Poems and Poetry

Original Contemporary Poetry Human Condition

On Quicksand | A Poem by Roy Pullam

I hid
In the shadow
Of my blemished youth
To determine
What I should be
What would
Get me the acceptance
I so longed for
Bending with the wind
In order
To find my way
In the flood
Of adolescence
Seeking to defy radar
Be a ghost
That came and went
With whatever fad
It was miserable
Twisting myself
In a suit
Too small
Or one
That swallowed me
Trying to not split
The seams
Trying to hold
Up to an image
Too big
For the boy
I found myself
To be
Conscious always
That pretense could fall
And others
Would see
Who I rejected
But did not know
Maybe even now
He remains a mystery
A riddle
That has no solution

The Wife | A Poem by Richard Kalfus

The two of us, my co-worker and I
busy at our computers.

John took out his cell.
“Have to call THE wife, won’t take long.”
“What? “You want to call THE wife?
My surprise meant nothing to him.
At 59, he was very much “old school.”
Was he or I the fool?

My young wife had she been there,
She would have told John calmly
that using the word, THE, today,
was indeed rare,
and pejorative.

It lowered her to a “possession.”—
an object “his” property.

John was baffled,” but, but,
I love my wife…
She is my whole life.

My own wife, having recently
returned from the “Women’s March”
could have explained it all.

Would John have understood?

Driftwood | A Poem by Roy Pullam

The spring rains
Brought driftwood
Down the river
Depositing it
At the boat ramp
A mess
That blocked the launch
Of recreational craft
I saw her approach
Pulling a little cart
She gleaned the pile
Moving the limbs
Searching for the pieces
Bleached white
By the turgid foam
She eyed it
Rejecting some
Gathering others
She seeing a finished product
Something special
Where I only saw sticks
Her little cart full
She pulled it away
With glue, ribbons and insight
The rubble had new life
Cute folk art
She would sell
It is the artist vision
That sees beauty
When others
See only trash
It is the master
That reminds us
How narrow
Is our sight
How much
We have yet to see

A Creative Explosion | A Poem by Paul Tristram

The smell of freshly sharpened pencils
upon her slender, stained fingertips.
The taste of daisies and forget-me-nots
upon her pursed, concentrating lips.
She shudders, as her imagination
runs rampant up the throat of her soul
and bursts colourfully out of her mind
through wide, dazzling eyes.
Attacking the workbench with majestic arcs,
finger whips and thumbprint smudges.
Water is easy… it’s trickling the depth
whilst retaining the veneer that counts.
Fog… still has to be focused.
Trees… firework up out of the ground.
Hills roll or are monument.
The shadows… alive
or merely dormant, wasted spaces.
To trap ‘Energy’ within a single teardrop.
To mirror a ‘Love Sonnet’ upon the reflection
of a mischievous, half-scowling raven’s eye.
To creatively EXPLODE from the roots of the heart…
out onto the page or canvas,
is the very difference between mere pictures and Art.

Visit Paul at https://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/.

Lost Boy | A Poem by Roy Pullam

The machine hummed
Forcing the air
In his tired lungs
I looked at him
The mask
Covering his face
His eyes closed tightly
The constant beep
Reminding me
He did not breathe
On his own
This was my brother
My childhood friend
And often my rival
As we competed
For every advantage
As I alternately
Fought and championed him
Drawing a family circle
Around him
Even when the circle
Became a ring
He was my blood
The child of my parents
They’re gone now
My heart to break
Without their succor
Hope faded
That all intercession
Had failed
That the end
Would come
With the turn
Of a switch
And there was nothing
I could do
But let him go

The Mountain Biker in the Rain | A Poem by Gareth Culshaw

I watched him spin
the rain back to the clouds.
The front of his cap
hid his life face.

A mobile phone took
hold of his hand.
He carried his hat
up and down the road.

The rain lashed down
but he didn’t care.
All he thought about
was the doobie

that waited to be swapped
with the moolah
that was folded in his pocket.

I watched from a bus stop
listening to the rain break
itself up, while he waited

to fix it back up.

Visit Gareth at http://www.gculshaw.co.uk.

Eighth Avenue | A Poem by Philip Lawrence

Five-thirty p.m., 1985,
A crowded bus.
The passengers generate heat as
The men stand round-shouldered
Reading newspapers, and we all
Sway to the rhythm of the city traffic.
I scan the rows for an empty seat and
I angle past the others, ignoring all,
Except for one.
He stoops under a worn gray hat,
An overcoat overwhelms his slight body
And his dark eyes glance from row to row
With urgency as the bus halts.
A seat opens and the little man
Moves toward the vacancy.
I am closer, and I will have it before him.
The man grips the overhead bar for balance.
He is short and his coat sleeve slides
To his elbow and faded blue numbers
Appear on his forearm.
They are clear enough.
I stand motionless as he slides by me.
There is room for him to pass, but
He steps sideways.
He does not look up.
He says nothing.