These Things

for Kelly K. Moran

I have longed to be
the quiet, fading light
that helps you sleep;
and sunrise through the open door.

I've stayed awake for hours,
wondering how I could channel
the most beautiful things
through your eyes,
and into your heart.

I have wished to be
the warm, child-long summer
that stirs your playful curiosity;
and dreams across the long winter.

For a time I doubted I could
be any of these things,
or the myriad others
that fill my head each day.

But the stronger my life
bonds with yours,
the less I doubt my abilities,
the more revealed is my part.

With love, all possibility follows;
it follows me, it follows you.
And all these things wished for
are already true.


Jason Sturner
Wheaton, Illinois, U.S.A.
www.jasonsturner.blogspot.com

Child Labourer

Uncle, uncle he cried as he ran behind me
When I turned around, a small child did I see
He pointed to a fireworks stall and asked me to visit it please
I frowned in the gentle autumn breeze

I’ve already brought my fireworks I said roughly I don’t need anymore
I turned around and walked away never seeing the tears that did flow
I didn’t even known his name was Ramesh, his age was seven, I didn’t care
But at night peacefully I slept after my dinner and a prayer

In my dreams I walked in his shoes
God’s way to help me choose
He was only seven
When his Father left them

How he cried when he worked his first day in the cracker factory
How day and night he slumped into bed in a hungry and exhausted sleep
How he worked for twelve hours non stop
How he was made to exert till from exhaustion he dropped

Silent child, tears of silver
Won’t someone ever come near?
Mothers touch oft forgotten
Life is but a ball of cotton

How did fate deal him such a bad hand
This is something Ramesh will never understand
Here we cry if we don’t get into McDonalds and for money is what we pray
Ramesh would be lucky to get a Sunday off and a square meal a day

There was a fire in his factory which almost burnt him to death
Brave lad, he never wept
Simply got salves on his hand to stop the pain for a while
Started working the next day but he couldn’t smile

He sees many men getting rich off his hard work
Is their any justice in the world?

So many children like Ramesh are made to work in the Sivakasi fireworks factory, this Diwali remember them before you light a fire cracker, it may have been made with their hard work, the profits of which they will never see in their life time because it will be swallowed by greedy business men and fat politicians.

by Rahul
Home Town Chennai, Tamil Nadu
Country, India
Email: rahul.gomez@gmail.com

Spring Came...

Spring came. With clothes of winter still
wrapped round me, I walk to the bus.
Growing craftier everyday
To a world on its hinges.
The noise and wind work at the nerve,
I only have to look at my jacket
And I became melancholy.
I only have to speak of shoes and
I weep. The misunderstood nature
of conflict swallows the world's truth
With a dogs decorum for concern.
Working everyday wears away the
Immunity like a pair of
Shoes. You can repair the laces,
The heels but when your soul gives out-
It's over.

Tom Harding
www.tomarianne.net
tom.harding@talk21.com

The Voice of Despair

Triangles of half-open doors
Reveal all the truth that is hidden:
Just condoms and cans on the floor,
Black papers with verses, forbidden -
Unfinished remakes of the song,
Deprived of the right to speak loud
Of wicked intentions gone wrong -
Erasers have muffled the shout.

The only illusion-proof mind -
A poet, the voice of despair,
Sincere, the one of this kind
Throws verses far into the air
Right there, in a dirty old flat
Among once great talents, now rotten.
They all have deserved more than that,
But even their names are forgotten.

April A.
St. Petersburg, Russia
beautiful-disaster-90@hotmail.com

You Never Know

Tomorrow I shall be new
Wake up glowing
Wake up knowing

When the morning hits the window pane
I’ll wake up sane

Sleeping madly, sleeping badly
I toss and turn
Burning the midnight oil
No reward for this toil

Promises are never kept
No matter what dreams are dreamt
I say tomorrow but I know
The day is lost
I’ve lost it now

Natalie Williams
Liverpool,
United Kingdom

www.natalie-williams.com
nataliewilliams.gypsybutterfly@googlemail.com

Untitled

When the paper arrives,
the news is rumors mixed with fact
strangely sprinkled in seasoned sections,

-scientist stare into atoms face
electrons report

news and evenings
fantasy,

Where the paper caught
the bridge fall,
the tower topple
and that strange
virus renamed
to killer status-

Oh yeah,
the cop,
who could forget them,
strolling streets with the tough voice
looking for vagrants-

names and addresses
and papers,
more paper-

I feel guilty thinking
I missed it.


Dave Barber
Albuquerque, New Mexico
United States

Poetic Loss

The following poem is a tribute to Ancient Heart Magazine, its editor, Richard James van der Draay, and to the fellow poets, its contributors.

There was once a time

when poets wrote poetry

for the sake of poetry itself

no slashing of paper

in painful red

no squirmings of self-pity

in whining blue

no rantings against the world

in merciless black

no railings against fate

in envious green

there was once a time

when readers read poetry

for the sake of poetry itself

not to escape from

drudgery or grinding chores

not to run away from

concrete steel chains

not to blank away

depressing truths

not to find solace

in virtual reality

there was once a time

when bards let poetry

flow through their pens

to blow out new creations

catch metaphorical pearls,

set sensations to music

dance, fly, whirl

spiral through

rhyming similes

twirling idioms

build scented paths

to sublime spheres

there was once a time

when poetry lovers

floated languorously

between unfathomable lines

to roll around, chew upon,

absorb, fully savour

the unforgettable flavour

of each melodious rhyme

pulsing with subtle spices

to sublimate their emotions

through the perfume of

incandescent verses.

Sultana Raza © 2009

Luxembourg