Tuesday, May 21, 2019

When suicide spoke

"When suicide spoke" By Rebel p Jones
When all things mattered not,
And all time stopped
From all the ticking tocks
Of all the world's clocks.
As did my breath
and beat of this
once strong heart
as my emotionless dead carcass
laid selfishly at peace
as the pills took charge
and put to rest
this mind that hasn't
for years felt at ease.
I wonder not
how would those I left behind,
Feel or think of a loss of me,
For a loss was not what I had seen,
Nor was there a care,
for life for me seemed
not to care so why should I,
So much taken from me,
So from here I took the path
of never-ending sleep.
When suicide spoke,
I listened and joined
in the chatter
of deadly conversation,
The power that this voice that spoke
The options that it gave me,
A flash of all my failures,
and all the cherished souls that left me exposed themselves one last time before my eyes closed for forever I could sleep.

I am a 41 year old retired Army veteran, with my 4 children and fiance. We reside in Temperance Michigan, and my passion is poetry.
I have written for free for 3 years now for the world to have something real to enjoy without spending money.

By mistake

“By mistake” by Stephen Lackey

Lies have flavor
when standing in
the presence of
their purveyor.

One might think it
interdental grit—
acrid, metallic,

but not...
and don’t.

Attempt to heed
ev’ry part of you,
as voices sans sound
warn us out loud,

urging escape,
desp’rate, pleading
that you would not
glut by mistake.

On the Edge

BIO: Stephen Lackey has been writing poetry and song lyrics since high school in an eclectic mix spanning all meters and styles. His work does bear one unifier... Always he aims to explore what is hidden from perception, whether that be in the structure of his pieces or their uncommonly attended subject matter. His narrative pieces are often iambic though they lack forced meter, thereby feeling like normal speech. His text settings often follow mathematical/symmetrical structures. The themes of his pieces may or may not be readily apparent, but rarely does each contain only one. And surprise endings are no stranger to him. 

Tuesday, May 14, 2019

Rose Petals in a Dark Room

"Rose Petals in a Dark Room" by Michael Lee Johnson

I walk through this poem one step at a time.
I walk in a mastery of this night and light
my money changers walk behind me
they’re fools like clowns in a shadow of sin,
they’re busy as bees as drunken lovers,
Sodom and Gomorrah before this salt pillar falls.

In a shadow of red rose pedals
drunken lovers walk changing Greek and Roman
currency to Jewish money or Tyrian shekels-
they’re fools, all fools, at what they do.
Everyone’s life is a conflict.
They’re my lovers and my sinners
I can’t sleep at night without them
by my bed grass near that sea of Galilee.
Fish in my cloth nets beget my friends, my converts.
I pray in this garden alone sweat
while my disciples whitewash their dreams.

The rose has a tender thorn compared to my arrest,
and soon crucifixion.

It’s here this morning and this night come together,
where this sea and this land depart,
where these villages stone and mortar crumble.

I’m but a poet of this ministry,
rose petals in a dark room fall.
Everyone’s life is a conflict.
But mine is mastery of light and neon night
and I walk behind these footsteps of no one.


Michael Lee Johnson lived 10 years in Canada during the Vietnam era and is a dual citizen of the United States and Canada.  Today he is a poet, freelance writer, amateur photographer, and small business owner in Itasca, Illinois.  Mr. Johnson published in more than 1042 new publications, his poems have appeared in 38 countries, he edits, publishes 10 poetry sites.  Michael Lee Johnson, has been nominated for 2 Pushcart Prize awards poetry 2015/1 Best of the Net 2016/2 Best of the Net 2017, 1 Best of the Net 2018. 

Monday, May 13, 2019


"Eyes" by Scot Buffington

I’d kiss you now to spite your eyes
transfixing mine within their keep
bewitching gazes mesmerize
in happiness to smile or weep.
Dare not I bow for lips to meet
still savoring your iris’ glow
as hungry for two pairs to greet
I cannot pass, lest forward go.
In seeing all you hide inside
beyond the pupil’s inky cave
moments when you dined on pride
instants sad for what you gave.
Deeper still, I find your heart
a firework, exploding grace
emits to me your gentle part
a light that beautifies your face.
Refractions, as we gift and take
redirect reflection’s stare
no love exchanged more than we make
between the souls and eyes we share.
Without a mortal touch we thrive
upon the depths, the deepest wells
sustain affection’s life alive
enchants us with our loving spells.


Scot Allan Buffington lives in rural Western Pennsylvania. He teaches Western Civilization at Lincoln High School in Ellwood City. A historian by trade, Scot worked in the historical film industry. He collects antiques and has been involved in historical re-enactments for over three decades. Scot began writing less than two years ago, and considers poetry as another one of his many hobbies.

Thursday, May 9, 2019

The Stranger

"THE STRANGER" by Wayne Olson

What if the encounter was not what you thought
As you struggle to make sense of it day after day
Forcing a meaning, square pegs in round holes
One never meant to be epic, just utterly timely?
Secretly relieved it was not to be long-lasting
Not destined to be a happily-ever-after tale
Magic yes, but a Hallmark story gone noir
Just remember the stranger sent to be there
The one who arrived at a critical moment
For an intensely personal, unknown reason
Meant only to change your life’s trajectory
Ever so slightly with a tug, or a simple nudge
To bump your weary mind or drowning heart
One well-placed deflection by a Divine Hand
A prodding perfectly timed by a timeless God
Vigilantly guiding you because you are His
Perhaps to finally see what had been veiled
To at last come to understand a new Truth
Or to finally recognize what had been a lie
Sensing a knowing in the stranger’s smile
One that brought an inexplicable calmness
A trusted familiarity in it you could not dismiss
On the day that left you changed forever.

I started writing in my late teens.  I took to writing short stories at first, then poetry later and love the ability to say much with few words.  I have always been on the introverted side, very comfortable in my own space, so writing suited my need for expression. I have had a very rich spiritual life since childhood which is very much part of my nature, so much of what I have gleaned from those experiences finds its way into my writings.  Poems are my ship’s “logbook” on this voyage thru life.

Tuesday, May 7, 2019



The jewel of the east,a perfectly imperfect city
Here chaos,disorder, strikes and mayhem sit pretty.
Strangers become friends on platforms and roads,
Beggars make pavements their permanent abodes.
Here hours are spent gossiping over tea in coffee shops,
Book browsing in bookshops, eve teasing at bus stops.
Cricket is discussed in the same breath as morality,
Romance and philosophy form the pillars of the city.
Here movies,art and literature are on every man's lips,
Theatre and music grow like nails on fingertips.
Nothing is ever on time,buses and trains run late,
Much is left to miracles, with undying faith on Fate.
Here Tagore songs and poems weave their way,
Into the tapestry of lives of ordinary folks everyday.
Munching peanuts,cigarettes in hand,lovers gaze at the sky,
In this City of Joy,with an attitude of 'never say die'.
The knick knacks at the roadside stalls are worth dying for,
The tasty 'phuchka', 'rasgulla',will make you crave for more.
The crowds,the queues and traffic snarls are a real bother,
But once you start living here,you'll fall in love with her.
Here football forms the lifeline,politics is religion,
A medley of diverse cultures, each festival a joyous occasion.
My birthplace, where my tears,smiles and emotions dissolve,
A city with a heart,which helps my soul grow and evolve.
Piya Ghosh~ 30-4-19


Piya Ghosh is basically a medical practitioner practising general medicine for almost three decades. She is a graduate of Calcutta Medical College holding a post graduate degree in Tropical Medicine too.Poetry is her passion. She has been writing poetry since the tender age of seven influenced by the Nobel Laurette Rabindranath Tagore.She dabbles in painting too.She has received many awards from several national and international poetry forums.

Monday, May 6, 2019


"Rows" by TM DiSarro
There's a child you may know
Who was placed in a row
In a field between roses and weeds
Its a garden of stone
Where we never atone
For the longings that outweigh our needs
There's a father who looks
Inside dozens of books
Full of photos of happier days
But he can't find the one
That looks just like his son
Who was lost in the mess that he made
There's a girl that we know
Who sat in the third row
Of the school where the child
Learned to pray
Now she keeps to herself
With her faith on a shelf
But she visits the field every day
Seems her innocence died
Between rows of the lies
She was told as a matter of course
With mere words she was fooled
As affections are tools
Raping futures without any force
There's a brother who lives
Off the money we give
To the homeless souls walking the streets
He once dwelled in a book
That his father mistook
As a family that seemed so complete
He was like you and I
Chasing dreams in the sky
Thinking this is as good as it gets
But the time dies so fast
When we cling to the past
Leaving graves for the love we forget
There's a mother who pleads
As she's down on her knees
Planting seeds that will never replace
All the life that slips by
In the wink of an eye
Like the rows of regrets on her face

BIO: Writing is my passion and poetry occupies a significant block of my creative energy. When the time is favorable, I plan to publish a collection of poems and short stories, but until that time follow me on: Instagram@tmdisarro