Tag Archives: Poet

Stuart Watkins Poet- “There Is No Reason”

“There Is No Reason”

by Poet Stuart Watkins

Stuart Watkins’ poem, “There Is No Reason,” was published in SADDLEBAG NOTES September issue.

Taken from THE WRITE WORD, the newsletter of The Society of Southwestern Authors October- November 2014

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Curt Stubbs Gay Poet- A BAG OF WIND SPEAKS

A BAG OF WIND SPEAKS

by Curt Stubbs

I can dance.
I can twirl.
I can jump.
I can race across the ground.

I can go slow.
I can go fast.
I can zig-zag.
I can drive a 2×4 through a brick wall.

But best of all I can destroy.

I can blow up a house.
I can toss tractor trailers like dice.
I can scatter tree limbs all over the town.

I can blow off a roof.
I can shatter windows.
I can leave the family car up in a tree.
I can leave a whole town homeless.

But best of all, I can leave a mile wide path
of destruction wherever I go.

Curt Stubbs
2880 N. Park Apt. A
Tucson, Az

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Meng Haoran Poet- ON RETIRING TO SOUTH MOUNTAIN AT YEARS END

ON RETIRING TO SOUTH MOUNTAIN AT YEARS END

a peom by Meng Haoran

I have ceased to present petitions at the Capital
And return to my shabby hut on South Mountain.
With my small talent, a wise Ruler discards me;
Being often ill, old friends gorget to come.

Age hurries on
with its white hairs;
Green spring presses hard on
the years end.
I cannot sleep
for long memories that sadden:
The pine moon wastes its light on my window.

Team Member: S&S bay
IP Address: 192.168.1.72
Country: United States

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Brian Fitzpatrick Author- Galway’s Stephen Murray Ireland’s Pedaling Poet Chasing His American Dreams

Ireland’s pedaling poet chasing his American dreams

By Brian Fitzpatrick

Galway’s Stephen Murray.“Once upon a time, in a house of broken mothers there lived a little boy who could speak to bumblebees. He lived there with his sister and his Mother who was waiting to be fixed.”

This is how Stephen Murray describes himself on the website for his debut poetry collection House of Bees (published by Salmon Poetry), which was launched at Galway’s Cúirt Literature Festival in April. At first it might seem nonsensical, but this is a man whose life has often failed to make sense.

Born in Dublin before moving to London in his infancy, Murray spent the next few years with his mother and sister at the first ever Erin Pizzey home for battered wives. He recently told the Galway Advertiser that his earliest memories in life came from the time he spent in that “squat in a derelict hotel.”

From there Murray found happiness through an Egyptian stepfather, whom the larger part of his broken family lived with for the next ten years. Of his estranged father, Murray says he thankfully doesn’t remember the exact nature of any violence, and was shaped more by the characters all around him who were in similarly chaotic situations. In the Advertiser interview, he credited his mother for making things “magical” throughout his childhood.

It is this sense of magic and adventure you get when talking with him. It runs through his written and spoken words, and now it has driven him to take on a madcap 5,000-mile coast-to-coast bicycle trip across the US. The journey is to promote House of Bees, which has been hailed as “An astonishingly powerful debut” by The Irish Examiner.

Irish Emigrant 8-10-2011

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Curt Stubbs Poet- OUTLAW

      OUTLAW

      by Curt Stubbs

I was arrested in the neon high sun

by a rookie policeman who said he didn’t

know poetry.  He and his old lady read

best sellers, he said, when they read at all. 

He told me if I didn’t quit screaming verses

at him things would go hard on me and then he

banged my head on the door jamb of his squad car. 

I stood there stupid with a mouth full of words

and no one I could say them to. 

I was arraigned in a room where the walls were stained gray

by the lives of the ones who’d been arraigned there before me. 

The back of the bench in front of me had teeth marks,

a full set, where someone else had bit back their words

when they found out the judge didn’t know poetry either. 

The judge said his name was Stud Poker and he didn’t

tolerate laughter when justice was being dealt out. 

I was found guilty by a jury who also didn’t

know poetry but still thought they were my peers. 

The foreman was a trim black woman who wore

haute couture fashion but still thought poetry

wasn’t being written these days.  She said the last

of the poets died before this country was born. 

She didn’t know that poetry is not written but lived. 

I was sentanced to confinement in a single cell,

and to have my eyes blinded, my hands shackled,

and my mind laundered.  Judge Poker thanked the jury

and said I had been dealt a fair justice for my crimes. 

My mother shed tears and begged him for mercy, but

what does she know about poetry anyway?

Curt Stubs

3880 N. Park Ave.  #A

Tucson, Arizona  85719

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Cherokee Sky Poet- “Uncommon Grace” a poem

Being dyslexic can prove to be timely,
 

a jumbled mess we’re soon to
Color codeing poems, a pleasing sight for me,

find.

then, gracefully words unfold, and now become mine.

        Uncommon Grace

 

You are the age that you feel,

walk among many, at your own
pace,

you can wear ragged hand-me-down’s

or uncommon antique
 

 

lace.

Still, no wrinkles will embrace the

petals of your uncommon
 

 

face,

if you brighten your life

with uncommon
 

 

grace.

Wisdom is earned as we stumble,

and then begin to
 

 

walk,

When lessons learned, only then,

can we walk the
 

 

talk.

In you, beauty and grace

has found an uncommon
 

 

place,

as rose petals drift, they to,

will be absorbed by natures timely
 

 

embrace.

Red rose, thorn’s to protect,

beauty, fragrance nurtured
 

 

within,

soon to return, it’s place

has been found, in a long lost
 

 

friend.

Thorn’s, antique lace, forewarned,

once entangled becomes tattered and
 

 

torn.

Nimble finger’s bleed, tear’s be shed,

heart’s in wisdom, shall be
 

 

reborn.

White rose, elegant to see,

thorns once removed, lips to
 

 

trace,

fragrance inhaled, inner beauty will shine,

when you embrace yourself with uncommon
 

 

lace.

Anger, no longer ,
it’s hiding place has been

 

found,

your stories a new muse, you soon to tell,
you stand your

ground.

Your hearts story, over filled
with hand-me-down’s and antique

lace,

is soon to swell, and show
upon your uncommon

face.

Anger muse, no longer found within,
thorn’s can not pierce or

replace,

the pages now, only be graced
with uncommon antique

lace.

Embrace now, with new found
wisdom, upon paper you will

lace,

knit and pearl your new doilies, with your
new found uncommon grace.

Cherokee Sky
June 2009

 

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Kore Press- BECOMING AMERICAN, ARMENIANLY by poet Arpine Konyalian Grenier

       Becoming American, Armenianly
      Arpine Konyalian Grenier

      This month’s post on

Persephone Speaks is a narrative by Arpine Konyalian Grenier as she travels to Turkey and Lebanon, pondering and tracing her ancestry (reblogged from OTOLITHS).   Grenier’s work has been described as “a mosaic of narrative that takes us out of our provincial concentration on American life to encompass broader social and geopolitical issues with a decidedly urban and postmodern sensibility.”   She is a published poet, a former scientist, musician, and financial analyst.

      An excerpt from Persephone Speaks:

      “Forty some years after I voluntarily left Lebanon where I was born, I will be visiting my father’s hometown wherefrom he barely made it alive way before he’d turned school age.   In Turkey, I will be experiencing the culture of my ancestry as well as the culture I had run away from. Turkey and Lebanon, both Mediterranean, both left behind.   I want to tend and befriend, accede to the full experience of the four noble feelings: glad, sad, bad, mad. So far, I’ve repressed some of them. No more fight, no more flight.”

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