Circadian Poems

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

Wednesday, February 15, 2006

To The One Who Broke My Heart

("Were" Is The Word)
by Sheryl Joy P. Olaño
You had my heart...
You were my soul... Y
ou were the air I breathed
And everything beautiful

You were my beginning
But chose to be my ending
When you left and tore
My dreams apart

I didn't understand back then
You needed a life where you
Wouldn't have to pretend
A life without me
No, I didn't understand

I forgot that you were also
A human being
Capable of hurting and of being

Your leaving I mistook
Thought no one could ever love me
The way I loved you J
ust because I plainly wasn't
Good enough for you

I didn't know that
Out of the ruins, out of
The one you left behind
You gave me a new beginning
That out of the pain,
You showed me truth
Out of your leaving
You gave me hope
Out of the loneliness
And the lack of you,
You gave me a chance
To live my life
Oh, I was given the world When you faded from my side

Then I was free
Free to see so much beauty
Much more than what I saw in you
Free to fulfill
What I can be
That was wasted
When I was confined in you
To stand alone when I used to
Live because of you

Your leaving took away
The fear of losing you
As well as the thinking that
Your loving me
Was all I needed to know
I thought I never could
Imagine life without you
But now I know better…
There is a life Even after you

Sheryl Joy P. Olaño is a journalism graduate and now working as a junior editor in publishing company CannonCreek Asia Incorporated, where she deals with business news writing. She is also a contributor to the Philippine newspaper Sun Star Daily Cebu,,, ezine and goarticles. She writes essays,
short stories, poetry and sometimes novels.

Monday, February 13, 2006

Where are the Angels?

Where are the Angels?
By Lea Drake

In church, they tell us
Tales of Angels.

How they love us.
How they help us.
How they guide us.

In circle, they tell us
Tales of Angels.

How they love us.
How they help us.
How they guide us.

Yet . . .
Famine in our own country
And all over the world.
Pain. Suffering.
Murder. Child abuse.

Instead of praying
To Gods
We pray
To Dollars.

Where are the angels?

Lea Drake’s work appeared in several small poetry journals. She is working on a book of poems.

Wednesday, February 08, 2006

Goodbye, Ghost

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
Trying 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.
He tries to be brave
But he is no longer
Bound by the expectations of men
And can now feel sad.
We lace and unlace fingers.
He watches from the gate
As I walk away the final time
And he sighs.

Brenda Braene’s blog is Poet Meets Muse. She shares a blog and a love of Jane Austen with her sisters on The Three Braenes. Brenda is a frequent contributor to Circadian.

Monday, February 06, 2006


By Wren Fallon

You don’t care that I love you

You’d rather love someone else

You don’t care that I love you

You push me away in self-defense.

You prefer them young and dumb

enough to be manipulative.

You prefer them shallow and false;

it gives you more initiative.

I watch you self-destruct

When all I can do is stand by.

You rather trade love for pain

You will never see me cry.

A real emotion frightens you

And so you run away.

But I am real and I am strong,

My love will find its day.

There is no future with you

Somehow it’s no surprise.

Someday I’ll love one who loves me back

On that I will not compromise.

Your eyes are shallow as puddles

Your kiss is clumsy and dry

Your touch is heavy and hurtful

I no longer want to know why.

I loved you once; I do no longer

I turn and walk away.

Where I once was a hole exists

Your patch will only fray.

Wren Fallon likes to play with words and see what happens. She has neither a blog nor a website, and that’s the way she likes it.

Friday, February 03, 2006

Of My Father's Mandolin

Of My Father’s Mandolin
By Gianna Opris

Two olive-moons shined
in my father’s eyes
as he played the mandolin.
People stared at his hands
and his fingers performing
a music that easy entered the heart.

His concerts began a celebration
sometimes his gift for someone’s birthday.
He played mostly the waltz.
The mandolin sang in Peruvian
a sea of fresh violets
my happy birthday song
the harmony of a September that is gone.

Some of us ‘bravo’ standing!
Members of the family “salud” to each other.
My parents kissed across the face in the living--
I had my shy smile --my strawberry cheeks.

I fully understood the light in my father’s eyes
moved me --
while he tuned a “La menor, Fa mayor”
to play more songs.
Mom wearing her hand-made apron that smelled
like rice just made, took off her glasses; sat.

The mandolin rested, contemplating its audience.
If you looked carefully at its strings they vibrate --still
experiencing a rumba of flavors,
fingering one, two, two, one, two, two.
My father grew like this, going to bed late
writing his letters, with no showers in April.


Gianina Opris currently resides in Denver Colorado after originally moving from Lima, Peru. She is currently pursuing a Masters Degree in Creative Writing at Naropa University. She has been published in various journals, including Bombay Gin, and has received an honorable mention at Columbine Poets in Colorado. Gianina was selected for the 2004 international poetry exhibition in NW Cultural Council in Barrington, Illinois. Gianina is a second grade school teacher in the Denver Public Schools. She is part of a performing poetry group known as The Invisible.

Wednesday, February 01, 2006


By Danielle Frézier

Moonlight begins
its shift to the sun.

Sunlight begins
to wax in the gloom.

Under the ground
pushing, shoving

seedpods crack
striving to give birth.

Inside my soul,
striving, pushing

Something awakens,
something needs room.

Danielle Frézier is at her best in the moonlight. Her work has previously appeared in Circadian.