Circadian Poems

Moved!

2007-01-11T19:17:00.000-08:00

Circadian Poems has moved, links and all. The poem for Friday, January 12, 2007, and all subsequent material is now here:

http://circadianpoems.wordpress.com

Come with us to our new abode!

News and Spam Hell

2007-01-11T18:13:00.000-08:00

Not much to report just yet in the New Year.

If you've submitted and not heard back -- my apologies. I'm getting 1200 pieces of Spam per day into the account -- and that's what's getting through the Spam filter, which is set as high as it can go. I'm not even looking at what's in the Spam folder.

I'm working my way through everything else as best I can.

Please make sure you put "submission" into your poems or essays.

Please make sure you include a bio with every submission -- and contact information, so I can email you back.

I'm thinking of moving this site over to Word Press -- I've moved several other sites over in the past few weeks. I have to investigate a bit more and see if we can move the arachives as well.

Thanks for your patience, and may you have a poetic New Year!

Image

2007-01-10T05:25:00.000-08:00

Image
By Violetta Ashe

Wisp
Fragment
Scrap
Gossamer

A movement
In the
Peripheral
Vision

Ethereal?
Corporeal?
Illusion?
Reality?

Passing the
Mirror
In the darkened
Hallway

Catching
A flash of
Movement
Within

A friend
I hope
No foe
To fear

Who is in
The mirror
And why reveal
To me?

What It Feels Like to Write A Poem

2007-01-09T05:54:00.000-08:00

What It Feels Like to Write a Poem
By Brenda Braene

When I’m asked what it feels like to write a poem, I always pause and think. Not because I don’t know the answer, but because I’m not quite sure how to articulate it to someone who hasn’t experienced it.

For writing a poem is more experiential for me than it is intellectual. Anything can spark it – an image, a word, a sensation, an emotion, a scrap of conversation. The spark turns into a series of images, tied to feelings. Then words start to form, like clouds before a rain storm. And I have to pick out the words to best express the images and the emotions.

I want my reader to see and feel what I see and feel. A poem, to me, is a moment of intimacy in experience. It’s frightening to be so open, and, at the same time, it’s wonderful.

But finding the right words with the right shade of meaning is a challenge. It takes draft after draft, talking the poem as well as writing it. It means putting it away and trying to approach it days later, with fresh eyes.

A good poem will make me see the world differently, somehow, to present a new experience to me. Hopefully it’s an experience with which I can either connect or understand. And it’s something I can revisit, year after year, both to re-experience the familiar and to learn something new.

Brenda Braene is a frequent contributor to Circadian Poems. Her blog is Poet Meets Muse, and she shares a website with her sisters, The Three Braenes.

New Year

2007-01-09T05:53:00.000-08:00

New Year
By Bliss Monaghan

A new year
A clean slate
An unsullied cloth
A fresh page
On which to write
The latest installment
Of the novel of my life.

Bliss Monaghan lives each day as it comes. And the days are better when they are filled with poetry.

Lone Traveler

2006-12-22T04:55:00.000-08:00

LONE TRAVELER
by Rachelle Arlin Credo

There's a sudden strange silence
Amid the busy whirl around me
Disclosing the scars of my innocence
From a dreadful yesterday

Shadows paint the spectacle
Of a vision that used to be enchanting
Catching me half a miracle
While a song consumes my thinking

Gradually I drifted into another reality
Like a wind from nowhere blown
Lost in a paradise of adversity
Only to find destiny on my own

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

Note: My apologies to Rachelle Arlin Credo. This poem should have been published on December 11, but with blogger/beta problems, this is the earliest I could get it up on the site.

I hope everyone has a lovely holiday season.

Circadian Poems will return on January 8, 2007.

Happy Thanksgiving!

2006-11-20T06:12:00.000-08:00

Circadian Poems will return on November 27.

We wish everyone a happy, joyful, and safe Thanksgiving.

Why?

2006-11-16T04:57:00.000-08:00

WHY
by Rachelle Arlin Credo

As a tear ran down my cheek
I wondered innocently to myself
What the possible reason could be
Why you left me alone and dreary

I wondered just what you saw
That propelled you to go
Or perhaps just what I said
That pushed you to leave

I wanted to know the reason why
You had to say goodbye
Question after question filled my mind
Hoping answers I would find

You told me you loved me
And that you'd always be there for me
Now I wonder why you lied
The truth, why you tried to hide

As I lay in my bed at night
I still wonder with all my might
Still asking the same query over and over again
Why you had to leave me in excruciating pain

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

Still

2006-11-13T07:16:00.000-08:00

STILL
by Rachelle Arlin Credo

Maybe I'm screwed up
Or maybe just a bit confused
About what's going on inside me
That I can't seem to muse

Maybe I'm surprised
Or maybe just not used to
But I know this eerie feeling
Has got something to do with you

I can't seem to forget you
No matter what I do
And the more I attempt to
My heart keeps coming back to you

Sometimes the feeling just hurts so bad
That all I can do is sit and sigh
And at times when the pain just seems so much
I can't stop myself from starting to cry

I know I can't possibly do anything
To bring back our past
But still I wish that someday
We'll be one in heart at last

Now, I have to forget you
I have to say goodbye
I know I must move on
And leave the past behind

But though we part our ways
Though we should say goodbye
I will and still love you the same
Because my heart just cannot lie

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

Regrets

2006-11-10T19:17:00.000-08:00

REGRETS
by Rachelle Arlin Credo

If I could only stop my heart from beating
I should have not lived in vain
If I could only stop the aching
I should have eased the pain

If I could only see what's behind
I should have not been like this
If I could only control my heart and mind
I should have not lived in a mess

If I ever just knew
What you were really up to
I should have not gone through
Loving you so...

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

Holding On

2006-11-09T06:22:00.000-08:00

HOLDING ON
by Rachelle Arlin Credo

All these days I have been alone
Uninspired, too tired and wasted
Lots of cherished moments keep lingering on
Causing so much agitation in my head

I tried to keep the emptiness within
As I search for a way to start anew
But as another bright day begins
My heart keeps coming back to you

Now, it only seem like yesterday
When you left me for somebody new
And yet I'm holding on with old memories
Wishing that someday you'll come back to me though

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

Brokenhearted

2006-11-06T06:14:00.000-08:00

BROKENHEARTED
by Rachelle Arlin Credo

Dreamlike silence shrouds my sullen world
With loneliness keeping me company
A feeling of dejection creeps inside me
As a moment of mourning shares the tearful reality

I find myself in solitude
in the vast expanse of immense emptiness
Queries overflowing, wailing and wondering
for things still left unspoken

All the things turn out to be
bleary, bleak and dreary
As tears trickle tenderly
Knowing failure has come my way

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

I Hate You

2006-11-01T04:29:00.000-08:00

I HATE YOU
by Rachelle Arlin Credo

I hate you since the first time we met
For it marked our inadvertent fate
For coming into my life so suddenly
And invading my thoughts since that fateful day

I hate you for smiling at me time and again
For it made my heart smile back deep within
For the way you stare at me in deliberation
Driving my thoughts crazy with anticipation

I hate you for sending me SMS from time to time
For it made me remember you for a lifetime
For giving me countless missed calls everyday
Reminding me of your presence needlessly

I hate you for always spending your time with me
For it made me appreciate your company
For always being there when I need consolation
Helping me realize you're someone I can lean on

But most of all, I hate you so much
For loving me forcibly without a hunch
For making me say I hate you, with charms all pure
Because the truth is...I'm just learning to love you more and more

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

Halloween Poems

2006-10-30T03:15:00.000-08:00

Night Riders
By Alissa MacKenzie

Rising up
out of the deep
Midnight strikes
they cannae sleep.

Reach for the moon
tread in the damp
Mind the headstone
don’t bump the vamp.

Pumpkins, cats,
brews and sweets,
Straw and spice,
light running feet.

Little girl lost,
little boy found
Big, wide eyes
scary tales abound.

Tastes of Halloween
By Brenda Braene

Clean, crisp, tart, sweet
Apples are Halloween’s treat.

Gooey, sticky, chocolate, mint
Candy sweetens the souls of flint.

Laughter, shrieks, glee abroad
Behind each mask a happy fraud.

Trick or Treat
By Hunter Cole

Littlest a ladybug
Eldest a pirate
Middle a witchy princess
Or maybe a princessy witch.

Each stitch made with love.
Each step handled with care.

Who knew a night
Of fright
Brings such
Delight?

Bios:
Brenda Braene is a frequent contributor to Circadian. Her blog is Poet Meets Muse.

Hunter Cole loves his Maine woods, and loves watching his kids delight in the home-made costumes made by his wife.

Alissa MacKenzie has nothing to say in a bio.

Picnic in San Fernando

2006-10-23T06:31:00.000-07:00

PICNIC IN SAN FERNANDO
By Rachelle Arlin Credo

She lays the white cloth
on the ground of grass
and opens the cans of coke
with gentle flicks.

On a little narra table
she sets the plates,
each with three hanging rice
and a quarter of lechon;

while he broils some meat
on a rack over hot coals,
the heat of the sun
and the coals before him
scorching his cheeks and forehead.

Smiles paint the little faces
of their children running against
the count of hide and seek
with the other kids in the plaza.

As the embers dry to the cooling sun
she calls them all to gather round
hands washed, faces flashing
they say a little prayer before partaking
from the small banquet of love.

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

Circadian Poems will be offline the rest of the week, and return next Monday.

Heart Break

2006-10-18T06:04:00.000-07:00

Heart Break
By Wren Fallon

When your heart breaks
They don’t warn you
About how you can feel
The pieces shatter inside your chest
Shards running through the
Bloodstream
To poison every
Piece of you.

When your heart breaks
They act as though
It is something transitory
As though you will
“Get over it”
Forgetting that you
Have to learn to
Live with it.

When your heart breaks
You can feel the pieces
Move inside your body
Cutting off your breath
Cutting out your soul
Making it impossible
To love again
Until next time.

Wren Fallon has neither a blog nor a website, and that’s the way she likes it.

Paralysis

2006-10-16T06:13:00.000-07:00

Paralysis
By Emily Kline

I weep at
the torn bodies, the destruction of
war
the continuous escalation of crime
without punishment
of any but the victims.

I do nothing
but write what I see,
what I hear, what I feel.

Does anyone listen?
Even if it is widely received,
does anyone care?
Or does experiencing words on a page
free one from having to take personal actions
to right wrong?

Is the pen mightier than the sword
to attack evil
or merely to commit suicide
from society?

Emily Kline is a graduate student in anthropology and world history.

Poems for Friday the 13th

2006-10-13T05:42:00.000-07:00

Friday the 13th
By Adele Swift

Oooh! Aaaah!
Stay home
Little frightened ones!
Today is Friday the 13th!
You know what that means!
Ooooh!
Bad luck
Because you feel guilty
For all the things
You’ve done to hurt people
For which you’ve
Yet to be caught.

Habits
By Brenda Braene

I find a penny
I pick it up
I give it to my sister
So she has good luck.

I skip the cracks
No broken backs
I knock on wood
To keep it good.

I cross my fingers
So good luck lingers.
I laugh and play
To save the day.

The 13th of Friday
By Cassandra Oleander

Frost on the glass
Creates patterns that blast
Away fears from the day.

Peeking through Jack Frost’s
Gifts given in the night
Seeing land so clean and bright.

It’s quiet because people
Move carefully, clearly
Fearing a misstep.

Their fear makes them polite.
Superstition takes them to
New heights.

Brenda Braene is a frequent contributor to Circadian Poems. Her blog is Poet Meets Muse.

Cassandra Oleander thinks the world is a funny place, and enjoys it. Her blog – not updated as often as she should, is Askew.

Adele Swift doesn’t like to be labeled. Her neglected blog is Swiftian Logic.

Breath of Autumn

2006-10-11T10:44:00.000-07:00

Breath of Autumn
By Joan Spoon

Warm moist air
Turns cold and crisp.
Warm interior air
Exhales as dancing sprites.

Deep earth hearbeat
Slows towards winter
As people rush to fulfill
Fall’s promise of fresh start.

Sensations of crunch
In step, in taste, in sound.
Light no longer lush
But delicate.

The earth breathes differently
Preparing to hibernate
As people increase activity
Preparing for holidays.

Joan Spoon loves her garden, her pets, and her students. She writes, paints, and plays piano whenever she can.

A Heaven of Sand and Stones

2006-10-09T06:06:00.000-07:00

A HEAVEN OF SANDS AND STONES
By Rachelle Arlin Credo

Build me a heaven of sand and stones
A castle out of sprays of sand
Where I may rest at the close of the day
For refuge from a whole day's run

Build me a heaven 'neath the azure sky
A little house far from the road
Where I can see the swallows as they fly
And the sampaguita leaves as they fall

Build me a heaven of little rocks
A residence that's stable and sturdy
Where the catastrophes of life
Could never topple down facilely

Build me a heaven of muck and soil
A hermitage away from civilization
There will be drawbridge and a moat
And walls from clashing religion

Build me a heaven of sand and stones
Not of bricks, of blocks and other stuff
For I do not wish to live on a throne
A home of sand and stones of love is enough

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

Whisper

2006-10-06T03:57:00.000-07:00

Whisper
By Danielle Frézier

Whisper
Shooooosh
Softly
Slowly
Say the words
Can’t hear
Want to
Need to
Do I?
What is?
What was?
Will it be?
Me?

Attendez!
écoutez!
Comprenez!
Restez!
Aimez!

Moi.

Danielle Frézier is at her best in the moonlight.

Goodbye, Ghost

2006-10-04T04:29:00.000-07:00

GOODBYE, GHOST
By Brenda Braene

I leave the grounds of the Alamo.
The ghost walks with me as far as the gate.
I cross the threshold.
He tries
And fails.
I take his hand
and try to pull him across.
His hand pulls away
As a chasm opens between us
The chasm of the living and the dead.
He is trapped.
I make my own traps.
I watch him stand
With tears trickling down transparent cheeks.
I turn and walk away
Feeling crueler than the soldier who killed him.

I turn back
He lifts his hand.
I smile.
He disappears.
My window overlooks the garden.
I look for him.
I hope he is free.
I see him wandering
Lost and alone.
Through uncaring tourists
Try to make contact
But they can't respond.
I visit every day.
We walk the grounds together.
He tells me his story. His longings.
The final morning
I go to say goodbye.

Brenda Braene is a frequent contributor to Circadian Poems. Her blog is Poet Meets Muse. She and her sisters love Jane Austen; they plan to resume “The Austen Conversations” on their blog, The Three Braenes, this fall.

Conversation With a Ghost

2006-10-02T04:10:00.000-07:00

CONVERSATION WITH A GHOST
By Brenda Braene

I sit in the Alamo courtyard.
Tourists pass, laughing, talking, taking pictures.
Little boys pretend to be James Bowie and Davy Crockett.
Little girls pretend to know better.
The courtyard clears.
There is a breeze.
A bird calls repetitively behind me.
I feel the blood in the stones.
I hear the tears in the breeze.
I feel the pain absorbed by the trees.
I look up.
He is crossing the flagstones in his home sewn uniform.
Slowly, as though it hurts to walk
Although his feet do not touch the ground.
He stops, a few feet away
And turns to look at me.
I see the water fountain and the far wall through him.
He looks into my eyes.
I look into his.

His eyes are dark and deep.
I am not afraid.
He is trapped here.
He wants comfort, needs release.
He needs to know why he had to die.
Why was the bloodshed necessary?
Why did he have to be brave?
Why didn't he follow Moses Rose over the wall?
He didn't have a woman waiting for him
And now he never would.
He dreamed of her often.
Not of how she looked.
But that she would love him. Always.
And now she would never exist
Because he no longer existed.
Why did he have to die?
Why did he have to feel the bullet rip his skin?
See the soldier above him swing the club,
Feel the blows from the beating as the blood drained out?
I want to tell him it was for "God and Country"
(Or, in this case, God and Texas)
But the words stick in my throat.

I do not believe God wants a good man to die like that,
As an example.
We need good men.
And I do not believe God punishes someone who
is less than perfect under Man's idea of God's perfection
With a death like that.
I can only surmise
That God was busy elsewhere
And that Free Will took a turn for the worse.
One should not have to die for one's country.
That, too, is a false concept created by men
To devise meaning for violence
Where there is none.
Man is best at destroying himself and others.
Billions of people have died throughout history
For no good reason.
It is not survival of the fittest.
It is survival of the meanest.
I reach out my hand.
He takes it.

His hand is cool and dry.
If I close my fingers too tightly
They meet through his.
I want to comfort the ghost.
I want to release him,
Send him on his way.
But I can't.
So I sit there in the courtyard, holding his hand
As the ants bite me.
And I weep with him
While train whistles wail in the distance

Brenda Braene is a frequent contributor to Circadian Poems. Her blog is Poet Meets Muse. She and her sisters love Jane Austen; they plan to resume “The Austen Conversations” on their blog, The Three Braenes, this fall.

Vulcan's Child

2006-09-29T05:53:00.000-07:00

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

Our Marriage

2006-09-27T07:39:00.000-07:00

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.