Myself

I have to live with myself and so
I want to be fit for myself to know.
I want to be able as days go by,
always to look myself straight in the eye;
I don't want to stand with the setting sun
and hate myself for the things I have done.
I don't want to keep on a closet shelf
a lot of secrets about myself
and fool myself as I come and go
into thinking no one else will ever know
the kind of person I really am,
I don't want to dress up myself in sham.
I want to go out with my head erect
I want to deserve all men's respect;
but here in the struggle for fame and wealth
I want to be able to like myself.
I don't want to look at myself and know that
I am bluster and bluff and empty show.
I never can hide myself from me;
I see what others may never see;
I know what others may never know,
I never can fool myself and so,
whatever happens I want to be
self respecting and conscience free.

By Edgar Guest

The Most Beautiful Flower

The park bench was deserted as I sat down to read,
Beneath the long, straggly branches of an old willow tree.
Disillusioned by life with good reason to frown,
For the world was intent on dragging me down.

And if that weren’t enough to ruin my day,
A young boy out of breath approached me, all tired from play.
He stood right before me with his head tilted down,
And said with great excitement, “Look what I found!”

In his hand was a flower, and what a pitiful sight,
With it’s petals all warn down-not enough rain, or to little light.
Wanting him to take his dead flower and go off to play,
I faked a smile and then shifted away.

But instead of retreating he sat next to my side,
And placed the flower to his nose and declared
with overacted surprise,
“It’s smells pretty and it’s beautiful too.
That’s why I picked it; here it’s for you!”

The weed before me was dying or dead.
Not vibrant of colors, orange, yellow or red.
But I knew I must take it, or he might never leave.
So I reached for the flower and replied, “Just what I need.”

But instead of him placing the flower in my hand,
He held it mid-air without reason or plan.
It was then that I noticed for the very first time,
That the weed-toting boy could not see, he was blind.

I heard my voice quiver, tears shone like the sun,
As I thanked him for picking the very best one.
“You’re welcome” he smiled and then ran off to play,
Unaware of the impact he’s had on my day.

I sat there and wondered how he managed to see,
A self-pitying woman beneath an old willow tree.
How did he know about my self-indulged plight?
Perhaps from his heart, he’d been blessed with true sight.

Through the eyes of a blind child, at last I could see,
The problem was not with the world; the problem was me.
And for all of those times I myself had been blind,
I vowed to see the beauty in life, & appreciate
every second that’s mine.

And then I held that wilted flower up to my nose
and breathed in the fragrance of a beautiful rose.
And I smiled as I watched that young boy,
another weed in his hand,
About to change the life of an unsuspecting old man.

 by Alan D. Brechbiel

On Joy & Sorrow

In our lives we seek only Joy and Happiness,
and damn the sorrow that plagues us;
Never acknowledging that the one
cannot exist without the other.
For our Joy and Sorrow are inseparable
each providing definition for the other;
Just as there can be no shadow without
the brightness of sunlight


It is from the depths of our Sorrow
that we gauge the height of our Ecstasy.
The mountain seems all the more majestic
when seen from the valley floor.
The deeper that our Sorrow carves into our heart
the more room to fill with our Joy.
And the well from which our laughter rises
must first be filled with our tears.

By Dag & Maya

The Byzantine Portrait

It has blue skies and sunny days
Its a picture that exudes joy and create smiles
It a picture that is graceful in all its ways
Its a picture that's captivating  from  miles

This picture is entrancing, its colours will make you kneel
Its manipulative, like it has a mind of its own
To many  this picture is an achilles heel
This picture has the ability to turn hearts to stone

It has gray skies and rainy days
Its forboding dark clouds induces sad feelings
Its antagonistic and paradoxical in so many ways
Yet this picture give explanation to a myriad of meanings

This picture is confusing and difficult to comprehend
Those blinded by it are moisturized with euphoria
Those hurt by its design are caution's best friends
Its like they're vitiated with a kind of trust phobia

By staring at this picture you’ll l become hypnotized
But by just staring at this picture you wont see the art
For this picture is equivocal if you’re looking with your eyes
To truly see this picture you must look with your heart

This picture takes you on a journey when ever your eyes glance it
A journey full of roses with long peaked thorns
This journey is perilous you’ll just have to chance it
It’s much like an handshake, just trust in the grasp it forms

This picture can be afflictive if you’re viewing it by yourself
It will have you imagining and remembering like that's its sole duty
Your heart may feel heavy like its carrying books on a shelf
When you hopelessly imaging, reminiscing about its beauty

This picture can motivate you to conquer your fears
and rise above
You see this picture is painted in hearts,
cause this picture is L.....

War

Every time that song plays people are left crying
Every time they hear its tune they grieve
It makes you wonder what it would be like dying
It encourages violence and joy it reaves


The brave tremble when they listen its lyrics
Flowers bend their heads in terror
This song is a grave song, no jokes no gimmicks
Yet some move to its tune with pleasure


Its rhythm induces death and pain
It steals all hope of a harmonious future
For it to cease many plead in vain
Please god tame this apoplectic creature


Some numb by its beats try crying but cannot cry
Some endeavour to run away from its melodies
Others with their hopes lost turn their heads to the sky
Wondering why they have to endure such tragedies


This is a long and enduring song
Many wonder will it end completely
Or will it in years, or months, play again.

Lost in translation

Poetry is not a thought expressed.
It is a song that rises
from a bleeding wound

or a smiling heart.
Just as trees are like poems that
the earth writes upon the sky.
We fell them down and turn them
into paper that we may
record our emptiness.
The words of a poem
are like the panes of a window,
through which you can see the truth
but keeps you ever separated.
To understand a poem,
you must see with your soul.
To write a poem you must

dip the pen into your heart.
For your dreams are like
a bird free in space
that in a cage of words may
unfold its wings but cannot fly.
For a poem is not a need
but an ecstasy,
a heart enflamed and a soul enchanted
The beauty of a poem is Eternity
gazing at itself in a mirror,
an image you see
though your eyes are closed.
You would know in words that
which you already know in thought.
But in the writing of the poem
you murder the passion of your heart,
for you cannot touch
the naked body of your dreams.