“My passion for poetry was locked in a dungeon until I came across Theron Kennedy’s poems. His poems are addictive. I

Theron Kennedy

couldn’t stop myself from reading and feeling his words. His lines are beautifully crafted. Each poem is well versed with amazing metaphors and sweet and beautiful imagery. His words paint abstract yet vivid emotion. He artistically creates nude images and feelings. The intensity of his emotion radiates like energy touching my heart, mind, and soul. His beautiful mind leads me on a journey to his whole being. He remarkably redefines love and its culture. His expression of pain is impressive. Each of his poem is a song. As I swim through it I see beautiful movies featuring the life of this amazing poet.” ~ by Nenita Gutierrez

Being Bukowski

“I envy your opportunity to be a mother.
You get to experience something with that child
that no one else in the world will ever experience.
Then after he or she is born you never have to worry
about anyone taking them from you or interfering
in that relationship.”

Abby said “You are the only man I’ve ever heard say something like that”.

She sips her Caramel Macchiato, reads “Women” by Charles Bukowski.

She is so Beautiful.

Eye aM Bukowski.

She’s a Cancerian.

My sign is “Readers wanted” or flashes “Ghostbusting”
When its time to deliver some lines.

When you’re Bukowski the world is the space between
pen and page. Where the story lies.

Waiting for you to say “let there be Write”.

Cassidy and Jay Z whisper in either ear
“She’s a hustla homie”

I said “but she hustles with me”.

Abby said “What”?

I smiled and said “Ah, Just thinking out loud”.

The things I see and the things I’ve seen
wrestle inside me in a fight to the death
for my sanity it seems.

It gets bloody at times.
The blood spills from my lips.
Or my finger tips.

Eye aM Yin and Yang.

My inspiration for this poem would be Charles Bukowski, conversations with Abby, my thoughts about life in general, some spiritual beliefs, and having listened to music a lot since a very young child and a lot of Hip Hop since age 9.

“I Said Mister” was written to keep the memory of Kalil McCoy alive, and to continue the deeds she began. She died at the hands of her class mates, a single-shot to the head, in June 2o11.

 Just graduating from Andrew Jackson High School, with a promising future ahead for her.

 Author Karen Dewitt has dedicated all proceeds, from the sale of the book to the  Kalil McCoy Foundation & The Fight Against Violence Organization, in Jacksonville, Florida, Duval County.

 The book contains emotional poetry, short stories, and prose. That will arouse

the soul, dig its roots into the hearts of all who read.   When asked, “Why, would you donate all proceeds of book sales to a stranger?”  Her reply was… “She is not a stranger! She is an angel.” The official press release will go out for “I Said Mister”, this month (April 2o12), followed by greater things to come. Not even eight-weeks out “I Said Mister” has received an Editor’s Choice Award, with other recognition.  During her nineteen-years on earth, she has inspired all walks of life, been kind to all faces, building mountains instead, of walls. Breathing in, all of what life has offered her. She is and will remain, in all the hearts across the sphere. Kalil was an active dancer, friend, daughter, sister, and many other things.

  If, you choose to purchase the book, you would be supporting a cause (organization), that will be speaking across the United States, reaching out to our youth, young adults, and so forth. The Founder, and CEO of the ”Kalil McCoy Foundation”,  is Patti Roebuck, of Jacksonville, Florida, along with Vice President Shardea Nicole.

 They will be traveling to schools, prisons, detention centers… speaking with youth, and young adults, on the consequences, and the affect that violence has on people. When, a loved one is taken too soon; it not only hurts the family, but it consumes, and devours the souls of everyone, (the town, its youth, parents, siblings). The trial is still on-going, to see justice served accordingly, and to give her family closure.

  “I Said Mister” can be found here  — About Foundation —CEO & Founder: Patti Roebuck — Vice President: Shardea Nicole — Donations — Contact The Author

Author Karen Dewitt

 The Power of Love is so many things….

by_Haziness @ Deviant Art

My Love Poetry

As she hides within me,

buried beneath the root

of my heart, expressed

through the intimacy of

my every thoughts. You

understands the joys I

feel and you fulfills me

immensely, oh poetry.

Poetry it’s easy to love

you and I’ll answer when

they ask what inspires

me to write you. Daily

I share you because my

pride just wants to show

you to the world because

poetry you’re my cure,

it’s you I adore.

Poetry you are my life

experiences, you are

the words I write, the

depictions of my life,

the past and present

I’ve seen and the dream

my love forever wants

to reveals.

Poet Andrew Vassell

Andrew Vassell (Ntyse) © Copyright 2012

http://www.facebook.com/Andrew.Vassell.Author.page

“Born in Jamaica,I was lucky to have been bought up with both dedicated parents and 3 younger sisters. I spent my holidays with my Aunt alongside my 4 female cousins .Having been raised in a highly Religious home, at the age of 18 I decided to venture and went to Canada where I began to find and understand the meaning of relationships, love and the feelings were a part of this new life I had found. I pursued a career in plumbing and heating and security management….was it my passion? From an early age I found it easy to express heart through my poems and song writing which leads me to be working on a collection of my love poem books which will soon be in a store near you . My life’s experience in words…..I am following my passion….
I am following my Heart….”

The_window_by_theflickerees @ Deviant Art

Your Vessel  
 

Your vessel.. 
I want to sculpt with my hands…. 

Stimulate you with a graceful flourishing of amber 
inside the veil of your over whelming…. 
Gently press against your love wall 
and drag the garden out of you.. 
while I glory in the blossoming 
of your brown snow

 Dim the lights of your eyelids 
and fall deep into your shadow 
We blind fold the clock, so he may lose track of time
and know how it is to feel lost 
inside the portal
of love

 © 2012 Orlando Murcia

Orlando Murcia

Tracks_by_BreAnn at Deviant Art

Abandoned Tracks on Lasher Road

Hidden in the weeds, red rusted rails
Stretch through the summer woods like any track.
They draw me on around the bend past limits
Posted by authorities to find the
Elderberry trees and mullein plants as
Tall as me. Inner devae hold their
Power in waste spaces, tucked away from
Observation, roads, and traffic lights. I
Barely hear the highway and lie down on
Grassy spots with leaf green spirits. If I
Journey on this Unknown Trail across
Forgotten land, I’m taken out of mind on
Rusty rails of ill used thoughts to God and
Leave you all behind. I go ahead.

Dorothy Abrams

July 9, 2011 DL Abrams

http://www.linkedin.com/pub/dorothy-abrams/0/584/621

Insomnia_by_Vlue @Deviant ART

Insominia

I find a brief moment’s peace
inside these insomniatic day dreams.

With dry eyes,
…and a lethargic conscience;
I wander through this fable
that I’m told is reality.

Hindsight isn’t quite 20/20,
and I’m here
…squandering the
…relativity of time.

Reaping no benefit
as I toggle between mind numbing
exhaustion and over active
mental techathalon strides.

Blurred forms,
and silent cries.

I hold the end of this rope
with vagrant humility;
and merciless appraisal.

Am I to let go?

I can’t stay here;
Hanging between life
and dream
…forever.

I must decide.

I am to awaken.

-James Kelley 2010©

James Kelley

http://www.flexwriterscreativenetwork.net/members/profile/21

Dreams_by_devdriv @Deviantart.com

DREAMS

Travel in peace, dreams of mine,

Into the land of color, the wonderful land of noble memories,

So that my blind spirit might see through the turquoise moon’s eyes,

So that my tired spirit finds its peace in your sacred cradle.

Fly with the breath of Freedom,

So that you may sow the seed of young hope

In the courtyard of heavenly gates.

Travel in peace, dreams of mine,

To honor the many tears haunted by memories,

To honor the many stars haunted by lonely nights,

To honor the many winds haunted by prayers of the unfortunate.

Oh, Destiny, how heavy the cross must be to a dreamless man.

If I had to be born again

In a poor cradle,

I would once again agree to walk the dark streets of poverty,

If only my dreams would not abandon me.

Travel in peace, dreams of mine,

Into distant valleys of saturnine silences.

Find your humble home

In the infinity of human tragedies,

So that you may fraternize many unfortunates

With your merciful existence,

So that my lonely spirit can see the magnificent light

In the fraternal souls of people I hold dear.

©Walter William Safar

Walter William Safar

by_dav71

The power of the stirring of dust

At that moment, the instant before

all hell cried vengeance,

the writing found its mark,

striking hammer hard.

Frowning faces fading to fear,

shame and the need to hide.

Law is law

brittle, uncompromising,

condemning and unflinching.

Sure of itself,

beyond testing, questioning

or a spirit of truth.

He sat there quietly stirring the dust

with a stick that pierced defences

surer than the sharpest sword.

No spoken words,

no vitriolic accusation of tongue,

no pointed finger

nor slanted glance,

just the stirring of dust.

They all slinked away to their personal depravities

holding their wounds in pincered grip;

indicted by inner voices

a jury released by stirred dust.

He sat there, no vestige of a smile,

stirring the world with words in dust.

The words changed,

lust becoming love

as the breeze rearranged shadows.

“Sister where are those who condemn ?”

His words still stir the dust

and hearts of lust

return to love. 

Keith Wallis

John 8  stones pause in silence
dust disturbed by holy hands
the accusers gone

‘Wordsculpture’ : http://wordsculpture.wordpress.com/

www.alabasterandmercury.com

Books In Print:

Mountain Biking Orange County, Globe-Pequot Press (in print since 1996)

Along a Ruined Sea, d/e/a/d/b/e/a/t/ Press 2008

Along a Ruined Sea, Special Edition, Avalon Press 2009 to present

(Nominated for the Tufts Discovery Award)

Entrances: 30 Poems and 100 Lines About Love, Avalon Press February 1, 2011

(Nominated for the Pushcart Poetry Prize)

Something Still Visible In the Fire, Alabaster & Mercury, August 2011

(Nominated for the Pushcart Poetry Prize and the Tufts Poetry Award)

Notable Events:

Award winning poet, California Collegiate System 1981

Published in Alabaster & Mercury, Volume 1 (two poems)

Short list; Tufts Discovery Award, Claremont Graduate University

Published in Ink Spots, San Diego Writers Union (1 poem)

Published Cock Amuck and Crowing, Chris Madoch; (3 poems)

Published in Starlight Press website (2 poems)

Associate Editor, Parapluie Publishing 2010

Editor for 9 volumes of poetry

Moderator of a writing group; 2007 to present.

200 first ascents in rock climbing in 3 different countries.

Published in Rock and Ice Magazine

Convenience Store Burritos

The sidewalks in Dallas were my favorite.

The ants there are compassionate, or at least their sting didn’t penetrate my exhaustion. Not like Amarillo. Fuck. Those ants sting hotter than a Texas sun burns. No matter how sick, how delirious…how drunk, I never slept in Amarillo. Not a minute.

The first Warped Tour; 4 weeks in. August in Texas…I’m almost certain.

I’d been sick since June. Ear infections antibiotics couldn’t touch. After the fires and the hottest, most humid summer in decades, my health was destroyed. I took this job as a last, dying hope. They called it a recession…but California’s economy didn’t recede…

It vanished.

It seemed like a good idea; up in a box seat at the Roxy, next to Don Johnson and some bit of fluff…severe make-up and tightly bulging dress. She looked almost 20. Talked on her cell phone through the entire Bob Dylan concert. He never looked at her. She was arm candy; nothing more. He was too excited about Bob Dylan to notice something like an actual person…and she obviously didn’t give a shit about him. He was 5 years past being somebody. That’s forever in Hollywood.

Me…I couldn’t concentrate long enough to hear the music. My infections were worse at night…I had to work hard to take all of this in. Life is so fucking surreal when you’re that sick.

So…whaddya think? Will you do it?

What the hell…why not? It’s not really like I had a choice.

I was going to build the first mobile climbing wall and take it on tour around the country. A friend of mine who I put up first ascents with got the gig. He was no craftsman, though, and he needed me to actually build it. So I did. It was going be a real climbing wall…not like the cheesy things they have now. I already made hand holds and shipped them all over the world. I knew I could do this. The money they were offering was staggering, and I was so broke, anything sounded good.

It was a last chance to keep my life.

I finished the wall on a 105 degree day in Claremont. I passed out in the heat and smog. They found my body strewn among the metals studs; tool pouches spilling self-tapping screws and clamps. My father threw water on me and drove me home. I barely made it into the air conditioned house.

Get ready. We have to go to the engagement party.

I’m too sick to go, sweetie. You go. I need to stay home and rest.

This did not sit well. I guess I had been sick too often for her tastes and this particular engagement party was very important. Very. I barely knew the guy.

She, apparently, knew him very well.

He was an old boyfriend of hers from High School marrying some “bitch” from Georgia. The girl seemed nice to me, but what did I know? I only met her once, but she laughed easily and was beautiful in a way that only Southern women can be. She was delightful.

How can you be so selfish? I swear if you don’t go to this I am through with you!

I looked at her in disbelief. She was standing on the staircase with a packed bag. I had a temperature of 102. I was so delirious I couldn’t walk, let alone drive.

I showered up and went. I don’t remember anything about the evening at all.

That seemed like a decade ago, here on the sidewalk in the “artistic” section of Dallas with the friendly ants. I tried to stand, but faltered. I looked drunk, but I honestly hadn’t had anything to drink in over 2 hours. I was probably sober.

I looked at my watch, and then remembered. Yeah, about that. It went MIA in Houston. They don’t have ants in Houston. My bus broke down and I had no place to go. By the time we got the wall taken down and packed away, all the spots were taken. I sat in an underground parking lot at the Astro Dome and cried Somebody jacked the watch when I fell asleep. The lead singer of L7 finally took pity on me and put me on their bus. I slept on and off on the 8 hour drive to Dallas on the steps of their bus.

It didn’t really matter what time it was. There wasn’t going to be breakfast this morning. There wasn’t enough money in the Tour for food anymore. We were sponsored by a micro brew, though, so there was always plenty of beer. Just no food.

I took out my wallet. At least that was still there. The two $100 bills that I had stashed away for emergencies had dwindled down to 7 quarters. The Promoters had missed every payday so far, and I was flat broke. I never made the dinner provided by the venues. I worked too long on the wall. The Tour couldn’t afford enough roadies, so my partner and I did the work of 8 men by ourselves. Usually.

Angie Walton used to help. She of Daily Bread fame. When she wasn’t flirting with Bradley of Sublime. That was during his “Clean” phase when he wasn’t doing drugs or cheating on his wife, according to the biography on VH1. Would it be improper of me to say that they were smoking pot and fucking?

Probably.

Tony Hawk even helped once. I was blown away. He told me he was in awe of how brave climbers were.

I had a hard time digesting that.

I had just seen him deck off a 20 foot, back-side air. I mean, Tony Hawk missed the ramp entirely and hit the deck…and bounced back up in the air at least 3 feet. He broke 2 ribs and didn’t skate for about a week.

He got back up and waved at the screaming fans. He wouldn’t let anybody help him until he got inside the bus. It’s the ethic of the skater: you ALWAYS get back up. No matter how much it hurts. I liked that. I adopted it as my own. And now I was standing here with this legend, an extreme sport hero, Tony Hawk, and he was telling me I was brave.

It was one of the proudest moments of my life.

I made my way down to a 7-Eleven. The air was cool inside, but the clerk was already looking at me crosswise. I got to the deli. The sandwiches were too much, and no matter how drunk I was, they always seemed a bit dicey.

That left Tina’s Burritos.

A foot of pure lard and something brown and spicy not meant for human consumption. I felt safe with them, though, because you nuked them. Nothing could survive that. If you were lucky the clerk wouldn’t notice you dumping nacho cheese on it as you left.

I had eaten a lot of these over the past month. I ate whatever gas stations and truck stops had to offer since I never made it to dinner on time. I’m sure that added to my deteriorating health.

I went to grab one and reality set in: $2.25. Fuck.

I walked outside. My stomach was howling. I leaned up against the stucco and collected myself as best I could.

Excuse me, can you spare 50 cents? I really need to eat.

I guess I looked pathetic enough. It only took twelve tries.

I walked back into the store. Felt the cool air on my skin. Smelled the stale coffee against the scent of cardboard. And there it was. Another meal.

I took out my wallet to get the final 7 quarters, and looked at the last thing in my wallet worth anything:

Brandee and Courtney in the backyard. Blissful. Digging a hole to China, Daddy, to China. Itty Bit with a plastic shovel and a wild-eyed smile on her face. Brandee with her favorite green dress on…the color her Daddy loved the most. Beautiful and happy.

I walked out and dropped the quarters into a payphone.

Hello. Larry is not here. He’s gone right now. Larry, if this is you, I’ve taken the kids to my mothers. I’m leaving you.

Click

I walked back to the compassionate ants and laid back down. The sun was high in a burning sky. I didn’t feel anything. I wasn’t even hungry any more.

I tried to go back to sleep

if I could sleep,

if I could just sleep

if my eyes would close,

and my mind would stop

and I could really sleep

then this didn’t happen, none of it

no…I wasn’t sick

and I could get home

and my job would still be there

and my girls would be laughing in the backyard

and I would hold them

and smell the flowers of their impossibly soft hair and I would help them find China and…

I woke up among the ants.

I had a large bag of Doritos on my chest. And a post-it note on my access badge:

Larry, you look like you can use these more than we can. Hope things get better.

They actually took the time to look at my name.

I walked to the van and grabbed two pint bottles of Black Dog Ale and ate the Doritos for breakfast. The Tour always had plenty of beer, and I always wanted to be drunk.

I rubbed my eyes and walked slowly back into the heat and reality.

You always get back up.

Larry Kuechlin

Copyrighted, 2007

Part of Along a Ruined Sea, by d/e/a/d/b/e/a/t/ Publishing

by_p0rg-d3eny0f

HOME, MY PLACE OF LOVE
Home is where I retreat to find safety from pelting rain,
 Warm and inviting.
A safe harbor holding captive raging waves of the sea.
 Dry and secure,
A nook where I may embrace the company of only me.
 My companion on a lonely day!

Home is where I hang my hat on a hook forged by experience,
 Weary battles won and lost.
A familiar curve winding to grab worries from my hand,
 Tossing them to the wind.
A rusty nail is polished smooth by the sifting sand.
 Jagged edges ground away!

Home is where I unwind to dream lavish dreams of ‘morrow.
 Who shall be my king?
An oasis where castle is designed from a run-down shack,
 Walls created by the beholder.
A grand abode that replenishes comforts that I do lack.
 Peace dwells in my soul!

Home is where I give thanks for blessings of enduring shelter.
 I enter in with thanksgiving.
A playhouse where I frolic and toss moonbeams of delight,
 As rainbows dance on the ceiling.
A nest cuddling me in hope from night ’til morning light.
 Home is where happiness is!

                     Home is where I find love,
  you!

www.ladyoflovepoems.

Sheila Kline