Poems and Poetry

human connection poems

The Power of Touch | A Poem by Richard Kalfus

Touching others has profound meaning.
It shows to others that you care
to share both another’s joy and sadness.

A teachers’ touch to a troubled child.

A father talking to a teenage son,
discovering love for the first time.

A homeless man with a sign, “Need money for food,”
welcomed both my five-dollar bill
and my compassionate touch on the shoulder.

An aging parent who no longer knows who you are,
But feels your love and understanding
through your embrace.

A call to a grieving friend at the loss of a child
receives your touch through a consoling voice.

Women no longer have the exclusive right
to touch both men and women.

Men today may touch a long-time friend
as a sign of an enduring bond.

Medical experts all agree:
medication in tandem with a compassionate touch
can often effectively heal both
the physical and the emotional.

Never forget that by touching,
you receive a gift to yourself.

A young man approached me
when getting gas.
I did not recognize the man,
but he knew me.
This once homeless man,
now well dressed…
shook my hand and said,

“You helped me turn my life around,”
Was it my money or my touch?


Memorial | A Poem by Roy Pullam

He was not there
To hear voices
Praise him
He did not know
That hundreds of tongues
Would speak
Of his loss
Piling accounts
Like kindling
On a pyre
Of fellowship
The warmth
Amidst the cold finality
Each knowing
Funny stories
He told with relish
The joke
Always on him
Of visits
To the hurting
Even though
He hurt worse
Hiding the pain
As he reassured others
No one knew
The extent
Of his wounds
Each would willingly
Share his troubles
To carry his burden
As he
Had shared theirs
But he chose
The final out
A decision
We all
Have time to regret
Maybe we will learn
Listening deeper
To what they feel
And not
Just what they say


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.


A Peek into Humanity | A Poem by Donal Mahoney

I get an email every day
from a man I don’t know
and doesn’t know me.
Many people receive
blind copies of his emails.
We’re members of his army
of undisclosed recipients.

Too long a story as to how
I got on his list of readers
and I don’t have the heart
to ask him to remove me.
Sometimes he says things
no one else would say
to strangers, family or friends,
a peek into humanity
through a different prism.

Today his email was short:
His wife’s surgery went well.
The doctor removed her ovaries,
tubes, uterus and tumors.
To the best of his knowledge,
no cancer was found but
there are no lab results yet.

His wife is exhausted, he said,
and planning to get some sleep.
He asked friends not to call
or visit today so she can
rest up but it would be okay
to call or drop by tomorrow.
Could be his wife will be
up and around by then.

Visit Donal at http://eyeonlifemag.com/the-poetry-locksmith/donal-mahoney-poet.html#sthash.OSYzpgmQ.dpbs=.

West Lane | A Poem by Stan Morrison

someone left a shoe in the middle of the road
a single black shoe on the blacktop in the rain
a trailer park, med office, gas station, veterinary clinic
provide the boundaries of this wet intersection
a specific shoe, color, left or right, size, brand
an amorphous detail of who, when why, how

we see each other in superficial terms
often devoid of any human details
the rain washes away the clues
the light turns green
then we drive away