I remember galoshes
A sign of fun
As we raced
On our short legs
To find the puddles
Turned our worlds
Into new and messy delights
Like so many cannonballs
To bring our feet
Into waiting puddles
And climates away
Galoshes are just an unfamiliar word
Garden shoes and flip flops
Rule the day
Until the downpours hit
And children stare
At filling puddles
At a loss
For what to do
They step – gingerly, carefully –
Into waiting water
Torn between shock
Of all of those rain slickers
And rubber boots
Down memory’s paths
by CAROLINE A. SLEE
© All rights reserved 2020
The North Wind doth blow
and we shall have snow,
and what shall poor Robin do then?
He’ll sit in a barn,
and keep himself warm,
and hide his head under his wing,
Introduced by CHRISTINE MALLABAND-BROWN
Public Domain Poetry
On these damp and grey November days I think
Of things that should have happened but never did.
Of conversations that were never spoken
Afraid to raise the memories from the dead.
Of the questions that were formed but never asked.
Of the the horrors that were felt but never breathed.
Of carefully made plans that never began.
Of the dreams discarded like old newspapers.
I never finished that book, that course that day.
I never figured out what I was feeling.
I never found all the words I tried to speak.
I never look back, never ever look back.
I should’ve told her how he was hurting me.
I should’ve screamed and kicked and made him stop it.
I should’ve bit down hard when I had the chance.
I should have cut his throat as he slept at night.
I could’ve been anything I wanted to.
I could’ve worked harder, been more compliant.
I could’ve been less terrified of success.
I could’ve done better, could’ve done much better.
I never developed a strong sense of self.
I never knew who I was supposed to be.
I never learned to trust my intuition.
I never really understood my feelings.
I learned to switch off and disassociate.
I learned that alcohol kept the pain at bay.
I learned that I was damaged, unloveable.
I earned not to trust people, they would hurt me.
All the wasted time of wishing I was dead
All the years never truly daring to live.
All the hurt I’ve done to others in my rage.
All this time I’ve let you walk around unharmed.
Now here I am still broken but not giving up.
Now I know my childhood was stolen from me.
Now I can survey the damage done to me.
Now I’m going to take the final fight to
On these damp and grey November days I know
The things that should have never happened, but did.
Of the revelations that were never heard
It’s time to raise the memories from the dead.
by RICHARD GREEN
© All rights reserved 2019
Knotted fingers work their skill
Sculpting nature’s giants,
As passion flows through hands
Designed to make things new.
Hematic flow from skin to grain
Rekindles life anew,
This touch like cryptesthesia
Animation from the dead.
And now you try to steal this love
To touch another’s flesh,
To breathe life within a kiss
And raise an amaranthine army.
These hands show dried and lifeless
Now splintered from mis-use,
Cut from weeping saplings
And drowned in blood of men.
by CHRIS NELSON
© All rights reserved 2000-2019
I whispered you a sweet goodnight
And hoped my breath would kiss you right
I hugged myself and touched your dreams
Penned poetry in golden reams
And though I can’t sleep in your arms
And wrap my heart in all your charms
I gift to you my verses sweet
Let’s sleep in love
‘Til heartbeats meet.
© All rights reserved 2019