Clouds Of Black
Contributed by Charles Dean Walker
Clouds of black.
Skies so blue.
Leafless trees.
Bring back memories of you.
Moon so white.
It's our light.
Oh, so bright.
Darkest days fade to graves.
In the yard, I see you hold your place.
Why so stiff, my oldest friend?
I can hear your voice through the winds.
In the howls of the wolves to the moon.
Hear my plea.
When I take a knee at the tomb.
Where you lay.
Eternity.
Forever more an entity.
You are and were my soul.
Now, I took that fun away.
When I died away in that night.
I flew so high in that night sky.
You could hear my angel spirt cry.
Out to that lord.
That died for me, before me.
Father, please take my soul to you...
Clouds of black.
Skies so blue.
Leafless trees.
Bring back memories of you.
Moon so white.
It's our light.
Oh, so bright.
What Difference A Year Makes
Contributed by Yvonne Moss
Trying to translate the calendar whoses dates crawl onto the next year,
Makes for a crazy world that continues on and on,
Forever and ever; ever, just arbitrary time.
Why should I translate it in my mind
When I’m the one fumbling,
Tiny stuff tumbling,
Beneath my breath grumbling,
Confidence crumbling,
My inner child humbling,
Stumbling to keep it all going?
Rattle Your Chain
Contributed by Robert Lyons
A relationship so dear as ownership cannot be negotiated without stewardship.
The Roman master must be stern, but provide for his own from birth to urn.
The productive might of the system will return, when in mutual need and benefit.
The master and servant find balance, utilizing both’s talents.
One to work, the other to envision; both to share fruits.
The division in value only apparent when comparing each’s material collection.
Each his own by choice of selection.
Time will tell if the serf will own himself, save enough to control his destiny.
The master must give what is deserved, brave the tough, call in his reserves,
Provide the world a man who is free, and learned and skilled and ready to believe.
A man ready to take on the task of rattling the chains of the next generation’s
Enslaved, malaised, techno-crazed, lazy, caged victims of man’s civilized creation.
The binded has broken his chains through battling the sick and vile.
In essence, the servant is served by opportunity. If this is not achieved,
Then suffrage and toil complete, histories lessons blanketed in quiet relief,
Forever owned a people who don’t know the tome.
The fiddler in a fiery Rome,
So, earn and learn and quiver then shake, quake the earth with the rattling of link. Master the way to freedom’s fields. Take your place in the legacy of civilization’s brink.
The Wall
Contributed by Marjorie Labriola
Staring at the wall, staring at nothing at all.
Hoping and coping, avoiding another fall.
Unwanted; just staring at the wall...
The room is too small, but you shine in it all.
“Looking back is not okay,” that's what you say; as you yourself, admire you all day.
In the looking glass, you can stay. Wishing you weren't away...
"Another time. Another day. With someone else,” that's what you say…
Just staring at the wall, I stay.
I push out thoughts of making plans and setting goals.
New, fresh life to breathe with purpose and fulfillment, true companionship,
To enjoy all the little things that you do...
Weighing out what I know of you, just wondering and staring at the wall. Just staring at the wall.
Hoping, coping, avoiding another fall. Another time; another day.
Looking back is not okay, at least towards you.
So in the looking glass, I shall stay; as me, myself and I admire me all day.
Thinking of when you went away.
Another time, another day.
Just staring at the wall...
Little Singing Soul
Contributed by Nicholas Begich Sr.
The little one wandering through,
Singing a song that few heard,
She looked four or maybe five,
Her voice high and alive.
Sweet should in small body still in touch,
With a greater self that olders seem to lose,
Where’s the magic in the voice,
In the Creator’s perfect choice.
A child knows joy expressed until an elder shuts it, resets.
Let them sing and let them feel the joy in their world.
Around the corner she peeks around, knowing someone heard her sound,
Singing in the coffee house, a child among the chatter…
The squeak of that little voice,
Of joy and happiness lost on most.
Not noticed or seen,
Yet there she is an angel in this place, lost in the space.
Not seen,
But missed in a quiet moment,
Where the universe speaks,
Through the voice of a child.
Coach
Contributed by Wendy Brooker
The window seat was mine.
I offered my name
To the stranger beside me,
And then came the game.
In a wordless battle,
Defending my space.
My leg touched his leg.
My arm took its place
In sharing the armrest.
Reading my book,
Asserting, maintaining
Calm posture and look.
Transferring my discomfort
In silent understanding.
Man-spreader retreated,
From take-off to landing
