Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Photo Courtesy of Dave Rubio, California
Sandra Kegebein, James Keane,
Catrina Porter and Charlene Pratt
Fill your palette from the colors of my heart.
Soften my hardened hues with your tears.
Mix my heart with yours
Until you have the perfect blend.
Infuse our love till every shadow clears.
Use soft strokes to define delicate places
Only the artist's eyes are meant to see.
Streak my hair with highlights
From the ocean's morning sun.
Touch my skin with rose-blush ecstasy.
Apply each layer to stand the test of time.
Let your signature reflect a moonlit stroll.
Then, with slow and steady hand
Prime the surface
And paint me on the canvas of your soul.
Soul is said to be irrelevant,
just an immaterial entity...
how can this be
when it's the only part of man
that goes on living for eternity?
body, heart, and mind
will cease in the grave,
yet soul lives on
it's the only part you take
when you face the ultimate exit
and cross that final portal.
the senses-five take in
all materialistic effects,
yet the integral picture it cannot set
nor contemplate the whole
without one to animate and create
the vital principle...
the one that generates
the emotions of the heart
Sandra Kegebein is a reserved yet passionate poet from Southern Georgia. Though new to writing, poetry has become her passion. She also loves the romance and mystery of lighthouses, experimenting with website creation and photographing people and nature. These poems are only a mere glimpse of her talent. Please check out her other writing at writerscafe.org.
with my sullen eyes rooted, love
for another bounces
blindly as an abandoned
bamboo pole harangues me,
hard against concrete. This
bamboo pole refuses
to break, refuses
even to bend or shake as it
winds up slowly
pinned against my feet. But then
this love for another, rudely
awakened, simply rolls in the end
down the road not taken,
solid as the sullen eyes
blinded as an architect’s
no excuses when, unlike the sympathetic
day, night chooses, induces a solitary
soul to look beyond itself, past the moonlit
hole it sleeps in till its emptied body
trembles, beyond the unsparing darkness of
knowledge unbidden in the moonlight of fear it
resembles. When night knows no
excuses, voices mock from everywhere
but here, taunts trailing in the road, too clear
a dream to be anything but threatening. When
night knows no excuses, you’re abandoned
in your bed, first to deafening cries
of innocence you cannot hear, then to
failure’s glee, engulfing you in truths
you cannot bear
till the hour hidden from anywhere but
here disappears with the night, dead and
bright, leaving nothing but light
Behind you, adrift in snow forever
melting to a sea of gray
stars, gently a gentle wind
gathers, waving away the slush
from smirking around slinking cars to
soothe the nagging strands in the more
resolute way your violent scarf drags
down a ponderous overcoat concealing your
hands chilled to human clay, snags around
your swelling throat
until all that is breathing is nothing
that becomes you – forget the
sudden thunder that struck to
numb a dim day
with sad surprise. I remember your
mouth glittering, eyes adrift
in gray my frozen gaze could never
melt away. Even out in LA,
does the beauty of your snarled
daze a sighing street corner,
mocking the ways stillness
falls forever with gray snow
James Keane resides in northern New Jersey with his wife and son and a menagerie of merry pets. Publications that have published his poems include poeticdiversity, Half Drunk Muse, Lily, Plum Ruby Review, Open Wide, Southern Ocean Review, Autumn Leaves, the print anthology "Poems Written Whilst Staring Death in the Face," and True Poet Magazine.
I Am Like A Rose (A Tanka)
I am like a rose,
Complete with thorns, yet fragile.
A beautiful face,
Lost in a crowd of many.
Timeless, but not immortal.
My Cup Of Tea
The warm water
That steeps my soul,
Brewing my heart
A deeper shade
The heady scent
Of Vanilla Chai
Without the cream,
That silently drifts
Over the brim of
My world in transparent
Clouds of steam.
Stirring with ease
All my emotions.
With you until
We are one.
Brown Skinned Girl
Brown skinned girl,
Sweet as molasses,
Refined like sugar
Stripped from the cane.
Her feet are rooted to
The ground like watermelons,
Planted and waiting for
Mother Earth to let her go.
Her words are like
Fresh cut diamonds
From the mines of her soul,
Sparkling her full pink lips
With every utterance.
Brown skinned girl
With caramel eyes,
Hair the color of
Cinnamon on the stick.
Her mind is like the
That have stood the
Test of times, filled
With secrets and charm.
Her heart is like
Her home state of
She is a steel magnolia
With the desire to let
The good times roll.
Brown skinned girl
Who is a petite
Southern belle by choice,
An African Queen by birth.
I’m bound in knots
And bent out of shape
As you twist my words
And mold my feelings
Into a ball of confusion,
Leaving me to lie
On the ground like an
Unplugged and cold
Without power to
Untangle myself from
Becoming like the
Christmas lights in the
Basement where you keep
Everything you chose
not to deal with.
Catrina Porter is a 30-year-old female living in the Sierra Nevada mountains of California. Originally from Louisiana, she is single with no children. She enjoys writing, reading and listening to music. She has been writing poetry for nearly 20 years.
The Blue Moon Cafe
The air wasn't saturated with smoke, drinks were in colorful glassware filled with the taste of sweet, bitter, dry and sour.
Chairs without iron, or lightly padded, but filled with spaciousness, comfort of a folder paper in a number 10 with a window view.
Lights were soft, not a darkened room, aromas of fine cuisine, service of luxury. Colorful walls with washable painted menus, changeable like a piece of clothing. Continuous seats of comfort surrounded an outer brick layer, with light splashes of color.
The line of silk, linens, cottons, colors blending, some bouncing off each other, draping bodies always out the front door with feet in stylish comfort, couples, single, a party of four, group of eight, reservations should be made for an hour and 1/2 wait no matter the time.
Pings of steel drums, violins, long strings of a cello rise and fall of the tempo, increase the inner pace of eating, conversations with a hidden quickness...slow, quick, slow.
When it rained never knew when, if it did no one was ever wet, nor believed of Florida heat, days, nights, Chicago cold, wind.
No one ever gets enough, at least once a month, surrender to yogurt lunch for a week or so, an easiness of a habit without pain. Others with papers of green a weekly scene.
This place I love only opens during the blue moon at The Blue Moon Cafe.
The sharp blade slid across the tip of my finger, separating the skin, exposing flesh, the cut was deep.
As I watched the blood slide down my finger.
I felt the pain.
--air moving across exposed flesh.
Your words like granules of salt, seeping into exposed flesh, the throbbing, beating of my finger, mimicking the beating, pulsating of my heart.
The sting of your granules has touched my insides.
How much do I savor it, hold it, caress it, letting it envelop me, how long do I watch the blood trickle down my finger?
I place my finger against my tongue tasting the blood, your salt, holding, savoring the pain--
I looked at my not so exposed flesh,the bleeding has stopped. The throbbing, pulsating has subsided. How long did I hold onto to it, how deep was it?
The salt, your words, the wound that was in my flesh.
Charlene M. Pratt lives in southwest FL and has two published chapbooks: Notes on Thoughts (out of print) and Stir Fry Poetry. She also has a chick-lit book, Conversations with Women...thoughts you didn't want anyone to know you had. Presently she is working on serial pieces of romantica.
Her books can be found at www.lulu.com/thebookgallery, Amazon, Google and The Sand Dollar Bookstore in Venice, FL.