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Sense and Nonsense
by Frederick H. Spinney First Published New York, 1947 Paebar Publishing Inc. Untitled Poem Some authors write of mystic things---- Of dryads, nymphs, and angels' wings, Of aspen, eaves, and babbling brooks, Of lovers' lanes and shady nooks Some write of Carthage, Greece and Rome And other regions far from home, Of other times, when knights and kings Performed so many magic things, Of Gods who lived on mounts so high They stepped directly on the sky. The wisest scribes professed to know Conditions of the realms below, Where devils laughed in wicked glee At blunders of humanity Those ancient topics we shall shun; They have been sadly overdone. We'll write of matters near at hand, Of matters readers understand,... The pleasure of the woods and fields Where nature all her grandeur yields; We'll write of pleasures, friendships rare, With which no other can compare; Of fertile gardens gay with flowers, Where folks may spend entrancing hours; Of other gardens clean and neat, Wherein delicious things to eat Repay us richly from the toil That we expand upon the soil, And prove the rarest from of pay Attends the fruit we give away. The highest aim should be to find The means to benefit all mankind, The way to banish selfishness And find the road to happiness. To live aright each passing day; Forget the ills of long ago, The wars, the hardships and the woe. Today life may begin anew, With many pleasant things to do, With cheerful words to sing and say To folks we meet along the way. Our life may be a garden here For cultivation of good cheer. It lies within the human power To brighten every passing hour, To drive the clouds of gloom away And bask in sunshine all the day. Bouquet for the Critics Some critic may turn up his nose And claim my work is rhyming prose; According to the critics creed. That is iniquity, indeed. But that's the role he has to play, The role for which he draws his pay. One need not very so very wise To undertake Maria's enterprise; But higher talent must be shown In some construction of his own. The world is full of critics now; They should be working with the plow, Or, what would be more useful still, Producing lumber that will fill The loud, insatiable demand For happy homes throughout the land. If that loud call they should obey, Their fame may live for many a day; But while destruction is their aim, The never will achieve real fame. In many hearts they cultivate Deep feelings of despair and hate; But since my writing is for fun, I may defy the critics gun, His verbose platitudes ignore --- The brand so often used before. I do not care ones profane hoot What ammunition he may shoot. |
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Poet Robert Lindley
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Came To Me In A Dream
Through the golden gates of hope and reprieve race shadows of storm and restless agonies Mere fleeting wisps that catch roving eyes on platters of papers meant to deceive Stories told of monsters, fools and all the like melting into a cauldron of darkest spittle Gouging the eyes with a pointy spike and sending reprieve but only just a little Where rests,dreams of gold and wanton lusts among fallen pines and burnt ash trees Deceptions taught and broken, shattered trusts sailing chaotic and blind upon falsely stirred seas All through such nightmares are stark realities of life vapors of foul and poisonous clouds belching forth Frozen beams that weigh the misery in agony and strife against the harshest chills of blasts from the frozen North Yet among the dead letters and long anguished cries rest hearts and seeking minds staying on high alert For true love and deeply moaned contented sighs to counter the relentless pain of all the world's hurt. Robert J. Lindley, 6-19-2016 |
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Give Them A Songbird's Sweetest Glee
When They Tire, Give Them A Songbird's Sweetest Glee Cried critics to a sad poet- " Write us happy poems now! This day while the western sky sails in blue give us gold Sad poet pondered the forceful request wondering how Now that his ink had dried and his muse was so damn old. The poet thought in sadness for many long, long hours Then this new thought raced into his aching head Give colors, rainbows glistening upon pretty flowers Silken canopy over earth's most beautiful princess's bed. When they tire, give them a songbird's sweetest glee golden soft feathers that sing as they quickly beat With honey splashed in deep in their cool green tea, give them red-hot and fantastic meals to eat. His mission accomplished the poet asked to leave the critics cried , "Hell no slave, you must stay! Then he knew, tis dangerous to such beauty weave for his crime, his freedom he must forever pay! Robert Lindley Sept 23, 1987 |
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The Birds, They Were So Silent
I raced away early one bright morn, running in clouds so very fleet The birds, they were so silent deathly stiff on a frozen icy sheet Crossing bridge to glimmering lake no worries, time was on my side My charms would do me right in this was my everlasting pride I will find my lover's heart bruised and battered it may be As sure as life is a sweet fountain my words shall bring her again unto me I'll kiss her hands and her pretty feet she will sway into my loving arms A vision of pure heavenly delight again falling for my arrogant charms Our lives now by guile reunited time will flow like a raging flood The Love of My Lusts, shall live and eat in my blood Summers shall be our playtime winters for hot steaming nights Time will yield to my magic as my love sees wonderous sights In the depths of this dream she shall obey my hot desires As I step from the dark shadows to set ablaze her deepest fires No heartaches , no terrible worries life and love sets its steady pace No tears shall ever fall across the beauty of her loving face Dancing into my long aching arms into this sweet dream she shall dwell No harm will I allow to visit her as I seal shut the dark Gates of Hell She will love me all the more as we step into another golden realm Sea shall envy her growing beauty as I sail this ship steady at the helm The ages crack into this deep mirror joys are now so viciously denied She now doubts my deep, slavish love as my jealousy exposes my darkest pride When time brings in its destroyer love may stop cold in its track I am but a love lost dreamer thrown down upon my broken back Yet again look into my heart's mirror the dream I made come alive for you There is such goodness in this fantasy you my life, your love governs all I do I stand at this scary precipice your hand is my greatest want Love sends its everlasting glory except when it mercilessly don't You my darling hold the lasting key late in this dream time stands still My desires are as shallow nothings measured against your true loving will I raced away early one bright morn, running in clouds so very fleet The birds, they were so silent deathly stiff on a frozen icy sheet Robert J. Lindley, 11-23-2014 AVC poem Ryhme |
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Deeds Of History's Warlords
Cut Down By Deeds Of History's Warlords Saddened with their agony and deep pain, the black of nights slowly passed on away: Purple hearts can never ever explain, war's dark, needless battle deaths anyway! Dear sweet memories soothe a wounded mind thus bringing much needed relief to bear. Twilight's brings on another sad hurt kind, stripping shattered souls so completely bare. Darkness and misery grinds the brave stone, where hope hides in such strange shadowy fjords. Lives wasted, brave people forever gone, cut down by deeds of history's warlords! Heaven will judge right those souls forced to die! Hell will burn warlords, we need not ask why? Robert J. Lindley, 2-21-2015 Sonnet: Perfect tens perfect 100 words.. |
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Poet Tim Smith
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Jessica Another birthday year is here So let's rise up and cheer You've grown up so much before my eyes That little girl who needed cheese for her fries I remember the nights rocking you in my arms Making sure the world did you no harm Now you're getting older, time has gone to fast My love for you Jess will forever last |
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The Last Beat Of A Homeless Heart
A cool breeze whips and the Fahrenheit dips a night lost on a lonesome road reaching out to those in need attempting to spark the last beat of a homeless heart Preachers preached some souls were reached love was everywhere to be found to give.. to keep to sow.. to reap but in private you couldn't hear a sound hearts live to love but how long can they live in a world full of take and no give loyal eyes they no longer cry and a heartbeat slows as time slips by |
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Stay A Little Longer
Water trickles and steam lingers my heart's pounding beating rhythmically across my chest I drag my fingers slowly dreaming day-dreaming of you and our nights together so wet so steamy Come here and greet me enter my night enter my heart and stay The nights are long but our time is short Stay a little longer this time linger in my warmth and let me bask in your being water trickles steam rises my heart beats our hearts beat long into the night |
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Sash Of Trust
Through thick of night where nature naps 'mongst oaken trees and haunted paths sits past the brush, a sash of trust where honest word's a spoken must In times of doubt here's where I'll go to breathe and let my feelings flow where thoughts run wild and freedoms ring I'll sit and cry or stand and sing Until light breaks my pen shall hold those visions past and futures told my soul, her smile, two beating hearts her touch, our kiss, til passions part Time stands still as the words fall free Truths come out from inside of me |
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Poet Emile Pinet
Angels and Devils, Love and Death
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Angels Are Real
My pulse pounds, and my heart races, when you snuggle close as you can. For I love your tender embraces, you make me glade that I'm your man. It's not enough to say I care, I’m in heaven when I’m with you. And I need you, like I need air, words can’t thank you for all you do. You're the epitome of love, giving me all there is to give. And I thank the Lord up above, for you are my reason to live. When we met you seduced my heart, arousing the man in the boy. And soon my doubts drifted apart, filling my existence with joy. I'd give you heaven if I could, there are no words for how I feel. For you’re the best of all that’s good, and living proof, angels are real. |
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I am The Devil
I'm the Devil yet I'm also God, for deep inside there’s only me there. And hiding behind belief’s facade, I'm all alone and it seems unfair. Evil dwells within my darkest parts, for my ego always puts me first. Yet goodness thrives in my heart of hearts, for I'm the best and I am the worst. To balance good I revel in bad, for I’m free and a religious slave. Yet happy thoughts can morph into sad, believing nothing’s beyond the grave. A reality fantasy blend, I am hope and I am derision. And I’m the beginning and the end, a mix of sinner and contrition. |
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I will Die Without Love
There’s no room in my head, it's filled with thoughts of you. I’m alive, and yet dead, both are equally true. You are my blood, my breath, my hope, my dream, my love. And your leaving's like death, without heaven above. I’m as pale as a ghost, my heart's drained of its blood. For missing you the most, it has slowed to a thud. How much more can I take, without breath, I'll smother? And I endure an ache, unlike any other. My future’s disappeared, there’s no way I can cope. For like I always feared, I can't live without hope. I'm far beyond afraid, on the verge of a scream. And I feel so betrayed, that I no longer dream. No one can replace you, that's one thing I'm sure of. And yet, it's also true, I will die without love. |
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Poet Andrea Dietrich
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My Poems are Children to Me
Form:Free verse My poems are conceived, not within the womb, which long time now has been devoid of seed. My poems are born from a need to be heard: my thoughts, passions, sentiments and beliefs. They start as fragments, flecks of ash from my mind's abyss, a restless volcano that never long sleeps. The particles of ash collect and form together. Feverishly I rush to absorb them all as captured words on scribbled scraps of papers, employing metaphor, play on word, or sounds deliberately paced, and grace of rhythm. I mold my poems meticulously to my image, and then they emerge, fatherless but freed. Each, my voice, shares her sisters' ways, but unique, is cradled in the pages of my book, where, satisfied with my labor, I can turn to them and often look as a mother does on her infant babe. Unlike, however, mortal children can do, when I am through with them, they do not change, and fully formed, they rarely disappoint. As some have loved the fruit of my own flesh, I hope they'll love my poem children too. |
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Children of the Year
Form: Quatrain By leading us with strength and truth, he earns great prominence, and February's Cupid too, who celebrates romance! Though Irish charmed and mild at times, it's also obvious that when she either comes or goes, March is tempestuous! Lovely April brings her poems with romance, sun and rain, and year to year, she surely sings Earth's happiest refrain. Fair merry May loves motherhood, so. . . sparing no expense, she spreads her arms and gifts us with creation's opulence. Coming after May is June, who, sweet and fairly young, pledges love to summer's sun as wedding bells are rung. July, great fun, shows up to play. A patriotic one, he lights up skies with fires that fade into oblivion. . . The king of lazy afternoons, although he has his pride, August hasn't much to add to what July has tried! September goes from hot to cool in very little time, sees children off to school and gives the bards new cause to rhyme. October waltzes in, and with her magic, paints the trees, then dons a witch's hat before she leaves with frightful ease. November, though he's gloomy, has great harvests he must tend and brings a time for thankfulness before he nears his end. Although December is a man grown cold and very old, he brings the joy of the greatest story ever told. With trials and our past behind us, hope can reappear within the form of January, first born of the year! |
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Summer's Child
Form Sonnet I lived my best in season of the sun, those yellow, mellow days when cares are flung to June’s warm breeze, and childhood is begun, a field to wander in, and all is young! I lived my zenith in the summer heat. Ah, zephyr of sublime and untried heights! Blue sky, July, and taste of kisses sweet still haunt my mind in cool midsummer nights. In August came dry winds, and I was torn from my adobe of early gleeful days. My children both at summer’s end were born, and now a grandchild in new sunlight plays. When dusk, unhurried, comes, I live my best. In Virgo’s sun may I be laid to rest. |
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Emily's Birthday Tea Party
Form Sonnet The old folks at the home, and none at all of them too fleet of foot in their last years, came shuffling, some with walkers, down the hall, including those with aids pressed in their ears. Then one (whose punctured lung had not healed well) was wheeled in; she had just turned ninety-three! They'd all come (when the nurse had rung the bell), for what was now to be revealed: a "Tea!" The English lady wheeled in never knew what they were planning as she lay in bed. They'd stamped the name of "Emily" onto The sparkling crown which now lay on her head. With cake crumbs on her chin, in pure delight, She sipped the tea they'd sweetened up just right! |
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An Angel
Form Ghazal Lonesome in the black of night, I think of you, an angel, there in a river of moonlight. Oh, to view an angel! A cameo against the dark, face seen just in profile, its texture gossamer; I'd gasp, then pursue an angel. Would you come If I hung in the balance of life and death? Come to me like those of whom there are so few, an angel! I dream of you; a shelter you would be, to take me in. You alone could lift me, dispel my gloom, you, an angel. Here I am, mere Earth Girl, rooted by rationality, longing for one glimpse of what I never knew - an angel. |
Poet Eileen Manassian
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Sing to Me
When I am weary, tired and worn When the day on wings has flown When dusk comes with hushed repose When I lie, a wilted rose Sing to me When my heart is bruised and sore When my voice cannot implore When my tears streak down my face When my fears need saving grace Sing to me Sing to me on lover's bed Sing to me, my worries shed Sing to me, sweet lullaby Sing to me, don't ask me why Sing to me With lips close to shoulder bare With hand deep in raven hair With voice trembling in my soul With melody to make me whole Sing to ME Sing to me for in your tone Sleepiness to stars has flow In tune whispered in my ear Angel song of love I hear Yes, Sing Sing to me |
I found your Knight! :)
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The Essence of LoveLove’s seed will surely sprout
When freed from any doubt Eileen Manassian The Queen of Romance, rides proud and strong |
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Murder on My Mind
Could I take love and push it out the door Make it to die and breathe of life no more Could I take love and with a spear impale To make it breathe it’s last, I would not fail Could passion be a personified I’d try To beat and torment, then I’d make it die Desire would be next my wrathe to taste I'd murder it for what it’s laid to waste I would inflict the cruelest agony For what imposters these have done to me I’d close my ears to cries of mercy made Until I bury them and turn the spade For they have only gifted grief and pain And clothed my heart in shrouds of the insane |
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The Vow of Silence
Your vow of silence one day you will break You’ll come to know you’ve made a grave mistake The love I gave you, why did you forsake? There’s nothing left in me for you to take For this is true and this you must confess Not one gave more to you in tenderness No other one on earth could love as I I’m left here all alone to wonder why I’m silent now, as silent as the grave What’s left of wounded heart, you cannot save So mourn for me and love you never gave With mortal wound I stand, silent and brave. |
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Make Me Your Mistress
Let me be your mistress the one who warms your bed who knows of each desire that to seduction's wed Let me be your mistress hidden from prying eyes Kept locked in heart's harem each night in different guise Let me be your mistress indulgent of your dream I'll feed you honeyed breasts desserts of richest cream Let me be your mistress Lie back on cushions plush let me undress your cares Be free to feel this rush Let me be your mistress in scented room, I'll dance I'll write and undulate Put you in craven trance Let me be your mistress I'll tease until I please the secrets that you hide I'll satiate with ease Let me be your mistress I live to make you feel your wildest urges rage in me becoming real Let me be your mistress my lips and hands obey Give them your sweet command watch colors burst from grey Let me be your mistress Your mistress, nothing more I want to feast on you Come taste all that's in store Make me....your Mistress |
Poet Charmaine Chircop
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Those Eyes Like Moonlit Snow I watched him in a dusky street walking all alone , As he reached closer to me the mystery has been gone . I knew those eyes that once shone bright , like colours of a Latin marigold ... Those eyes became part of the night without a glint of glow . Those choco eyes have lost their luster ,they've turned vacant and cold , Those eyes of molten memories that gazed into my own . I watched him in a dusky street walking all alone , As he reached closer to me , the mystery has been gone . I knew those eyes that once shone bright ,Now glassy like the moonlit snow ... Those eyes became part of the night , so far away from home. So far away from open arms that kept waiting for him Far from a lonesome feeling residing deep within . I watched him in a dusky street walking all alone , As he reached closer to me , the mystery has been gone . I knew those eyes that once shone bright , like colours of a Latin marigold... Those eyes became part of the night without a tint of glow . It Is Not With These Eyes That I Have Loved You My beloved It may be that I would never get the chance to look you in the eyes within this life But remember.. It is not with these eyes that I have loved you Nor with my kiss or with this skin I have loved you With my way of being without you With keep on being who we used to be and of who we would never become My beloved It is not with these eyes that I have loved you Nor with my kiss or with this skin I loved you in ways only you would understand Cause only you have loved me in the same way that I did Or maybe even more. Missing you! |
Inspired by Jan's and Cas' 'Miss you poems'
and musing thoughts. 
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Poet Lucilla Carrillo
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Proverbs Of Life
If you don't have a purpose in life, then You shall walk in circles of confusion It is not what the world can offer you. It is the voice of your heart, that you may offer it to the world. If you think nobody loves you, think twice. Someone loves you very much. It is not how people can help you that counts. It’s the seeds of joy you spread in your life. If you have lost your best friend today, mourn today Tomorrow find a new friend, to share dreams If your life is not going good for you and you don't know why. Stare up at the milkyway An angel will give a guiding hand Don't count the bad times you've had in your life. Count the blessings you had instead... I have counted my blessings I go in peaceful tranquility Where I shall smile down upon all of you By Lucilla Carrillo and Arthur Vaso The Fire Let The Fire Not die. The fire that lighted your heart and mine. let it stay lighted tonight and forever. Let our hearts forever bind... 09/02/2012 Written by Lucilla M. Carrillo Ode To A Veteran
What is a Veteran? A veteran is a man ,or woman that has been to war and fought for our Country and our freedom. A Veteran is sometimes an unsung hero. One that we never hear about and sometimes He, or she is just forgotten. Today I want to say to our Veterans - you are our heroes. you put your life on the line for us. The ones that lost their lives are now in God's hands, but you are still here. You might have lost an arm, or a leg, maybe both legs - you did it in the line of duty. Maybe you still have both arms and both legs, that don't mean that you didn't lose anything in the war. You could have lost your best friend, or many friends. Now you only have memories. Today my Veteran I want you to know - that if it wasn't for you, we would not be able to enjoy the freedom that we enjoy today. It is not free - you have paid a high price for it. Thank for being the special hero you are. This is what I think a Veteran is... Written o 02/15/2011 by Lucilla M. Carrillo |
Poet Jan Allison
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THE LOWEST OF THE LOW
You may see me out on the streets Lying curled up in a foetal position my sleeping bag in a shop doorway Trying to get a few hours sleep here in my latest home in cardboard city … I never stay more than a few nights in one place can never really settle; these streets aren’t safe You may see me out on the streets I’m sitting on the cold damp pavement with an empty coffee cup in my hand Hoping for a coin or two so I can have some real food in my aching belly Still you hurry past, trying to avoid making eye contact… Believe me, it’s so degrading rummaging in the litterbins like a wild animal But some days it’s the only way I can get any food to eat The biting cold and wet weather is my worst enemy I can never get warm even when the sun shines This is no life, just a way of surviving another day Guess you think I’m a waster, a dirty tramp You walk on by; judge me without knowing what lead me to life on the streets Bet you think I’m a druggie or an alcoholic I guess most people seem to think that They see my filthy clothes, straggly hair and grey beard Just five years ago I was like many of you I had a career, a beautiful wife, and two lovely children Spent many months away from home fighting for my country But then I got sent to Afghanistan… I saw scenes no man should ever have to witness I was traumatised Forever suffering flashbacks of the faces of those innocent people The children, oh those children – made me think of my two boys back at home I couldn’t cope any more, had a total mental breakdown I was a broken man … My wife could no longer deal with the mood swings , the erratic behaviour The Army did little to help – discharged me on health grounds, then basically abandoned me Now I’ve lost everything … my wife, family, my dignity Many of the people you see on the streets are like me … We all have a story to tell, but no one gives us the time of day Passers-by avert their eyes and hurry past like we are invisible Your eyes may tell you one thing… but please don’t judge me Because you don’t know me |
This poem won first prize in a contest on PoetrySoup.
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Poet Casarah Nance
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Tell It To The Rain
Like the cloud, I am collecting the moisture in memory, Soaking up the solitude, I have been alone in misery. Feeling full on failure, droplet wall builds on my skin, Heavy with weight of the world, sadness is soaked in. Like the cloud, I feel the lightening pulsing inside, Anger and agony on a bolt of energy ride. Thunder is my roar, ominous warnings shy to the volcanic eruption that is my sky. Like the cloud, I hear the air slice apart in broken fear, And I collect all things wet and drip them in a tear. Upon the world I release all my anxiety and pain, Captured inside capsules, I tell it to the rain. Like the cloud, I pour my soul from the height of hurt, And you wear my teardrops there, saturated white t-shirt. Parachute promises falling, raindrops from the cloud. You hold no umbrella because crying is not allowed. Notes: This poem won second place on a Poetrysoup contest, Dec 2015. |
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Poet Constance Lafrance
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Beautiful Scars
These scars on my soul are beautiful and painful, Deep gashes that cannot be seen except in my eyes; The sorrow I keep within me is dreadful, My short life has been full of death and whys. Deep gashes that cannot be seen except in my eyes, I thought the passage of time would heal the scars; My short life has been full of death and whys, At night all my beloved are the sparkling stars. I thought the passage of time would heal the scars, I take two white roses to the tomb of my babies; At night my beloved are the sparkling stars, My forever grief is full of long past sweet reveries. I take two white roses to the tomb of my babies, Weeping I touch all the names engraved in stone; My forever grief is full of long past reveries, Within my soul the forever sorrow still moans. Weeping I touch all the names engraved in stone, Yet from this pain something beautiful was to be; Within my soul the forever sorrows still moan, And I write from a scarred soul my sad poetry. Yet from this pain something beautiful was to be, The sorrow I keep within me is dreadful; And I write from a scarred soul my poetry, These scars on my soul are beautiful and painful. Under The Moon Above a full moon dances with the billowing clouds, The ornate gate creaks as I push to enter; A winding road, shines in the moonlight, and beckons me, I glide past sleeping gnarled tree branches. Above a full moon dances with the billowing clouds, Angel statues do not comfort me from my sadness; The maze of stone cold tombs weep in the moonlight, I drift there under the full moon beautifully ethereal. And then I hear the first bird song . . . |
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These are two paintings, on the left by Adolphe-William Bouguereau, and ontop by John William Waterhouse
Below, you can download a audio version of her poem Beautiful Scars 
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