Dancing Dresses

Shivering in a jacket much too thin
for this night of sleet and Freezing rain
She wanders in mad dog attack darkness
feeling for the strength to step one
more feeble step, knowing panic
well enough to call it by its first name
She had felt the approaching void
screamed to God, but his cell was
out of minutes, as many times before
Insanity rode her like a jockey
who was hell-bent-for-leather
Given a treasured bus pass, she rode
the streets of Nowhere and End-of-the-line
Had to find a place to sleep
Had to hide away
Safe place, no rapes tonight
At a familiar stop she descends
the steps of her mobile champion
Home called her
Home was there
just up the street
before the trees
Pausing on the sidewalk she watched
the Dale Kincaid lights in her home -
that was hers no more
She chose him, married him, so
tough luck, baby
youre screwed now
February
Ice Storm
Incr edibly cold
Stumbling into the grocery store
parking lot, she sees the wink of
a Goodwill donation truck
Under it are parcels and pieces
like presents under a Christmas tree
Needles sewed the ice pellets to
cheeks as hollow as yellow eggs
sucked out to make beautiful art
Jacket no warmer than a shirt
Last place she stayed, they stole
her coat and put her out at 3:00 A.M.
Threw her into the night rain
Sleep sucked her at the way a baby
sucks at the teat where warm milk is
A little mouse
afraid of cops
who ask her
where shes going
They know damn good and well she
isnt going anywhere she hasnt
already been, but wherever she is
they dont want her there
Ducking beneath the Goodwill truck
she sees bags and wonders if a warm
coat might be crouching there, waiting
Wont do to dig, cops roust you for that
In one brave swoop she picks up a
little suitcase, as forlorn as her self
Scurrying away, rat-like
smelling her sour fear
she heads for the urban woods
Just past home
that is not home
dragging the bulk of an old refrigerator
carton by the string around it,
she feels the burden
blow up and knock her in the knees
Not young
Not well
Not sane
Fucked up
The trees welcome her
They twinkle like stars in the sleet
Fever grips her like an avid lover
Got to go in far enough no one sees
Brittle brush fingers grab at her
Hidden hazards laugh if she falls
But the suitcase is a comforting
weight
Finds a fallen log, a hollow by it
Lines the refuge with cardboard
Trembling like a virgin lover
she opens the suitcase and there is no coat
There are dresses
Sparkling dresses
Cocktail dresses
Stiff
unyielding dresses
Alive with sequins and tulle
that pulls itself out of her swollen
fingers
Jackie Kennedy dresses
Rich woma ns baubles, but no coat
Freezing rain coats her hair
Cools her fevered cheeks
Leg infected where he shot her
yellow pus running down her leg,
gluing her pants to flesh
Pulling the fabric away tears skin too
Half the dresses make a pallet
Half the dresses make a slippery
covering, sequins sliding
That suitcase, Judas, liar
serves as a tent when put upside down
over the log and some brush
Keeps the worst out of her eyes
It would be logical that she die by morning
but she never seemed to have a bit of luck

Sherry was Homeless for two and a half years due to domestic violence. Not a young woman, but one nearing fifty, she found herself in an unknown and dangerous world.

Author:: Sherry Asbury
Keywords:: Homeless, Hiding, Freezing, Illness< /b>
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Three Poems on a Wanka Warrior

1) The House on Unishcoto

Weep for the one so strong to die
Whom war has taken at last!

Moron or his wife that sings no more
And the ruins on Unishcoto.

This was he who had a flaming heart
And heroic breath,
Whose weapons are laid, and hung
In the House of Unishcoto.

It was he who grew mighty in war,
But her war was otherwise:

Thus, weep for one so strong in war
Whose war is now, of the night!

#1451 9-7-2006: note, Unishcoto is a ruin on to of one of the mountains in the Mantaro Valley of Peru.

2)Stone Oven

Behind the stone ovenshe sat
One bronze woman, half-grieving
Her face shinning with heat
And rolling dark eyes; by her
Feet one dog and four puppies,
Scratching and bumping
As they atetheir meal
Fire reflected: flashes of teeth;
Curiosity had vanished.

#1453 (9-8-2006)

3) Stone Window

Outside her stone window
In the sky no stars showed;
T he earth was a deflated swell;
The sky was sagging its dark shape;
The trees beyond, like chilled ghosts;
And the moon shown a cold
Corpse-like light, thus, a gray
Chill seeped through and upon the stones.

Trickling like water all around her,
Halting at her breasts, her unimpeded
Bones: her breath, flesh was without
Sensation. How long must I grieve?
She pleaded in her gray like silence.
Then the gray above her head
Began to dissolve.

#1454 (9-8-2006)

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

Author:: Dennis Siluk
Keywords:: Poetry
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Smirking Cucumbers a Poem

I planted my vegetables, for a few
years exactly where I wanted em
to be planted. Said to myself: if I
had to make a living and nothing
grows, no one needs to point
fingers, or be anonymous; so,
its my hoe, my garden, Ill clean
the scraps up, Ive been at that so
long I cant possibly wear my hands
down (so I told myself). All my life
Ive been at it: they lay it down, I
pick it up; weedin with a hoe-blade
isnt easy. You try it, see!

I loaned my land out to a retired
farmer one year, who had little land
to mention, but wanted to grow
something: better than me with a
hoe he wasmade whatever he
planted grow (I never could). He
even used his own water (he lived
across from me, in Alabama back in
77).

As I stoodday after daylooking
out my kitchen window, watching
him plant, and hoe, and water, and
the cucumbers grow, (God knows
what for) He said those vegetables, < br>cucumbers he done planted would
grow fat, and huge, and they did.
He could have shown me a few
things about planting, hoeing and
growing (back then); things I never
thought of, but I just wanted some
of those cucumbers. Funny, when
were young. Now looking back I
can still see that old farmer looking
over his shoulder at me: smirking.

Reflections of youth, when I lived in Alabama, back in l977-l979. #1010 1/28/2006

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

Author:: Dennis Siluk
Keywords:: Poetry
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Let The Tears Come

This morning I finally let the tears come. They'd been waiting to be released for some time. I gave them permission today. I thought they would pour out like a heavy rain when I freed them, but instead they took there time. Slowly trickling down my cheeks, but first the large pools that formed in my eyes. I watched as they dropped into my lap. Drops forming a wet patch on me that was getting wetter. Drops growing larger, tears flowing faster, and bringing with it the images. Images you lock away so you can keep the tears at bay. But today I gave them permission to come, so the images came too. Images that were soon joined by words aligning themselves together, so that my tears gushed out at the point of their connection. I could now hear myself sobbing, and feel my body shift into fetal position. Strange how that womb like curl emerges. I don't know how long I laid there, for sleep came to me when my tears had ceased. Something else had also begun to ease inside me too. There had been a deep hurt that had been spreading through me that I could not withstand, as I had the images. It pained me as if it were a part of my body. I had been trying to keep going as if nothing had happened. Explaining away every unpleasant sensation as the hurt continued to radiate throughout me. As if it hoped that it would soon have possession of me. But here I was now, all cried out, and beginning to feel the slight movements within me of pain evaporating. Relief was coming. Healing was on its way. I had let the tears come. I had freed them, and they had in turn freed me...

Faith McDermott is an aspiring writer, and currently oversees several blogs including:http://insiderdating.blogspot.com. Contact Faith via: faith2041@aol.com if you have any questions, needs, or comments.

Author:: Faith McDermott
Keywords:: article submission, Articles, Writers, Writing, Publishing, Ezine, Email marketing, Email newsletter, Email
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Communications Expert

Communication is an art
A skill by which we transmit signals
Decode information
Impart knowledge
Seek understanding
Convey messages
Remove relational blockages
Convey feeling
Release healing

Communication is a verb
Through which we must be heard
By which we ignite inspiration
Deeply connect with someone
Or boldly move a nation
It requires attentiveness
A deep interest and concern
An insatiable curiosity
With which to experience and learn
It comes about
By a balanced exchange
A transfer of ideas
Opinions just the same
It never discounts or disqualifies
Fully embracing the other
Though it may not fully agree
It facilitates onGoing dialogue continually
And in so doing its magic occurs
As seeking understand a nd developing comradery
Allows all to be heard

By communication you discover
If you are on the same page
Or even reading the same book.
Beyond the spoken word
Intuitively you can know
Nonverbally by simply a glance or look
Facial expressions reveal
Bodily gestures convey
Often what a person
Refuses or does not want to say
Yet deep within
The neurological impulses surge
Though you bite your tongue
Try to hold back the urge.
Nevertheless the incongruence is seen
Though you turn off the audio
On your TV screen.
That face of yours
Still carries a picture
Until you breathe your last breath
It conveys every jolt and conjecture
Internal static and disharmony
It cannot be hidden
Neither necessarily from your life
Should it be ridden
Because your feelings are important
They count and should be validated too!
Beneath the layers
Of posturing and positioning
Your feelings reveal the true you.
So do not discount them
Or try to deny them
Instead it is far better
To affirm and embrace
Because they already show
All over your face

Communication is wonderful
Both verbal and nonverbal
Irrespective of the language you speak
And the barriers different languages erect
When we speak with our eyes
When we speak from the heart
All comes together
And no longer is apart
Seemingly most is understood
And much is set in order
Regardless of our cultural peculiarities
Or national borders.

So therefore whatever
Your means of communication
Endeavor to speak
And exert equal energy to listen
For in so doing
You will learn life lessons
You will grow in love for humanity
Appropriately valuing each soul
Eager to affirm rather than to criticize
Sincerely attentive
Hearing with your eyes
Patient to endure an opinion
With which you disa gree
Kind enough to listen
And just let people be.

Giving the gift of communication
Is a priceless gift indeed
Many lonely souls yearn for it
And internally bleed
By hearing others
I gain new perspective
And further understand others
I create a safe place
For people to talk
As sisters and brothers.

Being communicative
Provides daily interaction
To be fulfilled at a deep level
As I awaken to my senses
Living fully present
Of those around me
Celebrating individuality
Honoring authenticity
And striving for sincerity.
Being communicative also enhances and enlarges me
As I celebrate others
They become all they can be
And return to celebrate me!

Paul Davis is author of Breakthrough for a Broken Heart a book telling us How to overcome disappointments and blossom into your dreams! He is a creative consultant, life coach (relational & professional), fitness trainer, Minister, popular worldwide keynote speaker, adventure capitalist, explorer, neGotiator, Mediator, liberator, dream-maker and dream interpreter.

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 greatly impacted 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.

Paul can be contacted at: RevivingNations@yahoo.com 407-967-7553 or 407-282-1745

For additional info:
http://www.Cre ativeCommunications.TV
http://www.DreamMakerMinistries.com

Author:: Paul Davis
Keywords:: communications expert,Creativity,conflict resolution,life coach,keynote speaker,Minister,Mediator,Go
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Find the Magic

FIND the MAGIC

Find the Magic As you release old bondage Come out of hiding And see the stars

Find the Magic As you expose the pain Let the tears flow And find beauty in your body

Find the Magic As you scream from the beating Run from the threats And feel the warmth of a hug

Find the Magic As the little girl is silenced Told she is too smart for her own good And she finds her place of honor as she speaks her mind

Find the Magic As the ghosts creep into dream Haunt your daily life And you meet them at the crossroads and move on

Find the Magic As you drift out of your body, avoiding the anger Observe the separation And you join the body temple once again to rejoice in this unique wonder

Find the Magic As you listen to the conflicts and Watch in horror And emerge from the water whole and beautiful in a rainbow of colors

Find the Magic, For you are whole once again

2004 Susan Bacon

Susan Bacon is an researcher, teacher and author. Contact her through her web site http://www.ecoentrepreneur.org

Author:: Susan Bacon
Keywords:: Magic, Healing Pain
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Six More Poems by Jack Wilson

Cold Billy Boston

Boston Billy he went where he chose,
Wearing white spats with his fugitive clothes.
He spoke in that lingo that rang through his nose,
And sang all the while in his upstairs hose.
Cold Billy Boston, thats how they called him,
No fellow friendlier than he was a friend,
Yo Billy Boston, yo with your pride.
Oh, all the good bishops stood up and they cried
When spiffy old Billy old Boston died.
He doffed his elegant fugitive hide
And died of a Sunday morning, oh.

I Like to Fondle Cowry Shells

I like to fondle cowry shells and I-Ching coins,
As anyone would do.
I gather rocks with smooth red sides,
And set them all in rows.
I whistle three-note melodies and yodels,
For dancing and for show.
I send my friend forget-me-nots,
In case my friend forgets.
I keep my treasures near in cases,
Boxes, files and folders,
I sand my fingertips and reach.

-------------------------------------------

Almost Sibelius, or

Moonlight on the Salt

The Salt River runs along our little sub-town,
a thumb on the glove of adjacent Citiesville.
It's hard to see the moonlight on the Salt.
The lights of downtown Thumb and
Freeway streams and... confuse the eyesight.
Is that some moon, or Christmas balls?

-------------------------------------------

My Massachusetts' Loose

My Massachusetts' getting loose,
It's stirring my impatience, and my bones
Are tired of all this carrot juice,
And never mind vanilla ice cream cones.

I want to fly to Madagascar,
Wallow in the wee wet hours of night,
Dribble basketballs of custard,
Illustrate the music in the quiet.

Don't hold me back when I'm this way,
I won't be stopped or scrubbed or pacified,
I'm a happy man today,
My beans are most decidedly refried.

And when I flit to Madagascar,
Hold your passion, I'll be coming back.
A shining, reddened scimitar
Will show that I've still got the knack.

-------------------------------------------

Ducklet

While driving today I saw a mother Duck
With four Ducklings full of pluck
Crossing the street with great intention,
The mother being the necessity of invention.
At the curb the mother Duck hopped up
Onto the sidewalk. three of the Ducklets popped up
After her. The fourth and smallest made a hop,
Hopped urgently but didn't make it to the top;
Fell back into the street. It tried again but alack,
Making it higher but it still fell back.
I thought it would try again, but it simply turned right
made a dash for the corner and at the green light
Scrambled up the wheelchair ramp to join the loop,
Marched forth in tandem behind the troop.

-------------------------------------------

The Cats Me ow

My Cherokee is mostly Siamese,
Especially the part that speaks.
She never stops complaining
Until canned food so all sustaining
Sits in her bowl and belly.
My mothers name was Nellie.
What would she have done
With a Cat like this one?

Jack Wilson is a writer and artist in Tempe, AZ

http://www.geocities.com/galimatio/jackwilson.html

Author:: Jack Wilson
Keywords:: Poem,Poetry,Cat,Duck,Salt,River,Metaphor
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