Inside is
a forgotten child
yearning to laugh and play.
Come play with me...
We'll dance barefoot to Chopin
scamper through salty waves,
howl at late Summer moons,
roast marshmallows over open fires
Play pajama party games of
hide and seek under the covers,
toss pillows 'til the feathers fly.
Lonely one, come play with me...
Forum for Poets and Writers to post their own poems and short stories. We can exchange ideas for future posts. Give me ideas for future radio talk show or blog on blogspot.com
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Sunday, March 7, 2010
IT'S BEEN FUN by Rhonda Fisher
Grasshopper...
come hop on over here.
I like your green legs
and ever so soft body.
Jump on my finger,
tickle my fancy,
keep me company
for a little while.
We'll eat a few leaves,
have a spitting contest
'till the cows come home.
Oh, Grasshopper...
it's been fun, but
you'll eat Mommy's
flowers, so bye bye
SQUISH
come hop on over here.
I like your green legs
and ever so soft body.
Jump on my finger,
tickle my fancy,
keep me company
for a little while.
We'll eat a few leaves,
have a spitting contest
'till the cows come home.
Oh, Grasshopper...
it's been fun, but
you'll eat Mommy's
flowers, so bye bye
SQUISH
Friday, March 5, 2010
It's Been Fun
Grasshopper...
come hop on over here.
I like your green legs
and ever so soft body.
Jump on my finger,
tickle my fancy,
keep me company
for a little while.
We'll eat a few leaves,
have a spitting contest
'til the cows come home.
Oh, Grasshopper...
it's been fun, but
you'll eat Mommy's
flowers, so bye bye.
S Q U I S H
come hop on over here.
I like your green legs
and ever so soft body.
Jump on my finger,
tickle my fancy,
keep me company
for a little while.
We'll eat a few leaves,
have a spitting contest
'til the cows come home.
Oh, Grasshopper...
it's been fun, but
you'll eat Mommy's
flowers, so bye bye.
S Q U I S H
Soul Searching
See me, dear friend...
a wounded, sanguine soul
who's traveled far to find
new life and love again.
Hear me, dear friend...
tell dusty road stories of
betrayed trust, broken
promises, and lonely nights.
Hold me, dear friend...
with safe, strong arms
until the screaming stops
and hidden tears flow.
Tell me, dear friend...
What will mend my
broken heart? When will
God answer my prayers?
a wounded, sanguine soul
who's traveled far to find
new life and love again.
Hear me, dear friend...
tell dusty road stories of
betrayed trust, broken
promises, and lonely nights.
Hold me, dear friend...
with safe, strong arms
until the screaming stops
and hidden tears flow.
Tell me, dear friend...
What will mend my
broken heart? When will
God answer my prayers?
Monday, February 22, 2010
S = P by Rhonda Fisher
Nihilism
Anthropos, the archeao of history, derived from cosmic mind of logos and light,
willed separation into darkness. Subject torn from Predicate forgot his eidos,
becoming estranged from pure act. Man's will to remain faithful to Earth powered
his intention in to the tautological present.
Redemption
Only through experiencing the darkness of nothingness, being aware of being able not to be, can man's soul be redeemed into the light of God. Awareness of ones's potential absence
opens up the possibility of standing in the truth of transcendental presence.
Anthropos, the archeao of history, derived from cosmic mind of logos and light,
willed separation into darkness. Subject torn from Predicate forgot his eidos,
becoming estranged from pure act. Man's will to remain faithful to Earth powered
his intention in to the tautological present.
Redemption
Only through experiencing the darkness of nothingness, being aware of being able not to be, can man's soul be redeemed into the light of God. Awareness of ones's potential absence
opens up the possibility of standing in the truth of transcendental presence.
UNITY OF SUBJECT AND OBJECT by Rhonda Fisher
Nihilism...
Adam, archeo of history,
created, not born of pure Thought and Light,
wilfully separated humankind from God.
Subject torn from Predicate
forgot his essence,
becoming estranged from Pure Act.
Adam's screams, choked by the
absence of infinite potentiality,
drifted back to Earth burning into Nothingness.
God's rebuke,"...cursed are you above
all cattle..." powers man's intention
into the distant Present.
Redemption...
Only through experiencing the true nature of darkness, Being aware of
being able not to Be, can man's soul be
expiated into the light of God.
Awareness of one's own timeless absence opens up the possibility of standing in the truth of transcendantal prescence.
Adam, archeo of history,
created, not born of pure Thought and Light,
wilfully separated humankind from God.
Subject torn from Predicate
forgot his essence,
becoming estranged from Pure Act.
Adam's screams, choked by the
absence of infinite potentiality,
drifted back to Earth burning into Nothingness.
God's rebuke,"...cursed are you above
all cattle..." powers man's intention
into the distant Present.
Redemption...
Only through experiencing the true nature of darkness, Being aware of
being able not to Be, can man's soul be
expiated into the light of God.
Awareness of one's own timeless absence opens up the possibility of standing in the truth of transcendantal prescence.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Vertigo by Rhonda Fisher
Argh, cough, spit, fall down /
woozy vertigo, sit down /
walk, sit, walk, lie down
woozy vertigo, sit down /
walk, sit, walk, lie down
Monday, December 28, 2009
Emily Dickinson's Letter To A Friend, Not Yet
Dear Friend not yet,
Do not pretend to know me? Or what of that I do?
My solitude does not bare me, nor is it so cruel.
In darkness I find that which cheats the night.
And words escape that surely have some light.
My friends in silence speak to me, quietly and with great care.
Words that flow so swiftly, words no others dare.
These I keep on my darkest-day when clouds cry out so loud.
Thunder rends the silence and breaks that silver cloud.
No, not sickness of the solitude--dare I have no remorse.
Silence is my gratitude and words fly out--due course.
My friend, not yet, and so you think of me--foreigner.
I, a husband-less wife.
Emily.
Do not pretend to know me? Or what of that I do?
My solitude does not bare me, nor is it so cruel.
In darkness I find that which cheats the night.
And words escape that surely have some light.
My friends in silence speak to me, quietly and with great care.
Words that flow so swiftly, words no others dare.
These I keep on my darkest-day when clouds cry out so loud.
Thunder rends the silence and breaks that silver cloud.
No, not sickness of the solitude--dare I have no remorse.
Silence is my gratitude and words fly out--due course.
My friend, not yet, and so you think of me--foreigner.
I, a husband-less wife.
Emily.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
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