mines
putting myself in your stead.
I went unflinching, leading,
to wherever, doing whatever you said.

With you I've jumped from the belly of a plane
dropping into places neither of us had ever seen.
All for the greater glory and good. All for humanity.

When a bullet took your life I laid by your side
my chin on your chest--despair in my eyes.
Content to have remained with you,
until a man in our unit lifted me up,
carrying me back to the war... as he cried.

When we had parted, when you'd gone home
and when on foreign soil I was left all alone
through no fault of your own I was forsaken.

The government advised you that your friend
and helper; the soldier who'd been by your side,
would not be accompanying you home...
To our home, our country, I could not be taken.

And so it was that we were aba ndoned
after you tearfully told us we could not follow
the men with whom we had served.

Confusion set in as we watched you depart;
being left behind, we had not deserved.
You left us dispirited, empty, and hollow
for we had given to you all of our all.
Like ghosts were we, missing our souls,
for you had taken with you... our hearts

I have been injured for you.
And I have died for you.
In your absence I have wasted away
from the loss of you.

I'm the scruffy, thin dog sitting quietly
next to the veteran in his wheelchair.
On the hill, the band plays a song
and the man softly cries, while
fireworks light up the night's air.

Gently I place my paw on his knee
lay my muzzle on his withered leg.
He looks at the small flag he is clutching
then he turns his attention to me.

His eyes are filled with thoughts and tears
but his smile is as warm as the sun.
Thank you f or reminding me, says he,
what's been sacrificed for the freedom we've won.

In the now, we cannot know
who will be needing who.
But what you may not know is
that when you'll be needing me
I'll be needing and looking for you.

We've been a team, you and me
through the many years
that have shaped this land,
and God has blessed us mightily.

So, every now and then, thank me--
with a look, kind words, and the
touch of a gentle hand...

When you think of Liberty
and count the reasons you are free
Don't forget to think of me!

Copyright Kathy Pippig Harris

Kathy lives in California's San Joaquin Valley with her husband and furry family. She is a weekly columnist for the publication Frank Talk and a published author of five novels. She states, Were it not for her need, desire, and love of writing -- she would surely go mad!


Author:: Kathy Pippig Harris
Keywords:: Military Dogs,Military,service Dogs,Holidays,Liberty,war Dogs,Dogs
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It's Snowing!

Its Snowing! Its Snowing!
The little boy cried
Wide-eyed with Excitement
At the whiteness outside

A blanket that covers
As far as the eye sees
So pure and new
Even covering the trees

Lets go for a Sleigh ride!
Hes Eager and Keen
Spoiling the newness
Leaving tracks where hes been

Sliding down Hills
Making Snowmen
Throwing Snowballs
At his older brother Ben

Toes tingling with cold
He doesnt seem to care
All this Fun for one small boy
Surely, it isnt fair!

Time for bed now
The day has been long
Hell awaken in the morning
To find the Snow has all gone

I write about everyday occurrences and events that have either happened to me or to others. I had my first poem published in a magazine when I was 10 years old.

I have been writing poetry for many years and regularly have it published in print. My poetry is published by Forward Press and in m any other publications. So I'm now putting my poetry online. I publish my poetry on my Blog jo-hale-poetry at http://jo-hale-poetry.blogspot.com/ and on 8hop.com My poetry on 8hop.com. I also have information about my poetry at http://www.squidoo.com/jo-hale-poetry. I'm married to my husband Peter. I was born in May 1970 and am a Taurean star sign.


Author:: Joanne Hale
Keywords:: Snowing, Snow, Fun, Excitement, Sleigh, Childhood, Hills, Snowballs, Sleigh ride, Eager, Keen, Ice
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Feelings O How Glorious!

Sometimes we feel hard-pressed,
Our backs against the wall;
Sometimes we feel lightheaded,
As if we are going to fall.

Sometimes we feel fierce anger
At those who misuse guns;
Sometimes we feel ashamed
Of how we treat God's little ones.

Sometimes we feel excited,
As when a birthday nears;
Sometimes we feel withdrawn
And retreat to inner spheres.

Sometimes we feel so lonely,
Without a friend or foe;
Sometimes we feel confused,
Can't decide which way to go.

Sometimes we feel too sensitive,
Weep over some small thing;
Sometimes we feel quite infantile
And desire pampering.

Sometimes we feel depressed,
Lost in pity and despair;
Sometimes we feel great serenity,
Strolling the beach somewhere.

Sometimes we feel deep hurt
When treated loathingly;
Sometimes we feel frustration,
When given the third degree.

Sometimes we feel divine,
Spir itually renewed;
Sometimes we feel tranquil,
Relaxed in solitude.

Sometimes we feel loving,
Wanting to kiss and hug;
Sometimes we feel defiant
Must resist an all out tug.

Sometimes we feel deep grief,
When someone we loved has died;
Sometimes we feel outraged,
When our rights have been denied.

Sometimes we feel resentful
For no particular reason at all.
Sometime we feel like fighting
Against injustice and unfair gall.

We experience all kinds of Feelings
From the sanguine to the crass;
They're as changing as the seasons,
And as fragile as fine glass.

A sacred gift, our Feelings
God gave to each one of us.
To feel His boundless love;
Feelings, O how glorious!

Rev. Saundra L. Washington, D.D., is an ordained clergywoman, veteran social worker, and Founder of AMEN Ministries. She is also the author of two coffee table books: Room Beneath the Snow: Poems that Preach and Negative Disturbances: Homilies that Teach which can be reviewed on her site. Her new book, Out of Deep Waters: My Grief Management Workbook, is expected to be available soon.

You are welcome to visit AMEN Ministries: Your Soul's Service Station for spiritual refreshing, soul edification, browse our newly expanded mini shopping mall or review our recommended books you may want to add to your personal library.

Blessings to all!


Author:: Saundra L. Washington
Keywords:: Feelings,God,Poem,Poetry,
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Three November Poems

Show-shine Boy

Im warm
Safe
Surrounded by books
Under my heart beat
Resides a phantom
an old drunk
On the long walk
From 12 to 58
I never forgot
The Shoe-shine Boy
In me!!
I never ran out of polish;
When I looked into my shine,
As now, I do, into my poems
Saying: Whats next?
Unhurried, unfurled
I ended up here
Here, writing this poem
It cleverly fits
Into my life, so nice
I drink my latte
Here at the B.N., Caf
(a stir-stick, in hand)
Somehow I feel, really feel:
This is just the beginning

#934 11-22-05

Fears Intentions

Fear, O fear, go to sleep Undiscoveredso you creep

Repulsive, at its very least! You shall not mould me in my Sleep!...

And when he has gone, far away Awkward things, seem to stay

Like plastic clay, I seem to be Waiting for fear, to return to Me!...

#932 11-22-05

The Balconies of Lima, Peru

how swi ft: I step from one to one!

A moment out of the day

The winds upon my brow

A breath taken away; away by The balconies of Lima, Peru

(Most beautiful in the world!) Here is where, within the shadows

Of the Plaza de Arms

Is where kings and conquerors

Once ruled

here! here the air is still,

Warm as the orchards in spring Warm as the Sacred Valleys afternoon.

Here is where the balconies sing! With a ghostly fragrance in the air,

Here along the streets of Lima, Peru Here, here is where they sing, sing

Of the long lost folklores, Of long ago

Note: I have traveled the world over, in Spain, Lisbon, New Orleans, etc., and Ive yet to find any balconies equal to Limas; even in Italy, and 59-other countries. #929 11-19-2005

See Dennis' web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com


Author:: Dennis Siluk
Keywords:: Poetry
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Where There Is a Metaphor

A Metaphor is a figure of Speech that describes one thing, Concept, or action in terms of another one. A Metaphor interacts with Language intimately, creating relationships between things and Ideas not recognized before. When a Metaphor is the exact opposite of what it describes, it is called a collusion or a collision.

Although a Metaphor is quite like a Simile, it does not use words of resemblance such as like or as when it describes something.

Metaphors are either Plain or implied. A whirlwind of Ideas is a Plain Metaphor. The numbers rained on him, His smile sinned when he looked at her, and Jane knifed my wound are implied Metaphors. Implied Metaphors are cherished by Poets and writers more than the Plain ones. Since they are usually made with Verbs, they bring Life and excitement to an Expression. Yet, Plain or implied, all Metaphors can be overused or abused like other good things.

At the beginning, when I tried to write Poetry, I had a run-in with Metaphors, only because I loved Metaphors a lot. I thought they worked wonders, and since I believed Metaphors were my strength, I used them too often and too indiscriminately.

Imagine a Christmas tree with decorations building up to a single shining star, which has a beautiful meaning in its fundamental nature. Well, my Christmas tree had many stars all around it with all of them fighting with that star on top for brightness, so much so that my Poems became disorientated in a traffic jam of Metaphors.

I stopped my romp with Metaphors when a wonderful teacher pointed out to me, ever so gently, what I had been doing. I will forever be grateful to her as long as I use Metaphors. She told me to use one master Metaphor, and if I felt like adding extras, I should make the additional Metaphors wo rk under that one master.

Now, I go with her formula especially in a short Poems; one central Metaphor with all the other less significant ones building up to it. In other words, for each Christmas tree there needs be only one very bright star on top.

With a Metaphor one can express an Idea more pointedly and more delicately than one can express by using a roomful of adjectives and adVerbs. For example, an amateur could be saying this:

When he moved the position of his cap, it was visible that his head was covered by white hair, which was holy, sacred, saintly, distinct, untainted, not dirtied, much adored, spiritually aristocratic, and shining brightly with a circular light.

Here is how a great Poet has said it with a Metaphor so eloquently.

And white the unpigmented
Halo of his hair
When he shifted his cap:
from Night Game by Robert Pinsky

Let us look at the word Metaphor. Meta means across, phor means Carry somethi ng like a Ferry. So, a Metaphor must Carry across a meaning by using a physical image which stands for an abstract thought.

The Poet Jane Yolen--in an interview--said:

In Greece the word metafora is a kind of moving van and so as you drive around, you see trucks with METAFORA on the side. They are shifting a lot of stuff under the watchful eye of the stone-draped ladies of the Parthenon. There's a Poem there.

Jane Yolen was so right. Where there is a good Metaphor that is wisely used, there is a Poem there.

Joy Cagil is an author on http://www.Writing.Com/ which is a site for Poetry. Her portfolio can be found at http://www.Writing.Com/authors/joycag


Author:: Joy Cagil
Keywords:: Poem,Poet,Poetry,Metaphor,Simile,Speech,Idea,Concept,Plain,Life,Expression,Carry,Ferry,Verb,Lan guage
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