Katrina-A Tempest Storm-A Collection of Poems, Short Stories and Essays. Many writers and poets across the USA and even a few in Canada have contributed to this book. Prominent Senators like Trent Lott, Thad Cochran, Mary Landrieu and many others have also written essays for the book. Elementary school children in Pascagoula, MS have also contributed to this anthology.

This amazing collection’s compiled by Celine Rose Mariotti. And, she’s looking for a book publisher who will want to publish this very worthwhile project in print. Some of the proceeds of her book will be donated to the people of the Gulf Coast.

Interested book publishers may contact her through The Sound Of Poetry Review, or directly to her by email: CELINEM@aol.com

Excerpts from the Book:

Katrina-A Tempest Storm
by Celine Rose Mariotti

If William Shakespeare were about,
In his finest English he ‘twould
Look askance at all that lay
Underfoot, alone and at bay,
He would write of this tempest storm
We call Katrina,
With perfect syntax,
He would write prose that
Illustrate what God hath put asunder,
On such a fateful day,
He would cast upon the waters of that storm,
His words would frighten,
Even scorn,
He would scold the Evil Spirits of a Macbeth,
He would seth forth an army,
And he would wail for many years
For those who perished.
He would make a fiend of those who did not care,
He would seth forth a Hamlet,
Upon this doom,
And seek justice,
From all the ruins,
William Shakespeare is no more,
But of his spirit we can implore,
Katrina-A Tempest Storm
However did this wretched fate,
Come to be on that date.

–

Faith Remains
by Tricia Stone

The storm begins so far away
And travels across the sea,
Tearing apart homes and lives,
Before it takes its leave.

Wood and brick can be replaced,
So in spite of the anguish felt,
Rejoice in what cannot be stolen
By the cruel hand that is dealt.

Just as the water flows back to the sea,
And the winds are no longer sustained,
The Almighty is there to remind us,
Hope remains, love remains, faith remains.

–

Katrina
by Floreann Cawley

A name sweet and innocent
Given to a wicked storm
Hearts frozen, lives torn
The water wild and forceful
Tearing into a path
Driven by the power of nature
Seen by many so true
Katrina a hurricane
Unreal what you can do.

–

Wake of Disaster
by Karen O’Leary

Whirling wind tears through town,
Whipping homes with riled might.
Waging war, sparing none,
Widespread damage stuns all.
Wails of loss, cries of pain,
Weary souls struggle on…
Weaving life’s broken threads.

–

Katrina
by Kimberly K. Thompson

Katrina, Katrina,

such a lovely woman’s name,

don’t let the name deceive you,

she’s a killer and a bane.

She killed in Mississippi and wiped

out New Orleans , she hit other cities,

here and there between.

She’s a killer lady, she was an unrelenting force,

let’s thank God above, she wasn’t any worse,

With the stench of death surrounding you,

the water 20 to 30 feet high,

the people stood on rooftops and screamed

“don’t let us die!” The rescuers poured out from the

earth and helped the people survive, but gone were the

houses, hospitals, businesses, schools and churches-

they were nullified.

It’s going to take love and perseverance to help these people

make a new start.

Please, please people—open up your hearts.

-

About the Book Author:

Celine Rose Mariotti is a published writer and her work has appeared in many different literary magazines around the USA, in Canada, Scotland, England, India and Australia. Some of the publications are: Magnolia Quarterly, Lone Star Magazine, Storyteller Magazine, Green’s Magazine, Tickled by Thunder, Taylor’s Trust, Poetic Expressions, Poet’s Espresso, Quantum Leap, Poetcrit, PCM Magazine, First Time, FreeXpression, Bell’s Letters Poet, Poets at Work, Calliope, GRIT, Write On! Poetry Magazette, Poet Band Company, and many more. Her first children’s book “Olivia MacAllister, Who Are You?” was published by Rock Village Publishing of Massachusetts, and her story, “Leapy the Frog” was published as an e-book by Magbooks of Hong Kong. She self-published a poetry book, “Through Celine’s Eyes“.Her Book link: http://www.gcwriters.org/Mariotti.htm

Celine Rose Mariotti is a published writer and her work has appeared in many different literary magazines around the USA, in Canada, Scotland, England, India and Australia.  Some of the publications are:  Magnolia Quarterly, Lone Star Magazine, Storyteller Magazine, Green’s Magazine, Tickled by Thunder, Taylor’s Trust, Poetic Expressions, Poet’s Espresso, Quantum Leap, Poetcrit, PCM Magazine, First Time, FreeXpression, Bell’s Letters Poet, Poets at Work, Calliope, GRIT, Write On! Poetry Magazette, Poet Band Company, and many more. Her first children’s book “Olivia MacAllister, Who Are You?” was published by Rock Village Publishing of Massachusetts, and her story, “Leapy the Frog” was published as an e-book by Magbooks of Hong Kong.  She self-published a poetry book, “Through Celine’s Eyes“. Her Book link: http://www.gcwriters.org/Mariotti.htm

Featured Poetry of Celine Rose Mariotti

Where is the Rose Garden?

Life does not promise us a bed of roses,
Nothing is known for certain,
Everything is what another supposes
Life does not come up all fragrant and pretty,
Nothing is calm and quiet
In the country or the city,
Life does not always promise us fresh blooms
Everything around us shapes our thinking,
Somewhere on the horizon our future looms,
Life does not always promise us a rose garden,
We try to succeed at what we do,
But nothing in life is a bargain
Where is the Rose Garden?

Making a New Friend

an online friendship begun
a stranger still,
your e-mails are fun
we share our lives
we live far apart
somehow you are in my heart

an online conversation
between you and me
daily e-mails
daily camaraderie

an online pen pal
writing back and forth
writing our views
our thoughts, our daily menu
it is nice to have an
e-mail to send
and I just made a new friend.

Dean Martin

He started his life in Steubenville, Ohio,
The son of Italian immigrants,
He sang in nightclubs
And one day he was discovered,
That relaxed, easy way that he sang,
His every note was perfect,
He was a talent all of his own,
He teamed up with Jerry Lewis
And they were quite an act,
But one day Dean decided to quit their act,
He went solo,
Dean had one hit after another,
He was a headliner in Vegas,
A Friend of Frank Sinatra,
They teamed up as the Rat Pack,
Sammy Davis was part of their act,
Dean made movies,
He starred as a spy, Matt Helm,
He was the pilot in “Airport”,
Dean had his own variety show,
Every week he came down that pole,
People just loved Dean Martin,
His voice and his music
Will always be remembered,
Dean Martin will live on forever.

Copyright © 2010 Celine Rose Mariotti

Craig Shay’s work has appeared in recent issues of the Bitter Oleander. He has poems forthcoming in Skidrow Penthouse and Counterexample Poetics. He lives on Long Island, New York with his wife Rebecca. To read more of his works / poems, click this link: http://craigshay.wordpress.com/

Featured Poetry of Craig Shay

Abandoned Storybook

A book is bleeding
by the overgrown river.

Underneath a serpent coils in a spiral,
like a rubber belt torn from a machine.

My footsteps awaken it.

Stripes glow from its back
white, red, and black.

As I read, I notice a bride across the river
and a man in a goat mask
following her on horseback.

He seems to be guiding her down a forbidden path.

The serpent closes its eyes
seasons immediately begin to turn.

Greenery drains from the plants
leaving everything black and rotting.

Reality begins to decay
as the center vanishes.

Naked tree limbs tumble down
into dissolving rivers.

Myths break apart like disintegrating leaves.

The sky turns red and erratic
foreshadowing a violent tempest.

Meteors descend from above
causing the ground to erupt.

Only a lone empty pillar stands in the distance.

I place the book
back over the creature
whose body has begun to char.

Reflective Pool

A boy kneels beside a pool of rippling water.

In his reflection, he sees a stranger
in a cage staring back.

The stranger asks him to contemplate
the meaning of existence –

The boy imagines himself within
the calm of a watery fresco.

He imagines becoming a stranger
and walking through the vast cities of the underworld.

The stranger promises the boy immortality
if his cage door is opened.

The boy looks into the wild eyes of the stranger,
and feels as if he is swimming over a dark abyss.

They become one being
as light is removed from the sky.

The boy fall through the traffic of spirits
and into the underworld.

A flutter of rainfall begins,
causing the surface to blur.

The boy watches
as images dance in the water,
formless and hypnotic –

He sees the stranger
come to life on the other side

It stretches up in his new body
and flees into the mortal world –

Trees and Undergrowth

Leaves twirl
into pockets of grass
which cover up
a path, now invisible –

Spiders work
among the branches

The rustling of small animals
walking over the carpet of moss

Yellow speckles of sunlight fall –

Lanky trees spread and surround
making an office of branches

The Recovery

I carry the soup so carefully upstairs,
never noticing the generations of photographs
staring out, completely perplexed.

I know what they are trying to tell me,
but I don’t pay attention.

Sometimes I am so distracted by the music
that I leave my bed, and walk towards the ocean.

When I wake up,
my wife and I
are alone on the shore,
we are naked
and cannot recall a single thing.

The hypnosis is strong,
it pulls me into the black currents –
Where I am not me,
but an ominous version of me
walking underwater in a trance.

* * *

My wife and I start to panic.
We load the babies into their car-seats.

We take off
leaving the house empty,
the bills unpaid,
and the groceries unpacked.

It was more than a million miles
to the Walden Pond of the mind,
but there’s still a chance
we’ll get there
with our suspicions intact.

Dream Sequence

I belong to a place
where strings buzz
on fishing boats
through dry afternoons –

When I close my eyes
I glimpse the world
as it arrives – uncooperatively.

I find, I am moving away from myself,
further into cordial ballrooms
filled with expensive carp and salmon –

Elegant piano music plays
and in the center stands a statue –

It’s a woman of stone,
naked, her shackled hands outstretched,

She looks as though she possesses
the ills of the world.

I go outside, to remember
the song the fishers used to sing
in those dry days by the river.

Copyright © 2010 Craig Shay

Michael H. Brownstein has been widely published throughout the small and literary presses. His work has appeared in The Café Review, American Letters and Commentary, Skidrow Penthouse, Xavier Review, Hotel Amerika, After Hours, Free Lunch, Meridian Anthology of Contemporary Poetry, The Pacific Review and others. In addition, he has eight poetry chapbooks including The Shooting Gallery (Samidat Press, 1987), Poems from the Body Bag (Ommation Press, 1988), A Period of Trees (Snark Press, 2004) and What Stone Is (Fractal Edge Press, 2005).

Brownstein taught elementary school in Chicago’s inner city (he is now retired), but he continues to study authentic African instruments with his students, conducts grant-writing workshops for educators and the State of Illinois Title 1 Convention, and records performance and music pieces with grants from the City of Chicago’s Department of Cultural Affairs, the Oppenheimer Foundation, BP Leadership Grants, and others.

Featured Poetry of Michael H. Brownstein

IN LOVE, LUST, AND LIKE

All my wives are buildings:
I love my pants with leaf stains at the knees:
admire all sixty parts of my brother:
married the water leaking from my bathroom faucet,
the sound morning makes when the sun leaks through the open window of my
         bedroom,
and that squirrel who knows where the acorns are buried.
All that is needed is to tell you how much you really are.

SNOW

The light touch of snow bends the leaf,
The brown grass of late winter feeling the weight,
And there are tracks, too, small imprints—
Vole and field mouse, raccoon and possum.
The forest has powers to transform itself to another place
And still the snow falls into the early afternoon,
The trees letting everything slip through their fingers,
Everything seasoned, everything ready to accept what has to come.
A fawn looks up from the brush. It tastes the snow.
It predicted its falling. It holds to stillness like a wall.
And the perfect leaf embraces the perfect snow,
Until at last it must let go, snow into wind.

A DRINK OF WATER WITH MY WIFE

Yes, there is a taste to the word “water”
as there is substance to fire
and weight to strips of leather soaked in oil.

It is possible to smell the word “tar”.
See a stream of cologne.
Even “comprehension” has depth.

And so, Deborah, I need to thank you for this seasoning of prayer,
the sparkle of imagined thyme,
the sound of lemon pepper on roasted salmon.

THE CITY MAN DRINKS TOO MUCH AT THE PICNIC

To draw a line of words across a glade of green,
The dew, morning, a house blemished by strangler figs,
And yet a shadow reaches into light and light itself glistens emerald’s sheen.
The city man does not know his character. Living is a monologue.
Every leaf olive and lime. He is not a patient man.
The forest beckons. What he knows is not a travelogue.
Each leaf takes on the shape of shadow, a softer shade of heather.
When the city man stumbles, he does not fall. Nor does he dialogue.
Some things matter less than matter more, the prairie sea green,
Jade, a touch of yellow, evergreen, a color to leather.
This goes unseen. A pity not to know green from smog.

WHEN THE CAR BROKE DOWN

we had to walk two miles into town,
the wind not the rabid raccoon we feared,
but the gentle new boy who also disliked baseball.
The fields snowbound,
streets unplowed,
sidewalks buried,
everywhere googles of fairy dust and stars,
the sky a frozen lake, thistle and cottonwood seed.

First tracks,
the entire landscape a stained glass in whites,
tree limbs transformed into liberty roses
and white poppies

Copyright © 2010 Michael H. Brownstein

Hello All!

The Sound of Poetry Review has been nominated for the «2009 PREDITORS & EDITORS READERS POLL AWARD for Category Review Site». Please vote for The Sound of Poetry Review, if you think it deserves the award. To vote, click http://www.critters.org/predpoll/reviewsite.shtml , scroll down to The Sound of Poetry Review. And also, kindly vote for our poet / tsopr contributor Joseph S. Spence, Sr. When voting, please vote for Joseph S. Spence, Sr., which is the first Spence, Sr. on the list. http://www.critters.org/predpoll/author.shtml.

Thanks for your attention…and for your vote too! –tsopr Editor–

Sunil Prakash Narayan’s poetry has been a long journey of self-exploration and an attempt to understand how the world is and what his family means to him. None of the poems he submits are replicas of old ones from his childhood. To go back to things such as puppy love and the sensitive perception of his surroundings would not be as satisfying as explaining his thoughts as bare as possible. He shows what he thinks; therefore his poetry speaks to people.

His published works:

1. “Kidnapped In The Woods”. Guy Writers Magazine. Volume 1; Fall? 08 issue http://www.guywritersmagazine.org/?page_id=181 

2. “Dying Inside”. The Portland Alliance. April ‘09 issue.

3. “Before Creation” – Supraterranean. Issue #13 (d. July ‘09) http://www.supraterranean.com/issues/issue_013/09_7_PE_before1.html 

4. “Soldiers of God” -Supraterranean. Issue #13 (d. July ‘09). http://www.supraterranean.com/issues/issue_013/09_7_PE_soldiers1.html 

5. “Before Creation”. The Portland Alliance. December ’09 issue.

6. “My Hushed Story”. The Enchanting Verses International Poetry Journal. Issue VIII (d. December ’09): http://theenchantingverses.weebly.com/issue-viii-december-2009.html 

List off Awards:

The Enchanting Verses International Poetry Journal: Editor’s Choice – II certification. Issue VIII (d. December ’09). http://theenchantingverses.weebly.com/issue-viii-december-2009.html

-

Our Great Loss

Even in the most quiet moment one can see the cloud inside another’s mind
It hides the thoughts which were pushed away quickly so long ago
No one remembers their youth; no one remembers why they complained
Their smiles and clean faces speak of no issues

I cannot hear the voices that jump from their hearts
I cannot see the sadness that falls to the ground
It is an unpleasant sight

My hair keeps turning grey and skin loses its moisture to stay soft
I walk with my feet sore and dry
The sheet of thin ice hurts them
It is the thread to which we stand on

Each individual has no real voice yet they speak of hope
“When will our country improve?”…. “When will we get our money?”
No one asks about the real problems
Who cares, you know?
Intelligence is not earned, it is forced

Knowledge that once was sought is now dressed up in schemes
Techniques meant to confuse and delight its victims
We all accept them and cannot say no
No one learns the way they want to

A fun tickle and then quick pain in the head
One’s eyes look everywhere and refuse to stand still
It’s a trance he entered into and the intellect falls asleep
Shove it down his throat!

Consciousness is the root of our souls and can save us from living in this
eternal illusion
No one knows this, so would it matter?
Kiss the rose petals and throw them on the ground
Look at the street and see the ice
There is nothing in this country worth looking at

Raksha

The curious man sees someone in the woods humming to himself
Trees surrounding his naked body
Without a care for the world, he laughs
His life is no one’s concern but his own

Picking the grass off the ground he’s suddenly pulled from the waist
Further into the forest, no one can hear him cry out
Eyes become sewn shut with black cotton thread
Lips burned for a few minutes with a steel rod

That small chin clasped between ash-covered fingers
He moans and writhers uncontrollably
Knives thrust into those legs in succession
One after the other, it feels like being thrown against the rocks
Daddy, where are you? I need you!

The dark man doesn’t speak but stares at something thin and smooth yet untouched
The captive’s body is tightly clasped by his thighs
Tightens as if the water is being sucked out
Small breaths then hours of screaming after the hair is ripped out all at once

The bad man doesn’t say a word
He puts a woman’s on his new wife
One pink with white frilly edges but caked with mud on the back
Little bit of rose perfume dabbed on his neck and cheeks
He smells like the well-groomed ladies coming out of church on Sunday morning

He winces and resists, but the soul hides somewhere where only god can hear him
Drinking whiskey then spitting it into the fire, the angry man cannot stand something that’s born so pure
A bottle of gin is forced down the weak man’s throat
He coughs up blood and swallows knowing his body cannot contain dignity anymore

I Cannot Tell You

I cannot say where I live for the fear of losing you
I cannot tell you what my life has been like inside the room

He came to me out of nowhere pulling my body into his truck
Inside there was a little light, though the cigarette smoke filled the space
My wrists, he wrapped tightly with tape
My eyes, he hid with sunglasses
My head, he placed a hat on top of
Words for which still stay in my mind I hear twice “Don’t say anything or you’ll get it”

I cannot say where I live for fear of losing you
I cannot tell you what my life has been like inside the room

No one could see me looking through the oily and dirty window
They walked by laughing as if life is good to them
Children who have a way to get home sat on the grass playing cards
Mothers talked in the driveway about how things have been since January 1st

I cannot say where I live for fear of losing you
I cannot tell you what my life has been like inside the room

Yet, I sat and felt my own life slip away
To help me breathe the quiet man who chatted on his car phone ripped the tape off my mouth
I tried to catch some air between my legs only to be yanked by the hair
My mouth closed and eyes shed tears for which they didn’t seem to matter to him

I cannot say where I live for fear of losing you
I cannot tell you what my life has been like inside the room

The man’s breath stunk of tuna and vodka
What did his eyes look like?
I couldn’t see……they were hidden behind black sunglasses
His scaly lips smacked when I begin to shiver
He stopped at a gas station to pick up a can of beer and Doritos
They were not for me, but for him

I cannot say where I live for fear of losing you
I cannot tell you what my life has been inside the room

He drove down the highway into the mountains where silence is often accompanied by sounds beyond my knowledge
They were echoes of warnings
The trees spoke as the wind blew through their branches
I heard them speak: “Never stop praying Johnny because God will stay by your side”

I cannot say where I live for fear of losing you
I cannot tell you what my life has been inside the room

I didn’t pray….. not that evening, the day after or any other for that matter.
God abandoned me when the man with the cigarette tucked behind his ear took me from the street

Mother’s Secret

I know what your black eyes say
They’re two little papaya seeds
Not to be tasted but shunned
Oh, so much emptiness in those little objects!

If you bring yourself to pull off your clothes
To let me caress a skin smooth and ripe
Glowing with the summer’s light
The sun pushed itself eagerly into your shrivelled body

Loving you is my heart singing an opera
It sounds like an ocean’s icy waves melting into each other
A long blanket of seaweed unnoticed by your eyes
I see the wait in your palms for they’re red bumps turned upside down

Give me your strength to feel what the Roman soldiers praise
A fire spat by the sun onto your skin
I feel too hot…like the kiln where my old self lie without breath
Bring me to your dark corner, a small spot meant for unwanted secrets

We are the Mother Goddess’s secret!
A pair of boys bound together by her embrace
Neither of us can move, it is her intent squashing our weightless bodies
Guilt is a window her lungs open its doors to inhale

I see the words, the swirl of incense smoke forms for mother
“If love is created then a mother should not stop it for she is the
embodiment of supreme love”

To Be Conquered

Alexander came to me in a dream asking for forgiveness
I ran as quick as I could, the artic wind filling my lungs
Tiny pricks of needles only to make me cough and stop every several minutes
He followed me to the end of the road, grabbing my shoulders too hard!

I fell into his arms and sobbed softly
Sounds of trees and birds are mute
Alexander asked me the question again
In Russian, I told him “No, only God can answer it!”

His pain makes him turn the world into a garden
Flowers are poking out of fields of tall grass
From lotuses to roses, all of my favorites
I am given this gift to change my heart

No, no! I can’t do this!
I ran again, though this time fell into a hole
He followed me there and held my body down
The awesome strength of a wrestler or even a god

Alexander asked me again if I could forgive him
Gasping for air I reached for those dry lips of his and sucked his breath
The sweet strawberry sitting at the back of his throat slid down mine
I breathed his joy for the first time in years, then gave it back

My arms resisting his as he took off my garments
Thighs wide and white like the Himalayas clasp my chest tightly
I shout so loud for they rub against my ribs
I am in a defeated state for which he accepts

An hour later, watching him sleep with his head on my breast
I cannot say no for this man is impossible to escape
Alexander stalks me like a tiger hungry for dinner
I look back and see complete concentration in his eyes
Almost as if the savage will hunt me again for sport

With each conquest he responds in the sweetest words I need to hear:
“You’ll always be mine. No one else knows where we are, so accept this new life of ours.
I offer my protection and heart to you, please don’t refuse it”
I see angels at night hovering above us, watching an ocean of our combined hearts pulsating
One touches my back to let me know nothing else is important but my Alexander

Copyright © 2010 Sunil Prakash Narayan

Hello all, have a great holiday season and 2010! May the New
Year bring you more success and a healthy life! -tsopr editor -

Jeton Kelmendi is an author who, in writing a tri-dimensional poetry, entwines the modern with the actual and communicates it in an original as well as a traditional way. The literary critics have valued his verse for its clear, powerful and artistically accomplished massages. The language of Kelmendi is individual and is quite naturally conveyed to the readership, as a pleasant and appealing form, due to, perhaps, its touching complex and figurative concepts. The essence of his poetry is the vertical narration and the selective subject matter, with which he plays in time and space. The Albanian poet Jeton Kelmendi was born in Peja in 1978. He attended primary school and secondary school in his native town, and then he studied at the University of Prishtina. He is the correspondent of several Albanian (Kosovar and Albanian) media and cooperates with a number of others abroad. Kelmendi is a quite familiar name to Kosovar poetry readership since 2000. He is also renowned as a journalist covering political and cultural issues. Kelmendi’s poetry is translated in several languages and is included in a number of anthologies. He is a member of several international poets’ clubs and he has contributed to cultural magazines, especially in English. The essentially poetic thought of Kelmendi is the subtlety of expression and the care for the word. The themes that dominate his creations are love and the raw realities of the political situation, quite often permeated by feelings of disappointment for the current state of affairs. He is a war veteran of UCK (Kosovar Liberation Army). Kelmendi is currently settled in Brussels and he is a member of the Professional Journalists Association of Europe. His website: http://www.kelmendi-press.blogspot.com/

SOME HISTORY

There came a time
As bewildered as cheerful
No one could tell its white from its black

We couldn’t find ourselves
We could neither see nor meet it

Or did we miss it

We were rationed to everything
Little fear
A bit of boldness
Some sorrow, and joy and so forth
Just a little of everything

It tried to convince us of what freedom means
And so on and so forth
And it devised a devil

Optimism

To keep the things suspended
And store up the time
It dyed us in red and off it went

Alas, whatever did never arrive
That’s what it owes us

June 2000, Peje Kosovo

PLAY

If we can’t sleep together tonight
How am I to refresh myself under your shadow

The times are making haste lately
To either overtake me
Or catch up with you

The sky can’t be reached
The perigee is meaningless without your name on it

Run as much as you want
You can’t play
This game with yellow effects

BREATH

Yesterday, I indulged in
Dreaming about you
The most beautiful of all nights
Of the nights of the known worlds

Whenever the dark set off to dream
I wanted to be
Your white clothes
You make the autumn swoon
O, pretty, the fairest of all

The most wordy of words
Are not worth a penny
O, playful
Why don’t you become a breeze
And blow
Towards my sky

Copyright © Jeton Kelmendi

When We Were Yesterday

Ah not so long ago, when we were us, time was all ours!
We let our spirits happily sway in the great fountain
Of faith, where we etched our own history counting the stars
Fluttered in the night sky. Oh, what a passion we had then!

And I kept you in the rosy earth of my heart so glee.

That when you returned, back from a lady boot shaped country,
And seeing you one day, alone, under the glimmers of
A retreating sun, I hurried my shadow along the
Street of for old time sake to hug you, to express my love.

When I had you there was no such hunger, nor thirst in me.

But now as I embraced you, I hardly felt the warmth of
Your blood. I wonder why; is it ‘cause now a cold season,
Or maybe jet lag still eats you? Sure you’ll take yourself off
From my reasoning, and be more fixed on your salvation.

Copyright © 2009 Ernesto P. Santiago

My Immortelle, Lea Anne Rana

Like sweet immortelle you are, rise, oh rise, for my glory;
ever sway not from the sacred path o’ life onto you I laid,
and don’t, don’t fade in vain, nor be weary o’ serving me!

And think not that I don’t hear your voices when you pray,
nor will I ever let you, oh mine, with fear to be in dalliance;
never let these palms o’ boredom swathe you, nor be at bay;
ever lace yours in wisdom, and dance it into your elegance!

Reach for where these graces o’ being a chosen one dwell
and if you do, not a leaf o’ your breath to your feet will fall;
now, oh Lea Anne Rana o’ mine, listen to what I tell,
although earthly life’s a play, oh, play it safe for your soul!

Copyright © 2009 Ernilando L. Tugaff