Circadian Poems

A place to celebrate poetry, poets, and the creative spirit.

Friday, September 29, 2006

Vulcan's Child

VULCAN'S CHILD
By Rachelle Arlin Credo


A raving beauty relinquished
From the earth's molten sheath
Vents her wrath
Upon a spellbound victim

Like a monster enraged
She strikes a frail creature
Without mercy
Without thinking twice

Strewn with rippled light
And furnace's soft flames
She vanquishes
His resistance at will

With her hands clutched
Tightly into her captive
His freedom is
All hers to hold forever



BIOGRAPHY:
Rachelle Arlin Credo is a writer/poet from the Philippines. She writes on a variety of topics for print and online publications. Feel free to check her website at http://www.rachelle.co.nr

Wednesday, September 27, 2006

Our Marriage

Our Marriage
By Helen Grace Bellows


We did not have the ceremony,
We did not exchange the rings,
But we were married in our hearts
(or so I thought).
I smiled every time I heard you refer to me as
"My wife" or "the wife."
It was as precious as every utterance
of "Honey" and "darling"
and those private names you had for me that no one else will ever hear
(how many other women have heard you use those names?)
The quiet dinners, when we smiled and kissed across the table;
Snuggling beside you in the back of a black taxi in a moment of bliss;
Sitting together watching TV or reading;
The drinks; the laughter; the caresses; the nights of passion and
warmth;
The plans; the promises;
(How could you keep up the charade for so long?)
All the daily details that constitute building a life together.
I loved and I believed we had forever.
We didn't.
At least we don't have the pain and the money
of divorce papers. Or prenuptials.
We could part, not as friends,
but as humans.
We go our separate ways now,
But a part of me has changed forever.


Helen Grace Bellows prefers traveling to putting down roots.

Our Marriage

Our Marriage
By Helen Grace Bellows


We did not have the ceremony,
We did not exchange the rings,
But we were married in our hearts
(or so I thought).
I smiled every time I heard you refer to me as
"My wife" or "the wife."
It was as precious as every utterance
of "Honey" and "darling"
and those private names you had for me that no one else will ever hear
(how many other women have heard you use those names?)
The quiet dinners, when we smiled and kissed across the table;
Snuggling beside you in the back of a black taxi in a moment of bliss;
Sitting together watching TV or reading;
The drinks; the laughter; the caresses; the nights of passion and
warmth;
The plans; the promises;
(How could you keep up the charade for so long?)
All the daily details that constitute building a life together.
I loved and I believed we had forever.
We didn't.
At least we don't have the pain and the money
of divorce papers. Or prenuptials.
We could part, not as friends,
but as humans.
We go our separate ways now,
But a part of me has changed forever.


Helen Grace Bellows prefers traveling to putting down roots.

Tuesday, September 26, 2006

Banned Books Week

Banned Books Week
By Devon Ellington

Today ends this year’s Banned Books Week. What is it? Not a week advocating censorship. Banned Books Week was created by librarians, teachers, book publishing professionals, writers and readers who believe it’s important to have diverse literature available to all.

In my opinion, anyone who is secure in his or her beliefs is not going to feel threatened by a book or a poem or a play or an article expressing an opposite opinion. If one is secure in one’s beliefs, if one truly knows, deep in the soul, that one is right, different points of view and opposing arguments are welcome. Points can be debated. Opinions, if the views are argued well, might not be changed, but broadened. Greater understanding is possible.

However, when someone suspects that perhaps their beliefs are faulty, they’re afraid of other points of view. Because they can’t fashion an intelligent argument with evidence to back it up. Therefore, to cover their own fear and their own knowledge that they’re on shaky ground, they censor and they oppress. Oppression is created by people who know, at least on a subconscious level, that they are wrong. Faced with their wrongness, they feel they must destroy it.

There are plenty of parents who don’t want their kids “exposed” to many of the books on the Banned Books List in school. Again, this is ridiculous. The whole point of school is to expose children to as many points of view as possible within the safety of a school environment. They are supposed to learn, in school, how to read a variety of materials and make discerning judgments on them.

When they come home, it is the parent’s job to sit down and discuss what the child has read and learned in school, and then, calmly say, “That’s an interesting point of view. But we don’t believe that because . . .”and then lay out a well-reasoned argument. To say “We don’t believe it because that’s not what we believe and anyone who believes differently is doomed to hell” is not a well-fashioned argument.

So do a little research on Banned Books. Take a look at the current list. Write letters to your school district and your newspapers and in your blog explaining why it’s important for as much information as possible to be available to everyone.

The wider the variety of viewpoints to which our children are exposed, the more opportunities they will have to learn how to think individually and make positive choices for themselves, their communities, and the larger world. That’s something that should be encouraged, not censored.

Devon Ellington is the founder of Circadian Poems. She publishes under a half a dozen names in both fiction and non-fiction. Her blog on the writing life is Ink in My Coffee.

Monday, September 25, 2006

Cadence

Cadence
By Brenda Braene



Cadence
Ca – dance.

Tumbling, hurrying,
Rolling, swaying,
Fumbling, lolling,
Skittering, jittering.

Cadence
Kay Dances

She sways with her eyes closed
To music only she can hear.
She dances with her partner
Amongst the stars.

Cadence
Words dance.

The rise and fall of voice,
The ebb and flow of words,
A person’s natural rhythm,
His imprint of uniqueness.


Brenda Braene is a frequent contributor to Circadian Poems. This is the first in her series “Word Poems”. Her blog is Poet Meets Muse and she is one third of The Three Braenes website.

Wednesday, September 20, 2006

The Voice on the Phone

The Voice On The Phone
by Sheryl Joy P. Olaño

The enchantment your eyes bring…the enticing lips…
that bear a smile that makes my day
The strength in the gentleness of your touch…
Your charming ways…warm embrace...
Living testaments of the beauty you possess…
Yet all these I forsake
For my heart betrays what my eyes seek.

My mind sees that you are all I could ever hope for
But…my heart troubles on…

I fell in love...with the voice on the phone.

Not with the face unseen,
Not with the unfelt arms,
Not with the identity kept,
Not with the anticipation,
Not with my imagination,
Nor with the hope of a love returned.
That’s not how I fell in love
With the voice on the phone.

The voice on the phone is rich with tenderness,
With a comprehension that eases my pain;
A voice that has guided and comforted me
Through all my crumbling glories;
A voice that makes me strong
While the sight of you makes me weak.
A voice like no other…

I fell in love with what my eyes cannot see.

Suddenly the smile that is borne
On your cherry-kissed lips
Freezes…drops its bows…then suddenly soars!
Like a resurrected phoenix
Getting brighter and brighter…

Calm…and then a spark in your eyes
Your arms…they envelope me in a firm certainty
Surprise me…you’re unmistakably happy

And in a voice that haunts me even in my sleep,
You tell me it’s proven infallibly true…
I fell in love with the voice on the phone
And the owner is…


Sheryl Joy P. Olaño lives in Cebu, Philippines and is a senior editor of business news publishing firm CannonCreek Asia Inc. She is a contributor of Writers Gate, The Write Spot, Sun Star Daily Cebu and other Web publications. Her blog is at www.onbutterflyswings.blogspot.com.

Monday, September 18, 2006

Homeward

HOMEWARD
By Rachelle Arlin Credo


After flailing with the wings of dreams
in satisfaction of vaulting whims,
I was finally headed back to our abode
into the forgotten zone beside the road.

As I trotted the all-familiar path,
I remembered my li'l bro - oh, that brat!
Yet my heart was wrenching down to my soul,
I guess I did miss that brat after all.

Countless trees lined up the aisle -
one after another they ran for a mile,
reminding me of Little Miky, Fran and Camy
queuing in line to wait for Daddy's candies.

The morning breeze blew against my face
sending shivers through my spine to base.
Oh, how I missed Mommy's delectable cuisine
of chicken soup, meatballs and mmm, ch'ao mien!

Counting past five houses and one old bridge,
my anticipation grew and all excitement merged.
A few more steps and a turn to the right,
I'd finally be facing them all sound and bright.

I finally arrived and walked through the door.
Then the lights went on and everyone roared,
"We all miss'd you!" they bawled with cheer.
I simply cried, I just couldn't be happier.

BIOGRAPHY:
Rachelle Arlin Credo is a writer/poet from the Philippines. She writes on a variety of topics for print and online publications. Feel free to check her website at http://www.rachelle.co.nr/

Friday, September 15, 2006

Manhattan Morning

MANHATTAN MORNING
By Lydia Yorke

Sirens silent
Garbage trucks come and gone
Radios off.

Unusual quiet
in a cool, grey morning light
barely brushed with yellow.

The thieves have gone underground
and prostitutes haven't emerged . . .
in this neighborhood.

A few buses groan in and out of Port Authority
along with a sprinkling of yellow cabs
and vans.

Almost-empty streets
almost-clean air
in an almost-human city.


Lydia Yorke loves Manhattan.

Wednesday, September 13, 2006

Footsteps

FOOTSTEPS
By Adele Swift


Footsteps on the stairs,
clomp, clomp, clomp.
Footsteps on the stairs,
stomp, stomp, stomp.
Just when I reach a crucial point
and I'm picking at the air,
as the right word laughingly eludes me,
footsteps on the stair
distract me.
Who can that be?
Are they going all the way up,
or turning down the hall?
Will I have to wait for the bathroom?
Usually
in a house with wooden stairs
one learns a familiar tread
so it's familiar music,
a marker in the day
as it passes.

Adele Swift is a previous contributor to Circadian. Her infrequent blog is Swiftian Logic

Tuesday, September 12, 2006

Interview with Wanda Campbell

Here is a wonderful interview with Wanda Campbell, who was our very first Circadian Poet when we began last year, and who was kind enough to take a moment to speak to us:

Do you begin from image or emotion?
Both, I suppose. The smell of a flower, the color of a stormy day sky or just about anything can bring back a memory for me that begs to be written about. Whenever I condense a memory into sensory words and tell it with as few words as possible, it seems the emotions automatically embed themselves. I think usually a poem is born for me from a concept or a phrase that is almost always linked with a memory, whether it be something that happen five minutes ago or thirty years ago.

Why do you think poetry touches the soul so deeply?
The old Hebrew word for poet was also the word for prophet. I think that is right on target. For me, true poetry goes beyond the facades and shallowness of our manufactured worlds; it sees into the soul of a person and mirrors that soul's reflection. I love a poem that makes me say..."Hey, that's me, too! I understand that. I have LIVED that!" My main goal as a poet is to connect with people. To put into words the common human experiences that are rarely voiced because we don't know that we share them or haven't stopped to think about them.

What do you feel a poet's responsibility is in the context of the world?
Above all, in my view, to show that the natural is merely a reflection of the spiritual and that the grandest moments in humanity are often small, will never be written in history books or have wars fought over them. I think it is our responsibility to report our observations of this world as best as we can remember it and to provide a window for the earthbound to see into another realm, to understand that we are frail, helpless creatures, yet not even the angels in heaven hold such a high and esteemed place, that every life is precious, not to be taken lightly and that each person's life is an eternal poem in the process.

Wanda D. Campbell is a poet, novelist, artist and teacher from the rolling hill country of southern Kentucky. Her work has appeared in The Taproot Literary Review, Pegasus, River Walk Journal, storySouth, Midsouth Review, Farmland Publications, The Rogue Scholar and many other traditional and online publications. Most of her work has appeared the pen name, Nochipa. She is a member of the Kentucky State Poetry Society and attends workshops throughout Appalachia and the South.Visit her at: At Home in the Cumberlands

Monday, September 11, 2006

Elegy

Elegy
By Brenda Braene


Close your eyes.
Smoke rising.
Screams of the dying.
Twisted metal.
Ripped lives.

Open your eyes.

OPEN YOUR EYES.

The pain coils and strikes
Day after day.
Year after year.
Ebbing and flowing
Like tides of tears.

Open your eyes.

OPEN YOUR EYES.

You weren’t there.
You are shocked
From a distance.
It’s not real
Because it’s not you.

Open your eyes.

OPEN YOUR EYES.

Everyone lost.
Everyone is
Responsible.
A few gained
Money and power.

Open your eyes.

OPEN YOUR EYES

Don’t accept
Lies fed as truth
By self-serving
Politicians
Along for the ride.

Open your eyes.

OPEN YOUR EYES.

Brenda Braene would like to thank her sisters, Beatrix and Bridget, for helping her talk out the poem. Brenda is a frequent contributor to Circadian Poems. Her blog is Poet Meets Muse, and she shares a website, The 3 Braenes, with her sisters.

Friday, September 08, 2006

Lake

Lake
By Pixie Pearsey


Black water
Scrying mirror
Enter at your own risk.

Blue water
Life elixir
Enter to rejuvenate.

Which one is the real me?



Biography:

Pixie Pearsey
is a performance artist. She often speaks in poems; now she writes them down.

Thursday, September 07, 2006

Sept. 7 Poetry News

Check out Rachelle Arlin Credo’s website, here. She is a frequent contributor to Circadian Poems, and, in November, we will feature a cycle of her poems.

Are you tired of the killing all over the world? Visit Poets Against the War, and find out what you can do to promote peace.

Wednesday, September 06, 2006

Sea Blues

SEA BLUES
By Rachelle Arlin Credo


Look into my eyes
and search through
my life's unexplored depths
What do you find? What do you see?
Power? Passion? Tranquility?

I am serenity
a refuge of comfort
a hermitage for broken hearts
a home for lonely souls
in a world of broken dreams

I don't have tears to shed for sadness
for tears flow through my veins
But I have arms to wrap around you
and soothing softness to touch your heart

You can bathe, soak or play around me
and do whatever your heart desires
I will be there when no one will
for I am infinity,
a servant at your command

I offer you my world
my treasures are yours to keep
You can collect and trade them all
You are the guardian of my soul

Yet the shadows of my past
will still and always remain
For behind a beautiful facade
lies a weeping heart within

A wound so deep, a past so dark
Lurks in silence awaiting time
Until then I shall wait
Until then shall I dread
Until then...



BIOGRAPHY:

Rachelle Arlin Credo is a writer/poet from the Philippines. She writes on a variety of topics for print and online publications. Feel free to check her website at http://www.rachelle.co.nr



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