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Poetry by TOPS members selected for presentation on this website is changed
regularly so come back often to see what your fellow poets are writing.
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Villanelle: Fenestra
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Every poet needs a picture window,
an extra-large TV to fix one's gaze,
a means to word-wrangling and manifesto,
a place to "stop and stare" and ponder how
unflagging life ploughs on in acts and plays.
Every poet needs a picture window,
as solstices and seasons come and go
inspiration kindled in the roll of days,
a means to word-wrangling and manifesto;
iambs gel with morning's bold crescendo,
a blazing sunset tapers offa phrase.
Every poet needs a picture window,
the eye invigorates the incipient flow
of rhythm ricocheting through the brain's maze -
a means to word-wrangling and manifesto
of metaphor, words tossed off with bravado
ensuring, line to line, the theme segues.
Every poet needs a picture window,
a means to word-wrangling and manifesto.
Louise Fairley
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Coming Home
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left the land of sun
abandoned the blue skies and pebbled beaches
blocked the whispers of the waves
try to forget the swollen breast of sea
the foamy crests
the white seagulls in their erratic fly
their cries
now
surrounded by grey and brown porous snow
skeletal trees
glooming sky
caressed by cold wind
cradled by lingering winter
i arrived home
where i belong
Simona Dragu
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Home, Our Universe
Witness unfulfilled desires of pulsing hearts
ready for voyages to Mars, guests of infinity,
future is now, creating fresh definitions of 'home'
on streaking space ships in flight from time.
Buck Rogers my epic hero in grade three
flew his crew beyond clustered stars
exploding constellations, winning wars.
Where can you find 'home sweet homes',
'homes over distant horizons'?
we discovered home is where the heart
can yearn in secrecy, if need be, alone!
imagine trickles of homesickness claiming
emotional minds of men and women near
Mars' orbit, close to voluptuous Saturn's rings.
There'd be no returning to Mother Earth!
Today families already balanced precariously
give guidance to children facing chaotic worlds,
hanging in there, steering the family ship
away from hostile rocks in turbulent times.
For us, born in 1920's jazz age
time's radiance, living light of youthful lives,
showered bounty, struggle, loss, discovery, optimism.
Reminiscing today brings guilt. Curious kids ask,
Who will stop the menacing grotesques?
Fred Manson
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All Those Old Songs
Backstage, behind the scenes,
behind the limelight,
my heart beats rhythm
like a metronome.
No fully automatic system
performs all those old songs
I.B. Iskov
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Figure Skaters
my heart pounds
of pride filled energy
a successful performance
I stand here
spiked into the ice
for an unseen crowd
in a forum of applause
my mind and heart
melt into the soul
of glass smooth ice
warmer to the next venue
each time in succession
is a test of pride
and dedication to perfection
under blinding lights
will test my heart
Ed Woods
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Checkpoint: Khyber Pass
on a stone wall
gekkos, quick, clever. . .
barbed legs,
land-locked tentacles,
but quick
over there
left from the last invasion
another dying beast
stay clear
not yet dead
nightfall, watch them
this, too, ends
when legs
fall off
who knows when
bury the dead
more than earth
is disturbed
when it's been turned
too often
Maureen Korp
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Pelicans in Flight through Time
frigate birds fly
over lovely aquamarine waters
of this small Caribbean island
dropping their shadow bills in waves
to pluck life's end so like a liquid thread of water breath
it's drifting down to mend the distance as they rise
and we are thrown like momentary pebble daps through time
to when such ancient creatures
bent the wind
like saw-toothed lizards of the air
these primordial shapes
mere dreams of God
when man was but a thought
of that yet to come sixth day
in dust shaped forms within his palms before first light
we woke and named the darkest stones beneath our very thumbs
then running from within the garden's knowledge
with its guilty fruit spoil on our tongues
and clad in skins
we killed the berry-eating beasts
we found with fire-sharpened sticks
the cousins of our loins
surviving in the crawl and tumble
of the welk emerging from its shell
and the lovely blue exhaustion of the dying man of war
stranded in the sand
a birthday wish from when
enlightened Eve crisscrossed her hands and locked her womb
to hide her shapely nether heart in shade
sub rosa to the secret beauty there
John B. Lee
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