Poetry Refreshes the Soul

Arnold Adoff explained his definition of poetry: “…a fine poem combines the elements of measuring music, with a form like a living frame that holds it together. I really want a poem to sprout roses and spit bullets; this is the ideal combination. My poems should be read three or four times – once for the meaning, once for the music, and once for how the music and meaning go together.”

From this Bus Window by Arnold Adoff

From this bus
pulling away from the curb
I can stretch
my neck. I can just stare into
the eyes

of a bicycle
he is the

this bus and the moving van
on his other side.

Then he blows the whistle glued between his lips,
and sprint-pedals out of the sandwhich
and slides ahead of us both: bus and van,
and around
his corner.
We ride on.

“Poems should be like fireworks…ready to explode with unpredictable effects.”~ Lillian Moore

“In poetry, syntaxes have little meaning, the order of the words is the order of your heart.” ~ Peter A. Rosado










“Poems should be like fireworks…ready to explode with unpredictable effects.”

Featured Poet for Today

” Bill Waters lives in Pennington, New Jersey, U.S.A., with his wonderful wife and their three amazing cats.  :- ) ” He leads a writing group that meets once a month in the Princeton area. He loves writing Haiku’s and Senryu’s  This is the one I saw today and it reminded me of my grandmother’s front porch so I decided to feature it today.

paint so cracked and blistered

a fresh coat of sunlight

can’t make it new



I recommend you check out his work, the poems vary daily in topics all in his favorite forms if expression.



Featured Poet

All Know To Be true ©Custard

Life is a clock that just ticks away.
Bearing down upon judgement day.
Precious seconds now forever gone.
Creating memories not lasting long.

Would you like to turn back the hands.
Have a goal and make proper plans.
Or do you think like me, que sera sera.
That the door is open or just left ajar

Today is the future and the next day after.
Bearing tears or perhaps much laughter.
Who really knows what another will bring.
Should we really worry about such a thing.

Live for the day, in fact the moment will do.
As your time will cease of this…. all know to be true!


check out her other work at
She is from the UK and has published 7 poetry books and 2 novels!

Reading poetry

Good writers of poetry read other poets work to expand their own skills. It is a daily routine of mine, I find joy being immersed in poetry especially when you consider the media alternative lately. Either it is political back stabbing commentaries or more violence. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t ignore what is happening around me. I just seek balance in my life and poetry gives me that. From time to time I will share one that really made me smile. Thank you, Ruthie

Remembering Peter’s Lake
by Ruthie Hamgeri

You don’t think to care about the
sand in your hair, or the vampire-like
insects that leave reddening, itchy bumps
on your skin, or the pruning of

your hands and feet that makes you feel as though
you are turning, forming into a full-fledged
creature of the lake.

You submerge your head in the water, so that
Mother’s warning words — “Time to head back!” — get
muffled and seem like a world away. You beg body

and mind to soak up any essence of the beach, to take
these moments home with you: the lulling of the waters,
the sun’s warm breath on your skin, the gleeful calls of friends that
join the current’s pull to go further, deeper, until you can’t
see or feel the ground beneath you.

You scan your eyes over the scene of summer’s children, who are
shrieking and running, and summer’s parents keeping one eye
on watch and the other gazing at the blissful sight, as the sun thinly
spreads magenta-orange rays goodbye, and the moon slowly
purses cool lips to kiss the water with a glow.

You do not think of driving away tomorrow, and
a distance of miles turning,
forming into years.

PHOTO: “Girl in lake at dusk” from favim.com.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: When it comes to writing poetry, sometimes I have to wait for inspiration, but sometimes I have to simply sit down and write with no direction, no thought. I enjoy the latter type of process because it is almost supernatural to see the mechanical writing become something meaningful — or become poetry. A professor of mine used to say that the worst thing a poet can do is sit down and write knowing exactly what they want to say and how. For me, poetry has become more about exploration and discovery, so I like to let the writing get the better of me, and follow the words rather than vice-versa. This is what happened with this particular poem!

Ruthie Hamgeri Current Photo

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Ruthie Hamgeri lives in the northwest suburbs of Chicago, and is wrapping up her college career with a B.A. in Computer Science. She has been writing since her thoughts merely scribbles on any surface she could find, but began writing poetry in the seventh grade. She is seeking to immerse herself in the world of poetry, by reading works of established poets and aspiring poets like herself, writing, revising, and re-revising, and attending poetry readings, etc. Ruthie hopes that someday she can publish her own collection(s) of poetry.https://silverbirchpress.wordpress.com/2016/07/18/remembering-peters-lake-poem-by-ruthie-hamgeri-beach-and-pool-memories-poetry-and-prose-series/

Purple People Aliens©LynCrain

All that I see or seem is but a dream within a dream.~
Edgar Alan Poe

Purple Alien Woes

©Lyn Crain

Whoa, the pot belly was smoking hot,
when the door popped right open.
Out came a huge stream of violet,
not sickly sweet smelling lilacs aroma
but a genuine one horned purple alien.
Hey sea monkey, is it safe out here?
I’m really feeling frigging frenzied
after I heard all those crazy humans
sing songs about a one-eyed,
one-horned, flyin’ purple people eater.
How did they know when I came to earth,
that I hid in a prickly tree?
Dang it, Sea Monkey,
you spilled your gut
didn’t you? Can’t trust an urchin!
Oops, I thought you wanted
to play in their band.
You know
Let the good
oh rock and roll
shake up
that horny horn
of yours.

This came about from a prompt that required the following words: sea monkey, pot-belly stove,  purple alien and tree.

The Tree © Lyn Crain

The Tree © Lyn Crain

I was a mere spindly sprout when
the boy planted me outside his window.
My torso thickened and my limbs sprawled
over the years. I nurtured baby robins
tucked in my crannies hidden by my leaves
from any predators view. I was so proud.
I shaded the boy and his family on hot summer days.
I listened to their stories as they rested
against me. I was there when they were silent, too!
I bowed in respect to all the different seasons without
complaint. I did it all for him. He who gave me life.
I watched him go from a human sprout himself to a grown man.
One day, he brought home a girl she was so nice to me.
Now, she lives here too! I really like her voice,
she sings when she visits me. Music makes me feel happy.
One day, I heard a unfamiliar new sound, I liked it a lot.
The man told the young one about planting me.
I straightened myself up, love sure feels good ,
even to a sappy old fool like me.
The man hoped we would be good friends. I knew we would.
I watched over the boy while he played in my bountiful shade,
and the robins sang their lyrical songs. Life was good.
There was a terrible storm and I lost a branch one evening
but they were safe. I stood strong and faced the wind down.
One sunny day, the man and the boy leaned against me while
they talked about his high school baseball game.
Has it really been that long? Oh my, the boy brought
home a girl just like his Dad, they visited me often
though I wasn’t as robust as I once was.
It seemed like I noticed the weather more now
and my leaves didn’t grow quite like they did.
But the humans didn’t seem to mind.
One day, the older man and the boy
brought another visitor to meet me,
oh that sound was music to my ears.
Another sprout for me to watch over as I did the man and the boy.
Was I up to this after another difficult winter?
That dang Mother Nature stole another one of my limbs.
I was feeling my age but I couldn’t let on.
I had a job to do. Time sure flies when you are having fun.
It wasn’t that long before the youngest boy was
climbing me, he told me he was going to touch the moon.
I tried to stand strong like I always did but today…
I shuddered and broke. His cries shattered my heart
His young body crashed loudly against my old roots.
Their silence could be heard for miles.
I long for their voices but they don’t come anymore.
It’s just me and my creaks withering, waiting to die.

48 lines

Ode to My Joe © Lyn Crain

Ode to My Joe

© Lyn Crain

Oh its heady fragrance can be
so smoothly intoxicating
your smoky aroma wets my appetite
as the sun rises, the beginning
of a new adventure, my addictive mind
says I need you to invigorate my senses,
tease me to step out of my comfort zone.
I remember when I was a mere wisp of myself
the novelty of your power was
fiercely intimidating yet compelling
me to drop all pretense of control.
You frightened and lured me like
a moth to a flame. I could not
resist, although I struggled
in vain, my addiction was to much.
You laughed at my feeble attempts
to withdraw because
I was scared of all the negative
propaganda surrounding you.
You assured me… it was all lies
Your sweet whispers told me
I would never feel so good
with anything like this again.
I waivered…
afraid of the me without you.
I threw caution to the wind and
slowly sipped, savoring your
heat while ignoring the
bitter after taste that
lingered on my breath.
I surrendered and let myself
float into the dark spiral
of an addicts life
I lived, my passion for you
fulfilled briefly….

The Stroll©Lyn Crain


The Stroll
©Lyn Crain

Walking with my best friend
hand in hand, emotions ripple
between us like a babbling brook
after a heavy spring rain.
Erratic at times, occasionally
a mere trickle but that’s okay
silence often says more.
Expressions from the heart
grow like roses sometimes
heady and fragrant in
the early stages and leggy
with thorns in the difficult
times but strong enough to
weather the seasons.
Seeing is believing, yet
there are times when
closing ones eyes and
simply absorbing the details
is more powerful.
Walking with my best friend
in the garden of life
tasting all the bountiful
fruit, sharing the juices
bitter and sweet until
fate intervenes.

25 lines

Virtual Marionette

Your eyes, my lines.

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short fiction writer * PUSH Community leader * writing teacher


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