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The reader´s poetry page.

As nothing becomes all that I am The broken blue storm fades in rivers And leaves us with all that we are, Which is nothing. You remember a time of rainbows, don't you, A glistening arc of pastels, And the long grasses, storm-battered, Yet all the better for that fresh dark drink And all the more alive for the wind's rush and dance, And the grassland crackling with electric charge. And waterbeads clinging. And birdthroats singing. But now the blue wind is dry as ice And no longer like in books does your faintly smudged Glitter arch curl in a sky full of paper-white pop-up clouds. The storm splits your smile and puts a crack in time. It strips us and leaves us with all that we are. Which is nothing. By Vitor from England

We drink red wine from blue china cups. White paint flakes from the table, Circles of sunlight drop through the wicker canopy. You follow the palm-dark curve of the valley with shaded eyes. The sea is a silent blue crash and fizz in the distance. It rolls and splits, its fruit bursts softly on the earth. By Fin from Cardiiff, Wales

There's trust within me now, like an instinct. It floats lumptiously in my body with no Logic to dock in, or rest upon. Why is there No room for logic in instincts? How can heads and hearts exist in the same body, When they're at eternal war? It's a wonder our bodies don't curdle and collapse. By Emma S from England

Less meaning, More machines… The thought, nowhere, in nowtime, clasps hands, tots up accounts, generously astounded at each liverspotted, repetitious unraveling. For distraction´s sake we engage in this monkeybusiness, busying ourselves against a flawed design. Defrocked, the highachievever, disarmed, unsmugged, goes like the dog in the street, suffering the self same fits and bursts of animalpanic… The here, indelicately logged into some buzzing whirring leave always without the love they cannot carry. No good to The Not. By Nick Ward from Cambridge, England

He's a man I respect as unto myself He lead a life of woe I know Yet even past so many a year It's at this time I nary a fear That in my tale if to be finally told The fears and dementia we both have known Do not stray my thoughts from ever so bold His works are there have been unfold As to my own but whom has known Only a few seldom, oh, never untold The efforts put forth whilst being so bold And it this I may think it is quite so That years of toil should ever stay cold But why address the past unknown When in the future no-one now knows What for may to come that which is old But heavenly hopes for it to be so That unto someday the present become Something for which we both might be So much as not starving and calling it tea! By David Johns from Coquitlam, BC Canada

Bash of Angels From atop a powder keg high up in the sky, Angels passed joints and got a little high; Singing fantastic colorful tunes, Dropping roaches close to the fuse. Meanwhile, Above the group, Brother Fate fell to his knees - By relativistic morality he had of late been seized, And was unsure of the angels predestined course Which a moment ago he had known with such force. Temptation suddenly came & dropped a nickle in his hand while smiling, winking, and whispering the demand - "Flip my friend, heads or tails you'll see, And then, before all, God you'll finally be." Smoke drifted up from the angels below. The haze mixed with air just prior stoned. The winds shifted & chairs began to swing From the force of hundreds of fluttering wings. Paranoia had inexplicably filled the party; The songs & beef stew were no longer hearty. So they came above to make sure the keg was safe, And feathers would not be blown from place to place. Fate looked guilty from above his collar, When his nickle suddenly turned to a plastic silver dollar. Temptation giggled and winked and chimed - "Let me know brother if you change your mind." And with that he was gone in a whisp of smoke, Leaving Fate with many angels who didn't get the joke. They surrounded our Brother like a large bristling collar, And took turns poking him with his plastic silver dollar. Ticklish as he was, Fate gasped for air, Speaking in between chortles and pleading with despair - "My friends, I would not have blown you to bits. Without my drinking buddies, Heaven would have been the pits!" By S. Vanessa Vampotic from Tucson AZ USA

Never Ending The future is a journey The past a golden road A smile that you will never forget, like a secret you've been told Dont look back with regrets because you couldn't say goodbye, look back with a forgiving heart and smile because you tried. By sarah b from ont

The Café Del Rosa Cafe Del Rosa The invite was to join in at the café Del la Rosa A soirée of song, poetry and prose - who knows? Look at the player, on the perch, arpeggio, oh no Confident maestro. False modesty? 1 don't know. Listen to the player; listen to the riffs, No stiffs, they rip them off these licks, The standard of the music, as the students sit and play Enough to undergraduate the rest of us away. Whose idea was this to come here anyway? The café Del Rosa. Am 1 a voyeur, whose is this mission? Standing at the back and sit and look and listen. Wine? No wine, red - white, not mine, Are you going to the stage, can 1 make you so incline? The last guy's stopped, where is the girl, My mind is foggy in a whirl of confusion, Delusion, 1 am not good enough for this infusion. Such heady heights this scaffold stage, To hang myself in embarrassed rage, a phage, Fear - Virus in my veins. This café Del Rosa. 1 hear a call to climb the stage, Avoid his eyes, try to look sage. Do not be shy and share a page. Of the seven, pride heads the list And 1 keep low and hope I'm missed. The crowd are open there's the path, 1 cannot walk they'll only laugh - [Electric creep of fear] Knots my legs and keeps me here Hide truth from those who're near. Who knows how poor their peer? Here, shadow at the rear, living in fear. In the café Del Rosa. Look at the players, neatly planned No room for poets, just one man bands Sing their songs, covers of others hearts. Staged by pros, make room for prose Readings from hearts no other knows. Shared words and music in relaxation No need for fears here, amongst our friends And with our peers. Come gently, sing and play, recite your words Come and stay, At the café Del Rosa. By douglas arnold from Plymouth Devon England

Friends or Not?? Friends or Not?? Through out all the tears, and all the years we have remaind best friends. You have been there everyday When my grandpa died, you were there. when i wanted to die, you were there. And through out all the fights, we have remaind best friends. but, there are some un anwsered questions. Will we always be friends? We say Best Friends For life. What happens if I die? Will we still be friends? So, I have 1 more question, So, are we friends or not??? By Stefanie from Colville washington usa

Individuality Do you like to 'Fit in' And feel it a sin To represent your true self? Do you wear what to wear And restyle your hair According to everyone else? Can you not just be you? Don't you think this will do? Why is being a sheep deemed so cool? I am sick of this game That you all seem to play Individuals always have and will rule. By Heather Baker from England near Manchester

Desire and Death Desire, the death in my hand, soft and gentle... Oh damned wasp! if at least a butterfly could fly alive from my pillow, like a violet cyclamen on a zinc yellow sunset. Desire, Like bulls fucking by the fence like her evening smell, or the moonlight music play, but,don´t bother man, here I am, in the other side and, promise, it´s o´kay! By Alejandro Reza Maque from Mexico City

Renaissance At night, during that time when everything is Kind of Blue, I put on my records and change color. I am 125th Street, 1920s everything jazz-horn flapping drugged nightmare Harlem ecstasy artistic chances blossoming in white-war distracted country. And Langston Hughes in small cafes puts soul to page. And Sonny's Blues shoots up in the corner. Both trying to discover that elusive dream. And Claude McKay watches his Harlem dancer, sleeping with her across the room. And W.E.B DuBois spreads political rhetoric. Both becoming red. And Billie Holiday keeps the beat alive with her sweet and low of how we was strange fruit hangin in the trees. And I can say We without using Father's separations. And I can call people Bruthah or Sistah tapping my foot in time and tune with the humming bass. And with each sip of the soulful scene the off-white taste that stains my teeth becomes more apparent-- The record always begins to skip just as I begin to believe myself. By Samuel Cohan from Boston MA USA

The Secret of Numbers

Epson The tapestry is shattering the dreamfolk and the rain deals tricks in my eyes let the fire burn outward and then look to see whether I follow Feel green in the teeth? Not yet, the brick won't fall from the wall without painting a satillte blue and numerous times we go swaying about Who needs the sun anyway...fuckers Live and let be for happy you'll see No double, bubble boil and trouble Is all that happens to me By the way, I am selfish By Sean French from Los Angeles CA U.S.A.

more Poetry from the readers: 1999-2001

more Poetry from the readers: 1998-99