BE AT PEACE by Aldo Freishtat Kraas

Be at peace angels from heaven
Be at peace mother
Be at peace my friends
Be at peace my reverend
Be at peace my God
Be at piece my saints
Be at peace birds
Be at peace Mother Nature
Be at peace sea
Be at peace farmers
Be at peace little baby
Be at peace fisherman
Be at peace moon when you shine at night
Stars be at peace also when you shine at night
Birds be at peace when you fly in the sky during the day

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Violin (Xiao Ti Qin): Music Is some Kind of Nutrition

 Violin player via google.com

She cried for all the broken hearts,
Painted everlasting winters -
Floral patterns etched in ice;
A frozen tear to
Soften up the bastard bones.

Bow made love to needy string
In cooing fling - wanton whispers
Fondled under pianissimos,
Caressing callous hearts.

Melodrama swayed in satin sound -
Yet the player wasn't there,
Only creamy song - soothing, yearning,
Teasing bitter minds.

I sensed her persevering loneliness
For beauty of an evening,
Romance of a tune - laughing,
Sobbing at the fire.

Then a climax -
Writhing passion cutting deep -
Wounding macho flesh;

And all in a work of musical art:
Ephemeral stories, yarned of music
Honed impossibly through her tones.

Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010

image credit; google.com

Hourglass

 The ocean is a blue cliché,
The pink sunset a rough-edged neon light through the smog.
Sand and seaweed scuff my toes in the tender spots,
Pillow the tough heels of my wave-buried feet and
Slowly cover my ankles.
There is sand everywhere,
On my face and hands,
Carried by the waves onto my clothes,
Even in the air as it is flung back,
Back into the sea that will toss and churn it
And round the sharper grains
So that some child's small pink feet
Will one day feel them,
Soft under the soft-skinned toes
Of one not even thought of yet
On our sand grain of a world.

Copyright © 1994 by Katherine Foreman.

 Google.com images on free verse, thanks for the informative introduction...

Cipher By Bin Ramke

Privacy privileges an inside. We are social creatures we are
told. Words get out, outside, and when our mother began
her disease she knew the difference, inside versus inside.
Deprived, she spoke even when eating, when she could eat.
Then she could speak but not swallow so a hole was made in
her where food could go in. Then she could no longer speak
with her always, always I carried a notebook too but she could
hear so I did not write. She wrote but then her hands shook
and then she did not write and did not eat and did not leave
her house her room  her bed and there is a kind of breathing
called Cheyne-Stokes which she did which was a sign the
boundary between inside and outside was growing firmer.
sharper and then the breathing stopped. Her last not I kept
I have been trying to decipher. I know some of the words.

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Trust Is A Must

Magic can happen from writers' fingertips,

Since a thread of muses strengthens,

The world is seen in corridors of imaginations,

Emotional and raw,

A poem may not mirror one's mood at all!

If issues thrust,

Trust is a must.

Opals of envy don't fit,

Sheepish hesitations can wait,

I yearn to embrace

omens in faith.

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