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I’m not well. Can’t you tell?
Kinda low, so,
give me a dose of laughter.

Mirth will heal my every ill
and give me rest from my distress.
Now, give me a dose of laughter.

Glee can revive, keep me alive
and give me chance to happy dance.
So, give me a dose of laughter.

I’d crawl a mile for a smile;
but to get relief from my grief
I need a dose of laughter.

Isn’t it plain that I’m in pain?
You can relieve if only you’d please
give me a dose of laughter.

Laughter is pure and can surely cure.
What ails my heart would soon depart
If I had a dose of laughter.

I can’t be strong for very long.
I’m sinking fast, unless at last
you give me a dose of laughter.

I don’t need a pill for my ill.
I’m just spent in lament
and require a dose of laughter.

I must retain what still remain;
but don’t delay, I’m in a bad way.
Bring me a dose of laughter.

Though insecure, I want to endure.
But I’m drifting and need uplifting.
Please, give me a dose of laughter.

Even though, I don’t know
what it contains that kills my pain.
Just give me a dose of laughter.

It works somehow, so come on now;
Let go of doubt, I can’t do without
My healing dose of laughter.

If you wait around I’ll surely be found
lying dead in my bed.
Rush me my dose of laughter.

Rev. Saundra L. Washington, is an ordained clergywoman, social worker, and Founder of AMEN Ministries, http://www.clergyservices4u.org. She is also the author of two coffee table books: Room Beneath the Snow, Poems that Preach and Negative Disturbances, Homilies that Teach.

On through the darkness she searches the bones
Seeking the hand of her love;
Deep in the stillness, the maid searches on,
Petitioning help from above.
Onward she gropes through the flesh and the blood
Of the warriors disfigured and maimed;
She carries no hope for the life of her love -
For naught but his body she came.
To see his face and cradle his head,
Hold him close to her breast;
Shed bitter tears at her sweet love’s end
And give him peaceful rest.

As dawn ascends the darkened sky
And the glow of morning breaks,
She happens upon a scene of peace -
Of death, where none awake.
Andrew is pierced by arrows, three,
David is struck by four;
She silently gives grateful thanks
He did not suffer more.

She reaches forth and takes his hand,
Her heart leaps in ecstasy!
“He is not dead! He is not dead!
His hand feels warm to me!!”

She knew she must act rapidly,
The sun was near the crest;
The hilly peaks that shadowed still
This morbid plain of death.
She broke the back of every shaft
Then pulled the rest clean through,
And taking his ankles with tightened grasp
Her strength and courage grew!
Pulling forward with all her might
They started across the plain,
A horse and portage waited there
To bring them safety, again.

Faint, a cry came from behind
A voice she knew, in fear!
“Andrew”, cried the voice in pain,
“Come…die with me here.”
Her mind now raced a hundred ways -
Must she return again?
Compassion and terror racked her mind,
Each vying for preference to win.
“David”, whispered her own true love,
And she knew she must give in.
Yet something haunted her troubled heart,
Urged her not to stay;
Leave David to die this honorable death,
Take Andrew and run away!
“I’ll not come between my love and his friend,
I would not even try;
For it would cause more grief and pain
For which I’d wont to die!”
So one by one she dragged them through
The moldering stench of hell
And safely returned to the retreatment camp
To nurse and make them well.

For days they lay near Death’s cold door;
She tended to their wounds.
And tended to others, wounded sore,
Who made the grave their home.
The crusading band, now broken down,
Their cause but memory;
Now turn for home, most who remain
They taste not victory.
The commander and a few brave men
Remain and do their best
To help some in their recovery
And give others peaceful rest.

Conscious now, gaining strength
And ready to be gone,
Andrew and David share their thoughts
On war and going home.
David speaks of raising men
And returning to the fight!
Andrew’s had his fill of death
“This war just isn’t right.”
“Your brother was no coward, son,
He fought most valiantly.
Let us avenge our Jonathan’s death!
You’ll change your mind, you’ll see!”
“At least he’s got a mind to change”,
A voice comes from behind,
“That’s more than you left poor Jonathan.”
The maiden speaks, unkind.
“What do you mean?!” Andrew cries
With anger in his voice;
He glances between the man and the maid
And knows he must make a choice!
“MY love, your brother did not die
At the hands of an infidel”,
The maiden’s eyes burst forth in tears,
“T’was someone he knew well!”
David felt his heartsick curse,
His curse of blood-stained hands
And wringing them madly, he exclaimed,
“How oft must I defend?!
It is not true, I’ve done no wrong!
T’was Providence’s will
That Jonathan would stand my way
And thus receive the kill!”
Andrew’s mind now fills with rage,
“Why could I not see?
The change that’s taken half your mind,
And nearly mine from me!
Now, through deceit, I’m driven far
Across this wilderness
To maim and kill these innocent lives
To set my soul at peace!!
I curse you David, I curse your breath,
May conscience tear your heart!
May your soul forever burn -
I can only mourn your loss!”

David cries in anguish deep,
Andrew prepares to leave.
The maid must bear her anger out
And turns as she makes to leave;
“You were caught up in the joy of death,
Caught up in the thrill;
That caution had escaped your hand
And Jonathan you killed!
You glory not in the cause of truth,
You do not seek God’s will,
You glory not in His good grace;
You glory in the kill!!”

Deathly silent David falls
His mind recalls again
The look upon his true friend’s face
As his life before him drained.
Sanity leaves his weakened frame,
Revenge is in his eye!
T’was Andrew’s fault his friend is gone,
T’is Andrew’s turn to die!
An evil smile forms the lips
From a vile, cankered brain
That gropes to plan young Andrew’s death
With a maximum of pain!
“Let him die before my eyes
With a maximum of pain!!”

(this is an excerpt only)

Bob Curtis has been writing articles, short fiction and poetry for over 30 years. He is the managing director of http://www.people4people.blogspot.com, and is the president of Nexus Publishing, http://www.nexus4u.blogspot.com

For information on obtaining a complete manuscript of “The Crusader”, write to nexushelps@gmail.com.

Azra, Azra,
Wake up Azra.
Wake up Azra,
It is time to go.
Go where you must
But hate to do so.
Azra, it hurts me to say,
But you are the way.
Wake up Azra,
You have to go.

Azra, Azra,
You are made of gold,
But the gold, I cannot hold.

Wake up Azra, you must go.
I know Azra,
The world is cruel world.
This world is not yours or mine.
This world is not the one
We want to be.
This world is not
For you or me.

Azra, my little girl,
Your magical power,
Your ocean blues eyes,
Your smile of innocence,
Your body like a bud of rose
Is what will save us all?
It is your sweet innocence Azra,
That our lives depend on.

I know Azra it is not fare.
I know Azra it is too much
For you to bare.
But you see Azra,
I do deeply care.
For I love you more than you
Will ever know.

It is you Azra
That will save us all.
Wake up Azra
For you have to go.

Oh Mother, must I,
Must I really go?
Oh Mother, don’t you know,
I am only five years old.
Oh Mother, can’t you see
My body aches.
Oh Mother, can’t you hear the screams-
The screams of my soul.
Oh Mother, must I really go?

Azra, Azra, my heart aches for you.
Azra I would love to
Instead of you, go.
You see my child
They do not want me.
They say I am too old, and
They want a little girl like you,
In their arms to hold.

Zora Teofilovic

In the midst of darkness, there is light.
In the midst of evil, there is virtue.
In the midst of war, there is peace.
In the midst of agony, there is ecstasy.

In the midst of night, there is day.
In the midst of illness, there is health.
In the midst of winter, there is summer.
In the midst of hate, there is love.

In the midst of grief, there is healing
In the midst of hunger, there is Bread of Life
In the midst of thirst, there is Living Water
In midst of loneliness, there is companionship

In the midst of sin, there is redemption
In the midst of catastrophe, there is restoration
In the midst of rain, there is a rainbow
In the midst of adversity, there is privilege

In the midst of decay, there is renewal.
In the midst of hopelessness, there is possibility.
In the midst of poverty, there is wealth.
In the midst of pain, there is joy.

In the midst of tears, there is laughter.
In the midst of anguish, there is pleasure.
In the midst of disappointment, there is satisfaction.
In the midst of futility, there is hope.

In the midst of the bad, there is the good.
In the midst of the ugly, there is the beautiful.
In the midst of the unholy, there is the sacred.
In the midst of the body, there is the soul.

In the midst of suffering, there is mercy.
In the midst of rage, there is calm.
In the midst of failure, there is success.
In the midst of death, there is life.

In the midst of all…. THERE IS GOD.

Rev. Saundra L. Washington, D.D., is an ordained clergywoman, veteran social worker, and Founder of AMEN Ministries. http://www.clergyservices4u.org. She is also the author of two coffee table books: Room Beneath the Snow: Poems that Preach and Negative Disturbances: Homilies that Teach. Her new book, Out of Deep Waters: My Grief Management Workbook, will be available in July.

Do you ever stare at the paper, waiting for poetic inspiration? Well, you can stop waiting and start using systematic techniques for creating poetry. If it seems too mechanical or artificial at first, don’t worry. The point is just to get you writing, because creativity is stimulated by work.

When You Have A Poem In Mind

If you have your topic, ask yourself why it’s important, and write down your answer. How do you feel about it? Write down those feelings. Write a line or a scene that exemplifies what you are trying to point out. Then, start rearranging the words into a poem. The main thing is to do anything other than waiting to stimulate your creativity.

Sometimes poems can come from a simple description. Write down a description of an event, and then find a way to form it into something more succinct and poetic. The poem below, “Religion,” was created in this way:

On the shoulder of Keystone Road
A woman was laying in the dirt
Calling out for help
While ninety-three christians
Fourteen muslims
And five jews
Drove by
On a sunny afternoon

When You Need Ideas For Poems

1. Look around and write down what you see.

2. Write about anything that you felt today.

3. Ask anyone for a topic and start writing.

4. Use random words, one per line, to create a verse.

The following verse was written in a few minutes using four randomly chosen words:

Our dirty little secret
Our sorrow none can see
Is not
For things we cannot have
But for things we cannot be

Poets can break through the worst writers-block, by simply using any “tricks” available to start writing poems. Try it. Even very artificial, or “mechanical” techniques will get your creativity flowing. You’ll find more of these poetic techniques in part two.

Steve Gillman has been playing with poetry for thirty years. He and his wife Ana created the game “Deal-A-Poem,” which can be accessed for free at: http://www.dealapoem.com

(The city by the bay of Northern California, near which the Pacific Ocean resides; the year is 1967)

Mid October seemed like some spring day,

When through the poised waters, dry as lead,
The ferry, like vague shadows that stand the dead,

Slipped down the curved coast of Frisco bay,
Rounded the Golden Gate,and San Francisco lay,
Before me, that gay city, pink and red,
Hippies covered Haigh Asbury’s homeless head,

My home, to be, I found stirring and grey.

The waves busted on the wooden-sides; fishermen

Nearby with long necks, looked and cast again.
Deep in emerald waters we wandered free,
When abruptly the bay currents were stirred

The ferry bearing restrained the great sea bird
Settling, like Asbury’s spirit, in the sea.

6/4/05 #708

Note by the Author: Sonnets are tricky little creatures, and although I started out to create one, I found I had to lay it aside, and create a semi-sonnet, for I did not want to lose tone, and spirit of the waters around the bay of San Francisco, and the echoes that came with it. I had lived there in l967-68 for a year. And many ferry rides were available for a few dollars. Some even chanced it by going under and out beyond the Golden Gate, and so it was the supreme achievement of my youthful years to have become a part of this fascinating city, in such a fascinating time period, one unequalled since the 1920’s when Hemingway and Fitzgerald walked the streets of Paris, and Scott, coined the term, “The Jazz Age,” back in l967, it was the Hippie Era.

I suppose for me, I do not feel bound by formal regularity to create a full sonnet, but in this poem neither did I want blank verse, which is unrhymed iambic pentameter. So this is what I came up with. The trip I took on the boat was actually with my mother, who came to visit me in the city by the bay, as I had gotten drafted to go into the Army, and onto Vietnam. It was a joyful memory for both of us, which lasted until she passed on in 2003; yes, we talked about those far off days in San Francisco, of which she only stayed for a week, for 35-years; what more can one ask for out an experience.

Poet Dennis Siluk web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com

Charlotte Bronte (1816 -1855) Novelist and Poet.

Charlotte was the daughter of the Rev. Patrick Bronte,with her sisters Emily and Anne, Charlotte was brought up in a small parsonage in the Yorkshire village of Haworth. Whilst still in her childhood the Bronte sisters lost their mother and as the eldest Charlotte took up the a role of looking out for her sisters Emily and Anne. Charlotte was described as: “the motherly friend and guardian of her younger sisters,”

The sisters had an unusual upringing in that their house overlooked the village graveyard. To escape from these surroundings and the loss of their mother they would often spend time creating stories of fantasy lands. These fantasy stories were often based on the soldiers of their strict, religious aunt, Elisabeth Branwell. Later in a poem Charlotte wrote:

“We wove a web in childhood, / A web of sunny air.”

After various efforts as schoolmistresses and governesses, the sisters took to literature and published a volume of poems under the names of Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell Unfortunately these early publications were a commercial failure. However this did not deter Charlotte and she continued with her novels such as “The Professor” and “Jane Eyre”. Jane Eyre proved to be tremendously popular with the public when it appeared in 1854. The novel has gained status as one of the classic’s of English literature for its originality and strength of writing.

Charlotte was married to her father’s curate, the Rev. A. Nicholls, but after a short though happy married life she died in childbirth in 1855.

Quote by Charlotte Bronte

“Conventionality is not morality. Self-righteousness is not religion. To attack the first is not to assail the last. To pluck the mask from the face of the Pharisee is not to lift an impious hand to the Crown of Thorns. “

Poem by Charlotte Bronte - LIFE

Life, believe, is not a dream
So dark as sages say;
Oft a little morning rain
Foretells a pleasant day.
Sometimes there are clouds of gloom,
But these are transient all;
If the shower will make the roses bloom,
O why lament its fall ?

Rapidly, merrily,
Life’s sunny hours flit by,
Gratefully, cheerily,
Enjoy them as they fly !

What though Death at times steps in
And calls our Best away ?
What though sorrow seems to win,
O’er hope, a heavy sway ?
Yet hope again elastic springs,
Unconquered, though she fell;
Still buoyant are her golden wings,
Still strong to bear us well.
Manfully, fearlessly,
The day of trial bear,
For gloriously, victoriously,
Can courage quell despair !

Written for http://www.poetseers.org

For More Female Poets http://www.poetseers.org/the_great_poets/female_poets/

Written by Richard Pettinger

http://www.richardpettinger.com/

Black Blood, in Jeremiah’s Vines
[A Dream Poem]

And I heard the crackling of wood, and I noticed the Lord God had made men of wood, and fire came from his mouth.

Then the wind poured its grief upon usover our sins; and I heard the words for the seventh time, “Go to the mountains!”

Foolish people of this land pray and understandfor He cometh! Thereof, toss yourself to thy knees, for the roar of rebellious men will bleed: black blood, through the vines of Jeremiah.

Note: 5/10/05, 11:28 AM #639

Article

Writer Visited US
The Correo Newspaper
(Huancayo, Peru)
4-20-05 (page 9)

Dennis Siluk, renowned writer from the USA, was recently in the Mantaro Valley area and visited the Peruvian University “Los Andes” Language Center where there was pandemonium during his meeting with students and staff of the Language Center.

In a short dialog with the students he highlighted the ancient and beautiful Peruvian culture and congratulated the students for being involved in learning the English language; a language which predominates in the world and does not have frontiers, in communication.

He ended up his visit donating books to the Coordinator, Licensed Rigoberto Ricaldi Hurlado.

This is Mr. Siluk’s most recent article and poem [Poet/Author, Dennis Siluk: http://dennissiluk.trippod.com].He is a world traveler, and likes the mysteries of [in] life.He believes in the ghostly world, as well as the physical one;the Maya calender and its astronomy and mysteries, as well as loving the Inca legends, and the land of Peru. He also believes in the birth of a new world coming. Rosa Penaloza

Poet/Author, Dennis Siluk: http://dennissiluk.trippod.com

Mary Pat uses her gift of poetry in hopes to help others find their own special gifts. http://www.reflectingrace.com