OPEN MIC ARCHIVES  January, 2007

Open Mic Encore I

Open Mic Encore II


A thought, a poem, a prayer and a story
Barbara Alyea-Welches 12.5.06
I wanted to read the poetry
I always did, there was no cost.
I hope I have not lost that avenue,
I hope it is not lost.
Each month for years, I read the lines,
and it would feel my soul and bless my mine.
But, November's has coming up missing...
each line and verse of those...
Who poured out their joy and misery...
to us who listened close.
Shall I not hear anything from December, 
as the year last and before.
Give us back our poetry.
Please do not close that door.


‘Twas the night before something
But alas to my dismay
In these politically correct times
What it is, I can’t really say.
Whatever I utter,
These days someone gets offended,
Even though I’m just talking
And no offense was intended.
I should stick to national holidays
But it would probably be my fate again
To wish someone a Happy 4th of July
An end up offending some Canadian.
So I’ve decided to just talk
And speak my mind out much bolder
So stop being so sensitive
And get that chip off your shoulder.
Though differences there are
In custom, language, and name,
When you take everything off
We’re all pretty much the same.
So the generic holiday character
These days now loudly exclaims,
As he whistles and calls out
The politically correct names
Now Tyrone, now Herschel,
Now Tatyana, now Juan,
On Melissa, on Devesh,
On Mohammed and Kwan.
If I have written anything
That has caused you some strife,
I say a Happy Holiday to all,
And just get a life.
Cate Espener - 1996
They say that plant life as we know it
will have vanished
by the end of the 21st century
I myself am fairly uncertain
about most things
Especially plant life
And what does a birch tree in winter
really look like
underneath that pale shimmering skin
and musically inclined leaf
Neither opalescent sea, nor dauntless sky remains a constant blue 
For I have seen at least one thousand shades of every hue - 
and still more arising out of nature's blind imagination 
Perhaps one day the hand will evolve into an array of perfectly formed touch-tone buttons 
And seeing itself metramorphosized Will whisper a song of regret to its past life.
Vivian Garcia
I would like to have wings
Like a bird and fly.
To look to all the countries
with a bird's eye.
I would like to bring peace to Humanity, 
Joining their hands with felicity.
To the children of the world,
I would like to bring,
The happiness to live in harmony.
The happiness to live without anguish and hate 
And a world without hostility for them to create.
Around the countries of the world
I would like to fly,
Spreading rain of peace from the blue sky.
 Then people in earth together would enjoy, 
Singing hymns of peace love and joy.
Falling asleep at work
I don’t know whether I am bored,
But I certainly am sleepy.
I’m on a sea of tiredness
My eyelids and head gently bobbing on its currents 
And before I know it, my mind goes blank. 
Not peace, but silence.
Then, I’ll slump a little too forward.
The falling arch of my torso is stopped by the line of my desk 
Snapping out of it, I hastily refocus- 
(Did any one see?) And frown  at my spreadsheet.
Keaton banks 
Yet another chance blown
to actually rise
from the discontent
I can see in your eyes
Are you lost?
Or has the river of failures
left you weak in despise
not a soul to hear
your pitiful cries
To torch the salvation
would be a honor well placed
on the shoulders of zombies
still to be braced
against the dyring throws
of those who chose
to be true...


  Carol Banks
There’s nothing there
that isn’t here
There’s no one whom
I’d rather see
So why the struggle
to be gone
Why the need to
move on?
Searching.  Searching…
always searching
Restless like the
flitting dragonfly
Incessant motion
erratic and meaningless
Hovering on a passing breeze
with no control of its direction
The World Is Big

               The world seems so big to a a person
                        As small as me
             My goals in life seem impossible to reach
             Too many things still left to be learned
               Not knowing which direction to turn
                 At times, I believe that dreams
                   Are only meant for sleeping
                     And why bother weeping
               Its tough to choose which path to take
               The path that which leads me to the
                       Life-changing gates
               And if I choose to mess up in life,
                   It's no ones fault but mine
               The world seems so big to a person 
                         As small as me

Selected Sijo
Bill Albright


Never beautiful, age comes easily to those who are so molified with plain 
Appearance, socially beyond the varied definitions of beauty, 
That which turns the gaze of beings seeking its meaning, as they do truth


Years compile experiences, from which we may ferment wisdom 
Applied or ignored to become the histories from which societies could learn 
To avoid the errors of doom, repetitious destruction, pain evermore.


Myths of gods, goddesses playful on Olympus, translate into models 
Ancient to contemporary, with stand-ins to match exaggerated heroism 
Impossible for mere mortals to realize, but act as reality incarcerated


Prophets are common as sand, small as rocks reduced to grit 
That sand, in times defined allotted to man, who becomes reduced 
By tides of lesser surf, ebb, flow, taking its toll on present, past, future.

Eric Franks
Put em’ on, Burly Brawn,
“That Roughish nose for breakin’.”
“Wear em’ well, give em’ Hell.”
Bright Glory for the takin’.
Battle starts, Primal hearts,
Bloodlust barely fettered.
Crimson haze and Feral gaze,
The race to Clash together.
Form is Grand, Futile stand,
Belly torn asunder.
Savage cross, Shameful loss,
Darkling Crash and Thunder.
Spittle spatter, jawbones shatter,
Spirit Burns and Rages.
And so Complete, the pangs are Sweet,
A fighter for the Ages.
William McGarvey
Aversion in the eyes of men
A mother weeps, dead child embraced
Rationalized hatred kills compassion
No war is holy
give me your love
 give me your hate
 and then,
 give me your gun...
Cate Espener 
Expressless Self
Mohammed Alghadfan
Can I trust that self anymore?
When it's abandoned the squares
Of my mind to despair in its homelessness, 
To dry off like a drunk tramp 
Embracing the chill corners 
Numbly, and skin my hollow hopelessness.
Trust it? when it's used to have
That monish face of a moody
Cloud; melt suddenly with Scottish music 
And stretched its angry sorrow 
Under the sun, 
Over an Irish meadow, 
Bursting into tears; thick and harmonic. 
Wake it? when it's used to be
A Gothic arch with demons, in the top,
Painting dark portraits of weeping willows 
Shaded Sapphic women sticking tongues 
Out, full of themselves, of things expressive, 
Of action that lives and cast its shadows.
Save it? When it's used to fight
Till the last breath as a dying old star with 
Hopes colonized but one; a magician 
Squeezes it into a supernova, then bombs itself 
To be a shameful hole in the face of 
Time that Stoops with his skies to the dead mortician.
Can I trust that self anymore?
When my body shrinks over it
And finds no place to hide its nothingness 
From the creaking bones whom it scorns 
For being motivated, inspired and boisterous, 
As it dries off and regain consciousness.
If God has given me life,
why is it slipping away?
It hurts so bad and I can't help it.
Still, I must not complain.
I know He loves all of us,
and that's why we're all here.
But why me? Why did he pick me,
to go through all this fear?
I can't control myself, I really can't.
For what i eat, drink or even smell.
It's all His fault, I know it is.
For He created me,
He made me go through this.
New York
Subways and taxis move blindly
Walking, I see the city 
By Monee
Marla DiGiacomo
soar to heavenly heights
high above the now
dwell lightly on the
wings of angels
take flight
i'll show you how

A poet died today

A poet died today like a total eclipse of the sun leaving behind his pen still full of ink the pages of his journal untouched his brain swollen from untapped inspiration every artist's greatest dream but he did not use them not because he did not know how want or to but because he was trapped in a world of fear doubt and low self-esteem

and so he did not want his writing

to disturb the waters to turn the table to change the world to wake the sleeping masses to create frowns to turn up nose by calling ugly ugly and stink stink he did not want his writing to go against the grain of society's holy laws against their Bible Belt religion against their patriotic wars so he stifled his creativity while his pen screamed calligraphy and his journal cried tears for words that will never be echoed by the souls of humanity


Crystal was the Night

by Ruth Walters


                                  The evening air was crisp and clear.

we walked the streets,

we had no fear.

We were so small and full of cheer

and Christmas soon was coming.


With laughter and with glee we walked,

glancing at the holly.

Looking at the pretty lights,

feeling oh so jolly.


We knocked on every door we could

singing carols sweet as wine.

Merry Xmas, Silent Night,

collecting money all the time.


Money jangled in our pockets,

we skipped along the streets.

We didn’t notice the cold air,

we’d wings upon our feet.


The stars were out,

they twinkled softly.

The moon looked kind of proud

to see us feeling happy.

No sign of any clouds.


Until the last house in the street.

We ran up to the door

A man came out and shouted,

get lost or I’ll call the law!


Bloody beggars, he called to us.

We wondered why he’d made a fuss.

We thought we’d earned our money

bringing folks such happiness.


I looked into the sky.

I’d never seen the stars looking so bright,

I was sure God would forgive us,

he couldn’t possibly be cross,

for our hearts were true and crystal was the night.


Author: Harry
Starry skies
are fire flies
to my shadow eyes.
And dreams I dream
are dreams unseen
like diamonds in a stream.
Without a touch,
to feel is such
that a glance is much.
Born to earth
my curse is birth
for who I am holds little worth.
I dwell alone
forsaking home
to seek the answers to all unknown.
And by my speed
I quest to be freed
for what am I without a seed
In heaven's heart
I hold no court
A drifting ship without a port.
Thus, I am
a mere footstep in sand.
The wrath  existence of man.
Miss Pretty mused on Death and Co:
The show of dying in her lunar bleeds,
The weeds and smokes that choked some ends
And sends the chain of smokers to their graves.
The brave and lonely soldier in a wasting war; 
The why and wherefore of the stillborn child;
The wild and burnt out ends of girls of pleasure; 
The measure of grief in a grain of sand; 
The hand of betrayal and the lying kiss.
All this Miss Pretty mused with her usual flair.
This life summed up in a single prayer.
Terry Collett
Approaching the Stone Dream
-Lys Anzia
It was after 
the movie show. Walking
up the alley behind Acequia Madre. I
saw the stone wall of your house calling rising 
fast and high above my head. And I   
asked myself. Who   
built these mud adobes one   
by one, brick by brick? What   
tired hands remembered the names    
of those who smoothed   
these walls? Who pressed   
the grass into this earth   
to make a home stand fast   
for a century as though it were   
only a small room? Approaching  
this stone dream I see the sky.   
It is a chamber now where ravens   
follow me everywhere.  

 You can read more at Open Mic Encore I

 You can read more at Open Mic Encore II


Poems Copyright © designated authors 2006.
Page Copyright © 2006.

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