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Your Poetry Page
This is your poetry page, posted for one month and then archived on this page. I am looking for heartfelt romantic poetry, underground Beat Poetry, or anything that moves me. Uncensored to a degree but no overtly racist, sexist, misogynist, homophobic or Anti-Semitic or otherwise hateful poems please. I want this to be a spiritually uplifting selection of poetry. Have fun and send in only your best, up to 6 poems at a time by e-mail attachment, on disc or typed on paper to Ralph Haselmann Jr., Lucid Moon Poetry Magazine editor, 67 Norma Road, Hampton, New Jersey 08827. Include name, full address and phone number, e-mail address under each poem for my files. Only name and city/state/country will be printed under poem though.
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and day breaks gallant Steve Tompkins Fountain, CO and day breaks gallant  the irreverentgold glowa wildfire flash across dark skyburning bloodburning wind sheddingskeleton & skinfeel new shadows rising &twilight dyingancestral memoriesembrace resurrectionand dance to the beat of distant drumsthe beat of distant drums
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symmetry Steve Tompkins Fountain, CO in flight eternalmay the wind upholdthe sacred rhythmicrising of wingsdelicate the balancethe symmetry betweenthe eagle the arrowour earthly dreams
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Sensual Purchase For Small Emotions Ann Menebroker Sacramento, CA She bought the tiny Handmade porcelain cup For one of those Slow rainy days When pleasure Is taken With small Hot sips And swallows.
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Boardwalk Ann Menebroker Sacramento, CA When he was a boy his mother didn't love him once and in his heart the clouds of life shut off the light in anger he said a dirty word she hit him in the face lightning struck splitting his feelings wounding him forever and the marks woman went back to the kitchen to stir the soup not knowing her aim had shot away another duck on the boardwalk of her mothering
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Odd Hosho McCreesh Albuquerque, NM Looking up tonight, It just seems very odd. I am alive, I think, & all that being entails… The ceiling fans & pillows w/out pillowcases & daylight savings time & only 2 plugs in every outlet & the shapes we imagine in textured -roof shadows & the way she once held you & the ache of that & courage, all the courage we have everyday in almost everything & we barely even notice because we're doing laundry or brushing our teeth or cutting someone off in the commute-home gridlock. It's just very odd… I mean, why a surreal moment acknowledging the fact that I am indeed alive Ii I am constantly alive? It's just so damn odd… Muscle cramps & celestial alignments & the way things sometimes reflect perfectly in mirrors or windows & The way long strings always dangle from naked 60-watt bulbs to turn them off, on. The hum of electricity thru motors, turning combines & the machine cranks up, peaks, & marches on buzzing chewing chewing chewing us all up & I'd just as soon destroy it all as thumb thru a magazine or buy some groceries. So damn odd the way everything Seems to play out…
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Untitled David Portolano Bloomfield, NJ Man curses his situation Embraces the gloom The past he traces Ignores the present Worries about things Yet to happen Pondering them when He ought to be sleeping Never keeping promises Down on himself Ignoring accomplishments The glass not empty Believe me it's always full
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Temptation Helen M. Hoff-Winn Lambertville, NJ There was no time to think. I was pulled towards you like a magnet, I could not resist. Overwhelmed with intense desire and need, I held you near to me. Feeling your warm breath upon my face, as your soft lips touched mine, I knew instinctively I wanted all that you are, and all that you had to give. I would not settle for less, I needed to feel you next to me, as close as our bodies would allow. No space between us, like two pieces of puzzle we would slip together, with ease and perfection. Silently our souls dissolved into one spirit, as we lay within this rapture, feeling all the joyous wonders that come from this perfect union. Strangers that we once were, we are no more. Our hearts have led the way, taking us to this place, there was no time to rationalize, this time together had presented itself, and we took it within our grasp. We knew this time may never come again. Satisfying our every need, If only for these brief moments, we would be content. Together we would become one, our souls embraced, feeling all the warmth and joy that we generated from within ourselves. Sharing all that we are, giving of ourselves completely, without hesitation, and without reservation. Temptation had knocked upon our door, and we welcomed it, surrendering ourselves to this mighty power beyond our control. Temptation!
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Carousel Alison Kramer Carpentersville IL A carousel Goes around Majestic horses Bridled in jewels There is no music The girl isn't listening She is black and white While the rest Basks in Technicolor There is no carnival here No amusement themes The girl looks on In indifference And her feet try Once again to touch the ground.
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Two Fragments Of Heraclitus Les Wade Baltimore, MD crossing the threshold the future bleeds along the red horizon along the edge of vision the speechless night lies overthrown radiance becomes revolution the broken sun reveals its joy ecstatic uprisings in the luminous cities and we are suddenly carried forward out of shadows and other insubstantial places our eyes stained with light The waking share a world in common but the sleeping turn aside each into his private world uprooted morning our love is a hammer smashing the air desire for prophecy dangerous formulae and intricate hopes obsidian songs fill the mouth bronze tongue dagger piercing the skin of Heaven voice has found its outside and the surfaces of things splinter This is the force of it the poem is now a poster showing a hand reaching out from a crack in the cosmic egg an exit sign an escape plan hidden in a pack of cigarettes furtively passed back and forth in a vast prison yard a bridge impossibly suspended stretching to the vanishing point This cosmos, the same for all, no god nor any man has made, but it always was, is and will be everliving fire We inhale the smoke of burning dreams and begin our tasks in the discontinuous dawn the world must be rebuilt each day After so much darkness Learn to breathe fire in this wilderness of light
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Second Poem For Christina (1993) Robert L. Penick Louisville, KY I wish I could write a poem about seagulls or storm clouds Or children or the woods at the majestic crack of dawn Or the way your smile breaks at the earliest light, eyes Drawing lines on the walls around your warm husk of a bed. I wish I could write about the unspeakable beauty of a Solitary moment in its passing, the sight of a star falling Earthward, or rainbows reaching skyward in the damp mist Just after rain has washed away regret, leaving all things Clean. If I were half a poet I could write of all these Things and not this world-weary blather of sex, greed and Strong drink. If I were half a man I would hold you now With arms like a vise and a heart like a bass drum beating All the tattoo rhythms of my longing. I could nuzzle your Perfect ear with sad secrets, pouring my thin facts into your Empty zones and gaining succor through your acceptance of My obvious limitations. I could worship at the foot of Love's most exquisite host and offer up hourly amens to your Faultlessness. The very existence of my love for you Draws God's indignation.
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The Girl In The Photograph Robert L. Penick Louisville, KY She sits, much more than pretty, in a short black dress and red Santa's cap. It must be December. With pale skin and auburn hair delicate features, closed hands she looks like someone's little girl. But there is something moving Behind her eyes, a certain Uncertainty, an unsteady bravery As if she is holding an unfamiliar Cold hand while traversing The stations of night. Both poems from Robert L. Penick's new chap Blue Forms: Selected Poems 1990-1998, $3 from Chiron Review Press, Michael Hathaway, Editor, 702 N. Prairie, St. John, KS 67576-1516.
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Nightflowers Kelley Jean White MD Philadelphia, PA I was hitching with Ian, that was the kind of thing I did, No money and nothing to pack; Just squeaked out of trouble crossing Back into the US cause these guys we rode with were carrying Dope in film cans in their pack frames But the guards let us cross somewhere over New York State Maybe because we were kids and I was working For the Forest Service and Ian had dual citizenship (or maybe it was triple, him being a Micmac, Indian and all.) We'd had to walk for a long time cause first it was suburbs, Too perfect and people didn't want us And then it was woods and woods And nighttime and raining or fog Or damp air and dark and we didn't hear The man come up at all Not at all on short legs just the sound Of a match being struck And we had the calm of damp air and dark With us and Ian said, steady like, ---get the knife out the pack, babe--- these old child eyes were looking at him, at the dark braids and his scarred cheeks and his rawhide bound arms; I recognized the eyes and the scraped skull; Ian made a show about strapping the knife to his leg; I bowed a little and lifted my eyes and said--- Sir, I have no French, but I have read you in translation, Our Lady, when I was fourteen, The Balcony and The Blacks last summer--- Ah---this Stranger took my hand and raised it but did not kiss--- A reader, I am honored, a reader, and in this place… There, they gave champagne and dry cheese on little bread And talk and talk but no hearing and no reading so I leave--- A truck forms out of fog, two painters hoping for An open bar at two am and Genet, If it was Genet, sat on the seat between them, Quickly asleep, head back, mouth open Child legs short swinging Above the floor and Ian and I Lay on tarps in the back and saw stars opening Out of the mist, so many, wind and paint cans tapping, So many stars, flowering, so many, out of darkness, So many, and one day I will know the names
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