Radomir Vojtech Luza

"Salient Sphere”

My peppermint moon. 

Drawn in June. 

Left to die. 

I don't know why.  

Carved  light.  

In this night.  

Salted by a handsome cry.  

In a wet July. 

Swan light delight. 

I fly a sherbet kite.  

"My Patricia”

 

Your fingers I lick.  

Like potato sticks.  

Heart I massage.  

With a palm's facade.  

Leaving much to chance. 

I never forget your dance.  

My beloved L.A. swirl.  

I know your curls.  

I love you so 

That my soul will never you go.  

Patricia Murphy

"The Sonneteers”

A love sonnet is a great victory.  

It endeavors to please and be pleased. 

It's about being with the one you love.  

The one you adore. 

It's a wonderful blessing. 

To be loved and love. 

Money can't buy love.  

We search for it. 

And once we find it 

Don't let it go.  

"Sonneteers 1”

 

A sonnet is to be cherished.  

In all its glory it's a spontaneous outcome.  

Only those truly in love 

Will understand it.  

It's splendid.   

It's stupendous. 

It's wonderful. 

It's vulnerable. 

It's marvelous. 

It's obtainable.  

It's courageous. 

It's the one thing you can't buy. 

Lori Wall-Holloway

Set Me Free

 

“Set me free from my prison,

that I may praise your name.” (Psalm 142:7 NIV)

 

My fickle heart imprisons my desperate days

as I search for something or someone to worship

Distracted by any unhealthy, toxic ways

my fractured soul desires freedom from guilt trips

 

I chase false love to fill a dark, veiled emptiness

deceit leads to betrayal and hurts even more

Burning tears saturate and fill my brokenness  

yet are unable to heal chasms in my core

 

Seeking restoration, I cry out for relief

and feel gentle kindness permeate my distress

A salve of loving truth floods me with new belief

and liberates me from a prison’s bitterness

 

As my spirit heals, I’m no longer torn apart

I willingly give God my undivided heart

 

 

Seeking Truth

 

Media bombards minds with sights and sounds

as data finds its way into souls’ depths

Is it fake information making rounds

or propaganda snuck in to accept

 

Indoctrination appears to be key

to pressure many to go with the crowd

Is deceit what they want them to believe

underlying fear secretly endowed

 

How can one be sure they are told what’s true

unless they seek valid research and source

It is good to question what appears new

respect pursuit of a life’s honest course

 

Despite flaws, we can dare to rise above

May we choose to speak truth with gracious love

 

Letting Go

 

“…I confess that I don’t always know when to let go. I cling and grasp for every last straw. I do not lay my life down willingly, and it as to be wrenched from

me - and that always hurts more...”  Ruth Haley Brown

 

I grip prized memories like a lifeline

to the past, holding on to times well spent

Demanding traditions remain enshrined

with frequent family prepared events

 

Frustrated when change unravels what’s known

confidence begins to slowly waver

Separation prevents seeds of love sown

when gathering is no longer favored

 

How can I be flexible and let go

when my grasp encircles and remains tight

I must not let fear control the unknown

but release and accept rather than fight

 

Stress and worry cannot engulf these days

Instead, I need wisdom to change old ways 

Marsha Grieco

 

Looking Back

Thom Garzone

MY LITTLE SONG

 

I offer on lips of heaven's heart

delivering you to a world that's unfair

When I lost my way, refusing to care,

life marched on as I made a new start

 

Vast roads before me, both veiled & free

blended the spirit with a bitterness of sea,

a course, which bled a lonely sound

for it were shades of serenity I found

 

I dream of your face, or how it ought to look

writing verses to your meaning in each & every book,

songs of my soul, tears that drip with pain

benign disorders when I search for sane

 

All that I struggle for becomes clear & true

to find this vision within me who only is you

SONNET TO ARIEL 

Clad in crimson, an attractive Ariel forms

eternal in reflections, magic, amorous, free

comforting my senses aside that sea

when this sentinel lies before day dawns

forever in unison, yet this psalm mourns

unlocks my latent heart, unchained in me

as one sacred creed to open what key

for I enter an age, becoming reborn

 

Yet such a prince of hidden wrathful ways

entrenched in lies steeped of hedonist tales

you drained me of vigor, your blinding rays

delivered me once to your dense, unholy grail

driven with debacle, you abysmal sage

mock me with dread, imprisoned by another male

 

 

THIS IS MY TRIBUTE TO THE WORLD OF WORDS AND WOE

This is my tribute to the world of words and woe

Squandering beside rivers, forests embedded in dreams

More than ever I look through a lens that gleams

For whatever traverses and in stars that glow

May I sing to you here and let my stories flow

These struggles suspend, like bridges they seem

Once moving to crests and meadows, only to find I’m green

Encrypting tales grappling with thoughtful growth which sow

And create solitude focusing within mastering the free

Magically moved to forms of time so fearfully far

Standing somewhere, some time crossing another sea

Never found or lost, though only feeling marred

Wondering I gaze at vast volumes that mark a decree

Skilled in that wonder searching, reaching, and finding those stars

Michelle Smith

Reconnect

Reflection to 2019
is a swimming pool.
Dolphin kicks
and the backstroke.
I can feel the water.
Blue and splashing in my dreams.
Smell the chlorine and
the warmth of a sunbeam touch
on my skin bronzing me naturally.
My arms and legs in unison in flight.
In 2020 my mind and the world is changing
a kaleidoscope before our very eyes.
Year 202@ disconnect me from the decade
and not allow my memories to fade.

Fly My Way

Fly my way in twos quickly
Monarch Butterfly
Wings are in Black and Yellow ooh
with a bit of spots of blue.
The Swallowtail, yes that is you.
Your ancestral flights flourish in the sky.
Just you and I.
Find me for a talk to you.
Seek the flowers you glean nectar from.
Cover the tree leaf you will pollinate.
Color the love your wings will share,
and teach your beauty
so others will emulate.

My Tree

My tree to climb is the ladder of life.
Family branches in all lengths are roots
that cement my ancestry
from deep and rich sepia soil soul.

Connections are extensions and
leaves of love. My parentage
is my fathers sunlight and shade;
protection from the elements.

My mothers lessons of color, crispness,
clarity: her perseverance and strength.
Moms loving branches that held me close
to dads that held mine with guidance: their hands.

These are more valuable than
the autumn of red, brown, and gold.
They are my seasons from youth to old.

Jeffry Michael Jensen

MORE THAN A MYTHICAL BLACK CAT

(in memory of my wonderful 12-year-old feral cat Backpaws who was killed by a coyote on May 8, 2023)

My black cat's eyes take shadows from the sun.
Her paws leave traces on sanctuary trees.
A winter rain puddles where she has run.
A winter wind curls around her mythical tease.

I am not qualified to unmask her glance.
Although silly gods attempt to comprehend her vision.
If I come close to grasping, it is only by chance.
And it is not by choice that I land on a hard decision.

The spoken word leaves little comfort in her realm.
Harsh pronouncements only lead her to the roof.
I beg nature to let her always be at the helm.
Now I have dreamed that her demise will stand as proof.

Yet all the years with her tell me that she shaped my heart
And has filled my mythology with more not less when she departs.

CLS Sandoval

Forest in the Morning  

 

Creek smooths rocks on its way to the small pond 

Weeping willows bend to the clear water 

Skies clouded with mist threaten to pour down 

Tall grasses dance slightly in the light breeze 

Tree canopies protect the ground below 

A subtle rustle in a bush gives way 

To a rabbit hoping toward the creek 

Then another is not too far behind 

A deer steps into the clearing nearby 

An owl goes to sleep as a songbird sings 

There have been no people here for ages 

The plants can grow, animals can be free 

But the developers are getting close 

Utopia is under constant threat 

 

If My Daughter Could Have it Better 

 

I am my own worst nightmare, enemy 

No I never learn my lessons easy 

I decided the hard way was the best 

Mom said I lied when the truth fit better 

Others said, “You can’t.”  I heard, “I dare you.” 

My politics always offend many 

I dated so many of the wrong man 

I gave into vices for far too long 

If there was a path of least resistance 

I would run as far as I could away 

Never wanting to ask for help, ever 

I made my life so much more difficult  

Then you came into my life, perfect girl 

I want you to have it so much better 

 

Best Mom Ever 

 

Today on my flight to Sacramento 

Jotting words with the pen she bought for me 

The rainbow one with the “diamond” on it 

She picked the one that says “best mom ever” 

Most days I don’t feel I live up to that 

Every single day feels so very long 

No day is ever productive enough 

I am always torn between being mom 

And attempting to be my own person 

There is always so much more work to do 

Work at home, work at work, work to be mom 

When I pick her up from school, she tells me, 

“I missed you so much, Mom!” Then she hugs me 

I hug her back and just try to enjoy 

Mark A Fisher

allegory

the darkness opens wide its midnight eyes
to gaze out upon this world bright sunlit
sparkling and beautiful yet filled with lies

or misunderstandings we all commit
as we tell stories of the lives of shades
though never find we can ever admit

we’re lemures playacting in someone’s hades
just villains or heroes in echoed tales
pantomiming strawmen in cheap charades

ignoring then the distasteful details
still accepting this delightful disguise
forever awaiting it always fails

sparkling and beautiful yet filled with lies
the darkness opens wide its midnight eyes





the key

it was a lazy dive bar attitude
written on a manual typewriter
in some bygone tropical latitude
while the money just kept gettin’ tighter

his motto “write drunk and edit sober”
only ended up making him a drunk
unable to write and always hung over
and all the rejections that filled his trunk

with a muse that slept in his rumpled bed
just abandoning him to his own mind
and all the horrors still locked in his head
mixed with the golden words still unrefined

in the end it was just his life’s blood spilled
and all those pretty dreams left unfulfilled

Mary Mayer Shapiro

Revival Survival

Why does death sneak up when you are not looking at all

Why do trees lose their leaves every fall

Why do birds fly South during the winter months

Why do people spirits depart their physical structure and leave their body in the soil

All around us things are dying it is bold

The leaves leave the trees bare shriving from the cold

The birds journey towards warm weather but come back again

When people die they leave their physical being to behold

No one thinks they will die it just rife

The leaf flies off to make a new life

The birds seek warmth food and welcoming surroundings

Because we are not meant to live forever is a fact of strife

Life goes on revival

Living life is survival

Charles Harmon

PHAKESPEAREAN SONNET # 81

 

Shall I compare thee to a winter’s day?

Thou art more frigid and less temperate!

You are so cold and do not wish to play—

And autumn’s lease hath all too short a date!

Sometimes so cold the eye of heaven’s blind,

And summer’s gold complexion also dimmed,

Wild Nature’s changing course the light’s declined,

And summer’s canopy of green is trimmed.

But thy eternal winter shall not fade,

Nor lose possession of thy frosty shell,

But death shall brag you wandered in his shade,

You icy witch I hope you'll go to hell!

So long as life can breathe you are to me

An evil bitch who inflicts misery!

 

~by Bilious Phakespeare

ANTHEM FOR DOOMED POETS 

 

What hell if you can’t get into Rattle?

Only the monstrous anger of their puns.

Only their stuttering couplets gone to battle

Can patter out their hasty speech in tongues.

No mockeries for them, rejected by Kenyon,

Nor any voice of mourning save the bards

The poets who all tried so very hard

But The New Yorker rejected everyone.

What candles may be held to help them write?

Not in the pens of poets, but in their eyes

Shall shine the holy glimmer of failed tries

The judgement of Poetry shall be their blight

To hell with fancy journals—they’re all so dumb!

We’ll stick with tried and true— our great Spectrum!

~by Pillhead Borin'