Lady Maria, Poetry by Matthias Pantaleon

 Genre: History, Life

Lady Maria, you’re my heart in another body
The tide that keeps me afloat
My heart row toward your port that waits
My arrival with the friendliness of an abating sea

Morning rain brings sunlight with scorching heat
The wind left me a note by the window side
I am the overbearing heat that needs morning
rain for a change, this change from keynote to string chord

I’ll sing of my drifting love toward your port
‘Cause I never hold you this close – you saved me this much
Like the ship that lay at anchor
You keep me connected to my root

Lady Maria, you are the sunshine in my rainy cloud
And I love you softly
Like dew on dianthus flowers
You fill my life with fragrance

When the chips are down
You hold me up
Like flagstaff;
Keeps me hanging straight

I love you with a sweetness that drips with affection
Like morning sun on a bare skin
I love you pure and constantly like the North Star
Yes, I love you deep like the Nile

‘Cause you make my heart delight
You’re the boat that ferries happiness
Bringing quietness, peace
And plenty of soothing joy

And I love you like sunset on the plateau
Like yacht loves blue sea
I love you like this,
Because you are beautiful this way

A grateful heart
Your lungs are full of laughter
Bubbling grace
Quietness buff with joy

I love you like birds on the green hillside
Like lullaby baked with sunlight
I love you loudly
Like the sea loves her own

Yes, I love you blue, and wide like the ocean
I love you proudly
Like butterflies and sunlight
Yes, I love you green, like the flowers that bloom

I love you freely
Like the ocean that opens its heart to sister creeks
A happy confluence
I love you like the things I can not see
But feel in my heart, half sleep, half dream, to wake in your arms

I love you like the tributary that never dries
Amazon – water flows out of its mouth every second
Yes, I love you like sailing cloud and morning rain
Soft, silky pebbles to adore and adorn your love



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Moon Sparks, Poetry by James R Adams II

Genre: Life

The Sun threw sparks of Moon Light
To warm the waters of the Gulf
The sparks they danced and flickered
The World lost in myself

A menthol smoked me deeply
As I rode a Marlboro Rail
The hot Gulf air it breathed me
Too distracted to even tell

My gravity it pulled the Earth
It could not separate
I sucked its helium through my feet
It could not float away

I swore again this one last time
It would never be the same
I payed my toll, the bridge crossed me
As the sky below me rained

The Emperor kept on dancing
No pitchforks pierced his feet
The demons all were laughing
Their works both incomplete

Why then won’t you tell me
It’s so hard to separate
The madness from the music
Our Illusions from our Fate

Most mysteries go unanswered
No need for question marks
The days they end with commas
But Life lives on a Spark

So now I am tap dancing
On light speckles in the Gulf
The Angels all are laughing
And the Demons all are broke

So please now don’t you ask me
How it’s simple to separate
Between the madness of the Music
And reflections judged in haste

As I sat in glaring silence
And watched what I had done
The shade began to blind me
My ears screamed at the Sun

It’s rays swallowed my virtues
I thought oh what a mess
As demons put me in their sights
A Kevlar bullet pierced my chest

I cried in indignation
At what I thought they’d done
They screamed “That wasn’t for you’
We were aiming at your son

So tell me why it’s so hard
To really separate
The madness from the music
And the questions of our faith

I pointed my gun at myself
And I loaded it with salt
You won’t hurt me this time
I’m prepared for your assault

When the firecrackers went off
July Fourth in full swing
I swigged on your shortcomings
And chased it with a ring

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Deadline: FREE POETRY Festival – Get your poem made into a MOVIE and seen by 1000s. Three options to submit:

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Part 1: Best of NEW Poetry – November 2016

Read the best of NEW Poetry from around the world: 


DEATH, by Dwain F. Hill

POEM BY, by Rahi Swati Patel

DESPERATE LOVE, by Fazia Tahir

AMNESIA, by Mariam Akewusola

MAKE ME FORGET, by Forrest Jamie

EVERY MOMENT, by Shannon Lee Rohn

A SHIP LOG, by Hilde Susan Jaegtnes

UNFORGETTABLE, by Prateek Pappee Pandya

FREEBIRD, by Lisa Atkinson

MY FIRST LOVE, by Lisa Atkinson

Every Moment, Poetry by Shannon Lee Rohn

 Genre: Rhyme, Relationship

“I’ll never cover the beauty of the written word by being cosmetic,
Only to reveal the inner beauty from within the word by being poetic.” -S.Rohn

~Every Moment~

Sometimes we set ourselves back,
Everything we once had, disappeared as we shifted off track,
Everyday we struggle to find our way back.
The pain is buried so deep,
That a smile on our face is hard to keep,
Yet another battle on our own we have to defeat.
Why is the glory of the finish line so hard to reach?
When we find that our mistakes often repeat,
A lesson for our children should not be hard to teach,
Spots and area’s of our life and past are faded like bleach.
How do we keep coming back when we fall so hard?
The important moments in our life we often discard.
We worry so much what other people think,
And let worry conquer, in turn making us weak,
Sometimes we are drained by emotions and
not strong enough to speak,
We have no control, or power over someone else’s thoughts,
how they feel or what they choose to see,
But our gratitude to be who we are created to be.
Why is it someone else’s life we often forseek?
When all we really need is to look inside of what
makes our own heart beat.
Besides who ever said ‘life is a one way street?’
As long as we learn that our mistakes are not meant to repeat. 

Grab a hold of your seat,…
Life will pass us bye without a blink,
And the pages of our lives be written without ink.

Sometimes we set ourselves back,
Everything we once had, disappeared as we shifted off track,
Everyday we struggle to find our way back.
Have we not realized the reason we are here?
Not everyone is hidden behind what they appear.
We walk this earth and struggle to bring it all back,
Open your eyes and see that you’re not lost, just a little off track.

Will your kids still love you the same,
When your mistakes are covered and sprinkled with shame?
Why would you deny any mistake, if every moment has its place?
If the greatest memory of your life was taken from you because
of one given mistake….
You’d take it all back with every breath you take.

There is a reason for every moment, and its effect on our soul.
But will you embrace it or will you let it go?
Notice every memory as if time stood still,
Imagine every moment already lost, and never
again have the chance to feel. 

I will smile more tomorrow because I know that I tried,
It’s worth the struggle when you finally reach the top of mountain high.
So before you decide to hate the the struggle….remember
It’s the struggle that put you on track,
Life’s greatest gift, is the journey on how we find our way back.

Every moment given, is every memory taken,
Given to us for a deal never worth breakin’,
The cycle of the struggle is what makes us strong,
To finally find our spot in life and where we belong,
Without setting ourselves back and doing it all wrong.
Not to repeat the mistakes of our past,
Just breathe and inhale every moment …. as if it’s our last.



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Deadline: FREE POETRY Festival – Get your poem made into a MOVIE and seen by 1000s. Three options to submit:

Watch Poetry performance readings:

Watch Poetry made into Movies:

Watch the best of Poetry Performance Readings from Oct. 2016

Deadline to submit your poetry to the festival:

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 WHEN THE MOON SLEPT, Poetry by Akinkunmi Adewumi

Genre: Life, Society

 WHEN THE MOON SLEPT by Akinkunmi Adewumi

The moon slept,
But we were awaken to Hunger,
We groan and groan,
We wrestle and wrestle,
Our left hands on our aching stomachs
Writhing in agony inflicted by Hunger.

At the first cock crow,
That Sleep already stole our night,
One of us after the other,
We slept like horses,
Wherever sleep caught us,
On our lame arm chair,
Our wrinkled skinned mat,
Until the sun rescued us from the
captivity of the night.

We woke to another episode of hunger,
Another conflict,
Another climax-
Where is mama?
Her clothes are gone,
She is not in the kitchen,
Not in the neighbourhood,
Her photographs gone,
Her sore memory dawn
On our vision…

Bolanle, now 13,
Spits litres of saliva every minute,
Her stomach as round as a tortoise’s back,
chameleons motels every night,
She wears men like clothes,
Papa can drink
Lucifer’s urine…
Papa can impregnate the moon,
If she were in a wrapper.


Ogunleke Adekunle Emmanuel also goes by the pseudonym Akinkunmi Adewumi. He is a writer and a poet. He was a runner up of Prof. Gbemisola Adeoti’s poetry prize, Dr. Isiaka Aliagan literary prize. He runs and publishes his works in He believes words can change the world the same words were used to create the world…

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Deadline for POETRY Festival – Get your poem made into a MOVIE and seen by 1000s. Three options to submit:

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Will’s House, Poetry by Martha C. Wallace

Genre: Family

Will’s House by Martha C. Wallace

Pla-ploop, pop, pop, bloop, bloop…
the coffee percolator sings.
Sssst, pop, pop, ssst
the bacon sizzles a hot reply.
Hot sticky cheese bubbles over the sides of the toast.
Buttery grits pop and boil.
Country music singers wailin’ and bemoanin’ love, life, and country livin’
drift from the kitchen radio to upstairs rooms.
Grandpa taps the tips of his shiny black shoes.
I rush to get the homemade peach and strawberry preserves from the pantry,
and grandpa’s favorite coffee cup .
First I blow, then sip the spicy and fragrant sassafras tea that Grandpa makes just for me.

Grandpa sleeps downstairs to protect his house-
no one was “comin in heh” he’d say.” My family’s gonna be safe heh.”
In the South’s cotton fields,
beautiful, white blossoms transform, turning crimson,
like the sharp cuts that the bracts made on my grandfather’s hands
when he pulled the fluffy white balls of cotton .
Sun high and hot, he wiped a drop of blood from his fingers and drops of sweat from his brow.
“Crops gotta be picked.”
Acrid smells of stifling Northern steel mills replaced those fields.
Steel splattered crimson, sharp edges, massive machines, maiming,
mangling fingers.
Somehow I never missed them when I grasped his strong and gentle hands.

I run to his room and sit in his comfy chair
Noxzema, Spearmint , and Juicy Fruit, Old-Spice and Ben Gay live in the air ,
Envelope me like the crocheted throw on the back of the chair.
I smear the silvery white Noxzema on my cheeks
and over my whole face.
I smell and look just like Grandpa; reflecting his warm caramel colored eyes,
and smooth pecan tan cheeks.

His mammoth, circular mirror reflects his life:
me, his Farmer’s Almanac, worn Bible near his alarm clock.
His footlocker at the foot of his bed holds his perfectly lined shoes,
his shoe polish kit, and an old checkerboard.

I tear out of the back door, jumping down the steps,
to help Grandpa in his garden. It isn’t a chore, but a treat.
Grandpa is out back, making sure his transistor radio is loud enough
to hear ‘his’ Cleveland Indian baseball game.
I step past perfectly round cabbages and collards tall and deep green
In the backyard near the pear tree. I see Grandpa pulling spring onions and beets .
Long, cool cucumbers, okra and plump, sweet tomatoes , nestled in his basket,
where I place spearmint that I pulled for his sweet tea.
Quietly, expertly, coaxing the earth to yield to his touch,
he loosens dirt around the plant roots,
and I sprinkle them with water from my tin pail.
Regal morning glories boldly scale up the side of the garage,
spilling over the back fence into the neighbor’s yard.
Marigolds jiggle their bright golden heads in between herbs:
thyme, red clover, chives, garlic and a bush of rosemary.

Wherever there is dirt Grandpa plants something good.

A patch of strawberries lines edge the thin path along the driveway,
and suddenly we are in the front yard.
Plastic ducks border the stairs up to the front porch,
filled with scarlet geraniums, black eyed susans , and burgundy sun coleus.
Fragrant honeysuckle vines intertwine with the fruit heavy, sweet concord grape vines,
I appear, from the cool shady side of the house,
scratching around my mouth, embarrassed through the grape vines,
Grandpa laughs, seeing purple blotches of concord on my fingers and face.

The radio sputters and crackles the national anthem.
We put the tools in the garage and head for the large green porch swing.
The game has started; he looks off into the sky.
I suppose he is watching the game in his mind’s eye.
C-r-a-c-k-k-k of a hit from an Indians bat, my arm around his neck,
His face crinkles into a loving smile.

He takes his white handkerchief and holds it under the water spigot
wiping the sweet purple tint off , my sun bronzed face.
We sit on the swing and he pulls his pearl handled pocket knife out
and very carefully cuts a piece of sugar cane, and share’s its sweetness with me.

In Memory of My Grandpa, Willie Thomas Jr.

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Deadline for POETRY Festival – Get your poem made into a MOVIE and seen by 1000s. Three options to submit:

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