Poems

My rose vines are trimmed back.Winter’s harsh climate dida number on them.The clipping continue along withover grown toenails lyingon the porch. … [Read more...] about Spring Clippings, By: Mary Bone

Say, what is Honour? 'Tis the finest senseOf 'justice' which the human mind can frame,Intent each lurking frailty to disclaim,And guard the way of life from all offenceSuffered or done. When lawless violenceInvades a Realm, so pressed that in the scaleOf perilous war her weightiest armies fail,Honour is hopeful elevation, whenceGlory, and triumph. Yet with politic … [Read more...] about Say, What Is Honour? ‘Tis The Finest Sense, By: William Wordsworth

Do you ever think about death?Does it bring anxiety, a soul's unrest?So much sadness, so many tears.Missing loved ones, memories so dear.Sobbing in rivers, overflowing with pain.They hear your heartache, holding hands in the rain.The veil will lift, and your day will come.A time for rebirth, just walk towards the sun. … [Read more...] about Beyond the Veil, By: Teri Dourmashkin

When Ruth was left half desolate,Her Father took another Mate;And Ruth, not seven years old,A slighted child, at her own willWent wandering over dale and hill,In thoughtless freedom, bold. And she had made a pipe of straw,And music from that pipe could drawLike sounds of winds and floods;Had built a bower upon the green,As if she from her birth had beenAn infant of the … [Read more...] about Ruth, By: William Wordsworth

Her eyes of blueAnd the tears they shedAt the slamming of the doorAnd the pain in her head Too late to save itToo early to be freeTrite fucking platitudes“It’s not you, it’s me” Promises to be brokenAnd silences to keepQuestions left unansweredNo peace to sleep Screams become whispersIn the space betweenTwo once joinedNow only darkness seen She stands aloneAs she … [Read more...] about The Ending, By: Allison Walters Luther