Saturday, December 31, 2005

Saturday Night

Love - like liquid you poured
yourself so easily. So soon you forgot
your illicit captivity.
I breathed you in, and held you
dizzy with desire, I sipped -
no, I had to drink you full and sweet
savouring your finish.

We held eachother's gaze
glassy, teeming with lust
Time eclipsed us twice
while still we stood
fastened to eachother's notes
I blow a kiss, and you sing
in a key banished from heaven.

By tuesdaypillow used with the permission of the poet.
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Friday, December 30, 2005


Bird from atop his peaceful perch
Surveys all his nimble eye sees:
Satisfied though he does not sow.

Man limited by thought only,
With machines sees clearly every day
Wants though he reaps and sets up store.

Tree on which bird is perched
Points branches toward the sky
Grows roots down into the earth
and drinks its fill

By Fitzgerald
Used here with the permission of the poet.
All rights reserved

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Thursday, December 29, 2005

Pissed Off Poetry Corner

No Odes Spoken (For Lorenzo)

He will not paint his mother’s
Pain in tragic shades of black
And blue. He’ll only say
With furrowed brow
That she deserved
Far better

Better than
Your temporary
Sex, your body or
The texture of your tattooed
Arms. Better than cologned lies
And eager erections those nights you
Promised to do her, no harm. Better
Than the tears, the hurting. Better than
The sharp alarm of speeding police sirens.

He will not
Speak of her
Pain, nor of how
The abandoned jazz
In her walk became
A sadder pace, or how
Her proud spine collapsed
Against the tension of you. You
Who call yourself a man, and then
Beat on women, beat on women, beat on
Them like drums. He tries to never imagine

The beatings or
The surrender of his
Mother’s arms, her limbs
Pinned like butterfly wings
Beneath the weight of you. He
Tries to reject the picture of them
Roped around your merciless back in
P a i n, thru sweat & sinew tight
As braids only African women weave.

For she
Herself, a mistress of
Trickery, placed no faith
In you, nor in the words that
That sprung from your wooden lips like
Ventriloquist’s dummies do. You threw
Your voice like madmen throw curses, as
Angry men throw fists, as hurricanes throw
Fury, as stormy nights throw jagged lightning…

And miracle of
Miracles, together
You produced a fine human
Being… Warped, but fine, Bent, but
Fine, Poor, but fine, Bitter, but fine.

Your wars
Of flesh your
Battles with decadence,
Your cutting words performed
No permanent circumcision. He
Remains in tact, stands tall in
His manhood, though you always sucked
At delivering its lessons. Didn’t you?

So take
This shit,
Old man! Take this
Poor-ass poem! I hope it burns
Fire in your hand. Choke on its
Words! Vomit on its bile, and chew on
Its hard bitter dick of sentiment a while!

Dare not
Call it an ode
To you. You are not
Forgiven. You are not
Forgiven! This voice you
Left is wild with song and
Thick with fury. You put it there!

You! It was
You-- you fool, who
Left this bird with one
Cruel beak of song. You who
Left him strong with disillusion.
You who made him this singer of far
Too many broken tunes.

By Bluemoaner
Used here with the permission of the poet.
All rights reserved

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Wednesday, December 28, 2005

eight years ago

i lied
   the kind
     ruining lives
       contentment apart
i lied... it was best
freeing me
   you to her
     i lied
the lie
  keeping you
keeping me far
   the lie
i don't love

By Sweet Jane used with the permission of the poet.
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Tuesday, December 27, 2005

finding who i am

i am a whirl of pinks and blues wrapped up in strings of gold
i am a delicate softness with a steel core
i am warm arms to hold you, that need to be embraced as well
i am a smile hiding a deeper sadness
i am a soothing melody that dances in your heart
i am a whisper on the breeze
i am dazzling city lights of neon
i am old philosophy still practiced
i am that equation you never seem to solve
i am the feeling of being barefoot in the grass
i am that little girl you kissed one summer when the sun lay low and red
i am the shapes clouds take in a child’s mind
i am that silver screen movie star you’d like me to be
i am always a foreigner
i am words like butterflies
i am the deeper meaning of what you take for granted
i am honey on your tongue
i am curiosity held back
i am undefined and packaged well
i am love
love is...

By wagner used with the permission of the poet.
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Monday, December 26, 2005

So Heavenly minded, no earthly good

If he's alone,
the timing is right,
or if he has the need for it,
he'll take off his Stetson,
kneel, then utter
some quiet prayers.

Otherwise, that man
won't darken the door
of any house of worship,
but he's got no issues at all
with the Man upstairs.

but ever since a Sunday morning
a few months back
he's now completely in the lurch!
Seems his wife is now Heaven bound
since she's made the altar call at church.

Yep, his better half
done got religion,
and in short order
his life had changed.

Now his "pistol"
of a sweetheart
is acting most
peculiar and strange!

He’s wondering what happened to
His not-so-blushing bride
Who in the past,
quite frankly, was
A little on the ‘trashy’ side…

She used to like drinkin',
dancin, NASCAR,
Wearing big hair
jewelry, makeup,
And a denim miniskirt!

She used to love to flirt
As well as dish the dirt
And boy, oh boy,
could she blister ears
With a loud cuss!

Now she's singing hymns
and reading the Bible,
uh-oh, gotta watch
what you say,
cuz she's gotten
much too pious
for the rest of us.

Her quick saintly transformation
is to most of us quite the mystery.
Instead of swilling Jack Daniels,
she now daintily sips herbal tea!

No one knows what prompted
her sudden veer to the right,
all we know is that
good ole girl
has gotten way too uptight!

but it’s plain as day
that former sinner
has adopted quite
the sanctimonious attitude,

when her name
is mentioned in public,
it's generally understood,
she's gotten so heavenly minded
that she's no longer any earthly good.

Her husband doesn't really want
to control or dominate her
between her and salvation
he'd never try to stand in her way

but he's getting real tired of
all those well aimed
Scripture quotations
passing her lips 24 hours a day.

She no longer cleans the house
because she's busy prepping
Sunday school lessons
she longer makes him dinner
cuz she's always out feeding the needy

she doesn't hug her kids anymore
hasn't bought them new clothes
or even toys for Christmas
she donated them to Goodwill and
told them they're much too greedy!

she gave up the laughter
and the off color jokes
along with the
homemade rolled smokes

To her husband,
she never says I love you,
instead she tells him to pray
for he's still redeemable yet

although she also
says all the time
he's speedily careening
on the road to Hell
cuz of his wicked ways
and sinful mindset

she says
she worries about
his mortal soul
and is alarmed at
how far he's fallin'

she no longer
gives him kisses
or ever calls
him my darlin'

when her name
is mentioned in public,
it's generally understood,
she's gotten so heavenly minded
that she's no longer any earthly good.

one night,
while undressing
she started crying
now she changes
in the bathroom
she no longer
walks nude
in front of him

she also quit doing
her wifely duties
cuz she feels guilty
because of the past
seems to think
even now it's a sin

at first, he thought
it's all only temporary
eventually she'd relent
at some point, she'd soften

but now after a month
on that old lumpy couch
he's gettin' frustrated
his patience is growin' thin

The house is permeated
with an aura of holy gloom
she's pretty much locked him
completely out of their bedroom!

Every discussion ends in a fight
She’s ignoring him night after night
To him, she's not a guiding light
she's just cold, self-righteous and rude!

when her name is mentioned in public
it's generally understood
she's gotten so heavenly minded
that she's no longer any earthly good.

well, Sista Christian,
you better watch out
there's a dirty little secret
I'm gonna warn ya about

there's a pretty honky town angel
at the bar over yonder
he'll just mosey on over
she'll make him feel like thunder

So now she's now a-cryin'
every week at the prayer meetin'
about how her man is strayin'
and how he just won't come home

Someone piped up
what did you expect?
he was lonely as hell
when you're always over here!
can you really blame him
if he decided to roam?

Preacher softly said to her,
"all's good in moderation"
winked at his blushing wife
and continued
"besides it's a good sensation"

Go ahead, surrender
to your man's desire
if you're wearing a wedding band,
you won't fall into the Fire!

Says so right in the Word*
after all, God created lovemakin'
it's not at all sinful or lewd

yes, do follow the ways of the Lord
but don't get so heavenly minded
that you're no longer any earthly good!


Source: Hebrews 13:4, and most of the Songs of Solomon, one of the "hottest" books in the Bible!

By Lady Cascadia used with the permission of the poet.
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Sunday, December 25, 2005


December's not someone you'd want to meet at this stage of your life. You're not ready, you know? You got all this baggage, all this "stuff" weighing you down and you're not gonna be able to handle that kinda girl.

What do you mean, why? Because, man, she's got all these PROMises. You see stars in her eyes, you know? And gifts. She'll shower you with gifts, sometimes from other people. Like, you'll start to fall in love, start to REALLY fall for this girl, and all of a sudden, poof! You've got Aunt Mavis who you haven't talked to since your birthday sending you a card fulla money. And then your parents, who you love but could care less about the daily hum-drum crap of their lives, they get you that flat-screen TV you been wishin' for since last Thanksgiving when we were at Jim's - you remember that? - and you couldn't stop touchin' the damned thing, you fucking freak. Anyways, that's how it always happens.

So you start to acquire all these Things. And she's still smiling at you, and you swear you can see the universe through her teeth, you know? And she'll hold your hand through the darkest day of the year. She'll comfort you. She'll make love to you. That's right, MAKE LOVE. It's not sex, it's not a quick fuck, it's real actual soul-tearin' love-makin', the kind you think only exists in those romance novels Iris used to read ... prolly still does, but it's been what, six months since the divorce?

Anyways, man, this is the worst part right here: After all those things she does just for you, expecting nothing in return, she throws a party - the biggest party anyone's had all year. Everyone's happy, laughing, getting shitty, sometimes someone brings a little somethin' to smoke, you know. It's just a good time all around. And she's with you the whole time - you're attached at the hip, but you love it. You wouldn't want it any other way.

So then, at the happiest moment of your life, when everyone else is watching a big glittery ball fall into a building or something, she tells you that she has to go. As soon as that ball hits, as soon as that countdown is over, she's gonna disappear. But she'll be back next year, she promises. She looks at you so earnestly, her eyes are like gigantic pools so deep you could dive into them. And you truly believe that she means it, but at the same time, you want to tear out your hair and start bawling like you did when the Red Sox lost in '86, except a hundred times worse. And you can feel your heart start to drop just like that ball into the pit of your stomach.

She pulls you as close as she can without actually becoming part of you, even though you know she already has, and she kisses you so soft. Just real gentle, but it makes you melt into her, or her melt into you, you're really not sure because every ounce of your body aches for her to stay just one more minute. One more hour. One more day.

A lifetime.

Suddenly, everyone is cheering, holding up their glasses of champagne and hugging eachother, and you're just standing there. Just standing there, your arms encircled around nothing, your eyes closed, and you wake up. You watch everyone smiling and laughing and full of eachother's presence, and you - well, you're left with nothing. OK, not nothing - you have memories. The greatest, brightest memories of your life.

You'll slip quietly out the door and never return.

Some of us are so devastated that December never comes for us again. We make sure it doesn't, because we don't want to feel that kind of pain ever again for as long as we live.

You don't wanna be that man, you hear me? Come on, let's go. It's getting near sunrise, and you need to see some light.

By tuesdaypillow used with the permission of the poet.
All rights reserved

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Saturday, December 24, 2005

Santa's Messing With Me

You know I'm wondering about that dude named Claus,
He's sneaking around, I think he's got a key to my house.

He's drinking my eggnog and eating my cake,
Even grabbed my wife and gave her a shake.

They tell me the girl was sitting on his lap,
He got fresh, she had to give him a slap.

Santa's messing with me, you know it ain't right,
If he keeps this up, there's going to be a fight.

I hear he's going 'round calling me a ho, ho, ho,
I'm going to kick his butt, he just doesn't know.

Next year you'll be searching for him, looking all around,
But he won't be here, cause I've run him out of town.

Jolly old fat man, what's he trying to do,
He's messing with me, I know that it's true.

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Friday, December 23, 2005


I believe in angels.
I've even met a few. Some
of them old, and kindly. Some
of them bathed in Afro Blue. Some
of them come at me silently. Others
bombast with a roar. Some kiss me
s o f t l y on the cheek, and I feel it
to my core. One of them blessed me recently--
right here at Journal Space. Thank you
chocolate angel girl. You know who *you* be.

By Bluemoaner
Poem used here with the premission of the poet.
All rights reserved.

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Thursday, December 22, 2005

Dancing Past

a rite
dancing past
redemption not needed

stained with the hunt
blood and wine crimson

my serpent whispers to me
with kisses
to an ear

ecstatic dance

your decency sliding
from me

crushed crimson

flying droplets
from the unstoppable passion

my rite
the Maenad's dance

my blessing

By Sweet Jane used with the permission of the poet.
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Wednesday, December 21, 2005

German Poetry

Auf einmal
Scheint die Welt
Aus fremden Farben
Erschaffen zu sein
Denn deine Augen leuchten
Wie ein grüner Himmel
Und die Erde
Liegt unter mir
Als die Sonne
In braunen Strahlen
Auf meinen Körper
Rot wird neu erfunden

English Translation

The world seems
To be made
Of foreign colors
Because your eyes glow
Like a green heaven
And the earth
Lays beneath me
As the sun
On my skin
In rays of brown
Red is newly invented

By wagner used with the permission of the poet.
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Tuesday, December 20, 2005

Tea Kisses

Alright! I confess!
I left the country
For the express
Of giving into
a nefarious desire
Due to a longstanding fascination

I made a reservation
and then engaged in a
most steamy
at a hotel during
a Victoria BC summer vacation

I choose to indulge
my Anglophilic passion
In a “scandalous”
Edwardian fashion!

This “secret” liaison
was held of all days
On a Sunday,
at the traditional
hour of three

The participants
in this affair
was only me
And the contents of
a proper Afternoon Tea.

Walking into that tea lobby
I felt very much like an
Wearing a large pink hat and
A flowered black and fuscia dress

I must admit I was impressed
By the show of understated affluence,
The baby grand piano took my breath away
I was astounded by all that ambiance.

The server played "mum,"
And poured the revered libation
That I hold in such high esteem

Holding the china cup,
adding a cube of sugar
and just a hint of cream

Taking a moment of
Whimsy to indulge
In aromatic foreplay
With the steam

Closing my eyes
Taking that first drink
Tastes even better
than in my dream!

Like an ocean wave
That tea hits my teeth
Rolls over my tongue,
crashes along the breakers
Of my inner cheeks
Like a lover bestowing
An intimate kiss...

Sitting the cup down gently
and sighing deeply
My senses were reeling
From that wonderful feeling!
What flavor, what joy,
what absolute bliss!

Picking up the cup
Again and again
Tasting Nirvana
in all of those sips

When finished,
I, just like a satiated cat,
Flicked my tongue
Capturing and savoring
The remnants of the tea…
its sensuous flavor
Still lingering on my lips.

Although I know
It was rather gauche
I couldn’t help it…
I really couldn’t resist

I left a substantial tip
And checked off my list
Completed one more thing to try
Before I grow old and die…
Tea at the Empress
The ultimate safe tryst!

By Lady Cascadia used with the permission of the poet.
All rights reserved

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Monday, December 19, 2005

Not True

I would say the steps are steep,
but you'd say it's not true.
You'd tell me they were deep,
rife with mysteries asleep.
A sojourner learns
that love is not to keep.

I would say the castle sits so still
but you'd say it's not true
You'd point out all the dancing shadows,
souls that never inked a quill
A nomad learns
a silent muse can kill.

I would say the sun is running
but you'd say that's not true
We, in fact, are turning our back
it's a clever ruse as we stand and accuse
The widower learns
that we don't always get to choose.

By tuesdaypillow used with the permission of the poet.
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Sunday, December 18, 2005

Measured in Seconds

I remember when we were newlyweds and the girl held onto me for dear life, every night. It is funny, the guys at work bought us a toaster, because she eats toast every morning for breakfast. Other people gave us gifts that it took time to grow into, like that clock with the second hand. Back then ever night was our honeymoon.

Time has a way of taking the edge off of things. Now I cling to the woman, and she wonders why. She is the most precious part of the collection. The printed sheets have become thin from the friction. But something like a trip and a small separation can bring all that magic back. We still have that clock, but life is not measured in seconds.

By Fitzgerald
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Saturday, December 17, 2005

Needle People

A mod
squad of
junkies nod
outside my front
door. they sleep
standing upright &
tenuously, but i rarely
hear them snore. we share
nightmares & newports, sometimes.
we share the same disillusion in our
eyes. some lead horror story existences. some
lean like antennas in the wind. some call me
"mr." "amigo," "my friend", but i really don't think so, papi.

and it's not
their ethnicity,
their status as junkies...
that's simply a habit & we've
all got those. i just don't trust them
because they're People. People with needles,
Needle People, with the curse of bad posture &
a reed-thin belief that things will be better

By Bluemoaner used with the permission of the poet.
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Friday, December 16, 2005

Good and Right

Grrr... It is good
growl at the sun
challenge its place
in the sky.
Challenge the wind
to race.
Challenge the clouds
to climb
the mountain.

Winning is good.

Winning is good,
but losing
can be
what is right
and natural.

By Sweet Jane used with the permission of the poet.
All rights reserved

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Thursday, December 15, 2005

he lies

he lies
next to her
on cotton sheets
like silent whispers

his hand
reaches out
for the warmth
of her golden skin

her eyes
close tightly
as she inhales
loves fading essence

she turns
her small frame
so much like wind
blowing the wrong way

she cries
hidden tears
he will never see
fall from her blue eyes

he lies
next to her
speaking of love
but she knows the truth

he lies

By wagner used with the permission of the poet.
All rights reserved

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Wednesday, December 14, 2005

A String Of Pearls

On visitation day, while others milled around
The Shalimar scented petite woman
Sat serenely in the huge wingback chair
As though she were a debutante holding court
Her pillbox-hatted blonde head was held up in a regal pride

Though not a single hair was out of place,
her makeup was melting In the Rogue Valley heat
Although the resident “beauty consultant”
Earlier ensured her it had been skillfully applied.

Although the walls of the assisted living center
Were recently painted 0n the most cheerful of pastels
The interior always still seemed to hold
A pervasive aura of gloom

She fingered a strand of pearls as though it were a Rosary
As she patiently waited for her imaginary guests
To come to her weekly tea party in the small crowded anteroom

Originally from Savannah, Georgia,
She was probably the last of the Belles
She was still thin and graceful,
But osteoporosis had made her as fragile as a feather

While the other heftier women at the home
Were dressed more causally in sneakers and sweats
She insisted on always looking her best,
On always being a proper “lady”
Wearing a suit, stockings and heels
Even during Medford’s 95 degree weather

She greeted her only visitor,
A state appointed social worker
A large black woman with very short hair
“Welcome, my dear!” the older woman smiled,
Her chin lifting daintily as she kissed the air

The younger woman glared for a moment
Here eyes then narrowed like a cat
Instead of returning the greeting,
She zeroed in on the jewels
Her voice rang out
“And just WHERE did you get that?”

The Grande Dame appeared even smaller
As she shrunk back in the chair
A la Blanche DuBois
While she clutched that string of pearls
Even closer to her side

Looking to the left
And then to the right,
She then softly spoke
“It was a gift from a gentleman admirer”
She effortlessly lied

“I remember that day
As though it happened yesterday;
Wore them to my coming out cotillion,
In the summer of 1963

My intended’s name
Was Lt. Cyrus Beauregard, US Army
He graduated Old Miss, Class of 62,
And was as handsome as can be

She whispered in a confidential tone
We had became secretly engaged
Before he was sent off to fight in Saigon!”

Tears welled up in her eyes of blue,
she produced a lace handkerchief …as though on cue
“he was a real hero, he won a Purple Heart
and he now rests in Arlington.”

The social worker appeared bored
By this romantic falsehood of this former waitress
But she put a cup of tea in the woman’s shaky hand
She feigned interest in the story just the same

Every week it was always a repeat story
The same coming out party,
But a different war,
Same clandestine engagement,
But a different fiancé’s name!

The worker quietly asked her hostess
“Whatever happened to Lt. McAllister, the Marine?
“Who?” she asked
her eyes as blank as the cloudless sky
She had forgotten that figment of last week’s lie

Throughout the afternoon,
she recounted many a nonexistent event
to her state appointed friend

at the tea’s conclusion, she excused herself
the faux debutante retired to her room
the visitation had come to an end

She went to bed, closed her eyes
and dreamed for the last time
of a Prince taking her far away

Next morning, the social worker returned
The purloined imitation pearls to Meier & Frank
It was just the same dementia, the same kleptomania
But with a different client, on a different day.

By Lady Cascadia used with the permission of the poet.
All rights reserved

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Tuesday, December 13, 2005

The Last Gerund

I wish I were an adjective, describing the rain
Always part of something else, and never said in vain

I wish I were an adverb, often ending with ell-why,
Always relegating how the rain falls from the sky

Although a noun is pretty fixed and at the mercy of description,
At least it's omni-present and rarely cursed with affliction

Were I to be a verb I'd be always on-the-go
I could be fast or well-paced or interminably slow

Instead I am hanging, forgiving and haranguing
I'm running and jumping, flying, trying and meringuing.

I could be above, below or behind
But it's beneath me to be without, under or inside

I've accepted my position and it always makes me wince
To think I could have been a word like also, but, or since.

By tuesdaypillow used with the permission of the poet.
All rights reserved

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Monday, December 12, 2005

Tony and Cleo

You know, an older man, a young girl
And at stake the known civilized world

Not just the sex, and the passion, and the pain
But those warm Egyptian breezes and the rain

"There's beggary in the love that can be reckon'd"
I mean think about that for a minute or a second

A man of power, a man of true cool
Transformed into a strumpet's fool

His doting overflowed the measure
at this lusty gypsy girl's pleasures

Cleo liked her silver and she liked her gold
Tony was willing to trade it for his very soul

By Fitzgerald used with the permission of the poet.
All rights reserved

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Sunday, December 11, 2005

Poem Dedicated The Singer

Upon Listening to Jimmy Scott Singing "Motherless Child"

My bad, if I speak outta place.

I became a fan as soon as

That song came pouring

From your face

You break my heart, sir

And then, you heal it again…

In a note…

Long and sweetly sustained,

Like you,

Long sustaining a life

Of Red, and Blue

And yellow cowards who

Did not honor you

And your gift as

You deserved to be

Mr. Jimmy

You more than a Jazz or

Blues singer

You channel music like

Wells channel water

For those who have a

Thirst in their souls.

I believe you are some

Gifted weaver

Spinning golden melody

From your peerless throat

I believe you hold

The ghosts of slaves

Of past and future kings

And hep cats in the posture

of your Spine. I believe

You are one of those

Divine beings who

Holds the key

To the sound of human

Joy and suffering

In your larynx. Your voice

Emits such a cool,

Vibrant, warm

Yet goose-bumping

Effect on my skin

Like the cry of a dove

Like the soar of eagle

My heart knows

That sound, and I

Identify. I

Get it now. And I

Shall never forget

The Intimacy

The In To Me See

And feel

You bring

To my ears,

My heart.

My viscera!

Jimmy Scott, you are

A spirit

That will not fade

Lightly into

The dark indigo night.

But like a piece of

Sun, Mr. Jimmy

You warm and

Soothe and


So brightly.

I thank you

For surviving.

I thank you

For not surrendering

I thank for you

Becoming who

You were meant to be:

Mr. Jimmy Scott,

Life Chronicler

Standard Interpreter

Music Sweetener

Gold Spinner

Lyric Dancer




By Bluemoaner
Poem used here with the premission of the poet.
All rights reserved.

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Saturday, December 10, 2005


bending our body
tango held
dedicated arms in dedicated arms
notes without rest
driving blood
heart to skin
going as pleased
as is pleasing
no limitations
the pulse
fantasy the reality
feet from floor

By sweet jane used with the permission of the poet.
All rights reserved

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Friday, December 09, 2005


I want to tell you everything
Everything that is in my heart
I long to write the words down for you
But every time I try
My pen runs out
My mind is empty
I’m held back
And why I don’t exactly know
There is so much to say
There is so much that I feel inside
I want to tell you
That my heart dances when you smile
That my body shivers when you touch me
That I’m breathless whenever you’re near me
I want to whisper it in your ear
I want to scream it across a crowded room
I want to paint it into a beautiful picture
I want to write it as a breathtaking poem
But the words won’t come
I’m speechless in your presence
And all that I want to say is
I love you

By wagner used with the permission of the poet.
All rights reserved

file under;

Thursday, December 08, 2005

The Tao Of Writing

Streams of consciousness,
Imagination outflows,
Karmitic tributaries
All meet at the confluence
Of black pen placed
On white paper...

As we are writing
We are revealing
The inner self:
Body, mind, Soul and spirit

As our works are read
The ideas are
Released in love
To the world...

And like a river
Those old and new ideas
Flow back to us
As in answer form
To a universal
Unspoken question

Imploring and Encouraging
Both writer and reader to

Question even further,
Think even harder,
Give even generously,
Love more passionately
Live life with more authenticity
Than you ever have before.

By Lady Cascadia used with the permission of the poet.
All rights reserved

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Wednesday, December 07, 2005


I am a country, waiting to be explored. It appears to be all beauty and splendor on the surface, but the real outside layers of my being are the borders that I make. Most can enter but few can afford to stay. And you're not all wealthy enough in spirit and soul to purchase my souvenirs. But as for looking, you can do that. Then you can decide if you have the fortitude to dig deeper.

See, you have to not only take the snow-capped peaks you see from a distance, but you have to learn to appreciate the eroded hills that make up the countryside. I'm not only a sparkling beachside tourist town, but also an inner city of struggle and hardships; of lessons about how inexpensive the necessities really are if you're willing to give and receive them. I not only harbor a nightlife that would be a theologian's or music lover's delight, but I also have quiet dinners at home, tea and Scrabble with some friends, and enough passion to fuel a lifetime of evenings made for two.

I haven't any fears of terrorism or tourism. I know enough to see who has come to harm and who has come to explore. I want others to see this country that I have cultivated and struggled to maintain for the last 25 years. I am proud of my work; and yet still eager to see what visits from others will do to boost the economy of my personality and spirit. I am anxious to see how the elements will alter my facade over the remaining decades of my existence.

So I'm inviting you to come in and take a peek. You don't need money, just a rich soul and the curiosity of a child. Oh, and ... some muffins and a block of sharp cheddar wouldn't hurt.

* * *

By TuesdayPillow used here with permission of the poet.
All rights reserved.

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Tuesday, December 06, 2005

Walk Down Fannin St.

Fannin St Sign

Walk Down Fannin St.

Next time you're in Shreveport,
I want you to walk down Fannin St.
And pay close attention to the ghost
of the old bluesmen sitting on the porches
of the torn down shotgun houses.

Mike tells me they're not there anymore
they only exist in the words on this page,
like the leaves they have been scattered
by the wind. They are wisp of smoke now,
from the cigarettes of the working girls.

Imagine that a light warm rain is falling
as you pass the juke joints of days gone.
Stop in at the Freemen and Harris cafe
and walk on in like you have been eating
gumbo since you were a small child.

And when the waitress says, "Come on in sugar!"
inviting you as if you were a member of her family,
take the closest seat, and watch the downtown
politicos wheel and deal. If I were you, I'd order
the stuffed shrimp and an Ice cold beer.

Belly full, feet rested and tired of that,
venture back out into the hot summer air.
Even though Leadbelly is gone, you can
still feel his spirit sing, "Good Night Irene."

Photo by Mike Rosebery © All rights reserved.

Monday, December 05, 2005

The Poem-Blower...

I blow
My horn with
Words aplenty.
Some people nod &
Some won’t hear me.
I make this broke-down
Sometimes, Glorious Sound. I blow
Solo arias… and my opus abounds.
Tell me if you hear me, yo. Tell me
If you feel me, tho. I blow my horn on

City streets,
In alleys, on rooftops
In jazzy beats. I sing sometimes
In ghetto riffs, or croon for moody blue
Sophisticates. Slinging these lyrics, in place
Of dime baggies, I dole out poetry on corners for
Free. Tell me if your hear, yo. Tell me if you feel me, tho.

I blow
My horn with
Words aplenty &
Some people nod &
Some won’t hear me.
Ain’t that the way of the world,
How sound & fury swirl all around
Us… sometimes broke-down, sometimes
Glorious. Sometimes gentle & often times
Furious? Would you tell me if you smell me, yo?
Like a rose against this madness, yo. See that’s
How poetry’s supposed to flow. So, tell me if you feel me, yo.

By Bluemoaner used here by permission of the poet
All rights reserved

The Purpose of This Blog

Purpose: The purpose of this blog is to present some of my favorite poetry from my favorite poets. I have so many friends who write great poetry I wanted to share it with everyone. I was thinking of the best way to do this was to create a blog where a new poem is presented every day.

I also want to give these poets a chance to talk about their methods. I want them to give us aspiring poets some instruction and inspiration.

I also like to combine some of the great photography that my friends take and mixing it with the poetry to see what we can come up with.

All poems and photographs posted in this blog are the property of the individual poets and photographers and are used with their expressed permission. All rights are reserved by the poets and photographs. Please contact the individual poets and photographers for permission to use any of this material.

Sunday, December 04, 2005

About Fitzgerald

K. Fitzgerald is a sometimes poet and editor. He comes to the poetry blog with a love of poetry and an eye for selecting the work of his online friends and collaborators. You can find his musing and some poetry @ Fitzgerald's Collectibles.

He likes the business end of the mix and promotes the projects of his fellow poets and writers. He tries to convey a simple and fresh view of life through his writing. He explores the themes of family. His wife (his muse), and teen daughter play a prominent part in his work. His poetry often follows the rhythms of the blues and the music of his home state of Louisiana, or the California sunshine of his adopted state.

About TuesdayPillow

TuesdayPillow is a poet of great creativity her work spans the range from the whimsical to the sexual. She explores a plethora of themes astrology, religion, and her upbringing in her often times humorous and slightly irreverent poetry.

She has a journal where you can see her other writing @ Tangible Insanity. Check out her astrology blog @ Incendiary Insights. She also has a non-literary journal @ Pajama Party in New Orleans. Which has the tag line; Bingo, naked Twister, and unlimited supplies of whipped cream.

About Bluemoaner

About Bluemoaner

Bluemoaner is a noted author and poet. Who has written books and been published in magazines. He holds court on his journal called One Moanman in Time.

Among his many interest are music, writing, reading, running, gym, clubbing, spoken word performance, intensely stimulating convos while listening to Jimmy Scott, Nina Simone, Rickie Lee Jones , Lizz Wright Stevie, Gil Scott-Heron, Marvin, Syreeta, Jill, Floetry, Lauryn, Common, and the rest in the background.

Reading his poetry is often like being in New York City enjoying one of those smokey Jazz filled nights, where you are transported to his world. He zeros in on the human condition with a laser beam clarity that can describe the depths and heights of Joy.

About LadyCascadia

Ladycascadia is a poet, storyteller, singer and songwriter who was raised in the "rust belt" but has considered the West Coast her home since 1979! While she is not quite a "singing cowgirl" in the Dale Evans tradition, she does consider herself a traditional and modern folklorist and well as a poetry writer/song interpreter in the Romantic and Western genres. Although she writes and performs poetry and songs about the region west of the Mississippi River: the lands, the people, their lives, loves, joys and concerns, the works primarily focuses on the area of the Northwestern US and Canada sometimes referred to as Cascadia . Hence her online moniker, "Lady Cascadia."

She has a very strong passion for literature, arts & culture in all forms. She is strongly interested in and committed to preserving the folkloric traditions of the Old (and New) American West through poetry and song...especially when it comes to showcasing the contributions of women and people of color who also helped to settle the West, but who have been for the most part ignored in the history books!

Lady Cascadia believes that poetry is meant for artistic expression rather than mere propaganda or polemics. Moreover, she feels that the constant use of poetry, literature and song as a political soapbox is an ABUSE of the art form! She believes that poetry should be a vehicle that covers all aspects of the human condition, not just the politicized or negative parts.

You can see some of her writing @ her journal Tea with Lady Cascadia.

She also has an official web site. Where you can see photos, check out her upcoming performances, sample some of her poetry and get news and networking infomation.

She is also the aurthor of a whimsical but honest book of poetry titled; Taking Tea With A Lady Of "Cascadia"...and other subversive, outrageous and highly creative poetic acts!

Saturday, December 03, 2005

About wagner

When you look up the word creative in the dictionary it should say wagner. This dynamic young lady has tons of creativity. She is a warm and inviting spirit and reading her poetry often times sooths my soul. She is a mother, singer, writer, and poet. And I believe she draws on all these aspects of her life to create her beautiful wordplay.

Her writings, rants, soliloquies and games can be found in her online journal tiny thoughts. She grew up in The U.S. but now lives in Germany so she has a home girl appeal with a decidedly European charm.

She is an avid traveler and gets inspiration from her many trips around Europe and visits to the US. She is a photographer, and her poetry is also informed by her traveler's eye.

About Sweet Jane

Sweet Jane has many interest, among them literature and lyrics. She also enjoys making jewelry, soap, quilts, and various arts and crafts occupy much of her time when she is not writing. Reading, swimming, watching and commenting on cartoons and anime are also things that she enjoys. She often sends protest emails around the world, and interviews specialists in their field at times.

You can read her poetry, musing on animation and other topics in her journal Jane, Literature, and Lyrics.

She is a retired educator who is a University of Oklahoma English major. She also has an equivalent of an Ethno-history degree (Minor in Anthropology Native American Studies, Minor in History - Minority Studies, Soc. and Psych. coursework) from O.U. Her graduate work was done in Language Arts focusing on Secondary Education from the University of New Mexico. She is a former Peace Corps Volunteer and she taught for 13 years on the Navajo Reservation in New Mexico until she medically retired after an accident in which she suffered a broken neck. Subjects taught included Language Arts and Social Sciences: Eng. 10 and 11, AP Eng. 10 and 11, Greek Drama, Shakespeare, Drama I and II, Communications, World History, Native American Literature, Art, Native American Studies, and Sp. Ed. (Levels D through B).

Suffice it to say she brings a wealth of knowledge to the blog and a certain amount of credibility. Her frank, highly crafted, well put together poetry both teaches and evokes some emotional responses.