BADGE OF HONOR
By Dori WheelerOnce, opaque, porcelain,
and nearly flawless,
replaced by fine lines
and furrows etched
into her face
like a cracked
china doll.
Her imperfections
read like a road map.
Each crevice shows
her experience,
wisdom and hope.
Heartaches as well as joy.
Laughter and pain displayed
around her eyes
and her mouth.
Hair that once radiated
copper, caramel and chestnut,
now glisten with streaks
of sterling amongst
her chestnut mane.
The silver and the etchings,
adorned proudly,
like badges of honor.
Poison free, with no nips,
and tucks, nor needle
injections, she refuses
to hang onto falsified youth,
like a junkie is addicted
to the dance as well
as their next fix.
Authenticated by her mirror.
Genuine as the love
driven through the highways
and bi-ways of her veins,
or the fuel pumped into her heart
from other's.
She's a natural woman.
Comfortable in her own skin.
No longer hiding behind a mask
of irridescent hues, or trying
with desperation, to hang onto
whom she once was.
She's becoming a Crone
with quiet dignity...
DORI WHEELER 2012
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
THE ADONIS
By Dori WheelerResembling a Viking Adonis,
or perhaps, Thor, God of Thunder.
He has luna tinged hair
with sun-streaked tresses
Beautiful...
Cobalt blue eyes smiled at me,
as he gazed into mine.
Levi's, faded
in just the right places,
and no shirt.
His tan glistened like dew
over his flexing muscles.
A real dish for my eyes
to feast upon. Caramel
dripping over vanilla soft-serve.
Mmmmmmm, so sweet...
His mirror reflected
something different.
Slashed to ribbons
by a double edged tongue,
the Adonis lacked self-esteem.
The youngest of six,
and family scapegoat.
A victim of circumstance;
Incestual...
Emotional...
Verbal...
Mental...
Physical...
A young prince, he resided
many years in a cement castle.
Razor wires, the moat,
all but a few of his adult years.
He was unable to contend
outside the barrier of those walls.
Chasing dreams.
Running circles.
Going nowhere.
A tragic romance,
or a horror story?
Perhaps both.
Difficult for the two of us,
like Romeo and Julliet.
A victim of fate...
DORI WHEELER 2012
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Bedtime Prayer.
By Jack CampbellBedtime Prayer.
Reading the book.
Last thoughts 'fore
going to bed.
Thinking on what Love is.
Thinking bout what it ain't.
Wonder'n if'n got it right.
Trying to sort all the feelings out.
Knowing it's a choice
to continue in Love
or lose this son of man
to unbridled hate.
Seeds of death
already been sown
Only time will tell
if they grow roots.
Would rather die Loving ya
than lose to rage and Hell flame.
Bless ya Love, always.
Grace in the Night.
By Jack CampbellGrace in the Night.
Get tired ya do.
Being tired ain't nothing.
Ya git over it.
Then there's this.
Git drug down
so ya can't move.
Had to bounce here and there
'cause the cops got their eye out.
Bought a room at the Best Western.
Hated to burn the scratch
but don't think could hang
'nother night outdoors.
Spitting rain already.
Got the wire anyway.
Somewhere radio playing
gospel station.
Willie singing 'mazing Grace.
Room so damned quiet
Just music coming through walls.
Like only sinner left in the world.
Memories ya see, it's the memories.
Used to run cross country
and Pops would drive up
to the race in Roswell.
Old Chrysler had cassette player.
Throw on Willie and let it run.
Then it would be Jerry Clower.
Pops like to laugh at the country jokes.
Pops was alway there at the finish
watching and rooting waiting
to see this son of man
come across the line.
Lunch then the drive home
with Willie playing...
So many times wanted to hear
ya play and sing; make music.
But ye had traveled far along
the road by the time Granddaddy passed.
Funeral, last one, Amazing Grace
how could you play it and not believe?
Room quiet now, just moving round
floor above, hear water running
through the pipes; folk showering
how motels are; sound carries.
Humming, then singing quietly
so as not to scare folk.
Amazing Grace, How Sweet the Sound...
Bum.
By Jack CampbellBum.
Bummed the town; only not much bumming.
Fuzz tacked onto this son of man this morn.
Noted the busted face and stitches
asked some uncomfortable questions.
Shined the man on. Told him fell down
the mountain drunk and got cut up.
Seems people fall down the mountain
a lot around here; questions stop.
Still cops dog the steps; can't sit for long.
Watched the planes again; always liked them.
Wanted to be a pilot once when a kid.
Grew up on stories about planes.
Pops, served in the army fueling planes
when it was called the Army Air Corp.
Back when Tojo and Yamamoto
Made their play for empire.
Pops frozed his ass off too
in the Aleutian chain; Attu and Kiska.
Waiting for the Japs to show up.
More'n three year he waited
'fore he rotated home.
Mom was a Rosie
wielding the bucking bar
in a Boeing Plant in Kansas.
Putting in the glass for Superforts.
Kid, just a kid listening to the tales.
always wanting to hear more.
Wanted to be fighter pilot
or drive the super bomber.
That dream didn't pan out
eyes went bad before fourth grade.
Glasses never really did fix the problem.
Dreaming didn't stop though, still wishing.
Folks dead and gone long time.
For the best really
at least can't shame them
by what have become...
Denial
By Beth Nationin this,
the last act
to feel something.
I run my fingers through
what is left,
face flushed with fever
eyes bright
and still
the tears will not fall.
BAN
Demon's Disguise
By Jonathan BurgessDemon's Disguise
Be careful young man as you progress,
for you have much to discern...
Demons menace the darkness...
conspiring to consume your soul.
Silently they lie in contemplation...
plotting their evil schemes,
as though you were the ultimate prize.
Casting their lots, betting the odds
that you will fall into their clutches...
Your heart pounds in terror
as you seek rescue from the darkness...
But lo, a bright light appears...
the darkness dissipates rapidly,
and demons scatter in terror...
fleeing you for their very lives.
Light slowly comes into focus,
and before you she stands...
radiant in all of her glory.
Her loveliness beyond exquisite...
she approaches you slowly,
mesmerizing you with her gaze.
She wraps her tender arms around you...
bringing you close to her bosom,
caressing you with the softest of touch.
Collapsing slowly into her arms,
you finally feel safe from the terrors
which have plagued you for so long.
But be careful young man,
you have much to learn...
For the most evil of demons,
is one we oft not distinguish...
She is easy on the eyes,
and appears as an angel...
Yet she will play hell with your heart............
JSB 5/18/12
Isolation
By Michael Wayne Holland
Loneliness, and isolation
spiraling, a cyclone needing
to be lassoed, its path
like a rustic obstacle course,
without a care or a bother,
desecrating mystic truths,
leaving behind bitter debris,
and stolen lives,
to all it consumed,
like a reckless baby
bouncing its way
over scattered toys.
BURNT ORANGE IN MY BOX OF CRAYONS
By Cronin Detzz
BURNT ORANGE IN MY BOX OF
CRAYONS - Creative Writing assistance from "The Crow's
Pen"
One of my fondest memories is sitting
at the kitchen table with my mother and sister, selecting
coloring books and then scattering a box of crayons across the
table. Choosing which page to color was a delicate process.
Sometimes it was just too hard to decide, so we would simply
choose the first un-colored page we encountered in our books.
Once we had chosen our respective pages, we faced another
important decision – which color? Our mother (“Ma”) didn’t simply
choose brown for the tree trunks and green for the grass. She
would choose any color she darn well liked and colored her own
fantastic world.
She didn’t “stay in the lines,” either. She showed us how we
could easily create circles of color by twisting the wrong end of
the crayon onto the paper. A bunny could have polka dots. The sun
could have stripes. She delighted in exploring her creativity in
this way. She once remarked that she wished she could color for a
living.
We found it hilarious that the crayons had such unusual names:
cadet blue, raw sienna, burnt
orange. I mean, who burns oranges?! If you want to explore
more fantastic color names, look at women’s nail polish. For
instance, I have a bright pink bottle named “shrimply devine.”
Crayola has had their share of crayon name changes: "Prussian
blue" was renamed midnight blue, and “flesh” became “peach” as a
result of the civil rights movement era. Clearly, color evokes
emotion – especially the color of our skin.
When writing with color, therefore, be sure to bring the reader
into your world by choosing the right crayon. Below are some
alternatives:
• Orange = pumpkin, carrot
• Blue = azul, turquoise, aqua
• Yellow = golden, sunny, daffodil, maize (corn)
• Green = pine, shamrock
• Purple = violet, lavender
• Red = crimson, auburn, apple flesh
Look around you and see how the colors affect your mood. Which
descriptors or objects could describe the color? You can
certainly substitute “tangerine” for “orange,” but is this simply
an expression of your wit or does tangerine really fit your
writing? Below is an example:
• GOOD: He looked up at the overcast sky and felt a sense of
sadness.
• BETTER: He looked up at the nickel gray sky and felt a sense of
sadness.
• BEST: Under an oppressive cement sky, he was crushed with the
weight of sadness.
See how the ‘cement’ can give a sense of weight while hinting at
color? Other ways to weave color into your writing includes
‘sunny’ dispositions, a youthful ‘rosy’ glow, or being infected
with the ‘greenness’ of envy.
Ma is in heaven now, and I’m certain that she is coloring
fantastic astral worlds, armed with a full box of crayons.
KEEP WRITING AND KEEP SHARING!
Traveler Readings.
By Jack CampbellTraveler Readings.
Reading Psalms.
Old songs from the Bible.
Might just seem like
some old myth.
But the dude who wrote it
Must've watched people a lot.
Seems like he knew them
inside and out, what move folk.
To do the things that are done
in the names of kings and princes.
To be hunted and despised--Hated.
He knew what it be like.
He knew what it be like to
stand at the top of the world.
To take anything he wanted;
anything he wanted--everything.
He knew what it be like to
Have his life stolen from him.
Everything loved taken away.
Weeping going over Olivet Mount.
If the book just be some stupid old myth.
Then why are tears shed for Absolom?
If it be just a bedtime story
Then why do atheists pray in foxholes
when they be put under the gun?
Read Psalms in the night
and some brought tears
and some brought comfort.
Some even brought hope.
Know one thing for sure though
that cemetery be the coldest damned place
ever to spend a night and try to sleep.
But that be another story...
Top Authors
Subscribe
