#4 The Power of Poetry Anthology
w.w
Nirvana,
Ice grows over your mirrored surface;
yet reflections only grow clearer,
images busied and refracted, hungry.
The view from my window; spent light
in streaming eyes. Sorrow is not gone
in this place. Do not be mistaken.
Babies cry with their first breath; do
you blame them? The days layered
like folded sheets spell a tragedy.
For whom? Not I. My tea is warm,
my door open. Crickets call my name.
©
In this exquisite poem,
reveals an uncanny ability to blend stark reality with profound beauty. Each line unfolds like a delicate work of art, offering readers glimpses of both the earthly and the transcendent. , your poetic finesse in weaving raw emotions with the comforting notes of everyday life is nothing short of inspiring. Your work is a gentle reminder of the nirvana that can be found in life's simple moments.Please continue to share your remarkable gift, lighting the way in the vast sky of contemporary poetry.
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post traumatic observation #2
I keep going to the moment when he produced the gun
the the steel pressed the flesh of my temple
his crazy eyes
mouth screaming "I'll drop you"
I have no control in this moment it seems
I'm doomed to live it over and over and over
despite the fact that Nico never pulled the trigger
he is a trigger
gateway into the rush of anxiety
that yields explosiveness far exceeding
any gunpowder and hammer.
by Edward Storm
The Master and the Student
Emperor of Huckleberry ice cream
waters Idaho gold a shade of green
while hanging our clothes out upon the line
these fine pilgrims raz the cell tower pine.
Trimming away the sad old rose thorn,
the sea farer cries, and gives this his scorn
ignoring the sad old campfire songs
when Kubla Khan’s pleasure court sounds the gong.
Sit with a pipe full of Oregon weed
and watch the black billed magpies fly and feed,
at last, we have a king who shares his rings,
goes deeper into the nature of things.
We ain’t got sun valley money honey,
drink from a jar he placed in Tennessee.
Note: This is a Trojan Horse Sonnet. Six couplets concluded by two lines that do not rhyme.