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    • IMG_1434.jpegSeptember 16 is US National Anne Bradstreet Day.
      The first English-American (New World) poet to be published. 1650


      Sometime now past in the Autumnal Tide,
      When Phoebus wanted but one hour to bed,
      The trees all richly clad, yet void of pride,
      Were gilded o’re by his rich golden head.
      Their leaves and fruits seem’d painted but was true
      Of green, of red, of yellow, mixed hew,
      Rapt were my senses at this delectable view.
      I wist not what to wish, yet sure thought I,
      If so much excellence abide below,
      How excellent is he that dwells on high?
      Whose power and beauty by his works we know.
      Sure he is goodness, wisdom, glory, light,
      That hath this under world so richly dight.
      More Heaven than Earth was here, no winter and no night.

      Continue to read
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  • Our picks

    • Window
      • 0 replies
    • I woke up to see a morn of night,
      A nibbling ache I have no
       responsibility to.

      It was- But a shearing blad
      Of delusion that must be paid
      with blood.

      The hammer swang,The knife twisted
      And I finally could hear the pulse
      Of my ear.

      The white Rose smiled
      For her envy, at last,
      smudged red.
      • 3 replies
    • Charles Simic has influnced me. I won't paraphrase a TheGuardian article or Wikipedia entry1, but I'll highlight something expressed in the former to which I subscribe:

      "A New York Times review from 1978 would note his gift for conveying 'a complex of perceptions and feelings' in just a few lines.

      "'Of all the things ever said about poetry, the axiom that less is more has made the biggest and the most lasting impression on me,' Simic told Granta in 2013. 'I have written many short poems in my life, except written is not the right word to describe how they came into existence. Since it’s not possible to sit down and write an eight-line poem that’ll be vast for its size, these poems are assembled over a long period of time from words and images floating in my head.'"2

      Amen. For me, it's not about the narrative, it's about the mood. If I want a story, a narrative, I'll watch Kubrick's classic adaptation of King's "The Shining." Now, there's a spectacular example of cinematic art, and what a narrative! But when I want a poem, I want a musical mood to be immersed in through language.

      There may be those who knew Simic, who may step up and tell me that I don't know what I'm talking about--"That's not Simic!"--and it may be true. I have read only a few of his poems, and both were included in a tattered, old book I have in my library called "How to Read a Poem."3 One of them was "Empire of Dreams."

      Had I been quicker on the draw, I might have tried to meet Simic, or Heaney, seeing that they were, at some times, geographically accessible to me. But had I done that, what could I really have expected from them? Criticism? Should I have asked them if my poems are any good? Damn straight, they're good. What we have here at PMO are living poets whose poems are good, and for now I'm pleased to be a part of this collective of the living.


      Flip your hair and flash your eyes
      I know it makes you feel
      good, move your body, real,
      good, thrill them when they fantasize.

      In Too Deep (Arthur Younger Remix)


      1. Charles Simic
      2. Charles Simic, Pulitzer Prize Winning Poet Dies at 84
      3. How to Read a Poem by Burton Raffel. New York: The New American Library; 1984.

        • Like
      • 3 replies
    • She may be young,

      She may be small,

      She may even

      Be southeast Asian.

      Yet do not

      Discount her so soon,

      For she is nimble,

      And she is quick.


      This young lady,


      And wearing standard

      PT gear

      And wearing a small pin

      Depicting a flag:

      A red and blue flag,

      With a triangle

      At the hoist,

      Depicting a sun

      At it’s centre

      And three stars

      At each point

      Of the triangle.

      As said before,

      Discount her not,

      For looks do deceive.


      For, Behold;

      With her staff;

      Graceful as a cat,

      She swings and thrusts,

      And parries,

      With the grace of a cat,

      Taking down

      All foes,

      Whether human

      Or occultic,

      Winning it all,

      For her homeland,

      For her host country,

      And for her 


      In her special regiment,

      And even for

      her homeworld;

      The planet Earth!


       most importantly,

      she also fights

      For her Lord and Saviour,

      As evidenced by

      Her genuflecting,

      With her head bowed,

      And her staff held

      In an upright manner!


      See! Above her,

      against the



      A pair of rings,

      Green, floating rings,

      Resembling eyes,

      Hover above,

      Seemingly spectral,

      To which she pays

      No notice.

      What are those rings?

      Are they the eyes

      Of a friend,

      Sent by her Lord

      And saviour to guide

      And protect

      Her and her regiment?

      Or are they

      the eyes of

      A supernatural


      The likes of which

      She is sworn to fight?


      That, dear reader

      Is the mystery

      behind this painting!
      • 2 replies
    • Is it not amazing?

      There you see her,

      This ginger kid,

      A teenager;


      In a navy blue


      Down on her knees,

      Admiring her new

      Bracelets! Bracelets-

      Bound together

      By a long, thin chain.


      She shakes her arms

      This way and that,

      Yet the bracelets

      Maintain their hold,

      On either wrist,

      Tightening further.


      How she got them,

      There’s but two theories:

      One theory says

      That she got them

      After a loss,

      From a wrestling match!

      A wrestling match

      Against another

      Like herself

      In stature, dress,

      And skills,

      Yet different from her

      In age, ethnicity,

      And even profession,

      For it has been

      Rumored that her foe

      Was a cop back

      In her homeland!

      If this story’s true,

      Then all those flips,



      Light punches,

      And light kicks

      Availed her little,

      For she surely

      Lost the match,

      Since the terms

      Of that match were

      That whoever lost

      Would be forced

      To wear those bracelets,

      But for how long

      Would she have

      To wear those bracelets?


      Another story

      Goes like this:

      She wore them willingly,

      As part of a show,

      Yet why is she

      Down on her knees?

      Could it be practicing,

      So that she could break

      Into those bracelets?

      Would she be able

      To perform well

      On the balance beam,

      And on the floor,

      When the big day comes?

      If so, it’d be a first;

      A first for gymnastics!


      After that,

      there’s but one problem:

      After the event,

      How’s she gonna

      take them off?

      Would her coach

      Or her teammates

      Be able to help her

      Unlock those bracelets?

      Also, what about

      Her wrists? They’re

      Gonna be real sore,

      Lemme tell you!


      • 1 reply
    • Some rather nice comments from the editor:


        • Like
      • 3 replies
    • Fevers of the Mind
      A collaboration with poet Lia Brooks. 


      All the best.







      • 1 reply
    • I have one appearing here...






      • 1 reply
    • Killin’ time sippin’ whiskey

      At a bar on the boardwalk by the sea

      the jukebox keeps on playin’ visions of love

      and it takes me back to when I first saw you

      swayin' to the rhythm of the waves

      eyes as blue as the sea

      the wind in your hair

      pink ribbons everywhere


      I stopped to stare

      you did your best to make a boy aware

      your swayin’ arms reached out letting me in

      the touch of your hand calmed the storm within

      your shinning light touched my mind, body, and soul

      I saw it in your eyes

      I felt it from your heart

      Love was all around me


      You made it so easy

      the way you loved me

      made it so easy with every little thing you did

      Unconditional, unconditionally

      You loved me unconditionally


      We set sail upon the waters

      you were the wind in my sails

      drifting onto the sea of love

      tides rolled by, waves of love

      swept into my heart

      The smile on your face, your laughter

      brought me back from the depths of heartache and pain

      I felt alive for the first time in my life


      Anchored on the vessel of embodiment

      cherishing the freedom from within

      A rainbow appeared in the far horizon

      and that girl


      You made it so easy

      the way you loved me

      made it so easy with every little thing you did

      Unconditional, unconditionally

      You loved me unconditionally






      • 9 replies
    • illustrated by Robert g. Jerore


      The Violin

          It was an average size theater, capable of seating two hundred persons. Tonight it was filled to capacity. The variety of entertainment presented during this evenings program was very enjoyable. There had been two vocal solos; a small singing group; an orchestral presentation; twin pianos duet, and a flautist. The twenty minute intermission which allowed a comfort break was over, and the second half of the evenings program was near completion, except for a female violinist who was last on the program.

          Auditorium lights overhead dimmed.; muffled sounds emanating from the audience diminished except for an occasional cough. Dark red, velvet curtains slowly opened accompanied with faint clicking of a few worn rollers as they moved along the rail, from which the curtains were suspended. The crowd hushed...another cough.

          From the left wing of the stage a lone figure emerged, illuminated by a small spot light beaming down from overhead. He strode toward a Grand piano stationed at left-center of the stage. Placing sheets of music against the upright rest on the piano, he seated himself on a frail looking bench, raising slightly to adjust his tuxedo tails. Not satisfied, he raised and seated himself twice more, before looking beneath the key board. There he tapped lightly with his foot, on the pedals of the piano. Adjusting a small lamp above the music rest, he fingered through the sheet music assuring himself everything was in readiness. Finally, he nodded slightly toward the right side of the stage. 

          Behind the opened curtain at the right wing, a young woman appeared, carrying a violin and bow. Clapping of the audience began the moment she appeared. She was wearing a light blue, strapless gown that flowed like water around her lithe body as she moved. Another spotlight followed her; its beam causing tresses of her long blonde hair to gleam like spun gold; clapping continued. At center stage she turned toward the audience...bowing slightly, acknowledging their enthusiastic greeting. Slowly, the applause faded, there was quiet except from somewhere in the audience again a light cough.

          Turning toward the pianist she nodded. At first his fingers touched the ivory keys lightly, then grew more intense as he played the lead to her chosen song. Raising the violin, she placed it beneath her chin, nestling it against her slender neck. It felt cool there. Drawing the bow across its strings lightly; she persuaded the violin to speak, as only a violin knows how. Sweet strains poured forth from the instrument filling the auditorium with a near human-like quality. Crying softly at first...resembling a plea of pure loneliness. It moaned as though deeply wrought in sorrow, calling out to a lost lover, yet knowing there would be no response to its cries. Softly, its soulful anguish began to fade...
      • 2 replies
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