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No ... Not Ever Joanne Cucinello

My Way Ivana Plucinski

Freedom Jamie Alan Rhines

To All the Poets Rain (Ray Neighbor)

hope in unison Rio and Mamta

No ... Not Ever -by Joanne Cucinello

Where does a mother's soul begin and end?

Where does that long cord wind

from deep within . . . out to the heavens?

Does her heart find its beat and rhythm

in the eyes of her child?

I don't know, except that

I have felt such love immortal

and tender

so soft as a tiny sparrow

come to rest in my palm

and then sometimes that strange

and quiet sadness

that would tear my heart wide open.

My child

once a sweet tenant

in my womb . . .

once a part of my every breath,

the presence, the knowing

that I was not alone.

Can a mother forget

that first scent of life born free?

No . . . not ever

till the earth becomes her blanket

in the snow one day

not ever . . .

Joanne Cucinello 2008

My Way -by Ivana Plucinski

I'm living by reasons of reasons
Forming manifest loops in my mind
As though there are no originations,
Only axioms of an elliptical kind
That were handed down as archetypes,
Concisely through ten thousand years or more
To the verge of obscurity;

Perhaps when Genesis was a boy,
He scratched some marks on the lavatory door
And succeeding generations,
Amplified primal porcelain dreams
In bold myths and expectations
Of power and glory, and mafia schemes
To create a great civilization
Where possession by theft would be norm.
The inner nature of man is to be a gangster.

Freedom -by Jamie Alan Rhines

I sit on the edge of disaster
in a parallel universe
swirling in coffee liquor
swinging on velvet ropes
listening to the pleasantries
of a new world disorder
on the 10 O''Clock program

of hate and discontent
wondering if I choose
choosing what I wonder
will put me on front street
in the middle of humanity's tornado
headlining one of those dingy nightspots
or the back of a milk carton
instead of living my life
freedom has become a disaster
I''d rather not discuss

To All The Poets - by Rain (Ray Neighbor)

here's to all the poets

who sat with just a pen

and labored into the night

to find the poems end

minds with words that drift

looking for a place to fit

that perfect little word

that seals the feel of it

broken hearted human beings

who struggle to express the pain

of how deep the hurt of loss is

that even words are penned in vain

to the writers whose lives are lost

whose only friends float deep within

simple words of gray and black

color their lives from start to end

here's to the countless writers

in search of that immortal line

that screams to all who read

i was someone...somewhere...sometime

hope in unison - by Rio and Mamta

Rain clouds dissipate,
caressed by your smile.
and the night forgets,
shadows on my skin.

I am the wilted spirit,
as it limps through.
Silver bows can be tied
with jaded fingers.

You catch fireflies,
since (we know together)
the universe glows
in their tiny bodies.

Ra throws a gold web,
as day stands still.
Even night seems to be
scrubbed with light.

I was the lone cypress,
hunched over on a cliff,
until you reminded me
my branches grant shade.

You drop down
like a shooting star
out of Turkish blue skies,
with answers for me.

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