You're the Poet

If you'd like to share your favorite piece of poetry, send it to us by e-mail. We'll publish the most interesting works on this page.

Laurier Chevalle sent us a poem about loneliness.

Without you

I cannot refrain from the memories
The pain and the reveries
The cold eyes of a bright day
Because empty is where you used to lay.
How vengeful time has become
Now full of sour moments
That was once sweet.
The dread of nighttime as it looms
The vacant ambience that ensues,
The norm.
Sorrowful melodies, effusive, apt to my wit
In these I helplessly wallow.
Consumed in the shallow rafts of my self-pity.
Periods visit and depart, fallow
Whiled away with engaging nostalgia
Echoes of your cries and laughter
The whispers ring out loudly and clearly
The intensity of your presence fills the air so powerfully.
Love has created a bond
That time can never break
Not for a second.
With every breath that I take
I miss you.

Eric Norris is a poet who lives in New York City. He has sent us this poem which he wrote last year.

Love Song

If you are lying in my arms,
Lie to me once more:
Your room is not so dark, my love,
The darkness hides the door.

So, let me put the candles out,
Put out every one;
Pretend (for fun) I haven't felt
This slight impulse to run.

Since now is all we have, my love,
And now a moment past,
Tonight may be too small for me:
Tomorrow is so vast.

Michael Bedward wrote this poem in the year 2000.

Flower

She holds out her hand
Palm upwards
Tiny and perfect
Flower ! a demand
But not like my demands
Hers are stronger
More certain
Empty of worry

I draw a daisy on her palm
She watches
Intent
Inspects it carefully
Then all smiling
Shows it to me
I've studied flowers
But she knows them better

Ali Faraz Ali has also sent a poem that he wrote himself.

Criticism of Poetry

The critics say all my poems are alike;
They only talk of you
Please don't blame the critics
They have only seen the poems
They've not seen you.
I don't need any criticism
I don't want any praise
I don't desire to be called a poet
I know only this,
All my poems are true
And I wrote them for you.

Juan Quiles sent this entry.

They are gone

on an empty field spanning the horizon to empty silence
besieged by a glistening sun, high up above in the sky.
somewhere, once when it was green and pleasant
children played; no care in the world to be shown.
buffered by towering mountains
capped by the whiteness of the snow
reaching for the heavens with open arms,
yet deeply entrenched into the depths of the earth.

the wind transports the silence that now inhabits this place.
from and to, blowing away remnants of this time now gone.
she can no longer irk the children,
they have marched away, look around but they are not to be found.

fragmented settlements once to the east
Now lie abandoned, they are gone.
voices, smiles, smells ... departed.
away from this once tranquil place hidden away in the safety of the past.,
valley guarded by gods of earth.
they travelled off, perhaps never to return.
the memories, the sadness yet remains.

disturbing silence that now inhabits,
replacing the terror and screams once felt
this field recalls, it bears the scars in its dryness.
they went away, fleeing from the pain falling from the sky.

perhaps all will return and children will play
bringing life back to this place,
and the sad mornings under a silent sun will be gone.

continued on page 2

Rochelle Jourdan wrote a poem about love.

Join Hearts

The World is changing, can you feel it?
The Universe is calling, can you hear it?
Unity is at your front door, will you let it in?
The reason of humanity is finally coming full circle, are you ready?

Fearing the inevitable plan will kill you, it is fruitless.
Your gangs across the lands can not stop the force which is taking over.
Burn up your hoods, KKK. Exterminate your swastikas, Nazis
because your power is weak against the power of Love, which is the only power.

Come join hearts, children of the Universe,
so we can do what was intended all along on Earth.
To live in peace and harmony with the common purpose of Love and Growth.

Revenge may seem sweet, ma'am but it wont take you very far.
In the end you will be screaming and crying for forgiveness
for the pain you've caused your own flesh and blood.
Stop causing hurt purposely.
Live happily and let others follow their own paths of happiness.

So stop fighting this wonderful planet and join hands to help all of
humanity wake up to what has always been in our hearts and souls!
Love will rule the World.
So much destruction and famine will make you see what is necessary
Lay down your weapons NOW and open your arms to the Universe.

(Written 13 January 1992 in Gau-Odernheim, Germany)

R.N. Friedland sent these three poems.

The Last Knish-Man

There are no more knish-men
on Pitkin Avenue.

No more flat knishes on waxed paper
sprinkled with too much coarse salt
so the crystals that did not adhere
slid off the smooth paper
on to the top of the sheet metal wagon,
or on to the wide sidewalks,
or off into the wind.
No more Litvaks.
No more Galitzianers.

Just black men in surplus greatcoats
burning beef fat in up-ended oildrums by the slaughterhouse.
Rubbing their hands, shaking and blowing on their knuckles,
passing a bottle, swallowing deeply to stay warm.

There are no more old tailors
not even Mr. Koenig, with numbers
tattooed around their wrists.

No more appetizing-store owners slicing lox,
or offering a taste of wooden-boxed cream cheese
to mothers' boys on the tip of a sharp knife.

No more push-carts,
No more delicatessens with spicy brown mustard
rolled up in small cones of heavy brown waxed paper.

Even Harry Cabot, who drove to Spring Valley with my father,
to buy milk, during the strike.
Even Harry Cabot is dead.

Brooklyn 14, New York

1956, and
Father Knickerbocker in peeling paint,
Dutch colonial dress, cane
and a beer,
peers down from the wall of Dominic's Grocery
over rectangular reading glasses.

A gallon mayonnaise jar
filled with clear liquid,
and a note taped, hand-written,
on sandwich wrapping paper, says,
"Tears of Dodger Fans.
Wait 'til next year."

Across 18th Avenue
the new two-tone Pontiacs sit idle in the showroom,
the live poultry market is closing,
the men with the horse-drawn wagons,
the one who sells javel water,
the other who sharpens dull knives and collects rags,
are finishing their rounds.

The breeze off of Gravesend Bay
is smooth and salty.
The West End rumbles overhead on the El,
where it turns down toward
New Utrecht.

In Whitey's, the boys drink soda,
smoke,
and re-live the perfect game.

Kings Highway

The wind roars up Ocean Parkway
and slices the Sunday morning volunteers
on the spot where Washington marched off
to meet Burgoyne in Long Island.

There's a mural in the high-ceilinged bank.

Now the icy wind freezes the windows thick
with the heavy moist condensate of the bagel bakery
on East Fifth Street.

Inside, platoons of doughy circles are pulled
from hot water, spread quickly on long narrow boards
and advanced into the ovens.
It is warm steamy and loud
with shouted commands and orders.
"A dozen assorted, no salt."
"Six and six."
Under their arms, the volunteers shoulder
the Times, the Mirror, or the Daily News.

The bagels that are almost too hot to hold,
will be frozen by the time they are home.
Its better to eat at least one right away,
plain,
and let the warm doughy softness dissolve.