poem, writing, poetry, drabble
Oh, how indifferent we’ve become:
phone calls directed to machines,
countless emails left unanswered,
requests for help dismissed, ignored,
no neighbors chatting in the backyard,
snippy shop workers, broken promises.
How I long for acknowledgement, simple
words of kindness, support in times of need,
a friend who says, “I hear you, you matter.”
“Sometimes I write to express my dismay with the world.” – the writer
There’s a merry-go-round inside my head
and it’s starting up again
only there’s no music
and there’s no one watching
only me
from the sidelines
& I’m on the merry-go-round too
though I want to get off
but it’s going faster and faster
& I’m getting dizzier and dizzier
& I have to lie down
before I fall down
again.
John is a South Australian writer of poetry, flash fiction and the occasional short story.
By John L. Malone
Six shots ring out.
Fat, hollow bangs
ricocheting against the walls
of the night.
I tense waiting for a cry
of pain,
a howl of distress,
a ruckus of some sort,
someone doing a runner from the commission
of a crime,
an active shooter on the prowl, who maybe
is not done yet.
But there is nothing
only a twitchy silence
a dead emptiness for our imaginations
to fill
John is a South Australian writer of poetry, flash fiction and the occasional short story.
By Sister Lou Ella Hickman, I.W.B.S
inside rock
flinty fire
inside sand
time
inside water
space
inside air
song
inside light
dark
inside tree
colors rise
weeping through branches’ eyes
inside bone
poem
inside flesh
bread of hunger
inside blood
pulse of thirst
inside the earth
ourselves
“I write because I have to.” – the writer
By Lois Perch Villemaire
Another Sunday morning
The rhythm of the clock
What will unfold today?
You wonder and take stock.
Waiting on the platform
Looking for a train
Standing in line
Buying tickets for a game.
Waiting for a letter
To finally arrive,
A phone call, an email
A friendship to come alive.
Waiting for a message
Very important to read
With ideas or inspirations
Something to believe.
Waiting for a decision
To hear the final call.
Is it yes, is it no?
Any answer at all.
Waiting for the recipe
Of a special new cuisine.
Longing for news
Of a miracle vaccine.
“I write to try to express myself.” – the writer
By Bruce Levine
The new normal
which isn’t normal
The perpetrators of the myth
who propagate the idea
True believers of the hyperbole
lulled into apathy
And the apathetic don’t care
as long as they can follow the herd
Believing that there is
a new normal
Refraining from thinking
as they sink into depression
And the new normal is the
isolation of fear
Manifesting the new reality
of loneliness and suicide
“I had to write this because this is what I see all around me.” – the writer
By John Grey
I look up at the north side of a huge frame house,
twice as wide, as high, as the one I live in,
rough pine shingles
brown with cream trimmings,
stained glass windows,
cupolas, cornices,
an architect’s history lesson.
How do you knock on the door of such a place?
What right has this fist?
A circular alcove, dark entrance –
this is not the way
to any place that will have me.
“When I’m not writing, I get anxious.” – the writer
By Seth Lewis
I’m grand, thanks, with a slight nod and an even step
Would you rather I told you what trampled my heart?
Would you pause long enough to hear me, if I did?
Don’t worry, I won’t
And neither will you
We’ll smile and nod like we always do
Nodding through life like we always do
Someday our life will be over, too
But it’s grand,
Thanks
“Writing is how I think.” – the writer
Our teachers have a daunting task
insuring students wear a mask.
And when some kids should throw a fit?
They’ll invade spaces, hit, and spit.
Then, as those germs spew in the air,
fears will increase there, everywhere.
So folks, be smart. Don’t play the fool.
Please keep your children out of school …
safely at home, healthy, secure,
til we acquire a covid cure.
“Sometimes I just have to express my opinions.” – the writer
By Mark Tulin
Things have changed
since my early years
I’m not young and dumb
anymore
My spontaneous teenage ways
went out with the dishwater
I don’t go anywhere
without an extra sweater
or an umbrella
I know too much
My naïveté is gone
along with the hair on my head
and the muscle tone
I hear too much,
even when my hearing aid
is turned down low
I don’t do foolish things
like I used to,
or jump on bandwagons,
or try spicy foods
without an antacid
I see the world
with a grain of salt,
and a cautious point of view.
“Writing helps me to be mindful of my inner voice.” – the writer
