By Lois Perch Villemaire
In 1893, birth records were not always accurate,
my grandfather Sam chose February 14
Why did he select it? To me, it was obvious,
Sam was the ultimate romantic.
He penned daily love notes in flowery script
to my grandmother and she saved them forever.
“Good morning my dearest sugar-plum!
I am most thankful to have you by my side
on this gorgeous morning. Who could ask for more?
I love you more each day with the greatest love!
Your lover-boy, Sammy”
Valentine’s Day? He celebrated every day.
To me, it was obvious,
Sam was the ultimate romantic.
“I write to record and remember.” – the writer
By Michael Thomas Ellis
A few may open their laptops
do a Google search
or scroll through their Facebook feeds
and with a little luck
stumble across these words
possibly a few more
and if I’m even luckier
although luck will be less than a shadow by then
their eyes will get misty
their thoughts a little melancholy
and for that fleeting moment
I will be remembered
maybe even missed
before the jarring distraction
of the next notification
lays me back to rest again.
“I write when my muse absolutely refuses to take no for an answer.” – the writer
By Lynn White
Things can only get better,
that’s what she always told her little sister.
Things are getting better all the time
even though it doesn’t feel that way.
So eat it up!
as Jane Eyre said,
to keep in good health and not die.
So eat it up.
And save a little for the cat.
“I write to let the words escape.” – the writer
By Bartholomew Barker
Though we live in different worlds,
let me be the moonlight glittering
your hair while you dream
and the voice of that tenor
on the radio filling an opera house
as he sings for his new bride.
Let me be the aroma of bread
baking in your oven
on a winter’s day
and the bath water warmth
surrounding your toes, feet
and legs as you slide
into the pure poetry
of a sensuous life.
“I write because the moon is sleeping in my glass of wine.” – the writer
By Robert Ronnow
New York City is where people who are
disappearing go. It is very quiet
here, silent. A man and woman
made love below me. I could hear
the bedsprings ringing and the
woman singing in sensual pain.
My thoughts sped up as they humped
faster. Everything is dead in my room
except me and my plants. If I keep
on identifying my feelings with the
feelings of things, I too will be dead.
They are talking and laughing now. His deep
voice vibrates the air. Her laugh
is like water.
“I write because I’ve almost never had to fight.” – the writer
By Rutvik A. K.
Vultures — the symbol of death.
And so I went to the desert, hoping to see one.
Forty-eight hours later, I got a closer look.
The wake of Vultures.
Their bald heads.
The bare skin.
I wanted to touch them.
But they looked busy.
Their bent necks and clacking beaks,
They told a different story.
I remained silent,
Lest I scare them.
As they gorged down another piece of meat,
An excruciating pain ran over my body,
While I slowly drifted off to sleep.
Maybe it was the blazing sun,
And not those scavenging beasts.
“Writing makes me feel alive.” – the writer
By David L Williams
When once the trees have lost all their appeal,
The clouds are beyond passing interests,
The stars are barely even visible
And wind is not up to passing events;
When after all the fall is emptiness,
The evening leads to nothing but the sky,
The bonfire fades with sullen heaviness
And heavens open up as though to sigh;
When added onto lists of discontent,
The possibilities amount to none,
Once endless hope runs into a dread end
And driven rain blows into everyone,
Then time has come to let all aspects pass,
Except the few which don’t try to impress.
“I find nothing to be boring.” – the writer
By H. Adam
Listen to the destination of your heart
Manage it without abiding by any rules
Hear it calling for you while you sleep
In the quiet
In your half state of mind
The truth there lies
The desire there lies
Where no lies are to be found
Perhaps ones you haven’t known yourself
“(I write) when my tired soul is saturated with consumption.” – the writer
By Ethan Cunningham
squirt into my hands
blanching the dirt
but seizing upon red cracks
and invisible sores
searing the nerves like
sadistic gnomes prying
them open with crowbars
and crystal salt
my brain shrieks with agony
dissolving my hands
with purifying strength
more upon more
into a silent scream
surviving only because
and then …
more quickly than it came …
it fades away
Ethan Cunningham writes “because if he doesn’t he will explode and die.”
By Annabelle Narey
The arboreal mood
is one of restless weariness.
So, think I might
take off …
Shall we dance?
… Some elements of this
I feel is rather familiar.
Ah, hello again
“I write to access a truth of some sort and express it in a way that might touch someone else in the same way that the poems of others have touched me.” – the poet