Poetry Everyday of the Year (and more)

The rules are simple. 1) Send me a poem and if I approve it (most likely) I will print it. I will also print my poems (which are copyrighted.) 2) If I print your poem you will retain all rights to the poem. I will also delete your poem if you sell it to a publisher who wants exclusive rights. 3) If I print your poem, I will send you an email telling you what day. (So you can tell everyone). This is a poet friendly site. (enjoy)

Saturday, April 30, 2011

The Arrogance of Poets (other than me)

Using Big Words such as hibernaculum
Conundrum, and ubiquitous - as status symbols
of useless knowledge and higher education
I have studied the classics therefore I can
invoke the ghost of Madea (you know the jilted lover of  Jason the Jerk of Argonaut fame)
Yes, he fleeced her if you know what I mean (its so golden)
and if you don't then you are not as literate as I
And if that is not enough I will use meter and feet
and iambic pentameter - isn't that neat
I am not that smart - my poems such as they are
act as fists, raging forth, in your face
Can you feel their pulse ? Can you feel their force ?
Like used car salesmen - they cajole, and smooth talk you
and cry for pity, writhing in pain
and beg (yes, I am not above begging for what I want)
I want you - your attention, your focus, your mind, your eyes on my page
locked by words, my words holding you tight like a hug from empty heart
I am not smart enough to send you to the dictionary or thesarus
Or to have you rush out for Cliff's Notes - no graduate student will ever do a Thesis on me.
Better for them to
Feel Me, feel the mood I used to write this crap, I am poster hanging on the wall
my words, my poems cover up the hideous wallpaper beneath I call life. Your life, of course
did you think I was arrogant enough to mean me?

Friday, April 29, 2011

Two Roses by Some Other Name

 A Rose is a Rose by any Other Name (some other poet)

Rose Rose
Up from her seat
Red with flowery flowers
Red with Lipstick
She looked to be from Tokyo
She looked to me for poetry
Covered from head to toe
Rose one Rose two Rose three
Across her chest sewn on her vest
I have never seen a rose such as she

Rose Rose
up in the sky
not quite so red
Still I wonder why ?
Oh hello Dali
can you explain
the head of rose above the plain
Is this the Sun you never had ?
maybe Rose knows
(but she is Mum).

Thursday, April 28, 2011

Now I Am The Light Seeker

I am seeking new realms with rainbow wings.
Behind me are the storms and turbulent winds
of the past
raindrops glisten in the sun’s warmth
reflecting prisms of light on soft body,

fear, my cocoon, my refuge my womb
lies on the ground no longer needed
Now I fly high, stretching
wing muscles released from supine position,
pleased that nature’s
kisses have welcomed my take-off
into uncharted territory.

Eagles wink at me, as I ride
in their tail winds
my new wings waffle from
fatigue, but then strengthen,
like arrows furrowed
I feel sun’s rays pulling me
closer, a forceful yet warm embrace
and my
butterfly wings beat a melody
of joyful anticipation humming tunes
that rise higher and higher. crescendo
climax as sun and I dance,
waves of energy entwine and rejuvenate
my heart now so huge.
Now I am the Light Seeker
              By Beverly Bronson  ©April 2011


If this reads as vague, I apologize
You see, or maybe you don't,
and that is all my fault because
I should have spelled it out more clearly

What I want, so terribly want, is to tell you
What I want.
And not just that
But everything
All the emotions, all the thoughts, ideas, joys, desires, visions, screams and dreams - tears, laughs, and yes oh God yes moods
each and everyone of them
I want to become drunk with the energy that comes from releasing
letting go of all that has waited, dressed up and ready to go - get the car and come around - the rushing madness of the flood of words, levee breaking, dam busting torrent that can no longer be denied, tsunami waves blasting forth barely forming words let alone phrases, sputtering from lack of air because I forgot to breathe - I am like the little child that cannot bear to let you go because you alone out of all the people in the world
Listen to me.
Or would, maybe. 

But You are not ready for that
I can see it in your face
your eyes as they trace the path of your escape
No need. I will not start.
I will listen and wait and drink and put on my happy face.

Wednesday, April 27, 2011

The Trouble With Digging In Someone Else'sDirt

Ostensibly, we were there to dig
To make a hole big enough
Deep enough so that what
We were about to bury
Would never bother us again

Even in the first shovelfuls
Tiny ones really, barely braking
The surface sod – I knew
She would not be satisfied
For there is no depth that can
Cover a ghost, a memory,
Or that mysterious something else
Which shall, if she has her way,
Go nameless, unspoken of, and
Yet not completely forgotten.

My mother was the same way,
That is in her approach to things
That scared her – nothing was said
No mind was paid to it, despite
Its ghostly fingers touching everything
Pleading for release, Let me go, please
Please, please – let me go
They were, of course,  things of a highly scary nature,
The things that touch the Heart
Things that had one mission in life
To touch the heart – Now they are piled up
Like junk in a hoarder’s  garage
Some have been abandoned so long
They have lost their form – no longer those words said in anger or frustration or loss
They are now: hurt, sadness, and bad.
Chained to the door that blocks the heart.

The hole is now nearly five feet deep
Five feet long and four feet wide
Doris frets that it is not enough
I sense that I am in over my head.
©Frank Coughlin April 2011

Tuesday, April 26, 2011

One Day Everyday

The road was right
in front of me
why did I turn
off onto this
route to nowhere.

Call it a quirk
something strangely
odd, but it was
me inside out
There in front of
all I cared for
crying because
it appeared dead.

Wait, she sighed, this
is all too vague.
Say what you mean.
In plain clear words.

Okay I said.
thought I was dead
turns out I had
never been born.
You have not known
the real person
hidden inside

Someone I have
kept tucked away
from friends and foes,
hidden from sight.
I was afraid
to be the me
the one down deep
the I, I am.

On this day I
proclaim myself
to be myself
to lead by not
leading, just by
being who I am.

©Frank Coughlin April 2011

Monday, April 25, 2011

MOving ON

the Wheel of Fortune
Favors no one - How Zen
Yet You pretend nothing
Ever changes - truth is
Nothing Stays the same

Moon Phases In and Out
Leaving today behind
Yet You pretend no changes
are ever needed at least
those concerning you

I grew to love you
Beyond that silly first sight
So many years ago
You must have thought
I liked a certain something
about you - yet You could not
figure what it was So you
Went out of yourself
To stay the same.

I love you more than chocolate
you know the good rich dark kind
And hot coffee in the morning
has nothing on you.
A Chinese feast could not satisfy me
more than being with you.
I could not eat another bite,

Sadly the same is true with you
The chocolate makes my face break out
the coffee is bad for my heart
The Chinese food makes me fat
And our love life is flat.
The wheel of Fortune spins again
and you are nowhere to be found.

Sunday, April 24, 2011


Nocturnal, not for me
A gentle breeze, the cool of the night
Starlight from Milky Ways and others
Basking in harvest moon light
Teens thrilling in new experience
Cats busy dumpster diving
God knows what skulks in hedge rows
Unspeakable horrors coming out
with heroes running to the rescue
just in the niche of time
but not for me - I am sleeping

©Frank Coughlin April 2011

Saturday, April 23, 2011

The Raven's Shadow

A feather of Darkness decorates her hair
if you are fortunate to see this woman
With hood down. Eyes are
hidden, yet you feel their pull.
She stands at the crossroads
in the darkness of your soul -
her voice chills - she is afraid of nothing.

Are you serious ? Is her challenge
She is the mistress of magic
Her forte is melting away
your illusions, your hubris and your ego.
Her familiar, the bird of shadow,
laughs at your approach, yet you continue forward. She stands at the crosswards
of your soul in darkness, the deep black you dare not look at.
You do not back down - you are not daunted.
'Choose' she cries in raven screech - Magic is your reply
Her eyes open wide, round beady white, then larger and cloudy
till finally perfectly round and perfectly clear
you gaze upon yourself as the raven sees you

I have heard tales of those who ran only to be haunted the rest of their life
I have heard tales of those who became clouded in the head
I am not one of them - I stand tall - there is nothing here I have not seen before
No I am bold - I reach out with both hands, her shoulders gather them
and bind them around her - pulling me close
A wind wails round us and the raven flies upward
off her shoulder and onto my head, the wind screams
as she melts into my arms - our hug has morphed into merger
We are one - I see with her eyes - I cease to be
and then there is darkness, total darkness nothing upon nothing
a silence of ebony, jet, midnight, moonless midnight
I am total magic, there is no bone, blood, or sinew
I understand, knowledge flows silent through me, I understand
I am being crushed, destroyed in essence, I can feel myself ebbing away
There is more here than my mortal frame can stand
death by knowledge - I am done - I  hear a female laugh
she lets go of me and I collapse - I have no body - I am gone
Tis then the raven lands upon my shoulder
tis then I feel her kiss upon my lips
the breath of life returns to my mortal frame
Well done - she sighs - come back again.

The dream is ended, yet I feel it still
the Magic is in my bones
I ache arthritic with it
Memories I have yet to experience
Jump into my path like cats of black
I know she waits deep inside
I feel her calling me back.
In the distance, Raven cries its treetop caw.

Friday, April 22, 2011

The Ripple Effect

She left in the morning
leaving me alone
with my thoughts.
I thought about leaving too, 
so I called and checked available dates.
Rose was all ready and more than willing
Libby too, and she had money
Sarah was the voice of reason
You need me the most, she said.
In the end, I did nothing
the bounce back ripple hits me
What if - what if - what if
Echos of what was - could it be gone.
Knocks on the door - enter complications - it seems word gets around
like ripples in a pond, bouncing from rock to log and then some - this complication
stayed the night, consoled my broken soul, fed me and took advantage - all in good time.
Morning has come again, in the form of the day after, and guilty me waits for her.
She'll come back - but she does not - the complication awakes, greets me with a smile.
It is time to begin again.

©Frank Coughlin April 2011

Thursday, April 21, 2011

Strangely Happy With Myself

sad winds and whaling Jennys
echo canyon-ing
snapshots snapping shut
clickety and clack

that is the way the mind works

grave yard breezes
nosey sneezes
drippedy slop
all over the place

There is a pattern to this madness

Brakey aches
slippedy snakes
down channels
past waffles and wakes

Who needs this ? (I do)

©Frank Coughlin April 2011

Wednesday, April 20, 2011

All Creatures Welcome

In for a landing
she nestled in my hair
hiding amongst tendrils
taking respite from
pollen pursuits,
adding highlights
Ala natural
I love being a rest stop
for nature, an excuse
not to comb my hair

 ©Beverly Bronson april 2011

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

Random Rides (killing time and magic)

Random Rides                        ©by Frank Coughlin april 2011
Winter wings, things that cover
A long ride to nowhere and back
Periods of black, just a tunnel or two
Lavender dust spread out in the field
as far as you want it to be, or not to be

She never said "It will be easy."
You only thought you heard it.
The mind plays tricks on long boring rides
Signs of mystery dot the road
like 'Eat at Joe's' - I think 'and then what'

Cold collects on the glass, part you
from your impatient breath, part wind
blasting at seventy miles per, at least
farm houses wave their foolishness
right in front of your blurring eyes

Six hours, she said, seems like more
Is there candy? no, not till we get there
Does she live in the woods and 
is her house made out of gingerbread?
No, we are too old to believe that.

And somewhere, in the back seat maybe
Billy  pulls out a time machine, set for future
Twenty years flash forward, another car
another time, same us - 'cept we're not the same
too many miles, too many boring miles are to blame. 

Monday, April 18, 2011

Pictures of WCW (William Carlos Williams)

Stage One - They Come

Smiling happy voices toning
Something utterly unique
In terms of harmony
The same and more of it
They do not dance, no more than I can
Yet they make me look
and sound good too.
I do not know whether to thank them
or ignore them.

Stage Two - They Linger

Potatoes warm in the skillet
Refusing to mingle with onion bits
yet the aroma calls across
several rooms - I relent
I need this
I waited for you, but not for long

Stage Three - They Become Blind

In the hours I have lived,
so very few they are,
Someone has learned
faster is better, easy is even more
and work is what you do.
I feel old yet my thoughts are new.

Sunday, April 17, 2011

How To Change the World (in four steps)

The mourning is where we start, smartly black,
Heading northward on the medicine wheel,
winter cold, and stunningly silent,  saving our grief
for some other time, Perhaps - definitely not now
when there is too many eyes, I do not trust them.
No matter, dust has changed to dust, what has gone
will not come back, positive attitude or not.
It is not this moment that has closed my heart,
this moment is the public moment, when you can
tell me anything - how you are sorry, how you know
what I feel - all the proper civilized saying one says
in front of the place where we are to let go of what has left.

They say one goes through shock and disbelieve
when emotional knives are thrust into the heart
Caesar's worst pain was seeing who had set upon him
Et tu - you brutal ones - whom I once called family.
Upon sight of my heart's essence flowing outward
in an unhealthy way, I died a death of disbelief,
and a blanket of emotions was buried deep
in my cocoon, my hibernating coma of numbness.
And I slept a good long sleep, dreaming of heaven.

Medicine wheel turns, this time to the east,
the place of beginnings, the place of birth,
bear wakes hungry, disoriented by the long dream.
I long to move to the south, the place of growth,
but I must sow the seeds that I have gathered from my dreams.
I must brake ground, unwilling ground, I must fight for these dreams.
The birds hunger for my failed dreams, harpies waiting for the earth,
the physical world to say - no way Jose - you are not good enough.
Your dreams must die - we live for your failure once again.
I must keep sowing these seeds - I must keep hope alive.

The forth step, of course, is the future - a place never reached
But we will ourselves there nonetheless, undaunted, dreams
intact, thriving in the glowing light know as love. It is a place
beyond Eden - for nothing grows in Eden - they only stay the same.
We have bigger dreams - dreams so bright they light the world at night.
And the only hunger is the hunger for more.

(©Frank Coughlin - April 2011)

Saturday, April 16, 2011

Spring Mood

Tulips bedecked in pastel gowns Like closed up umbrellas on this gloomy day, in uptight slumber keep company with hyacinths sleeping, purple petticoats prone, hugging dampened ground while wind wickedly whistles through fragile cores, they shiver but keep the faith temporary shutdown of nature's sunshine A Moody spring, indeed ! by Beverly Bronson ©April 2011

Friday, April 15, 2011

The Evil Dead

There is something inherently evil about the dead.
The way they cast their boney hands in the air and roll in their graves, their eyes gone dark the way they turn on you, and leave without a thought (about you and living and the world in general.)
There is evil in their decay, rotting to the core, as they point out their indifference to your fate, asking only if you put flowers on their grave. (They do not bother you with advice about what stock to buy, or numbers to populate that million dollar lotto try.) Selfish to the finish - There is evil in their smiles where they lay contented in places beyond our ears, laughing at the joke we present on a daily basis. Rather they are concerned with the inane:
Is my car still shiny, does the dog miss me?
These sinister questions that they ask.
It is as if they have left for another place Say Florida, somewhere you can't go, not yet anyway, forgot about the bills, and the house, they don't call and they don't care to either.
Because there is evil in their bones through and through
And no amount of crying will make it go away

Thursday, April 14, 2011

Excuses, Excuses

Excuses a poem by Frank Coughlin (April 2011)

Not today,

Not while my show is on

Not while the grass needs mowing

Not while the dog has to be washed

(There is nothing left to say – no words that could heal the wounds – better to leave things the way they are – you there and me here)

It is too windy, too cold, and it looks like it going to get worse

I just washed my hair and it is still wet

It is a bad day

(This has nothing to do what you said. Did you think it wouldn’t get back to me.)

The car is not running right, the brakes stick, and the engine is making strange noises

The kids are home now

The phone is ringing off the hook

The paper is over-due

I have to study

LOOK do you want the truth? The truth that flies in your face and you refuse to see it? The truth that no one dares tell you because it will hurt you so bad and no one quite knows what to say after the tears start and the phone falls to the floor and then you get angry and swear and vow revenge – do you really want that truth? Okay, here it is

The dog really stinks – I have to take him to the vet

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

Waves of Heaven

Waves of Heaven By Frank Coughlin April 2011

In this poem, we will make love

First we make contact

Meeting as sea does to shore

Forget all lies said before

Skipping ahead to the good part

Between both arms and satin sheets

A parade of waves, the water of my words

She is the shore, my beach and more

Touch becomes key, is it possible to be touched and not to touch back

or is touch something that happens both ways always

Beach touches sea, wave after wave,

We are driven blind in our effort to see

what is constant - we give it a name

we call it sensuality - I call it being aware

of your touch, of my touch, of where the borders blur

a place where sea is not sea, beach is not beach

this sandy water solution where he merges with she

we both allow in the same sense nature allows water to touch the land

Now skipping to best part - the giving part

To give one must release

the tide release water, pools form

the beach releases, we call that erosion

Today's giving features a strong release

an opening up - she and he become we

and we becomes weeeeeeee as the universe

becomes our discovery

we fly - no longer beach and sea - we are

legless beings of pure being riding the waves of heaven

I fly higher, she rides longer

there is bliss until the last part

the part where we pretend we are separate again

Even the largest oldest ocean touches continent

Yin and Yang

We pretend our separation exists because everyone does

We smoke our cigarette and dress

We walk our ways back to that other thing we call life

We do not to consider what we have lost and what we have gained

I have her in me now and she has me

The waves of heaven do not cease

They rise and crest and fall away and then begin again

Tuesday, April 12, 2011


There only needs to be one.
    One bullet in the chamber.
     One finger on the trigger.
      One moment of emotion.
       One failing student.
        One hating skinhead.
         One blind bigot.
          One sociopath.
           One gang-banging getaway, complete with car.
            One person sitting on the stoop on a hot summer night.
             One person with the wrong place and the wrong time written all over them.
              One loud noise that sounds like a gunshot.
               One lucky bouncing richoet flying through the open window.
                One heart shattered via projectile motion.
And Another heart which screams and cries and vows revenge. Then it begins again.

©Frank Coughlin April 2011