by Lawrence Spiro
This poem uses an anaphora or repetition of the first and last line of the first stanza that unite at the end of the poem. The poem is written as a villanelle. Observe the velvet tone of the rose and let it open just for you.
Comments or poetry submission? E-mail larryspiro@aol.com. Include permission to publish if you are so inclined.
Consonance and dissonance become one.
The pitch of pain and joy you do compose
Accept the one love and towards it run.
Life is the challenge that has now begun
to open the velvet tone of the rose.
Consonance and dissonance become one.
To remain separate plucks fulsome
in the low bass strikes of secrets pose.
Accept the one love and towards it run.
Let in the light that strikes the beating drum
for dancers that move to rhythm and show.
Consonance and dissonance become one.
Resolve the cadence consign it is done.
Create the chord that struck not long ago.
Accept the one love and towards it run.
The maelstrom will calm to continuum.
The Joys of one voice are the sounds that flow.
Consonance and dissonance become one.
Accept the one love and towards it run.
PARENTS – By Ethan Bell
“Seeing my poetry published is a great moment. Now no one can doubt my abilities” – Ethan Bell
In silence I watch a world all my own
They speak with their hearts in a language unknown
Hands reach out gently their love like a song
In every small gesture I know I belong
They guide me through moments both quiet and bright
With patience and warmth they’re my soft steady light
Though words may escape me their care is my voice
They last forever in my heart’s room.
My Woeful Cove by Willow DuBrovin
Through my many days and nights,
I discovered that in my woeful cove of comfort,
the words of poetry fuel through me like a gentle stream
connecting metaphorical thoughts to an underlying theme.
My poems, if brought alive,
would erupt as sane as a Greek tale
or a haunting dream,
as in my room’s dark cavern is where they thrive.
Oh how cynical it is to say
that the “darkness” rules my foreign scriptures,
bribing Charon and blessing Hades,
to flow against the current of my little heart’s desire
and avoid the feelings that ripped her’s.
I sit beneath a flicker of light
branded by its ruining glare.
I crawl against the hardwood floor,
my spine twisting against the agonizing stare.
Back to my voidic home I go,
a blissful covert of sinful ink.
Dire to reach my woeful cove,
I struggle against the threads I wove and
words come spilling out of a phrase I’ve yet to think.
So I sit contently in my little abyss, and
strung together above me hangs the rhymes,
that I slap together blindly, solely based
on the composure of its chimes.
Blind is so I am, in my woeful cove I stay,
until that myth that brings me a touch of calamity
balances a cigarette
burning the tips of my poem,
and leads me astray.
