aaduna's Day 10: Nicole, Jack, David, and Mano captivate National Poetry Month

Why is it that?

Why is it that whenever                                                         
I think of you two
My eyes start to burn
Or a lump starts to
Form in my throat

Why is it that whenever
This time of year
Starts to come around
I can’t help but
Shed a few tears

Why is it that I
Can’t bear to walk in
You two’s old room or
Look at the mud covered
Toys we would play with

Why is it that old
Memories arise and I
Realize all of the
Things we’ll never get
To do or see

Why is it that I
Can only glance at that
Old picture that you two
Are in or that every time
I see a swimming pool
I am always cautious to get in

Why is it that whenever
I pass by a hospital
I remember all of the
Late nights staying up
Crying and praying for
You to come back to life

Why is it that one
Mistake someone made
Took you two away
From us way too soon

Why is it that every time
I think about you two
Anger and bitterness show
Towards that stupid mistake
That made you two go

But then I stop and
Think that you two are
In a better place
Laughing and playing in heaven
Like it’s just another day
Why is it that?

© 2017 Nicole Fuhrman                    
Petal, Mississippi       

Nicole Fuhrman (Photo provided)

* * *

"Untitled," Jack Fine/poet, Leiber/artist (from the private collection of bill berry)


The POET collects
                                    Some pieces of sky

                                    One hawk



pinetrees on a hill

a pond

complete with lilypads and ferns

one frog     . . .

                             a  rock

large enough to sit and wait

for his poem to be written.

Posted posthumously
© 1976 Jack Fein                               
Westchester County, New York  

* * *

The Warlords
After reading Du Fu, “Advent of Spring”

The warriors have ruled
from time immemorial.
They have come and gone and come again
time after time:

nations, princes, and kings one after another
building on the pile of corpses
stacked beneath their feet.
None have served the people honestly.

Who has given them control?
Where have they come from?
Will they ever leave us alone
to raise our families
and die in our own beds
with our children by our side?

Their grip is on our neck
and they force us
to our grave
in their search for
others to plunder.

They cannot live without war;
it is their meat and drink
as ours is the hearth
and the embrace of our lovers.

They declare those who cry for
peace and complain of war
‘enemies of the state’
and seek to silence them

while we the people are victims
of their lust
and made to pay for their
desires to be satisfied.

Will they ever leave us alone
to raise our families
and die in our own beds
with our children by our side?

© 2011 David H. Roche                                
Warrenton, Oregon    

David H. Roche (Photo provided)


* * *

Mano Mannaz, artist

A Treasure Called ‘Tender”

The key of your gaze
Slipping past a lock in my heart
Opened the secret chamber inside.

With your glance I remembered
The treasure called ‘tender’
Forgotten under rags of loss
Veiled by a cloak called ‘alone’.

Holding full to my heart
Claimed by your look of wordless
I’m reborn in this tumbling of lock and key.

I’ll surrender the defences of hurt
Looking forward to meeting together
My joy expanding to greet you.

© 2011 Mano Mannaz                                   
Glastonbury, United Kingdom     

Mano Mannaz (Photo provided)

 *   *   *
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