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Still Mountain Air

In natural beauty...

Time taken to walk
fresh unspoilt earth
is far...

From rush hour now.
Honking traffic reality
experienced endured now.

Pristine
melting snows
should wash out

pollution pressures
city carves
into urban mind.

How hoof prints of deer

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poem by Terence George Craddock
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Lost In A House Fire

The loss of a child
The loss of a wife
Tis all the same as the loss of your own life
The loss of house and all that's inside
Tis all the same as if your whole soul had died
The loss of temper
Loss of faith and self-control
Tis all the same as knowing you have now grown very old
The loss of all memory when all is becalmed
When you find that your wife and child all safe and unharmed

poem by Neil Milliner
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Loss of Time

A forgotten time
A forgotten society
A forgotten land
A forgotten people
A time of peace
A time of war
A time of grieving
A time of celebration
A time of loss
A loss of knowledge
A loss of dignity
A loss of loved ones
A loss of sanity
A loss of peace
A beginning of a new time
A beginning of new life
A beginning of new knowledge
A beginning of new peace
A beginning of new war
Its all a cycle

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poem by Ankoku Gekido
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Answer to loss.

Do I have an answer to loss?
Do you?

The answer to loss! ! ! ! !
I am so lucky I got to know the precious person.
I got to see their beautiful heart and their grace.
I got to enjoy their presence.
That I can treasure.and keep special in my heart.
And maybe loss is just that – loss.
But just as we have loss,
We have all the special memories
That we can keep special in our minds forever,
And that is something that will never die.
So maybe the answer to loss! ! ! is to treasure the memories
Of our loved one! !
For as long as we have a memory
We never lose! ! to loss.
Written by salma torrez.
Copyright.

poem by Salma. Torrez
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It Is Always a Loss When A Friend Is Gone

Brother Jackson died a few moons ago. It is a loss.
It is a finale; it is the final curtain.
Everyday is a loss, tomorrow is uncertain.
Take several deep breaths, do as many toasts
That your heart and soul desire.

Stare at the moon, walk in the sun, play in the rain, and admire
The trees, the plants, the leaves and the flowers.
Smile with, wave at, and chat with your neighbors.
Everyday is a loss; sweet moments move quicker than the thieves
Of Penzance. Appreciate and enjoy every second of the day.

The Cardiologist is in jail; it is a loss
For our community. There no winners,
Only losers. Life is short and precious.
Enjoy the plains, the mounts, the valleys and the rivers;
Never be vindictive and malicious.

It is always a loss, when you examine it deeply.
There are no winners, only losers.

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poem by Hebert Logerie (07 November 2011)
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The Iron Cross

THEY pass, with heavy eyes and hair,
Before the Christ upon the Cross,
The Nations, stricken with their loss,
And lifting faces of despair.
What is the prayer they pray to Him,
Christ Jesus on the Iron Cross?
The Christ, neglected, dark with moss,
Whose hands are pierced, whose face is grim.
Is it forgiveness for great sin
They plead before the Iron Cross?
Or for some gift of gold or dross?
Or battle lost, that they would win?
With eyes where hate and horror meet,
They pass before the Iron Cross,
The Cross, that ancient words emboss,
Where hangs the Christ with nail-pierced feet.
His hair is fallen on his face.
His head hangs sidewise from the Cross —
The Crucified, who knows all loss,
And had on Earth no resting place.

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poem by Madison Julius Cawein
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With Each Memory Drained

With each memory drained
I feel better
I write another letter
But never the same
Not as I once was
If only because
The loss of love matters not that much
I keep telling myself

What was her name
I think I already forgot.
A remembrance that matters not
Is it really the now that you got?
Grab hold
Squeeze till it never stops
Like a heart dieing
I must try harder, harder

With each memory drained
I feel better

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poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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Creativity Can't Make Up For Depression

Creativity cannot make up for depression
which it attempts to cure,
it can’t replace it with the kind of supersession
that made spurious lure
of Christianity when it induced some Jews
to make up for their loss
of their identity, condemned, they thought, to lose
unless they chose the cross.
No, creativity provides a transient high,
and then becomes a wraith,
for those who’re so depressed they find they cannot fly,
because they’ve lost their faith
in their ability to reproduce success,
which if it is not con-
stantly repeated is a letter whose address
appears to be, “Dear John.”

Inspired by an article (“In Praise of the Crack-U: A novelist peers through darkness to find glittering gems in writing and art”) , by the South African-born novelist Jeanette Winterson, lesbian lover of Julian Barnes’s widow, Pat Kavanagh, in the October 17,2009 WSJ (A report about her lesbian relations includes the information: Blessed with good looks that led many to compare her to Katharine Hepburn, she secured a nonspeaking part in Under Milk Wood. “I never got paid, but I did get to snog Richard Burton, ” she said) . Winterson writes:
The stories are well known; Vincent Van Gogh cut off his ear and went mad. Sylvia Plath gassed herself. Anne Sexton committed suicide. Emily Dickinson was manic-depressive. Virginia Woolf worked through alternating bouts of madness and depression for most of her life. The mad, bad and dangerous wild boys of high art and popular culture make great copy—whether it's Caravaggio on the run for murder after one of his rages, or Allen Ginsberg, naked and drunk, howling through Manhattan. The women—Plath, Frida Kahlo, Maria Callas, Janis Joplin—imploding like dark stars, are the stuff of obsession…. Longing is painful. Every work of art is an attempt to bring into being the object of loss. The pictures, the music, the poems and the performances are an intense engagement with loss. While one is in the act of making, one is not in loss, and one has meaning. The fierce crashes that happen to many creative people when a piece of work is done (read Hemingway on this) come out of the sense that however good the work, it has not answered the loss. The strange thing about creative work is that it can have enormous value for others while its maker is left ravaged. The ancient Greeks understood this as the price of an encounter with a god—the divine forces enter the human and use him or her as an instrument, only to be ultimately destroyed. But I do not believe that creativity is destructive or divine. I believe it is the part of us that gives shape and voice to our innermost reality. This is frightening. Encounters with the real, in particular what we really feel, are something we generally try to avoid. Art mediates the encounter, allowing us to get nearer to our longing and our loss, to risk more, to dare more. Yet for the maker, the exposure is not mediated; it is total and terrifying. That is why so many creative people cut themselves off from their own experience, using drugs or drink or sex or shipwreck to avoid absolute exposure to the pain of creativity. When Whitman turned to face his dark angel, to wrestle with himself, he was acknowledging his own loss, his own longing, his own unstaunched wound.

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poem by Gershon Hepner
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Prosperity to humanity

Prosperity, prosperity
Prosperity to humanity
I brought to you
Love and solidarity
Peace and harmony
Kings go to war
And humanity fall
But i brought prosperity to humanity
So why then should you curse me
Instead of blessing me
I need you to love me
For it is prosperity
I brought to humanity
It power and glory to humanity
Accountability and transparency
A higher levity
Prosperity, prosperity
Prosperity to humanity

poem by Matt Ancient
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The Murder Of Humanity

Once there lived two friends,
human and humanity.
human was loving and caring,
while humanity spread peace and brotherhood.
under their friendship tree,
everyone was happy and merry.
in the same world lived Hate and Greed, full of sinister.
very different from all the other.
who were always jealous of human and humanity,
and they tried hard to part the friends
and throw them away in different ends.
the did succeed,
in the heart of human they planted hate-seed.
soon the seed started to rear,
and human was left with no love and care.
it turned furious towards humanity.
all their friendship woes turned into enmity.
hate and greed infected human one after the other.
and made human to commit the murder.
end of peace was marked with the murder of humanity,

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poem by Arfa Iris
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