​Renee B. Drummond is a renown poetria and artist from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. She is the author of: The Power of the Pen, SOLD TO THE HIGHEST BIDDER, Renee’s Poems with Wings are Words in Flight-I’ll Write Our Wrongs, and Renee’s Poems with Wings are Words in Flight. Her work is viewed on a global scale and solidifies her as a force to be reckoned with in the literary world of poetry. Renee’ is inspired by non-other than Dr. Maya Angelou, because of her, Renee’ posits “Still I write, I write, and I’ll write!”

NO HONOR AMONGST RATS!


 
Deprived
of strength,
power
and/or
efficiency;
weakened
to believe
SLAVERY
AIN’T
FOR FREE.
 
AKA
castrated thug;
once served
tHis country
as
thoroughbred
studs.
Pure breed.
NOT
made in China.
Rather,
Afrika’s
finest
of
finest
trees!
 
America’s creed:
We the people
For the people
By the people:
Castrate you
~~~~~
In the name of
The Father,
Son
and
Holy Spirit too!
 
 
A B.A.D. Poem

Dedicated to: Lest we forget Slavery.
 

Strange Fruit


 
Momma
don’t have.
Poppa
don’t have.
An’
I certainly
ain’t got
my own.
A black ‘chile’
AIN’T SAFE
eccentric as can be
rooted
in
‘dem’
very
odd
outlandish weeds.
No-one comes
to water
strange fruit;
let lone
care
bout
us,
we
and/or
Mrs. Peculiar.
O’
that be
me.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Poppa don’t have
Momma don’t have;
did God
really
bless
the ‘chile’
whose
got ‘HER’ own?
 
 
 
 
 
 
In them fields
‘dem’
warriors
moan an’ groan
‘rappin’
‘wit’‘sum’
pep
in their step
‘talkin’
that walk
while
foot soldiers
‘pickin’
‘dat’
cotton
hand ‘ov’r’ barrel
all
the
‘daze’ long.
Nope,
poppa
don’t have.
Nope,
momma
don’t have.
But God,
why didn’t
‘FREE LABOR’
allow us;
to have
our own?
 
 
 
 
 
Yeah,
I’m ‘sayin’ it loud
40 acres and a mule late
we’re
sick and tired,
black
an’
USE
to be
proud!
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
DON’T
under estimate me.
If history’s
shown us
anything;
STRANGE FRUIT’S
been known
to take root.
Just
study
our
genealogy
an’
watch
them B.A.D. weeds
sow
‘sum’
very
strange strange
seed.
 
 
 
 
A B.A.D. Poem
 

 
Dedicated to: 
“And he spake many things unto them in parables, saying, Behold, a sower went forth to sow; And when he sowed, some seeds fell by the way side, and the fowls came and devoured them up: Some fell upon stony places, where they had not much earth: and forthwith they sprung up, because they had no deepness of earth: And when the sun was up, they were scorched; and because they had no root, they withered away. And some fell among thorns; and the thorns sprung up, and choked them: But other fell into good ground, and brought forth fruit, some an hundredfold, some sixtyfold, some thirtyfold. Who hath ears to hear, let him hear”
(Matthew 13:3-9 KJV).
 
 

Run Spot Run.


 
Teachers
made us
feel
as though
we were
that
‘INK’ dot
on
Spot.
 
 
Therefore,
We read
with no hope
faith
love
nor smile
an’
certainly saw
no other
black ‘chile’
related
to us
in them
storybook lines.
 
 
 
So,
we knew
that
we knew
that
we knew;
without
a shadow
of
a doubt
to
run
spot run
cause
this
‘kinda’ ‘learnin’
AIN’T
For
EVERYONE!
 
 
A B.A.D. Poem
 
 
Dedicated to: 
“Study to shew thyself approved unto God,
a workman that needeth not to be ashamed,
rightly dividing the word of truth”
(2 Timothy 2:15 KJV).
 
 
 

 
 
                                     Nyaope-Ruled 
 


“That’s utter rubbish!”, she wrote.
The limping athlete had won the race.
 
The article writer described the athlete
as someone who enjoyed popular success--
 
even warning people that he was set to win
in the future with or without limbs and eyes.
 
The gimpy runner was known for his love
of luxury. He had a fleet of poshy cars.
 
He threw lavish party after lavish party.
Did he have a modicum of care in this world? 
 
When did it become a crime to spoil
oneself with fun, with overseas trips and all?
 
People always whispered that he had cruel villas
and stashes of sick money in far foreign lands.  
 
It was common knowledge that the athlete
did not only train outside for major contests   
 
he also frequented better-equipped health centres
and hotels whenever he fell sick or had a craving.
Were people jealous of the sprinter’s lifestyle? 
Was it their business what he bought or ate
 
or what kind of medical care he received?
Was it at their cost? Yes, at all costs he flew out!   
 
If he preferred better managed, funded
and equipped facilities, what was amiss?
 
If he decided whimsically or otherwise—to fly out
and have fun or a check-up, what was wrong? 
 
Did he have to remind them it was his money--
and that he owed no citizen a life or an explanation?
 
Was it their business that by a stroke
of miracle he had romped to victory again?
 
Yes again.  Well, if he did not flout rules
why was there so much hullabaloo here?
 
One Facebooker agreed with True,
the lady who wrote: utter rubbish.
 
The unemployed youth read the article
with his critical mind and commented,
 
“Either you are high on a killer drug
like whoonga or you suffer terribly
 
from psychotic episodes and delusions.
Look for the nearest asylum urgently”.  
 
 
 

​                Expectations Versus Imperfections
 
 
Nozindaba, a local journalist says she gatecrushed into one lavish regional party
held by some national leaders and was shocked and disgusted by what
she overheard with her innocent ears and saw with her naked eyes.
 
 
It was not because most the leaders were proudly and loudly
saying they were the unwavering worshipers of Niccolò Machiavelli
behind closed doors or the first families or servant leaders in public.
 
One old African leader was saying to a new and young president,
“So they voted us with the idea that we shouldn’t eat or think
about ourselves or our families first—isn’t that a height of idiocy?”        
 

                            And The Fun Goes On
 
 
When the sun looks and rises with its smiling rays
Positive people welcome it warmly like bridesmaids
Standing in support of the bride and the best man
Making sure the groom’s wedding day pans out well
The bride’s gown might be blown inside-out by wind
Or the groom’s suit wholly dirty but the party goes on.       

​

 
 
 
               Our Leader Laughs In Many Languages
 
 
Leader: My people, hahaha asante sana
Interpreter: Our father says hahaha, and thanks you very much in KiSwahili(wink).
Leader: Interpreter, I`m just laughing hahaha. Ngiyabonga.
Interpreter: Our father is laughing hahaha, and thanking you in Zulu(another wink).  
   

 
 
 
     It Is Theirs, Please Do Not Ruin It Any Further
 
 
The future of Africa does not belong to obsessions with power and sloganeering like
“Down with the West, down with the detractors, down with this and that.”
Neither does it belong to the worship of lavish lifestyles and BASHES.
 
When bashes are held amidst a flood of awful unemployment figures
and poverty and general suffering of the citizens, then any decent
African citizen is bound to feel offended or to raise EYEBROWS.
 
No amount of sloganeering and posturing and pretense
or indeed silencing or wiping away of dissenting voices
will rescue Africa from the socio-economic woes of the DAY.
 
The young groups are having a lot of unanswered questions:
when will African leaders nip corruption in the bud or own up
to their failures and follies and prioritise development and PEACE?
 
 
The youth want to be the game changers, the masters
of their destinies and dreams, the voices of reason--
but are leaders listening to them, giving them SPACE?
 
What if the youth have the gift of sight to see a better Africa, a blessed
continent whose time to become the economic and cultural powerhouse
of the world is no longer a mere wet, pipe dream- but a reality of TOMORROW?
 
Are you going to give the youth the opportunity to take part in rebuilding
and reinventing Africa so that it does not remain stuck in endless wars or poverty
or remain vulnerable and amenable to neocolonialist machinations and INSTITUTIONS?  
 
 
The youth are saying if it is true that the older we become the wiser we are then why do
we still have sixty-something year old, tired, clueless and useless folk masquerading
as saviours and youth leaders in some African nations or presidents whose terms EXPIRED?
 
Their message, their plea, their position is as simple as “nothing is for us without us.”
They are saying some African leaders will tell you “we have this and that for the youth
and the women” but when one looks at it realistically there is no funding but ABUSE.  
 
It is clear that the future of Africa does not belong to the greedy geriatric dictators
or the dinosaurs who no longer fit in with the fast-paced realities of this world
but to the youth of substance, vision and courage, so that it moves FORWARD.

                                 Willowy Words
 

The man with a sprinkling hair in head said,
“You can have a coconut-oiled hair or
a lotioned body that glimmers like a star,
but if you don’t wash your body thoroughly
you are as good as a rancid food eater who thinks
his mouth and tummy are the refuge for freshness”.

Zayd is a poet from Cape Town, South Africa.
He is a physically disabled financial advisor in a bank who has been writing since 15 years old.
His writes about his own life experience.

                                The Comeback Kid


​To be honest, I don't really sleep well
Half of the population is waiting to see me fail
They are better off trying to freeze hell
Like two bulls going head on
Every time I fall
It only makes my chin strong
Until the referee rings the bell
Until my puffy eyes start to swell
Until I hit the ground
I hear the crowd yell
"Here comes the comeback kid"
Give me scars
Give me pain
I will continue to rise again
If you have the ability to last thirty rounds
There's no reason to have your head down
Like a Phoenix, I will rise from the ash
And now I'm yelling, "Kiss my ass"
A couple of left hooks and a few right jabs
To realise you really don't have it so bad
If you fall, pick yourself up off the floor
And if your spirit can't take no more
Just remember what you came here for
To show others that you are the comeback kid

                                      The Call


I'm waiting for your call
It's like, you're the swing set and I'm the kid that falls
It's like, the way we fight
Sometimes we cry
We come to blows
And every night the passion is there
So it has to be right
I don't believe you when you say don't come around here no more
I won't remind you, you said we would never be apart
I don't believe you when you say you don't need me anymore
I won't pretend to not love you anymore
So don't pretend to not love me at all
I'm still waiting for your call
It's like, one of those bad dreams when you can't wake up
Looks like you've given up, you've had enough
But I want more, I won't stop
Because I know eventually you'll come to your senses
I'll stand by the phone and wait for your call
Don't just stand there and watch me fall



                                     Split Personality


I do not trust
So I cannot love
I would not dare to open up
I am introverted, so I hate the bus
Tell me what do you see when you look at me?
Do you see my many personalities?
Can you help me?
Does anybody hear me?
Can they even see me?
This is my reality
I'll say it again
I'm my only friend
Sometimes I question my existence
But I know this is not the end
Why can't I just reach up and touch the sky?
Why can't I spread my arms and just fly?
Why can't I say this?
Why can't I do that?
What is it that you want from me?
Tell me how to act
So I'm putting it all on the table
You don't know me well enough to label
You say I'm sick and I make a noise
When you break it down
I'm just two boys
Trying to blend
Trying to vibe
Trying to live just one life
Everyone suffers from insanity
I have a split personality

SAMIR R MTAMBA
Zimbabwean poet and prose writer of Malawian extraction (b. Harare, Zimbabwe, 1959). Published in many journals in the English-speaking world. Studied at the University of Malawi, Chancellor College. Briefly at Dalhousie in Nova Scotia for Graduate Studies. New Leftist by inclination. Taught in Zimbabwean high schools and the Zimbabwe Open University (ZOU) an affair he deeply repents. Grateful to be a recluse  and an independent researcher. 

      AFRICAN SYMPHONY, SYMPHONY OF DEATH
                                              You must be from my country
                                               I see it by the tick of the soul around the eyelashes
                                               and besides you dance when you are sad
                                               You must be from my country
                                                       TCHICKAYA U TAM’SI “Presence”

​
Loneliness eats my heart
Like cancerous acid on the skin of day
And I itch for a soothing anodyne
To cool my riotous brain  
Thinking of life, this life
Seeping down the barren sand
Like fluid from a splintered egg
Denuded into impotence by charlatans
For whom life is a mere game
With but one big advantage
For their congenital flair for deceit in the gamble
That swindles all deceived players
Into penury and death
Robbers and looters
In designer suits
Standing tall and debonair
Over a starved cracked earth.
 
Those glinting white teeth,
Those celebrated winning smiles
Exuding ostensible human warmth,
Our perpetual curse
That we produce so many fine brains
Only to destroy them in one fell swoop
Of paranoid fear and envy
Canonizing sycophants, fools and playboys
While pauperizing true functionaries
Abducting and gunning them down
To be interned in unmarked graves
After whoring their wives and daughters
Perfecting the art of begging
By proffering the thin skulls
Of orphaned urchins to the world
Every new moth that struts the lighted stage
Hoodwinking citizens into swinish stupor
Intoxicated by despair
Heads such awkward wrecks
Swimming in the wine of plundered wealth
While children whine with hunger and disease
 
That search for personal glory
Against compatriots in the hell-go-round of want and despair
With glinting steely-knife sharp smiles
To build mammoth tombs and sites
That straddle dry empty valleys of kings and heroes
Kings and heroes for themselves
And themselves alone and not their sad starving subjects.
 
This curse of the prosperity of cheats and liars
The growl of ferine despots
In these kingdoms of hunger
And carnivals of death
Small men adept at destroying small men
For the big sharks to shake their bloody hands
For jobs well done.
 
We have produced some of the world’s finest brains today
But where, where are they?
Where are they and their works?
Where, I say
If not in the morgues or unmarked graves?
 
 
Everywhere graves, everywhere prisons
Everywhere voluminous madhouses
Everywhere charnel houses and unmarked graves
And the ubiquitous big begging bowls
Made of skulls of the starving
While speechifying at the United Nations
Applauded by predatory sharks and sycophants!
 
Today loneliness eats up the zenith of my day
Like the cancer of poverty and hunger
On the silent mouths of the orphaned children of Africa
Laced by the haughty sceptre
Of those who brag at the United Nations
About the dignity
Of leading sovereign nations
Of broken subjects and skeletons
In school, church, the market and the charnel house
The symphony of death
Louder and angrier than Beethoven’s Ninth!    

 
 

​                               THE OLD MAN AND I


I think l am unburdening his creed –saturated mind
But he scoffs at my lack of belief.
 
I try to clear the menacing thick forest in his mind
For his unfettered will to fill
He summons back talismans, cathedrals, mosques, shrines
And the dominion of their custodians.
 
He is puzzled by my godless existence
I am exasperated by his foolish rejection of freedom.
 

 

                      THIS COUNTRY IS A FEVER
​               (POEM FOR J.D. GILES IN ‘FRISCO)
This country is a contagious fever
And although you only travelled its veins
Insulated by a thick alien skin
You caught its germ in your blood
And so quiver with the discordant discourse
Of all who are ravished by it.
 
I too was a mere passerby
Following the footprints of my fathers
Chasing illusions of sequins in the sand
Only to lose the clarity of vision
Bequeathed by the waters of my ancestral rivers and lakes
Forever through my sweat drops
Feeding the thirsty hot sands of exile and betrayal.
 
My own shadow is now a sphinx
Whose cryptic questions I cannot answer
To win passage into the horizon, retreat and reprieve
To where the spirits dance
The totemic dance of destiny
Hand in hand with immortality.
 
Though our congenital trespasses and karmas are different
We are, by complicity, united
Victims of wander mania
The crime of presence, having been here or there once or many times.
 
Thus even though I melt in this fever here
You cannot escape the rhythm of my death throes over there
For this country is a terrible fever
That afflicts all adventurous birds of passage
To all corners of the world.
  
     KUNAPIPI, JOURNAL OF POSTCOLONIAL LITERATURE, VOLUME
     XXX NUMBER 2 2008
                                                                                                                                   
     
 

                             PERPETUALLY LATE

​
I met this old man uptown a while ago, I remember.
He was going up and I down.
He was relaxed and I quick, my blood whipping up the sapling I am
Dreading the idea of being late, of being there
After everybody else-
The streets drained of all my friends.
 
And here I meet him again, the old man
Holding all the prizes that we covet in life.
How he manages these mazes of streets
Is more than I will ever know. But he is here
Before me again- I am going down and he up
Again and again-
My head drained of all thought except fear of what is to come.
 
It is so unsettling that somehow
He manages to be there before me all the time, this old man.
For no matter how quick blooded I am
Only a few minutes sees him beyond the mazes of muddled
Streets before I get there or anything of value.
  
 

             TODAY IS ENOUGH BOTHER AS IT IS

​
Today is enough bother as it is.
Victims of dogged habit
We simply put seed in the dry ground and wait.
 
Precocious children have become such a burden.
We cannot offer answers to their questions
As we grapple with the heat of today.
 
Growing up is such a distant country
Beyond now, beyond reach, beyond today
Elusive as fluffy dreams
Further than America
Further than Mozambique
Than Christmas, Christmas bells and cakes
A mirage in the basket
The sash of silk and the jingling of coins
In a beggar’s dreams.
 
Only ghosts move up and down the streets
Laughing and whooshing with a real sense of purpose
And even really dying when it comes to that,
Stealing, crying, loving and fighting
Imitating life as it was really lived once
When people were still complacent enough to believe
In things like the future, a new year, messiahs
Or somewhere cosy and sunny
Once upon a time.
          

Phyllis Labrie Morneau was born in 1953 in Manchester, NH and was blessed with a loving Mom and Dad and 2 wonderful Sisters. She has been happily married to her husband, Rich, for almost 45 years and is blessed with 3 sons, 1 daughter, 1 daughter-in-law, and 7 grandchildren. The desire to write a personal memoir for her family, especially her grandchildren, was the reason for writing her 1st book "From My Heart to Yours: A Legacy of Love". She wanted to share her family's story and their love and also share God's story and His amazing love, too. It was originally published in May 2011. Her 2nd book "My Season of Writing" was also written with her grandchildren in mind. It is a collection of Bible Bedtime Stories, Poems, Prayers, and Songs written during a recent season of her life. Her grandchildren enjoy reading before going to bed so have enjoyed reading the stories and poems from each book. 

​                           WRITING YOUR MEMOIR . . .
 
Many people have asked me how I wrote my book - how did I even start?
Well, it first began as a small seed - a desire from deep within my heart.
 
I simply wanted to share with my grandchildren the love of our family,
Through stories of their ancestors recorded for them as a loving legacy.
 
The first thing to do in writing your own story is to pick out a simple theme,
It might be easy for you or it could be more dificult than it would actually seem.
 
Love was the theme I chose but then should "Love" be simply the title as such?
Maybe "Mem's Memorable Memoir" but then thought that would be a little much?
 
I chose the title "From My Heart to Yours: A Legacy of Love" - that would be the name,
And, after 9 months of writing and sharing from my heart, I would never be the same.
 
I began by asking the Lord to lead me, guide me, and help me each step of the way,
He was faithful as I trusted Him to give me the words that I should write each day.
 
My desire was that the story of our love for God, family, and country would be known,
But, more importantly, that God's story of His unconditional love for all would be shown.
 
The process of creating the book began with an idea - a small seed or desire inside of me,
Growing over time, day by day, until the time that the book was finally ready for all to see.
 
I was very passionate about writing and could easily spend many hours losing all track of time,
And I can make a short story long so I'm happy that I didn't write the 280 pages of my book in rhyme.
 
However, there were times that I was so busy contemplating more eloquent words to share with you,
That I didn't take time for breakfast, lunch, and then what would I make for dinner? I didn't have a clue!
 
There was no time for cleaning the house or using the new vacuum my husband had bought for me,
All my time was spent sitting in my recliner, writing, then getting up, I found I couldn't bend my knee!
 
My husband came home from work and saw that I was trying to walk around but with difficulty,
So, with his typical quick wit and wisdom, quipped "Was I actually writing my own obituary"?
 
Being the obsessive-compulsive-perfectionist that I am, I asked "To be so focused - is it a crime"?
However, I understood his concern that I might be going downhill as I tried to meet my dead-line!
 
Hopefully, this inspiring poem and tale of the adventure writing my story of love for my dear family,
Will not stop you from writing your own story and leaving for them a cherished and precious legacy.
 

 

                               WHEN YOU RETIRE . . .


Every day is a holiday;
No longer needing to work;
Now you have time to play.
 
Time to watch movies with my hubby,
And play a very frustrating memory game;
Where we recognize an actor or actress,
But then can't remember his or her name!
 
Another daily frustrating memory game,
Where I frequently rush around to and fro;
Searching everywhere for my eye glasses,
Wondering, "Where in the world did they go"?
 
Having finally found my eye glasses,
Taking time to read is my heart's desire;
Reading the Bible and also inspirational books,
Helps to fan the flame in my soul into a holy fire.
 
No longer content with short and rushed prayer,
I now have the time to just sit still before the Lord;
Quiet, waiting,and  listening for His gentle whisper,
Then praising God  that I am so beloved and adored.
 
There is also more time to spend with my husband,
With a good cup of coffee, we can just sit and talk;
Taking the time to focus and really listen to each other,
We, holding hands, go on our daily brisk 1-hour walk.
 
We also take time each day to do something by ourselves,
My husband loves to work outside - mowing, weeding, pruning;
While I love to work inside the home - cooking and also cleaning,
Then, taking time to express and share what's in my heart by writing.
 
Reflecting on the years that have gone by and how blessed I have been,
I now realize God's love was always pursuing me when I truly take a look;
His amazing and unconditional love for me and for my family and my friends,
I shared when I wrote "From My Heart to Yours: A Legacy of Love" - my book.
 
Recently, I  wrote some Bible bedtime stories, poems, prayers, and songs,
To share with  my precious grandchildren - that was the main reason;
Doing something significant is my goal rather than to be a success,
During my retirement years - a  wonderful, exciting, and joyful  season!
 
 
 

   ODE TO MY HIGH-EFFICIENCY WASHING MACHINE
 
You might think it strange to write a love poem,
To something so mundane as a washing machine;
But in the daily household task of doing laundry,
It has been a big help getting our clothes clean, clean, clean!
 
Our old washing machine would sometimes spin,
But sometimes, for reasons unknown, it would not;
So, often-times, when the machine beeped that it was done,
I looked inside and a heavy wet soggy mess was what I got!
 
I complained to my poor husband each time it failed to spin,
And mumbled my sad and frustrating tale of woe;
With a heavy sigh, I would set the cyle to spin again and again,
Grumbling, "Doing laundry this way each day is slow, slow, slow!
 
I'm happy now with our new high-efficiency washing machine,
And, when shopping for detergent, buy only high-efficiency Tide;
It has electronic sensors that weigh the heaviness of the clothes,
And a glass lid so I can watch the clothes as they spin around inside.
 
You will hear noises that are different from a regular washing machine,
There is clicking and humming and whirring - a strange variety of sounds;
And I caution to not put your son's waterproof rain jacket in your washer,
For then it will spin at such a high speed that it will shake and violently pound.
 
My ode to my new high-efficiency washing machine has come to an end,
In the daily task of doing laundry, It has become my new best friend;
Doing laundry effiently is important to me as a happy housewife,
Or maybe, just maybe ---  I .  . .  need . . . to . . . get . . . a . . . life!

                     HOPE AND ENCOURAGEMENT
                          (based on the 23rd Psalm)
 
THE LORD IS MY SHEPHERD . . .
We can trust in an unchanging God, a still point, in the midst of a turbulent world,
We can trust in His love and goodness, in spite of the evil that has been unfurled.
 
We are His sheep, depending on our Shepherd, to carry us with strength and might,
Leading us on the right path, with His truth and His holiness, shining its bright light.
 
I SHALL NOT WANT . . .
What we have in God is far greater than all the material stuff we could get in life,
Realizing "godliness with contentment is great gain" will save us from much strife.
 
Surrendering to our Shepherd -  we have grace for every sin, direction for every turn,
A candle in the darkness, an anchor for every storm - Lord. help us understand and learn.
 
HE MAKES ME LIE DOWN IN GREEN PASTURES . . .
As Shepherd, God is in charge and  leads us, His sheep, to a place of peace and rest,
He will care for us, protect and provide for our every need, as we trust His way is best.
 
When our anxious thoughts turn and  stay on Him, He will keep us in His perfect peace,
With our eyes fixed, not on what is seen but on what is unseen, then all our worries cease.
 
HE LEADS ME BESIDE STILL WATERS . . .
He provides the pure living water of His Word to quench our thirst and refresh us as we go,
He also promises His grace to help us no matter where we travel each day, going to and fro.
 
We can trust that God is in control, promising to be a Lamp for our feet each and every day,
Even in the midst of life's mishaps and tragedies, w do not fear but trust His will and His way.
 
HE RESTORES MY SOUL . . .
In the midst of failing health, broken hearts, and empty wallets, He will restore our hope,
In the midst of complaining people, demanding bosses, and busyness, He will help us cope.
 
Our Shepherd rescues us from loneliness, despair, pain, and confusion when He does appear,
From life's jungle, with so many scary beasts threatening us, He guides us safely out of there.
 
HE LEADS ME ON PATHS OF RIGHTEOUSNESS . . .
Along the narrow winding trail, up a steep hill,  to a cross, where His life He sacrificed and gave,
Because of His love for His straying and lost sheep, His desire is to seek, pursue, find, and save.
 
When we wander, He finds us; when we fall, he carries us; when are attacked, He will defend,
When we are hurt, He heals us; when we are helpless, he helps and protects as a trusted Friend.
 
FOR HIS NAME'S SAKE . . .
God loves to hear us call him Father when we come before him each day to spend time and pray,
Pouring out our hearts before Him and also desiring to bring glory to His name each and every day.
 
He is Jehovah-Raah, our caring Shepherd, and also Jehovah-Jireh, the One who does always provide,
He is Jehovah-Shalom, the Lord is peace, and also Jehovah-Nissi, our refuge where we are safe inside.
 
YEA, THOUGH I WALK THROUGH THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW OF DEATH . . .
Our Shepherd gathers us in His arms and carries us so close to His heart on the narrow trail,
Sometimes the trek is long, the path is dangerous, and the valley is dark but He will never fail.
 
But there will come a time for each of us when our Shepherd will lead us on our last and final journey,
Even then we can have peace for He promises that He has been busy preparing a place for you and for me.
 
I WILL FEAR NO EVIL . . .
When we constantly hear news of so many terrible evil acts happening and we don't know what to do,
It is then that we need to focus, not on the scary circumstances, but instead focus all our thoughts on You.
 
When anxious thoughts of what might happen next threaten our peace and bring turmoil and unrest,
It is then that we need to cast down all fearful imaginings and trust Almighty God to care for us best.
 
THOU ART WITH ME . . .
Lord, You sit upon the stars and make Your home in the deep, but You are also right  here with me,
You rule in Heaven above and also on the earth below - knowing and realizing this sets us all free.
 
No matter what we face in this life -sickness,  unemployement, loneliness - You will never leave,
 In the midst of the terror of night and the arrows of the day - we can find rest when we do believe.
 
YOUR ROD AND YOUR STAFF, THEY COMFORT ME . . .
Our Shepherd knows each of his sheep by name - He sees each face and He knows each story,
He has written our names on the palms of His hands - for His tender love we give Him all glory.
 
His rod does prod and direct us where to go and His staff does protect bringing comfort and hope,
Knowing God as our faithful Father and Shepherd, even in these scary times, we can still cope.
 
YOU PREPARE A TABLE BEFORE ME IN THE PRESENCE OF MY ENEMIES . . .
God is the Shepherd, Who provides; the Lord, Who provides; and the Voice in the storm bringing peace,
Trusting Him to care for us and for all of our needs - our turmoil, our troubles, and our worries do cease.
 
He has called us to Himself and invited us to His table to sit at a permanent and prominent place,
"In Christ, God has given us every spiritual blessing in the Heavenly world" by his mercy and grace.
 
YOU ANOINT MY HEAD WITH OIL . . .
With high hopes and a humble heart, we come before God to pray to our trusted and best Friend,
Bringing him all our struggles, our disappointments, our hurts and wounds for his healing oil to tend.
 
In spite of all the terror alerts and the evil threats constantly flooding our thoughts and our soul,
We can come to God to lift our heavy burdens and restore us and make all our hearts truly whole.
 
MY CUP RUNS OVER . . .
God blesses us with so many gifts of His love - there are beautiful sunrises and glorious sunsets at night,
There are majestic mountains, the fragrance of flowers, the melody of birds, and the twinkling stars so bright.
 
Our hearts are not large enough for all the wonderful blessings that God wants  to coninually give,
He will pour and pour out blessings until they overflow our cup so that we may truly abundantly live.
 
SURELY GOODNESS AND MERCY SHALL FOLLOW ME ALL THE DAYS OF MY LIFE . . .
Goodness to supply for our every need - God promises us and on that we can depend and be sure,
Mercy to forgive our every sin - God promises to forgive and pardon us and make our hearts pure.
 
God makes sure promises of goodness and mercy that will follow us all the days of our life,
His abiding presence enables us to live safe and secure without doubts and worries and strife.
 
AND I WILL DWELL IN THE HOUSE OF THE LORD FOREVER . . .
When we feel restless deep inside, there is a sense that this earth is not our true home,
We feel a longing deep inside our hearts that is not satisfied no matter where we roam.
 
God's Word says "Our true homeland is Heaven" and "He has set eternity in the hearts of men",
God's Promises give hope and encouragement to us on our Heavenly journey. Amen and Amen.
​

CINDERELLA - MY LIFE STORY

 
Once upon a time, a long, long time ago in a land far, far away (in Manchester, NH)
There lived a young girl, about 12 years old, who watched the tale of Cinderella on TV;
It was a fairy tale story of a young maiden who was degraded, her beauty undiscovered,
But, in the midst of the sorrow and ashes of her life, she longed for more, just like me.
 
In Cinderella's story, her mother died, and later her father married a lady with 2 daughters,
Sadly, her father soon died, then her stepmother and stepsisters caused her much strife;
I didn't have a wicked stepmother for my Mom and Dad were devoted and loved me always,
I also didn't have 2 mean stepsisters for my sisters cared and shared during all my young life.
 
But I did have a villain in my story - the devil - who put unkind and cruel words in my mind,
Thoughts that I was not good enough or was not pretty enough that caused me much pain;
I also had the world outside and the flesh inside that would enslave me at times with their lies,
To be accepted by the world, I became a people-pleaser, and to satisfy my flesh, I became vain.
 
Like Cinderella, I wasn't happy with myself or my life, and longed for something more,
Someone who would come along, see my true value, and then desire a life with me;
Lifting me from the sorrow and the ashes, to a new life of hope and peace and  joy,
Carefree and beautiful, transformed by his love, we would dance in perfect harmony.

 
I did meet my Prince Charming, my dear husband, whose love I truly treasure,
And, after a beautiful Wedding, we were soon blessed with a precious baby boy;
As a young girl, I would often dream of being a loving wife and a caring mother,
But, in spite of my perfect life, something was missing, I felt restless with little joy.
 
One day, I cried out to God and asked Him to please come and help me,
I surrendered all of myself to Him, including my fear and also my pride;
He took the sorrow and ashes of my life and cleansed my heart of all sin,
Jesus became my Savior and my Lord, Who lives in my heart - right inside.
 
There are still times that I listen to the devil's lies or to the world's clamor,
There are times that I listen to my own selfish flesh - thinking it's all about me;
But Jesus, because of His love, pursues me, even when I betray and turn away,
Until finally, with my guilt and regret, I repent and run to God and am set free.
 
Like Cinderella, I was an orphan in God's eyes, until my Father God adopted me,
I was lost in my turmoil and sin, until Jesus, my Prince and Hero, to my rescue came;
I was filled with fear, until the Holy Spirit, came into my heart with His great power,
They replaced my sorrow with joy and my fears with peace - I would never be the same.

 
I now dance in the arms of my God, Who leads and guides my every step,
His unconditional love is the magic that transforms me - the key to my story;
I am His beloved daughter, His beautiful Princess, His precious child - so adored,
I will live "happily ever after" - being changed into His image - from glory to glory.
 

A PASSION FOR LIVING
 

 
In this world in which we live,
With all the turmoil, chaos, and stress;
With so much sin without and within,
How do we cope in the midst of such a mess?
 
We can't turn a blind eye or a deaf ear,
To the terrible news from each new day;
But we can and should take the time,
To humbly kneel before God and pray.
 
When we are overwhelmed with a heavy burden,
We need to cast all of our cares on Him;
His yoke is easy and our burden will be light,
With Him our life is no longer so dark and so grim.
 
Life today can surely be hectic and busy,
It is a daily struggle just to survive;
But with the Lord to lead and guide us,
We can actually thrive and feel fully alive.
 
What are you passionate about?
What makes your heart joyfully sing?
What brings you delight and happiness?
What do you long for and desire more than anything?
 
Do you enjoy the beauty of nature,
And taking a brisk and refreshing walk?
Or do you prefer a good cup of hot coffee,
With a dear trusted friend and just sit and talk?
 
Maybe you find much pleasure,
Reading a romance novel or a great mystery?
Or maybe an inspiring story or fairy tale,
Where there is a brave hero for all to see?
 
Do you enjoy caring for your home,
And love to decorate it with such zeal?
With great music playing in the background,
And then create for your family a delicious meal?
 
Maybe you enjoy quiet time to sit and write,
From the depths of your heart you express;
By either song, or prose, or poetry,
Your love, your hope, your joy, and gratefulness.
 
Do you have the gift and talent of a great voice?
You can sing and make melody to the Lord;
Do you enjoy dancing for Him with such glee?
There is much freedom in knowing we are adored.
 
Maybe you have the wonderful ability,
To draw and paint and create great art;
Our world and that of others is brighter,
When we do everything with all of our heart.
 
Another person might find their special talent,
Is simply to put a smile on someone's sad face;
Just by an act of kindness and compassion,
Or a little humor at the right time and place.
 
Take the time to look inside the garden of your heart,
And see what kind of seeds are growing inside of there;
Then remove all the weeds, the stones, and the thorns,
Oh, the fruit of love, joy, and peace -
There is nothing else that can compare!
 
There is so much we can say and do,
To dispel the darkness with our light;
Lord, help us to shine Your great love,
On all the world and keep it burning bright.
 

 
 
 

A PASSION FOR LIVING
 

 
In this world in which we live,
With all the turmoil, chaos, and stress;
With so much sin without and within,
How do we cope in the midst of such a mess?
 
We can't turn a blind eye or a deaf ear,
To the terrible news from each new day;
But we can and should take the time,
To humbly kneel before God and pray.
 
When we are overwhelmed with a heavy burden,
We need to cast all of our cares on Him;
His yoke is easy and our burden will be light,
With Him our life is no longer so dark and so grim.
 
Life today can surely be hectic and busy,
It is a daily struggle just to survive;
But with the Lord to lead and guide us,
We can actually thrive and feel fully alive.
 
What are you passionate about?
What makes your heart joyfully sing?
What brings you delight and happiness?
What do you long for and desire more than anything?
 
Do you enjoy the beauty of nature,
And taking a brisk and refreshing walk?
Or do you prefer a good cup of hot coffee,
With a dear trusted friend and just sit and talk?
 
Maybe you find much pleasure,
Reading a romance novel or a great mystery?
Or maybe an inspiring story or fairy tale,
Where there is a brave hero for all to see?
 
Do you enjoy caring for your home,
And love to decorate it with such zeal?
With great music playing in the background,
And then create for your family a delicious meal?
 
Maybe you enjoy quiet time to sit and write,
From the depths of your heart you express;
By either song, or prose, or poetry,
Your love, your hope, your joy, and gratefulness.
 
Do you have the gift and talent of a great voice?
You can sing and make melody to the Lord;
Do you enjoy dancing for Him with such glee?
There is much freedom in knowing we are adored.
 
Maybe you have the wonderful ability,
To draw and paint and create great art;
Our world and that of others is brighter,
When we do everything with all of our heart.
 
Another person might find their special talent,
Is simply to put a smile on someone's sad face;
Just by an act of kindness and compassion,
Or a little humor at the right time and place.
 
Take the time to look inside the garden of your heart,
And see what kind of seeds are growing inside of there;
Then remove all the weeds, the stones, and the thorns,
Oh, the fruit of love, joy, and peace -
There is nothing else that can compare!
 
There is so much we can say and do,
To dispel the darkness with our light;
Lord, help us to shine Your great love,
On all the world and keep it burning bright.
 

 
 

BEHOLDING AND REFLECTING GOD'S GLORY

 
The Heavens declare God's glory, the skies proclaim the work of His hands,
Nature speaks of our magnificent God in all it's varied and beautiful array;
My prayer is that my life will showcase, not me, but my awesome God,
May I seek to behold and reflect Your glory, Lord, each and every day.
 
I pray that you, O God, will open and unveil my eyes,
And part the curtains of Heaven that I might truly see;
Your holiness and Your great love and goodness,
Your captivating beauty and Your awesome majesty.
 
When I focus my eyes only on You, my God,
Then my life becomes less about me;
You are the center and my first priority,
I'm no longer bound by self but am set free.
 
Free to boast only of You and all You do for me,
Your love is so compassionate and so kind;
Your power pursues, rescues, and saves,
So many reasons to praise that I can find.
 
You are always with me and are for me,
When I am at peace and when I am in distress;
I sing praise to You, my Almighty God,
You alone are my refuge and my fortress.
 
Even when the circumstances of life are difficult,
I can still praise You and reflect Your glory;
By persevering in faith through adversity and pain,
My testimony of trusting God is the key to my story.
 
I live and abide in You, my God,
I exist and was created for Your pleasure;
Your unconditional love, grace, and mercy,
Are my heart's absolute greatest treasure
 
Every day of Jesus' life revealed His Father's glory,
We should seek to imitate Him and do the same;
In the joyful good times and in the painful hard times,
We need to honor and magnify God's holy name.
 
All these words that I write are to reflect Your glory,
They flow from my heart that seeks to express;
The depth of my love for You, my Savior and Lord,
I sing a song to You of praise and gratefulness.
 
So let me behold and reflect Your glory, O Lord,
Let Your love and Your goodness be a great light;
Dispelling the darkness of our turbulent world,
May it shine on You and may it keep burning bright.

  

                                            Early Death
                                                      (for Thomas James)
 
The early deaths of parents make the child
a madman or a poet; perhaps both,
for mutually exclusive they are not
but travel along the same grain of wood,
buffing it with their feet till it is dust
and all that remains is damned potential,
but let us not forsake the brilliant start,
for few who’ve finished hope to fare as well,
who’ve captured yet the space just north of hell.


                          Calverton in December
                                         (for Rosario Bucaro)


Though the peculiar white sun, lazy and thin,
reveals itself, albeit feeble and frail,
none of us can remember being so cold;
that it is seen at all is its testament.
I know little about the ceremony,
having seen it only once at my father’s
service, but I know enough not to rush
the priest. He speaks in a soft monotone
with a nasal accent; a drop of liquid
has iced up on the corner of one of his
nostrils. His gloveless hands do not leave the
black leather Bible from which he reads out of
the Book of Psalms and, later, from John’s Gospel.
We discreetly shimmy to avoid frostbite.
I have not visited Calverton since my
father was buried here five years ago.
He died in August, which is bearably hot
out east on Long Island, but this December
even the snow and the wind seem to be
complaining. The man we are burying,
who would have been my father-in-law had he
lived just eight more months, deserves to be honored.
So many of us imitate the frigid
temperature, turning taciturn, and concerned
with time rather than the elegiac words.
We whisper of the warm limo, still running.
The only ones who seem content on this day
are the soldiers, who stand at attention,
still and not shivering, one of whom will
play Taps while others shoot their gun salute
and still others triangular-fold a flag.
As I watch them, I am struck by my shame.
What a small sacrifice it is to stand cold
with every drop of my blood in my veins,
with all my limbs intact and hopes and dreams safe.
Somewhere, a soldier is colder than I.
My indignation is now resignation,
so I give honor where honor is due:
to them, the priest, and to my father-in-law,
who lived his life without recognition,
who will rest alongside the honorable.




                                           Foray



A foray into the unknown
does not necessarily have
to be calamitous. Necessarily.
It was birth. From the dawn
of man, billions of women,
with full disclosure and full
expectations, have willingly
chosen to participate in a
spawning, a breeding,
a procreation. As amateurs.
More than willing, they are
eager, enthusiastic. They
tell their family and a close
friend or two before the
12-week mark; others after.
They are overwhelmed by
love. They hear heartbeats,
see ultrasounds, marvel at
4-D images, think of names,
all the while stretching to make
room for a growing body. But
they know that pain is on its
way, and they simply welcome it,
accepting it as an evidence of life
like brain function and breathing.
Some are shy. They got this way
in the dark, discreet as nuns,
but not when they are in labor.
It is difficult. Nothing wonderfully
made is easy. But the process
has simple steps: spread, breathe,
push. Still, Vicki died giving birth,
and Michelle. One child survived,
the other did not. The survivor
child is a mother now. An act
of pleasure leads to pain, then
leads to pleasure, but not always,
not necessarily. Thus the foray.
Consider the synonyms: expedition,
venture, attack, assault, raid, incursion.
 


                                           William
 


I watched them pierce his little body,
which, by now, was translucent,
black veins spider-webbing this way
and that, a map most fear to travel
alone, and so he will not be alone.
He is all flinch and moan, no words,
and I am silent, thanking the pain
for convincing me that he is still
alive. He is braver than I, I think.
I want my veins to remain green,
my weight to cushion my bones,
to know how he, so frail, can measure
up to death, but I could do without
the knowledge, the image. How much is one
year worth? Were I the owner of all
the cattle on all the hills, I would sell them
one by one to the highest bidder. For him,
I would even consider giving them away.
Were he my son, I would count myself
among the cattle, begging to be purchased,
begging to be taken. Begging.
 


 
                          Without Grace or Mercy
 

​
If God were to look down on His creation
Without grace or mercy, and I alone knew,
How unrecognizable would I become to you!
“Where,” you would ask, “did your humor go?”
“Why won’t you undress with the lights on?”
“Why won’t you make love to me?”
“What has happened to your poetry?”
I would spare you of this knowledge to
Protect you from the end of the world.
In time, however, I suspect I would get used
To Him the way actors no longer see the cameras,
And I would come to admit that anything
Graceless and merciless, even God,
Especially God, is worthless.
And I would return to you, and you
Would receive me with grace and mercy,
You who is not God; you who will not
Undress with the lights on.

Clemencio Montecillo Bascar was a former Professor and Vice President for Corporate Affairs of the Western Mindanao State University. He is a recepient of various local, regional, and national awards in songwriting, playwriting, poetry, and public service. Several of his poems had been published in international literary magazines and journals such as, Foliate Oak , BRICKrhetoric, About Place, Torrid Literature, Mused-theBellaOnline Lietrary Review, and The Voices Project. He had written and published by the Western Mindanao State University two books of poetry, namely; "Fragments of the Eucharist" and "Riots of Convictions." In the Philippines, some of his poems appeared in the such magazines as Women's, MOD, and Chick.  
At present, he writes a column in the Zamboanga Today daily newspaper and resides at 659 Gemini Street, Tumaga, Zamboanga City, Philippines. He is married to the former Miss Melinda Climaco dela Cruz and blest with three children, Jane, Lynnette, and Timothy James.   
​​

 
 
                           LEGACY OF THE SUNSET

​
the daily sorties of helicopters are not something to worry about; they happen as frequently as one sees a funeral march in a poverty stricken and over-crowded habitat; so what is there to be scared of? death is  a way of life around here; there is no secret about this ultra lucrative business of the day; if in doubt, you can always do a quick verification check in the nearest coffin maker's workshop.
just a few seconds ago, two helicopters passed by so close to our rootops heading toward an unknown destination for the customary and standard military missions: provide air support for their attacking or retreating comrades; extract wounded or dead fellow combatants; drop ammunitions and food supplies to sustain a raging gun battle against all enemies of the state; provide air transport for beheaded or recued kidnap victims; or do reconnaissance  just to insure that the sovereignty of the state is fully protected and preserved from both external and internal threats.
it's a pity, there are no medals of valor in heaven nor hero's welcome at its gates. do you think st. peter should be impeached for being insensitive to the psychological needs of our knights in shining armor? but it is almost a certainty that it would not prosper with the presence of the super majority in God's domain; besides, this kind of political treachery is spiritually verboten, most particularly during the passover.
but why this gory day-to-day, hour-to-hour, and in extreme cases, moment-to-moment blood-letting ritual in this land of pearls? don't you find it odd, revolting, and paradoxical that people in comfort zones and  positions of power and influence continuously, joyfully, and luxuriously live in peace and security while their brothers and sisters in the hinterlands are constantly helpless, hopelessly drenched in blood, paralyzed in terror, and choked in abject destitution and misery? don't they realize how long this scourge has been going on? immemorial, my friend, immemorial.
 surely, what has been  going on for centuries in our country is just a war game and it's not subject to prescription of any kind; worst, there are no signs that it's going to abate or end in our lifetime. the opposite seems to enjoy the higher likelihood.
but make no mistake, my friend, this perpetual bloodbath is for real just like august 13, 1898 for the capitulation of our freedom and homeland. it might interest you to know that fakery and treason are the foundation of our independence and sovereignty.
no doubt, we have arleady mastered the art of perpetual war. thanks to the parasites of the west.

                         bric-a-brac and oddities

frankly,
 i don't know how to deal with these two felines doing  their thing noisily in the post summer moonlight; will somebody please do the kindness of advising this couple to be more discreet and moderate in their act of love? they have become  indulgently demonstrative and disturbingly unmindful in expressing their affection to each other that it has graduated into a seasonal public scandal on our rooftops; but wait a minute, it seems  proliferation of cats has an upside; there are no more rats pestering us; if this is true, then these cats in heat deserve  green cards for unlimited romance anytime and wherever they want.

by the way,
how do i treat a mendicant carrying a piece of paper authorizing him to go around the neighborhood to demand for coins? is beggarism now a respectable way of life? what about david splattering goliath with mad? has gawkiness become a  cutting edge platform to become an instant rock star?  some say this is explicit jungle conduct; others however, believe there's nothing objectionable about bad-mouthing a giant in a summit of equals; anyway it's  an essential element in producing blockbuster movies;  it too, is  a universal source of hilarious entertainment especially when  mixed  with green jokes by standout comedians;   

forgive me
if i become too skeptical and suspicious of any stranger strolling aimlessly in my habitat; helpfulness is no longer a social grace around this block; ask that half naked old man sitting on that driftwood by the wayside; he will tell you the reason why; he is our most reliable spy; a hermit says there's no substitute for watchfulness nowadays if you want to live a minute longer in this long embattled and ravaged aboriginal village; see that juvenile local soaked in his own blood? he is the latest victim of the toxic smoke from a backyard-grown killer grass.

ceremonial flybys?
don't worry about those frequent flybys involving caucasians; they are just ceremonial air shows; you know, like the bald eagles performing collateral but precision flights; there's nothing to worry about  security; it's kept under control by our elite legions all the time;  haven't you noticed that the enemies are now constantly on the run? i swear by all the stars in space that our forces have never lost a battle yet under my command.
no wonder, war never ends; good business as usual and nothing has changed since 5-19- 1899.
 

Md. Khaled Hosen was born in 1987 in Comilla, Bangladesh. He is a prolific poet, researcher and social activist whose writing have been published in many national and international publications that include Magazine, books and international journals. Khaled currently lives in Kuala Lumpur. He graduated from the University of Dhaka in the department of Political Science and now currently studying MHSc at the International Islamic University Malaysia (IIUM) in the similar discipline. During his early education, he fell in love with the poetic world. He has been exposed to Sufi and mystic poems like Iqbal, Rumi, Sadi, Hafiz, and Omar Khayyam. His poems published at the Clairvoyance magazine and the Book “Be the Hero” and many poems are waiting for publication in different Magazines and journals.  His research concentration is on Islam and politics, terrorism, foreign policy and human rights. Khaled Hosen is a believer of the universality of humanism in poetry rather the ornamental imagination. He can be reach at Khaled.du502@gmail.com  

                                  Beyond The Horizon



Why you are so extreme?
Why you are so radical?
Open your eyes see the world,
So bright, so pleasant thus wonderful!
The blossoms in the paradise
The blowing streams in the earth
The music the cadence and the delicate song visible all around
The brighten stars in the sky appreciate! What’s more? 
Watch everything smiles
In the event that you know how to cherish
We come to you amplified our benevolent hands
To deconstruct your creeds, your convictions, your ideals
To remake your existence with congruity, peace, equity
Together we profess the promising sermon
We affirm to make you
Beyond the horizon.
 
  
 
 
                              Have a Beautiful Mind



Dogma is not a solution rather a false delusion 
for true understanding the human motion 
Open your heart, be the liberal 
and take the option. 
You may not be always right 
but the option helps you to find the light.
Give up extremism give up the fight 
give up radicals give up fright. 
Let think you are a human kind!
Why you kill innocent people innocent child? 
You lost money! Health! Resources! 
or anything what you like!
No! You have everything 
everything right 
If you have a beautiful mind.


 
                               The Roots of Terrorism 



Discover the secret of blood and tears 
the shrouded torment the power of fears 
the sanctuaries and evil dividers 
there is a secret sea the wiping rivers.
The deprivation from the human rights 
is the deviation from the brilliant lines 
after the Sun the obscure dusks 
slaughtering him with impervious battles.
Uncover heterogeneity the contention 
races, color, classes, traditions hinder the human pride 
superiors, inferiors, unequaled uppers and lowers 
haves and haves not
the covetousness for influence the desire for riches 
the intuition for strengths 
all are foe constant factors.
 

Jeff Wysel is a retired technical writer for a large insurance company.  He resides in Cincinnati, Ohio with his significant other Caren along with two of the world’s nastiest West Highland terriers. Besides writing poetry and short fiction, he created and maintains the totally fictitious New Hudson Exit website (www.newhudsonexit.org).  He is a lifelong resident of the Midwest and graduated from The Ohio State University.
 

  
               The Third Recollection Of Vester Presley
                              On His Nephew Elvis
 
                                          A Half A Pound Of Bacon
 
He is a puppet shoved across the stage
on trembling hands and drunken legs
another day ends the same old way
lost in time and slick clichés.
The wheeling, churning, the tumbling down
slow as dawn begins to glow
with Mary’s bacon, grits  and buttered rolls
he sits and listens to the radio
buck owens strums and softly sings
then coffee, pie and Dexedrine.
 
Ginger smells of alcohol
Vester sloughs and shakes
Vernon drinks his Geritol
Mary shapes the bread to bake
 
Piddle twaddle with Ginger
as she floats about the room
songs he sung are restless memories
weary strangers that make him ache
for coffee, smokes and Dexedrine.
 


                                          Tampa 1955
 


Their screams rise and wave
her heels clack hard against the steel floor
between blue lights and ceaseless roars
she hears her voice inside her head
a ghostly lilting above it all
click clack goes the beat
tippity tap rhymes her feet.
 
At Homer Hesterly he swooned and dipped
through hungry hands that weep and pray
against your breasts his lips slip and moan
his eyes ignite the ancient lies
buried deep between your thighs
and light fires that set ablaze
his arms and cock and legs
diving low he swings and sways
touch me touch me
kiss my lips
the winds blow the fire to the stars
wet
gasping for breath
kiss
 


                                   Nixon Unending
 


Am I too old to see the stars?
I sit and listen and listen hard
but only noise do I ever hear
smashing drums, screeching guitars
in songs whose words
I can never understand
 
Yet beyond the awful noise some power glows
A dirty mensch if there ever was one
I smell his scent foul and strong
the kind that makes girls shiver and shake
(not Pat)
Not right!  Not right!
But still – if you could bottle his stuff
I would be king
yea girls for sure all slick and ripe
but huge coliseums that explode and sing
Dick! Dick!
I would be king!
 
For him, there is only music
black blues, white blues and Stringbean Tom
he loves it all
songs sing in his head all day long
in his sleep
rhyming his dreams
dancing in the dawn
 
When he feels the beat
lightening flows from fingers to feet
spirit flying through the sky
past angels, gods exploding
then he sings
into the stars.
 
 

              Chet Huntley Died From Cigarettes


 
The old pictures hardly hide
the hollow sadness of her eyes
never here, looking down
or through some distant crowd
she mourns
 
Vernon, when he is there,
looks confused, a Tupelo duster
wandering around Patterson Avenue
in a seersucker suit
smiling like a goon
the camera clicks and flashes
Vernon caught eyes wide in surprise
Gladys tired, preoccupied
 


                                                 Obituary
 


Vester Presley
 
Uncle of Elvis Presley known as “Uncle Vester”.
He was the longtime guard at the gates of Graceland.
Vester created three recollections on Elvis Presley
            The First Recollection 1959
            The Second Recollection (lost) 1965
            The Third Recollection 1982
 
Birthdate: September 11, 1914
 
Birthplace: Fulton, Itawamba County, Mississippi, United States
 
            Parents
Jesse D. McDowell Presley (1896 – 1973)
Minnie Mae Presley (1890 – 1980)
 
            Spouse
Clettes Smith Presley (1919-1994)
 
            Siblings
Vernon Elvis Presley (1916 – 1979)
Delta Mae Presley Biggs (1919-1993)
Gladys Erlene Presley Dowling (1923 – 1985)
                                                (Rev) Nashval Lorene Presley Pritchett (1925 – 1994)
 
Death: Died January 17, 1997 in Shelby County, Tennessee, United States
Cause of death: heart failure
 
Burial
Forest Hill Cemetery Midtown
Memphis, Shelby County, Tennessee, United States
 
                                                           

 
 
         The Lovely Girl In The Back Of The Room
 

A lovely girl in the back of the room
head down, rooted in her book
swelled and drew within her breast his eyes
leaving the room empty of sight
naked - where does he hide?
Found out
he wraps his arms around her shoulders
and stares into eyes that are a jumble of stars and black holes
she turns transformed
and in a swoosh, flits away
leaving only a mossy scent
back to her book
in the back of the room.

 

                                   Lungotevera
 


The Tiber holds its Prati close
dreamy in the evening
olives, sun seeds and cheap Italian alcohol scent the air
children run and dodge between squat bumpers
signing secret loves and dour prayers
against pale concrete walls and water rippling mirrors
black habits shuffle between soccer balls
sloughing piety against the ground
nose snug, purloined, scarlet slash
against the river’s edge.
 
The day renews,
the Prati preens and shines
as sunrise cleans the air and
lights the path between my feet
down down the stone walls down where the
creaky river lumbers in morning’s nascent warmth.
 
It is six am
the black trail hugs the river
jutting in and out between mooring ropes and twine.
High above, the Lungotevere rumbles
streams of cars plod through a tedious steeplechase
of worn pendulums [asphalt] and tired trees
hard fractious sounds
reflected by the street back into the sky;
here, though, below the steep stone walls
soft morning light widens the path,
the quiet broken only by footsteps in 3/4 time
a counterpoint to the river’s rumbling rhyme
north towards the black runes the path winds
lazy nostalgia pervades through mud and leaves.
 
Rome is old, an ageless lady far from grace
her skin so richly oiled glistens in the sun
my reflection hides behind her eyes
hides there too the decay and misery
cracked against ancient stones,
the smell of listless hope and stale passion
mix in morning’s rising heat
a crumbled altar of ruins on top of ruins
on top of ruins
 
Jogging upstream past sharp shards of marble
black history punching through the trees.
The Tiber lifts and lopes
indifferent to the blood and dragged chattels
that tumble down the broad shoulders
above its path.
 
The river turns and scrapes
past mounds of concrete and tumbling cars
under boats and metal drums
a fierce ruler of the earth.
Dreams and memories
carry the stream through fog and history,
mocking men, mocking
their rage and paltry loves.
It eyes the sky above to the clouds
rebirthed from a sun
beyond the power of men’s gods.
 
 
 
 
 

Artist: Professor Emeritus, Charles W. “Bud” Gibbons, III – Please see www.budgibbons.com.

Fastback
 
 8” x 20”
Oil on Canvas
by
Bud Gibbons
from the collection of the artist
 

 
Fastback
 
 
I rode shotgun that night
when a teenage tornado
mooned the fast-food parking lot
from the backseat,
Then we blew out of town
with no one
in pursuit.
 
I didn’t know back then
the severe negotiations
that come into play
with human memory
responsible now for nameless faces
who would not believe
any of us would ever
let chrome wheels rust,
drive an automatic,
or wear a seat belt,
ever.
 
A fastback finds a resting place
anchored by flat tires,
haunted by field mice,
paralyzed in a final traffic jam.
 
But don’t tell me she’s without a driver,
dead friends and fathers
tell me different.

Water’s Edge
18” x 24”
Oil on Canvas
by
Bud Gibbons
from the collection of the artist
 
 
 
Water’s Edge
 
 
 
today
this is porcupine
and native brook trout
country,
black bear too
if I’m quiet.
 mountain laurel
sanctions the breeze
the way sky celeste
spills across water,
edges dancing
to the serenade
of rock and root,
in motions of
children,
true as my life
before birth. 

Morning Glories
64” x 84”
Oil on Canvas
by
Bud Gibbons
 from the collection of the artist
 
 
Morning Glories
 
 
 
One box turtle
climbs dandelion
and morning glories
with his imagination,
unseen by
mountains with brown eyes.
 
Horizons of homestead and shade trees
seat this kingdom
in sweat and milk.
 
From here
we never fooly swallow
words from a microphone,
or bargains.
 
We do expect flies,
dry spells,
meadows sweeping honey scent,
and the sense to build.
 

Touch Me
8” x 10”
Oil on Canvas
by
Bud Gibbons
from the collection of Denny & Vickie Kolakowski
 
 
 
Touch Me
 
 
 
Jim Morrison is screaming
“Touch Me”
under the blue moon
as logs turn into spark
turn into fireflies
turn into stars,
And Jim doesn’t want them to fall
from the sky
for you and I
until he is done loving.
 
Hypnotized
by oxidation and beer,
we ignite into family
by caressing flame
and bask in the glory
of this life
thought
deserved.
 

Influence of Morning
16” x 20”
Oil on Canvas
by
Bud Gibbons
from the collection of the artist
 
 
Influence of Morning
 
 
Was there ever
another birthday as this?
Painting with dew,
water laughing over rock,
whispering such perfect sense.
 
The pearl of moon
fades into azure,
Mist maneuvers
a butterfly flickering silk,
A pair of dragonfly
buzzing airborne ballet,
Dead logs on beds of pulp
tickling with spiders and ants.
 
To awaken in the arms
of another day
with this child earth
forever at play.
 
Hopefully it’s all
that will ever matter.
Our eye
fixed on the same dream
as the deer,
brook trout,
red fox,
and dove.
 
We splash our souls
and climb the sky
together.