silver leaves

SILVER LEAVES

When the leaves turn silver in the lucid streams of the moonlight

The soft whisper of the wind touches them and holds them tonight.

Tenderly I reach into my soul to touch them as they glisten

And then until the ends of time I again hear their whisper as I listen.

Through the shadows that softly play into the soft streams

And then gently awakes me from the wisp of my dreams.

As the tears draw nigh as He cradles my heart there

And then through the moonlight streams of His love we share.

Like soft tendrils that open up in the night blossoms of silver leaves

Through the shadows of the moonlight quietly interweaves.

Life is like a journey where the nights that seem so long

And then finally in the moonlight streams in my heart creates a song.

When I find that in time the leaves that dance through the night with grace

I know somehow beyond in the heavens I will find my dreams in place.

Of the nights that seem to linger until the dawn now draws near

As upon each silver leaf hints of dew playfully fall upon each tiny mirror.

Cheryl Zweigart

Copyright February 2009

missing the guinea hea

I have nothing left to give

since the  guinea hen disappeared.

I considered giving the magenta morning sky

 or the flock of geese in v-formation

 but instead I offer the gift of pain

because it is what I know best.

I will sit with you and shed light on

the charm of misery and despair,

that is yours  for a song.

Together we can sing the ballad

that will capture the anguish

and fill your soul with the

exquisite ache.

Then we will weep in somber unison

when the geese take flight

at first light through the pink skies of dawn

image and poem copyright Rhonda Prince 2009

Sunny Disposition Now

Sunny Disposition Now

by Nicole Taylor

Sat sunning last Wednesday,

while a neighbor across

said hello and

complained of dog disturbances

and squawking crows.

I can agree

to this

and enjoying

the spring chirpies.

image and poem copyright nicole taylor 2009

http://thedailybeatblog.blogspot.com/2009/12/beat-poetry-contest-2nd-place-winner.html

voices

In my dream I was navigating uncharted territory,

totally susceptible to the influence of the full moon.

 In a small vessel floating through tainted waters,

I heard echoes of your voice and what you once said to me.

I tried to follow your voice in the distance but I can’t reach you.

Maybe you’re not there; it’s only your words shattering my soul.

 My boat takes me far out in to the crystal ocean, still and calm.

 Your song has ended but I hear moonbeams floating on the waves,

and the soft pleas of all the lost begging to be found.

I wait in my tiny vessel. I wait for time, I wait for change,

I wait…

poem and photo copyright 2009 Rhonda Prince 

she was a local love poet who nobody loved

"found" e-mail subject line.

blossoms to the dawn

BLOSSOMS TO THE DAWN

The lavender sky in the morning blossoms to the dawn

Where soft brushes of colors blend shadows upon.

In the morning I come before Him in song

Against the sky when I soar with Him where shadows are long.

The soft lavenders over the horizon now just a bud now full

Where in the shadows of the morning in places cool.

As the morning blossoms as it slept through the night

The edges of the moon on the blossoms are white.

When the soft brush of colors in the horizon hint

Like rainbows lavender on the hillsides that are now bent.

In His love as He touches the morning with His brush

As the sky becomes into the morning in its silent hush.

As the sky blossoms into the colors of lavender tears

As on hillsides I find a soft tremble of its edges as it peers.

The sky lit as a lavender blossoms as it opens its petal each

And then as each opens in the morning I gaze into it as its blossoms reach.

copyright Cheryl Zweigart

2009

Pages in the Tree

More than a few

children on this tree.

More than a few

adventures,

sadness and happiness
in beguiling and blazing leaves

These are

leaves in trees,

and strange nuts

in the family tree,

a single page

in a dysfunctional story.

These are

skeleton stories.

These leaves are

spotted, stained
or damaged,

holey,lonely
atbranches

afraid at edges

Like hairstyles the ends,

stems are long
or short ends curling

in or out

Today I saw aspen leaves

as yellow icicles.

November 12, 2009

poem copyright 2009 Nicole Taylor

photo copyright 2009 BRowland

everything being a constant carnival

She rode sixteen ferris wheels

in one afternoon,

each one spinning

faster than the last.

Synchronized revolutions

of light and motion

left her shaken and wobbly.

She stumbled into an open field

where an old oak waited

to offer her refuge.

She was cradled in his

knotted limbs,

her head against

his coarse bark.

She begged to stay for 300 years,

there in the shady respite.

But as she slept the sounds of the

carnival plagued her rest.

Frenzied screams of terror

or delight interrupted

her dreams.

Unable to sleep she

left the comfort of the oak

and staggered drowsily

back to the fray,

back to the wild rides.

Buying sixteen more tickets,

and with a nod to the moon,

she mounted the ride,

braced herself against the side

and began to spin again...

poem and photo copyright 2009 Rhonda Prince

Angels Wings

I can hear the rustle of angel wings through the Wind in the night

Whispers of them I see their strength in the moonlight.

In the night their songs of deliverance through the Wind I hear

And then I know the rustle of them I hear them draw near.

In the wisp of each I feel their brush close by my side

As in the strength in their shadows that covers me in them I hide.

As through the snow that now falls outside of my window I see them lift

As feathers that are in the night I hear them as they shift.

I can now see their beauty as I watch them in their new freedom found

Again in the night I hear them surround and I hear their rustling sound.

As they draw near I hear them again lift and guard me as they uphold

I can hear angels as they in the safety of His divine provision unfold.

I find in the snow the beauty of angels in the shadows the spread of their wings

As their they drift I find the provision in the night through all things.

I now hear outside the window the sound of them rustling in the Wind

Around me they surround me as in the night in safety as they now open and bend.

poem copyright 2008 Cheryl Zweigart

photo copyright 2009 BRowland

mar adentro

Count your blessings,
he scolded me sternly
Stop complaining.
Remember how easy
your life is…

But still the waves
swell and surge.
Dark clouds drape
the eastern sky.
The colors of the sea
fading as I
am carried further
from the shore.

text and photo copyright Rhonda Prince 2009

Heartland

Heartland

It’s hard to do justice to the Missouri

corn fields that stand everywhere and forever

their endless rows of sturdy, erect stalks

whispering sweet corny nothings in our collective ear.

This simple plant that fed our emerging species

-saved it really with its eagerness to flourish-

left time for the growth of art and music

governments and corruption

and sustains us still,

will be there when all else fails.

It’s hard to do justice to the insistent

Missouri crickets,

-or are they grasshoppers and cicadas-

that incessantly holler and screech

their urgent warnings, predictions,

advice, and pleadings

whether we heed them or not.

And the moisture!

Heavy veils of dampness

cocooning all the rest of it,

urging the grasses to grow

as thick and rich as carpet,

blades as wide as a thumb,

roots a tangled, jumbled mess.

A kernel of himself knowing

just how and where to do it,

my city-loving son has taken himself

to this land of corn

and crickets and watery air

to grow.

It’s hard to do justice to my feelings of

gratitude and amazement

that he has chosen a place of palpable growth

- a heartland –

to sustain himself

to heed his own warnings

to grow tall and thick and sturdy

to root himself in his own tangled, jumbled mes s.

poem copyright 2009 Ruth Hudgens

photo copyright 2009 BRowland

healing forest

demolition of the polluter

may the water bring it down

may the water bring it down

may the water bring it down

right now

may the water wash it away

may the water wash it away

may the water wash it away

in time

may we live to see it so

may we live to see it so

may we live to see it so

amen

text copyright Ruth Hudgens 2009

photo copyright BRowland 2009

the polluter

waiting for this moment...

Music: "Blackbird" by the Beatles

slideshow copyright Rhonda Prince 2009

bloodless...come closer...closer

jigsaw pieces by nicole taylor

Jigsaw pieces
in a box.
Sausages (pigs)
in a blanket.
Chicken pieces
in a burger.
Three ladies
in a café
at lunch.
Puzzles, conundrums,
wrapped in conversation,
wrapped in a meal.

text and photo copyright nicole taylor 2009

alfonsina by jorge pastrana

text copyright jpastrana 2009

photo copyright browland 2009

the perfume of my soul

my face is buried in the rancid sweat

of the neck of a woman who sells newspapers
she lives in a dry riverbed
with criminals, sociopaths and old sleeping bags
normally funny and self-mocking,
today she is afraid
her liver is exploding
she wants a beer
a dollar
an embrace
she smells horrible,
of depleted adrenaline and alcohol,
a scent that i love

text and photo copyright browland 2009

safe

I will ease your pain
I will cure your hurt,
now I lay me down to sleep
but your magic I will keep
safe and protected from eyes and ears
of those who don't understand
who don't see what I see
all I ask in return
is a piece of redemption
sucked from your fingertips
which
seems
to
be
the
only
place
I'm
safe
fall down weeping
in quiet halls of filth
and I will hold your head in my lap
and whisper you
into sleep folded close to my heart
which
seems
to
be
the
only
place
you
are
safe.
Tomorrow will be the same
as today and yesterday
but still I know
what you need to survive
trust me to bring you
into sweet repose
and peace

photo and text© rkprince

works by Nicole Taylor

Her Oath and Her Name

She wears
Tabu.

She buys flowers, red roses
too.

Her perfume says
prohibited,

but her actions say
uninhibited,

a toss of the long
hair

with such great
flair.

Her passions are
romantic.

Her methods are
eccentric.

At your picture, she
stares.

To the sideline, she
leers.


image and text copyright 2009 nicole taylor

a link to more poetry: http://www.beatsupernovarasa.com/Lectures/bacheca007.htm

when faith is a flame

"I got saved, my soul was rescued...."

walk this way

The earth moved today,

just slightly, a tiny jump

forward in the universe.

Enough to shake the

foundations and send

the moon crashing

into the ocean.

Fortunately she was sitting

on the edge of the galaxy,

balanced on the north star

when the shift occurred,

sparing her the upheaval

it would’ve caused

But tonight she will feel

the effects of the day,

pulling her further into the

dark rift of the Milky Way

and leaving her tired and lifeless

as she sits inside her room.

Somewhere a child cries,

a thousand golden teardrops;

windows shatter,

leaving glass scattered in the yard;

the rains fall,

drowning out all sound but it’s own

And the hunger moon looms on the horizon.

photo and text copyright rkprince 2009

spider between branches

spider between branches
charred blackberry fronds
like dreadlocks

to enter
stick burning man
fragile accident

mission blanket
a world of rags
cruel metallic threads
woven
burned books

owl island
book of the dead
"l" is for lost

hard plastic dinner packet
melted to form
pelvic bones

a loose patch of fabric
red sequins
fuckn sexy

excrement fried, scorched
morphed with centipedes

kool-ade lime-colored capsules
a forgotten relief
eat me

water bottles
melted, fused
with sleeping bag filler
half full of urine
the last UA

skin deep
bent branch
wound and tension

carbon forms
a cityscape image
in plastic

photo and text copyright browland 2009

the novelist

his body slept deeply,
only accepting minimal amounts
of food and water
undisturbed, mute,
for three years.
awake now, he narrates a million details
of the dream states
we live

image and text copyright browland 2009