Lois Greene Stone, writer and poet, has been syndicated worldwide. Poetry and personal essays have been included in hard & softcover book anthologies.  Collections of her personal items/ photos/ memorabilia are in major museums including twelve different divisions of The Smithsonian.

                                 ‘A rose by any other....’
 
Daughter didn’t permit
Granny or Grams or
anything she deemed
‘cute’, so the universal
address was applied.
I remembered
changing Miss to
Mrs., unable to
keep my identity
and took on another’s
name. Now, Grandma,
the classic-usual term
had to be accepted.
Atypical ‘me’ with
straight strands of
ash blonde hair still
growing that way,
and thin frame on
flexible body, is also
joyous and giggly.
I prefer bubble wands
to shopping mall
excursions.
I had no choice
in title, but I’ve
freedom to resist
the stereotype
with grandchildren.
 
 

                                      Sunscreen          
 

Oily liquid spilled into the palm
of my dad’s hand. A distinct scent
mixing ocean and cooking escaped
from the glass bottle.  Gently, he spread
it on my shoulders.  The girlhood swim
suit’s straps slid as grease covered skin.
As a teen, I was given the product to
use at the beach, but protection had
less importance than having full sun
bear down on me as I pranced around
on the boardwalk’s wooden slats.
SPF was future.  Future.  My dad did
not have one when breath left his lungs
at age forty five.  Summer.  Lotions
sit straight on shelves in markets, have
little fragrance, and make flesh appear
chalky with greater blockage.  But
the feeling of my dad’s digits is
stimulated by noticing these products,
and inside my head I’m whispering
‘thank you’.
 

              Did you wear red lip pomade at your 8th grade dance?
 
My washing machine strains
to expel liquid.  Its spinning
struggle competes with the
dishwasher's distress.
Amid these reminders of my
role, I sit at the kitchen
table and attempt to retreat
into the loneliness of writing.
            "Have a profession on which
            to fall.  Forfeit a career
            you won't give up.  Be bright.
            Be inferior.  Stay yourself.
            Change your name." 
Programmed for playing house,
I like it.  I liked anthropology
also.  Why did I get an A
in calculus?  I memorized
atomic equations but can't
write an ad to attract a
cleaning woman.  During domestic
duties, I think of the next work
I'll compose and jot notes on
papers pressed into every apron
pocket.  I might complete a
couple of hundred words before
school lets out.  Out:  I don't
want out...I don't want in.
            Crusading has vanished,
            self-searching stays.
            Middle age is my past and
            the persistent restlessness
            in my present.  Limbo;
            it's difficult.
 
©1991 Miriam Press    

​                                        Junior High    

Middle school.  Caught
between elementary and
high, it’s difficult.
Someone is always
pushed around; another
does the pushing.  
Name-calling, 
being shoved
into a metal locker door
makes learning harder.
I struggle as I’m ‘middle’,
not part of the in-group,
not identified as out.
I am understanding
‘me’ and how I deal
with this limbo time.
Will high school be
better? 

Leanne Neill is a company director, domestic goddess, mother of three, and a self-confessed composer of words.  She has twenty-three years of experience in public libraries and local government. In May 2016, she started her poetry inspired Facebook page: LUST for WORDS. She lives in Melbourne, Australia

                                             BROKEN
 

Tracing your scars with my fingers,
healing them with my lips.
Nurturing your confused belly,
with my soul food of compassion.
Our words and bodies entwine;
a secret language only we translate,
my breath the only reason you take another;
against your will.
We became infinite, my glue only temporary.
You are still broken.
 
© Leanne Neill
LUST for WORDS
​

                        APOLOGY TO MY CHILDREN
 
​
Forgive me child.
I swear it felt safe
when I made that decision;
years ago,
in the name of selfish validation.
God damn,
procreation.
 
It was before
the planes hit,
bombs blasted,
innocent blood shed,
and we watched
hatred live;
hands and knees folding
as it plays out,
over and over….
 
© Leanne Neill
LUST for WORDS

                                          Blue Eyes Shut


I can remember waking in the morning
To her still asleep, naked underneath the sheets
My eyes tracking where the crevice in her
Chest led to her concealed, sizable bosom
And then towards her face, where there
Shone the suggested light of morning
And thinking to myself that I had
Caught an angel, and that I was the luckiest
Person in the world, and that
Everything that had gone wrong
Had actually gone right because it had led
To her being in my bed for me
To hold and to cherish.
What were the odds that this creature
From across the world would land up
In this part of the country, in my home, I thought.
And how quickly and strangely these
Mornings of bliss and angels turned
To repulsion and suffocation
To where her mere sight and sound pushed me
To swipe her out of my life with
A machete not literally.
And now with the promise of new love unfulfilled,
I miss her
And wish that I could wake up one more morning
To the sight of her blue eyes shut.
 
 
 
                               Aching
 

If you set out on the path of most resistance,
Better get used to endless heartache.
You’ll need that,
It’ll put the smile in your chest
When you hear the word ‘Yes’.
 
They say the past,
It’s a very bad place
To go.
I think back
And I’m embarrassed.
Sometimes you just gotta forgive yourself,
For everything.
It’s not easy to do.
I think it just takes time.
 
 
 
 
           The Most Beautiful Boy in Liberty Hill


I was a beautiful young boy
Now I’m an ugly old man
I look in the mirror and think to myself
I’m melting
 
I had beautiful long blonde hair in my youth
And I was born at the right time
In the 60s and 70s it was a good time to be
A strange beautiful boy
 
I had more pussy than I knew what to do with
I fathered two children that I know of
And probably more that I do not know of
 
My mother loved me
I was her only child
She showered me with love
 
I never knew my father
I met him only when I was a small child
He left when I was three and I’ve never seen him since
If I try to picture him now I cannot
 
Yes, I got laid more often than I can remember
But I do not get laid anymore
I cannot even remember the last time
Its’ been years, decades most likely
 
I am content to live out my days here until my death
My mother is still alive but I never see her
I get my check for eight hundred dollars every month from the government
Which is more than enough to cover my expenses
 
I do not know happiness, but I am very content
And every once in a while, I can catch the faintest whiff of one of those hippie chicks
Who thought that I was the most beautiful boy in Liberty Hill
 
All work copyright © by Austin Brookner
​
 
 

Tejasvi Saxena is a poet, writer and photography enthusiast from New Delhi, India. His interests are Arts, Culture, Nature, Music, Spirituality, Books, Writing and Food.
His works have been published in Muse India, Visual Verse, Duane's PoeTree, Indian Periodical, Dissident Voice Journal ,Tuck Magazine, Spillwords, Scarlet Leaf Review, Random Poem Tree, Peeking Cat Poetry, Phenomenal Literature, The Avocet Review and Thumbprint Magazine.

                                      A Man’s Query


“What is my conception of a woman’s existence?
Am I transitioning through tempest of times?
Or, gazing at her plight;
Quagmired in swamps of mankind?
 
The joie de vivre of womanhood dims
In her shattering world
When, I prick her injured body
To slip again into the cracks of a womb
Or, to immolate her fragile shadow;
On pyre of her blazing individuality
 
The sign of her claims
Gleams in the ochre dust of her validated sanctity
If she grows, at all!
If not;
Be thrown in a disfigured form
In a filthy nook of a forgetful city
 
How would I think of her?
If even, Dharma once lost her
Staking her identity
On a sprawling board of treachery,
Rolled out by pawns of history
 
Why would I admire her?
When she was shot at;
For prowess of her audacity
 
She better not scream in howls of her conscience
Or, her entrails will be wrenched
To bleed profusely under garbs of smirking modernity
Her masters would barter her
In trading markets of shifting loyalties
And one who bids the highest,
Will subject her prophecies
 
Enchained by cords; she sighs
To view her tarnished figure in a mirror
Reflecting blemishes of her bleak posterity
And I,
Hung my head in shame
In a contemptuous vulnerability.”
 
  
                               Requiem To Peace
 

"To seek you is an eternal wait
As drawing streams from dreary desert
Like dredging humanity from dried seabed
Of dead consciences, reeking of death
 
To find you, is as empty;
As promises you make in a hollow space
That lost your presence long back
 
From Nehruvian epoch of Socialism
Till dynamics of Hindutva today,
You seem to have been glancing
In a wistful muse
Peeping from behind Chinar trees
 
From gleam of Nut-brown eyes
To , shimmering Dal lakes
From scented whiff of Kahwas ,
To rows of wooden Shikaaras,
From young Firans to lanky Achkans
Who sought a streak of bright Sun;
To blind eyes and crevices of wombs
Which crack with every sound of gun,
 
Not once, you winced or shrieked aloud
At wailing mothers, mourning on dead
And, gaunt faces of senile fathers;
Whose lives are dim lit
Plummeting in receding rays of sunset
 
You lit up the hopeless hopes
Of half widows and half mothers
Who find their accomplishments
In quest of their spouses and sons
 
You seem to fancy the angst of youths
Who try to grab your tentacle hooks
In unidentified cesspools of blood
In pieces of flesh, in mutilated bodies
 
Of toddlers, in gouged eyes of civilians and soldiers
Agonised Kashmiriyat knows you though;
 
You march in a Caravan of diplomats
Whose words are sugary entanglements
That bind your fleeting silhouette
To elude in a blink of a swindler's eye. "
( First published in Dissident Voice Journal )
 
 
 
                                               White


“Have you been enraptured by tranquillity of White?
While gazing at its profundity
dipped in colourlessness?
 
Have you imagined its aura undefined?
Its transcendental virtuosity of nothingness?
Its all embracing complementarity
As putting kohl of lustre in inanimate eyes?
 
You may shuffle some rumpled postcards to figure its chronicles and garbs
that peek from old cupboards of memories lost...
Or, find it in muted tones of egg shells
In waned textures of peeling dampness too!
 
You may struck with its perennial gleam
While wandering in epochs of imperialism
It lingers on colonnades of August mansions
It sighs on abstractions
On proposals of peace lost on modernised minds
And blushes gently on foolishness
 
On fools of contemporary times
Who paint regality with strokes
That drip the gaudy colours
Colours of complexities
Entangling human's mind."
( First published in Random Poem Tree )
 
 
                                  I am The Shadow
             
 
“I am the shadow of my past life
A lush of bursting veins in my decadent body
Whose mucky soot flows through black and white vessels of antiquarian Samaritans
 
I am the enormity of ocean
Swelling up every moment to its brim
With froth of some buoyant and unfulfilled desires of that past life
 
My beads of rusted sweat struggle their way to reach the Valley of Death
Where, my dead soul is flipping its shattered wings;
And swinging their carnal desires on flame of despondence
My lapsed existence calmly ebbs in farthest stretches of dystopian waves
That touch the venomous fringes of this unjust world
 
The splinters of my Crestfallen shadow;
Shed its fragments as some pruned autumn leaves
Yet, I stand beyond the clamour of this squabbling world
In an eternal hope of that first streak of dawn!"

Paweł Markiewicz - was born 1983 in Siemiatycze (Poland).
He studied both law and German studies in Poland.
His more than 30 poems in German was printed in Germany and Austria.
He likes haikus. He writes recently in English.
He was twice the scholarship holder of Forum Alpbach in Austria (2007,2001) - the village of thinker.

The angelic  children
 
the angelic child with golden eyes and golden hair!
I want be so much like You
I can dry my wings in the sun
after the swim with the goldfish
I will write a poem about  Your wheat
and be enchanted because of Your stars
 
the angelic child with silver eyes and silver hair!
I want be so much like You
I can find silver next to wasteland of a canyon
with the silver little bird that lives in a temple grove
I will write a poem about Your moon
and be enchanted because of a silver fox
 
the angelic child with azur eyes and blue hair!
i want be so much like You
I can touch branches of a delicate blue spruce
after a picking of the bilberries
I will write a poem about the cetacean
and be enchanted because of marine loneliness
 
You angelic children!
Let's go into a blue
(such the Adriatic)
 pound  in which silver swans
and silvery cranes live!
May the golden will-o'-the-wisp be
sprung always from fire for Pegasus',
phoenix' and Ibikus ' sake
 

​

The dreams
 
the beyond
 
the tears are glowing like your magic heart
an angelic dream is from the Sahara
my marvellous gift is from the eagle owl
the Pegasus has left me the gold
he took the cristales from the Phoenix
the lunar memories are clear
 
I like Apollo's magic of a temple


 
the world
 
the tears are freezing like my human heart
an angelic dream is from a castle of the winter queen
my simple gift is from a sparrow
the Pegasus has got the sand
he gave shells to the Phoenix
the mundane memories are tangled up
 
I like Zeus' simple temple over clouds
 
Long live both Apollo and Zeus with
 their beyond and world!
the Apollo's beyond are muses
the Zeus' world are warriors
 
 
 
 

S. Liam Spradlin writes poetry and nonfiction. He has been published in the 2017 annual edition of The Sequoyah Review, a literary journal published by the University of Tennessee at Chattanooga, where he is currently majoring in Sociology. He lives in Fort Oglethorpe, GA. You may contact S. Liam via Facebook at Facebook/shan.spradlin. 

                                              Night Light
 

​
Hard shadows against the off-white walls
Lamp Light obstructing my peripheral
Eyes so tired the empty cloth
of a computer screen seems numb.
Disorganized letters scattered in unfamiliar
patterns across my fingertips.
Somehow, I am to make sense of it all
To find the letters, the order, the movement
That bleeds life into the motionless words
covering my bedroom wall.
My mind turns over itself like a
coin-operated dryer while I walk.
The spirit I seek is one street over
and the wind-chill is late December.
I stand behind a man in the liquor store.
Ridged veins grasp at the neck
of hard-hitting vodka.
I look down at my own tattoos
but all I can feel are the scars.
The pain of a needle carving its way
under the skin is therapy.
The point of my pen
splitting the dead pores
of compressed bark is therapy.
I have survived your lies
I have seen through the mirage.
I named the desert in your honor.
My strength
is more than you can deny.
My eyelashes brush against a cold pillow.
The rhythm of my heartbeat
will bring me sleep. And I
no longer live in your shadow.
 

Laurie Byro has been facilitating “Circle of Voices” poetry discussion in New Jersey libraries for 17 years. She is published widely in University presses in the United States and the United Kingdom and is in several anthologies including:  St. Peter's B List.  Laurie has garnered more IBPC awards (InterBoard Poetry Community) than any other poet, currently 51.  Her third volume of poetry was published in 2016 "Wonder" by Little Lantern Press (out of Wales). In 2016 and 2017 she received a New Jersey Poet's Prize, the 2nd for poetry in "The Bloomsberries and Other Curiosities" by Kelsay Books. Laurie is currently Poet in Residence at the West Milford Township Library where "Circle of Voices" continues to meet.  

                       Eating Crow                                       After Reading Ted Hughes
 
A Devon autumn chases ghosts down alleys, Shura
should have been our lost baby, the one flowering
 
from the toilet the day you crumpled your face, pasty-
white like the old hive, resurrected with blue-heart eyes.
 
I was Prospero. I was Caliban. I was the filthy-nailed
stand in for Daddy. Already, my tongue bled lies, my ****--
 
thick with honey, my vows of wild-escape. It was I who
bought you your Taroc pack. I, who taught you the plays
 
of Shakespeare, you only knew three before we met. That holy
number, that trinity of failed marriage—three meant
 
a witch has entered the sky. You invited her in, you dreamt
her real and she appeared, asleep like a princess-hag
 
in a pike’s drunken eye. The wild earth wanted you back,
with all its cunning fox-holes, its voices lulling you to sleep
 
under the deep sighs of the house. A weasel-gypsy caught
you with her icicle fingers, calling you out of our sweet honey
 
moon sleep. She declared you dead: borrowed entirely by me,
not quite blue. Sycorax lured you to her brothy-bridal
 
cauldron. Still you finished each poem, each postcard.
You filled each terracotta pot with earth and all your favorite
 
flowers. But it is Shura who makes her silent howl
while the moon fills, plump with its leaking mother’s milk.
 
It is Shura who grasps her rag-button dolls, clutching
them to her chest like a crone-woman suckling a dead baby.
 
  
 
                        Redwing
 

When I flew to you, when I left
my country of marsh and ice, this joy
 
was inconvenient. I wanted to steal
the turquoise from your eyes,
 
to always have that sky to lose myself in.
You dwell in a chapel of thieves;
 
but I am craftier than you. I pilfer
precious things: a jack, a scrap
 
of tin.  I will hide you in my pocket
like the garter snake found sunning
 
himself with glittering eyes. I want to turn
you to a leafy face, carry you in my beak
 
across the river.  Don’t be afraid--
I am lonely, too.  When my work is done,
 
when I scrape a match along the bark
of an ash and ferry you with the amber
 
in my mouth,  I shall devour your fingers.
Your skin is crystal white when I drape
 
you across my back.  You breathe me
into flight and I preen my scarlet wings.
 
You bury me in the oak
until my heart mends.
 
 
 
 
                            Job Returns as a Puffin
 

This is the island of dreams. From here the tempest
will deliver us into the sea of death.  Later
we will be washed up on the mainland shore
without eyes, without dreams, with our little orange
feet curling up like the poppies I tore from the earth
to lay on my wife’s table.  Each bud burst into
a bead of blood that spilled from my master’s eyes.
We are all thieves. We are all whores.
 
If only I could return to the earth and not this sea
of turmoil.  My eyes would blaze with his fire
and not be extinguished by his charred fingers. 
I would follow him into the dark like I did an insect
that illuminated the night to the days when I was a blossom
needing the sun and he was the garden around me. 
 
 
                      Demeter Dresses for Dinner                                                                               
                                (while staying at the Absecon Hyatt)
 
Of course, she ate those love-apples, I heard she slurped
seeds and all straight down, the ungrateful twit. The devil
trailed her, followed her along the telephone wires, urged
 
her to defy her mother. That damned black-dog hounded
her from Absecon Island to Barnegat Bay.  No way, could I
guilt her into minding her dear protector. She was between
 
the devil and the deep blue Wildwood Sea. They summoned her into
those pine barrens. That bastard-wolf brayed while the stars fell,
throwing us completely off her scent. It was no coincidence
 
they picked a trifecta weekend to ruin her. Powerballs be damned
how unlucky was the timing of this? Those grubby-nailed pineys,
how dare they abduct her, hide her under their phlox? And me
 
trying to explain all those bad parking tickets to the nice Officer?
No wonder, I lost my good figure, while that ingrate chatters on
about becoming a vegetarian? If I’m to one day be a grandmother,
 
it will be to some hideous crooked-tailed beast. The little darling
will surely have a hood or bat wings, no good can come
from her hanging with those people. Have you seen the condition
 
of their teeth? I didn’t raise her to be a pine-worshiper, what is that
a druid or something? Look at me, I used to be svelte, a sylph,
a knock-out they said. I could get any man alive and even some
 
dead, I had my share of Gods believe me. Now the mirrors reveal
the wreck of me. I have this matronly butt, it’s fallen straight
through the floor into some fresh new hell. And my legs, I could
 
have subbed for Tina in Atlantic City. Now? I’m a mess of varicose
veins. From chasing down (dare I say it), runaways? Or at least one.
I shall revenge myself of this place. All the tomatoes, the cranberry
 
bogs are next on my hit list. When I am through growing blacktop
instead of hibiscus, this place will be one crooked highway. Young lady,
you will have no trouble working your way back to me, Babe,
 
with or without do-wop accompaniment. All roads will lead to Mother.
Crops, you are doomed to bumper to bumper Sciroccos. Each pear
and peach tree blighted, this Garden State will become an asphalt anthill. 
 
 
  

Maria Tosti was born in Perugia, Italy, and lives in a small Umbrian town crossed by the river Tiber. She writes poems since she was a teenager. She participated at several national poetry awards along the years, getting many appreciations. Her writings appeared in  various nationals and international literary journals, magazines, literary blogs, poetry platforms and anthologies.
Her poetry is a path of reflections and considerations on the human existence and the life experiences. Creating is a breath of art for her, and setting the emotions on the paper is to give voice to the inspiration that comes from inside with insistence. She is convinced that Poetry doesn’t belong only to the intellectuals, but it belongs to everybody because it is a universal message destined to touch the strings of the sensitivity of each individual, permeating the nuances of his feeling.
She usually writes in Italian but she likes writing poetry in other languages ​​too, such as English, Spanish and French. 
Her artistic works also include visual poems, thanks to her passion for photography.
She also wrote the text of some songs in Italian, looking for a new way of expression and a new artistic technique. Two of her texts have been set to music, one by the Italian composer Pasqualino Moscatelli, and the other by the master Daniel Cianelli.
Her literary debut was with the poetry book "Voci ai confini dell’anima”, that can be translated into “Voices to the bounderies of the soul”, published by Thoth Editions in the year 2014 both in paper and eBook format. The book includes poems in Italian, English, French and Spanish.
 
Website: http://mariatosti.wixsite.com/mariatosti
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/Maria-Tosti-1562593050627073/
YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCw1jfqlgADNhIoXN_bdDoCg
Myspace: https://myspace.com/maria.tosti
 

            TO THE BOUNDERIES OF THE SOUL
 
Come on,
I will take you with me
on this short journey towards the boundaries of the soul.
I'm waiting for you at the crossroads of infinity
along with an old suitcase of memories,
of letters and photos worn by time.

I will take you to know the canvases
that I have painted with just my words,
using emotions for colours,
stealing everywhere foreshortenings of life.

I will let you look at the world with my eyes,
to taste the days of sun and storm,
you will see sunsets colour the sky
and horizons stretch as far as you can see
and days of rain wash away every bitterness,
going beyond the bridges of restlessness.

I will lead you through rural paths,
to calm waters and harmonious hills,
to the pleasant search for kingdoms
where emotions and feelings take life
and beat the time that passes.

The soul is our true abode,
rooted in every breath of ours.
To find its true essence is to discover its universe.

I leave you a part of me on this journey,
in these pages written with the ink of dreams,
TAKE CARE OF IT...
 
© Maria Tosti 2014
from the booktrailer “Voices to the bounderies of the soul”
 
 
 
 
                                             THE ACTOR
 

A hundred lives, a thousand stories,
many faces and expressions,
feelings, shields
for your inner most being.
Your identity is already hidden,
another place and another story
will begin again.

Applause, smiles,
fragments already lived,
and roses, cheers,
the emotions are never the same.
The soul dances in this reality,
another train and another place
are already waiting for you.

Under the makeup seasons grow old,
sheltered emotions struggle,
real characters follow each other,
stages invent you.

At the end of your days
you can say that you have lived
so many lives, so many stories,
as many as possible.
Your identity is going to wake up
but imagination mingles
with reality.

Under the makeup seasons grow old,
sheltered emotions struggle,
real characters follow each other,
stages invent you.

The curtains of life then close,
but memories and emotions remain,
some tears hide your eyes
from the eyes that follow you.
 
(poem dedicated to the Italian actor and friend Filippo Timi)
 
© Maria Tosti 2014
from "Voci ai confini dell'anima" poetry book
Thoth Editions
- “Voices to the Bounderies of the Soul” -
 
  
 
 
                  THE FORGIVENESS OF THE SKY 
Fleeting sun
among leaden clouds
is moved to pity
among bare branches
grants grace
on this icy day
stays there observing
our narrowness.
 
It’s like the eye
of a fearful God
who, stern, scans
his creatures
takes by the hand
their pains
and forgets
their faults.
 
The interlaced branches
are the streets of the soul
pulsating arteries
of life’s desires
now bare of that wealth
which softens every agony.
 
But today the Sky
bends down upon them
has breathed a light wind
taking away their fears
and granting them His forgiveness.
 
© Maria Tosti 2014
from "Voci ai confini dell'anima" poetry book
- “Voices to the Bounderies of the Soul” -
 
 
 
                                              I KNOW...

I know your eyes
distant and rebel
when refusal
doesn't accept any reason.
I know the continuous
sinking of your soul
in moments of
extreme anguish.
I know the slow run
of your thoughts
upon the wings of the wind
chasing forgotten melodies.
I know your rage,
your innate confusion,
your dancing heart
and your curiosity.
I know your deceiving sweetness,
your wandering without pose,
your strength
and your fragility.
I know your free spirit,
flight of an eagle
between passions and ambitions.
I know your tears,
liberating rivulets of water
that fall suffering
on your melancholies.
I know your eyes,
windows of the sky
open to the world
to gather up the essence of life.
 
© Maria Tosti 2014
from "Voci ai confini dell'anima" poetry book
Thoth Editions
- “Voices to the Bounderies of the Soul” -
 
  

​My name is Moses Daniel Chukwuemeka, a student of mass communication at Heritage Polytechnic Eket, Akwa Ibom state, Nigeria.

                                   ' Aging grace'
 
Let us,  this moment, together,
Strengthen this bound,
For now, this moment, forever,
Be ambassadors of friendship,from our world.
 
Let us, this moment, sacrosanct,
Ignite esthetic ambiance,
For love, for Unionship, cyclical,
Be example, for history, years to come.
 
Let us,  this moment, fighters,
Strive to steady the lights in our hearts,
So it glows, so it beautifies in sparks,
Like cricket sounds at night.
 
Let us,  this moment, time checkers,
Not forget to remember the past,
Let time separate our presence not hearts,
Let friendship stay formidable from afar.
 
We once saw with our eyes closed,
We once spoke without saying a word,
Because we once wished and hoped,
And we believed and that made us one.
 
So let us, ourselves ,stand firm,
On that spot we played yesteryears,
When we danced on time, timid, tame,
As the world turn cold,  as we go pale.
 
©Daniel_roars 


                                " living pictures "

 
Trying to fit in,
in a whole different picture,
Is like pricking oneself with a pin,
And smiling like it doesn't hurt.
 
Sticking to your trouble,
Was like fighting mine,
You are my Muse,
Behind every fight.
 
We dreamt of a tomorrow,
And never slept hoping,
We worked and sorrowed,
As the price for believing.
 
The silent picture on the wall,
Holds so much beyond words,
Memories of yesteryears,
That birthed today.
 
If we had despaired,
We'd tell stories with no ending,
If we had failed,
We'd tell lies with no beginning.
 
If I think of the past within,
And nothing crosses my heart of us,
The picture would be hanging,
Alone, without stories of our love.
 
©Daniel_roars


                                     'Painful desire '
 

You always pull me back,
I've tried to forget the past,
Where my sorrow was conceived,
Where only defeat was believed.
 
At that playground,
Our truth was found,
Yesterday bares stains,
Yesterday nurtured pain .
 
I still see our grins,
Even as day go dim,
It sparks the ambiance,
But you're nowhere to be found.
 
Shadows blur my thoughts,
I still depict your demeanor,
In those days with none to share,
Beside me, an ordeal, you were there.
 
My mind says reject,
But my heart objects,
I'll never find another,
Good things forbid twice.
 
I'll build us a before,
And call it Yes'today,
We'll wait another future,
Where friendship never fades.
 
©Daniel_Roars


                                'Right there'
 
​
 I'll be right there,
Holding your arm,
When you close your eyes,
And open your heart.
 
I'll be right there,
Even when i'm gone,
I'll never leave your side,
I'll be watching like the sun,
 
I'll be right there,
Even when you cry,
I'll place you a shoulder,
And win you a smile.
 
I'll be right there,
Writing you a song,
About a charming girl,
In fifty verses of love.
 
I'll be right there,
To be your million man,
To wipe your every tears,
And stay till the end.
 
I'll be right there,
Just like the sky,
To wet you in sapphire,
And dry you in emerald.
 
I'll be right there,
Just like the night,
I'll hide you in the dark,
From witches sparks.
 
I'll be right there,
Lying at your side,
When the sun is setting,
When death come calling.
 
©Daniel_roars

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