Circadian Poems

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

Monday, October 30, 2006

Halloween Poems

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

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.

Monday, October 23, 2006

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

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

Wednesday, October 18, 2006

Heart Break

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
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.

Monday, October 16, 2006


By Emily Kline

I weep at
the torn bodies, the destruction of
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.

Friday, October 13, 2006

Poems for Friday the 13th

Friday the 13th
By Adele Swift

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

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.

Wednesday, October 11, 2006

Breath of Autumn

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.

Monday, October 09, 2006

A Heaven of Sand 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


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

Friday, October 06, 2006


By Danielle Frézier

Say the words
Can’t hear
Want to
Need to
Do I?
What is?
What was?
Will it be?



Danielle Frézier is at her best in the moonlight.

Wednesday, October 04, 2006

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.

Monday, October 02, 2006

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.