Stone Beds
[Pompeii's surge]Advance: after the great eruption of Pompeii's nearby volcano, Vesuvius, some two-thousand years ago in the heyday of the Roman Empire, what was left of the city were mostly ashes of stone from an unleashing furnace; it is hard to imagine what the people went through (none, not one person survived). I can only guess from the looks of the city today, and in its early excavations, its people were baked alive or asleep, like pottery. In many cases, beds were turned into stones. I have been to Italy twice, and Pompeii, most be the most blazing archeological sites in the world.For those not familiar with Pompeii, (the city, for there was also a General in the Roman Army, called Pompeii, whom gave his name to the city), for those folks, let me clarify: just the name stimulates deep slurs if not down right nightmarish emotions.Pompeii is located by the Bay of Neapolis. The time of the eruption, was A.D. 79. Pompeii, was a resort city, as you might think of Los Vegas. It was the Roman Empires richest city, with luxurious villas, and all seemed to live a most enjoyable lifestyle. This city reminds me of the Titanic, and Sodom and Gomorra. Yes, Pompeii was a most corrupt and violent city, or town-let, as some would have it.The Poem:Stone BedsSkin vaporized
Bones incinerated
Brains boiled-Then exploded!Skulls stained from
Red cerebral matter,
Like a glass that shattered;Teeth disintegrated.Dim and faint was their fate.Suffocation
Decomposed
Solidified-:The shapes of bodies?;Contorted positions-
Buried alive:
Like eggs packed,In clay pottery!...Note: 5/8/05 #642Author/Poet Dennis Siluk, http://dennissiluk.tripod.com

Charlotte Bronte (1816 ?1855) Novelist and Poet.Charlotte was the daughter of the Rev. Patrick Bronte,with her sisters Emily and Anne, Charlotte was brought up in a small parsonage in the Yorkshire village of Haworth. Whilst still in her childhood the Bronte sisters lost their mother and as the eldest Charlotte took up the a role of looking out for her sisters Emily and Anne. Charlotte was described as: "the motherly friend and guardian of her younger sisters,"The sisters had an unusual upringing in that their house overlooked the village graveyard. To escape from these surroundings and the loss of their mother they would often spend time creating stories of fantasy lands. These fantasy stories were often based on the soldiers of their strict, religious aunt, Elisabeth Branwell. Later in a poem Charlotte wrote:"We wove a web in childhood, / A web of sunny air."After various efforts as schoolmistresses and governesses, the sisters took to literature and published a volume of poems under the names of Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell Unfortunately these early publications were a commercial failure. However this did not deter Charlotte and she continued with her novels such as "The Professor" and "Jane Eyre". Jane Eyre proved to be tremendously popular with the public when it appeared in 1854. The novel has gained status as one of the classic's of English literature for its originality and strength of writing.Charlotte was married to her father's curate, the Rev. A. Nicholls, but after a short though happy married life she died in childbirth in 1855.Quote by Charlotte Bronte"Conventionality is not morality. Self-righteousness is not religion. To attack the first is not to assail the last. To pluck the mask from the face of the Pharisee is not to lift an impious hand to the Crown of Thorns. "Poem by Charlotte Bronte - LIFELife, believe, is not a dream
So dark as sages say;
Oft a little morning rain
Foretells a pleasant day.
Sometimes there are clouds of gloom,
But these are transient all;
If the shower will make the roses bloom,
O why lament its fall ?Rapidly, merrily,
Life's sunny hours flit by,
Gratefully, cheerily,
Enjoy them as they fly !What though Death at times steps in
And calls our Best away ?
What though sorrow seems to win,
O'er hope, a heavy sway ?
Yet hope again elastic springs,
Unconquered, though she fell;
Still buoyant are her golden wings,
Still strong to bear us well.
Manfully, fearlessly,
The day of trial bear,
For gloriously, victoriously,
Can courage quell despair !Written for http://www.poetseers.orgFor More Female Poets http://www.poetseers.org/the_great_poets/female_poets/Written by Richard Pettingerhttp://www.richardpettinger.com/

Ed Gallagher Dec. 11, 1907 - Sept. 5, 2004This poem was written for Ed Gallagher, a good friend and neighbour on the day his wife called me to let me know that he was in the hospital and wasn't expected to live. I was asked by the family to read this at the gathering after the funeral service and copies were given to all his family members.It is important to recognize that we will miss our loved ones, despite the fact that they have lived to a good age, and especially when they die young.People will say
That you lived a good life
You had many years
With your kids and your wife.You lived a good life
Yes, it is true
But that doesn't mean
We won't miss you.The sound of your voice
The pace of your step,
These are things
We won't forget.Your years on the farm
Were not spent in vain
You raised quite a crew
Through your toil and strain.Though your sight and your hearing
Had begun to dim
Your mind was as sharp
As a tack or a pin.Your head was filled
With all kinds of facts
Sports, people, farming,
Living life to the max.When I came to visit
You expected a hug
And a simple kiss
On your smiling mug.The light in your eyes
When you talked with a friend,
Those are the memories
That will never end.You will be missed
Of that there's no doubt
And we'll think of you often
When we're out and about.Or when we are watching
A game on tv
And hear them announcing
He scores, or strike three.You lived a good life
Yes that is true.
But that doesn't mean
We won't miss you!copyright September 2004Fran Watson
"Expert Author"
http://www.franwatson.ca
http://www.mormunny4u.org
http://www.diet-basics.org

There once lived an old man and his goodwife
On the edge of the thick of the woods;
They lived in an old run-down shack
For forty-years and some.
The old man hunted for his living,
And his wife sewed on her lap.He once was hunting in the woods,
The marshes were high with game
When the waters rise, many animals die
And he thought (as always), 'Such a shame.'
Well, this day he saw a Golden Hare,'No common hare,' thought he.
Stranded on a mud bare little isle
So he quickly grabbed the hare by the ears,
To save it, if you please.Now the Golden Hare started to examine him,
And it spoke like a human being:
"Let me go, old man, back in the woods-
I will give you most anything!"The old man was surprised and scared,
For he had never heard of a hare talking.
So gently by its ears, he put the hare down
And kindly said, as he did so:
"God be with you, my lovely little Golden Hare!
And thank you-but I want for noththing;
Go back to your home in the woods,
And roam free as you normally would."But the hare stood stone-still, shaking,
Too weak was she-I'll have you know-:
Thus, into his sack, the old man put her
And brought her back to his home.There he dried the hare, gave her food,
And said: "Now go-before night!"
And thus, the hare was gone for good.To his wife, the old hunter was cautious
To tell her about the talking, Golden Hare,
And so he explained: "I caught this hare
Stranded, and thought to set her free-
Whereupon, she promised me, most anything;
But like a good Christian, I simply said
'God be with you? [and] I need nothing.'Thereupon, his wife reprimanded her husband:
"You old fool?you big stupid man!
You might have asked for a sewing machine!
Now go find the hare and ask!"The old man turned to the woods,
Where the morning was flickering with light.
And off he went, calling out to the Golden Hare.
And the Golden Hare appeared, behind a bush,
"What is it, old man, what is your wish?"
With his eyes cast down, the old man answered:
"I am sad to say, Most Beautify Hare~!
But my old woman scorned me utterly-
Bothers me every second of the day,
She says she wants a sewing machine."The Golden Hare mumbled in reply:
"So be it, go home old man, be at peace,
For your wife will soon have it."And behold, when the old man arrived home,
His wife was laughing, by a sewing machine.
But she screamed at her husband evermore:
"You silly old man, go back and ask for a farmhouse!"And again he went back to the woods,
But this time the rain was pouring,
He called out to the Golden Hare,
And the Golden Hare appeared again, saying:
"Now what is it old man, what is your wish?"
"It never ends; forgive me, but my wife?
Now wants a farmhouse."
The Golden Hare mumbled in answer:
"As you desire, go home and you'll have it~!"And when he arrived back home,
His shack was replaced by a farmhouse.
Oh yes, even with a huge towering silo.
And there sat his old wife by the window.But the old woman was still hungry with greed
Told her husband, "Go back and ask for money!
Perhaps a ton of gold, she will give to you!"And the old hunter did as she asked,
Hollered out for the Golden Hare to appear
And although the hare appeared, said nothing,
She listened angrily as the old man begged:
"Forgiven me of my wife's greed, but now she Wants a ton of gold, or just a lot of money."
The hare just whoosh its golden ears
And vanished back into the woods.When the husband arrived back home-
Behold, his old wife was like before,
Sitting by their old broken down shack
Sewing an old shirt, on her lap, bored.#769 7/11/05IN SPANISHTranslated by Nancy Pe

Note: written after seeing the little adobe 16th century church San Sebastian, in San Jeronimo, by the mountains of Huancayo, Peru, after being taken there by the Wandering Quechua guide, Enrique (4-13-2005).The Treasure of Catalina HuancaWritten by Dennis L. SilukThere, by the lofty mountains fairHidden under the earth by Huancayo
In San Jer

A poetic comment that just welled up inside my head ? why cant we just do something ? before many more are dead?How pious those politicians are,
When up there on T.V.
Saying that, all the things they do,
They do for you and me.I don't remember requesting weapons,
Or to send my sons to war.
Just how many tons of food,
Would all that money provide for?I didn't ask for that highway,
Or the 'modern art' with purple lights.
I would rather all those millions,
Helped with Human Rights.Did I ask to stockpile food in hangars,
Until the price goes high.
Why can't we send it, to Africa,
Instead of letting them die.The cost of clothes, for the 'P.M's' wife,
Or even the President's daughter.
Would probably give thousands of villages,
Access to clean water.And if every politician, in the world,
Gave just one tenth of their wages.
It would feed millions of people in Africa,
Help them survive for ages.If we must invade some countries,
Because of 'principles' so high.
How about those, spending money on weapons,
While their people die.Conglomerates make huge profits,
Feeding those, already obese.
So why can't they spare some millions,
To help fight this disease?So Mister Politician, if you are itching to invade,
Let's all invade Africa, with help and love and aid!So now it's over to you, let your voice be heard. Don't let this sin continue, it really is absurd!John Roberts is a Freelance Training Consultant in the UK and a Director of JayrConsulting Ltd. http://www.jayrconsulting.co.uk

Happy, Sad, Mad and Glad,
Moved in down the streetCautious watched them, from her window,
Wondering, which one should I meet?Confused came in with overwhelmed and said,
"The Panics have come to town"Then Hopeful called the carefulls,
And said that Happy was a clown.Anxious came in with the news,
Confident had called a town meetingTo take a vote for Mayor,
And to Welcome the new neighbors to Feeling.Feeling was a busy town,
Always on the goHappy was voted as Feeling's Mayor,
While Confident decided to go.Happy took the Mayors Job and took it seriously.Thinking the town,
Would be so much better off,If everyone were Happy.Now Happy asked for their suggestions,
Saying yes to everyone.Soon, Happy was out and Chaos was in,
Chaos was on the run.Gathering the folks from Feeling,
Chaos ran from house to house,While Bored and Lonely ran into town,
And were quiet as a mouse.While Chaos was running with Crazy,
Happy called Confident and Calm,They knew that Lazy was out of the question,
For it was nearly dawn.When the two groups came together,
They wondered "Who will it ever be?"Who would watch over the town of Feeling,
and keep it rodent free?Happy, Sad, Mad and Glad,
Were chosen on the spotThen balanced and joyful came to town,
They were the best house on the lot.The people that lived in Feeling,
Well, they came and then they wentThe time they had with neighbors and friends,
Was definitely time well spent.When you find yourself in Feeling,
Remember to take it slow,Making friends in this wonderful place,
Is the only way to go.Mary Pat uses the recovery process to get to know her feelings in a personal way. You can too. http://www.reflectingrace.com

Twilight, was now beginning. As forthe sun, it was down-down over
the Mantaro Valley of Peru. The softness
of the Valley's mist, covered everything;
from the Andes to the Valley?and
through(then I noticed)?the color of charcoal blended into earthand sky-; ebbing between this was the
mystery of twilight (the parting of day, for
the birth of night); where little, to nothing
was said-where motion was almost dead
(between man and beast); but not nature!'Tis a time unto itself-between calm andcaution, silent oblivion and night; even
the shadows and shades surrender, mind-
to-mind with their earthy hoists, for a
moment?.'Tis the moment of sunset, when lightis thin and narrow, and shadows
emerge; thus, day and night become one
-with two-natures; stretched-out, glowing
above and within the horizon.The twittering of birds, the rustle of trees,children readying for sleep-; an overall
stagnation in life, comes over the valley,
even the spirits stand still in abnormal
silence, and gaze.Notes by the author: "For me, twilight seems to lure and lull the soul into a deceptive confidence; yet it remains an enticement, bait for the most part, that attracts most living things into a glowing sensation; perhaps God's way of numbing us for a moment, while the earth orbits around the sun, and the moon around the earth, all pulling forces on us small human beings-perchance, it is needed for a moments stillness on the soul."In SpanishLa Calma del Crep

To many non-specialists of literature, poetry is deeply unsatisfying. There are several reasons for this, but two in particular come to mind. The first is that most poetry is overly descriptive, leaving little to the imagination; the second is that the rest of it is abstruse. This presents the non-specialist with a dilemma: either to persevere in the thankless task of attempting to unravel an increasingly unrewarding literary crossword; or to make do with the superficialities of descriptive verse and the resultant ennui. Both projects would presumably confirm any prejudices that these readers entertained about the relevancy of poetry to their lives. In circumstances such as these, I think it would be appropriate to introduce a method of poetic appreciation, which, although unorthodox, would encourage the non-specialist to revise any negative opinion of poetry held.The first thing that has to be drawn to the attention of these readers is the fact that it is up to them to come to an understanding of the poem. The poem is unlikely to facilitate such a response without this active participation on their part. The main thing to point out to them is that valuable time and effort would be wasted in attempting to look for the poem's intended meaning. Rather, a more helpful course would be to encourage readers to actively engage in their own particular and personal exegetical responses to the text - however idiosyncratic or perverse the results of this may appear.It is of minor importance whether the commonly received meaning of the poem is discerned by the reader or not, as the ultimate aim of such a personal response is to enhance the enjoyment value of the work as opposed to engaging in a scholastic deciphering of its hermetic aspects. What the poem is meant to mean should not be of paramount concern for readers wishing to gain satisfaction and enjoyment from the work. On the contrary, surface meaning can sometimes be more of a disadvantage than a blessing, as in such instances the poem disallows the mind an active part in the creative process that the enjoyment of art requires.A satisfying poem is one that enters the reader's mind and turns the key to his or her imagination. It enables them to find meanings and emotions that hold a particular significance and relevance to their experience. A poem that fails to satisfy does the opposite: it tells you what it is about, the emotions you are to feel and the understanding you are to have.Each reader should be permitted the fundamental privilege of formulating a meaning which would (for that reader) be the quintessence of the poem's significance. The words and images of a poem should be looked upon as devices that the reader can solicit to paraphrase their own experiences. Such an approach to reading poetry, if widely understood and accepted, could possibly restore poetry to its status as an important and popular art form.Jeffrey Side has had poetry published in various magazines including: T.O.P.S., The White Rose, Poetry Salzburg Review, ism, Sphinx and Homeground. And his poems have appeared on various poetry web sites such as Poethia, nthposition, Ancient Heart Magazine, Blazevox, hutt and Cybpher Anthology.He has reviewed poetry for New Hope International, Stride Magazine, Acumen and Shearsman Magazine. From 1996 to 2000 he was the assistant editor of The Argotist magazine. He now runs The Argotist Online web site:http://www.argotistonline.co.uk/index.html

You can show your poem to your mom, your spouse, your co-workers, or your friends, but you might not get the responses that you can suck up into your little writing fingers to use in an effort to refine your craft. What does it really mean when someone who cares about you, but not for poetry says, "Wow, this is great. I really like it?"So perhaps you've realized this conundrum and you've decided to put your poem, ripe and juicy, in the feeding bin of a cyber critique forum. Watch out. If the only feedback you've ever gotten on your diligently crafted efforts has been the sweet nothings from those around you, you might be shocked, upset, or saddened at the responses that the critics pile onto your poem. You might get, "This line is clich