SECONEWS Community Poetry Therapy Wall

Description: The SECO News Community Poetry Therapy Wall. A Built Not Bought Community Media Restomod Project. seconewspoetrywall@gmail.com


Published: 09/21/2020
Byline: Hart

Send your poetry submissions to:

seconewspoetrywall@gmail.com 

Not all submissions will be posted

The SECO News Community Poetry Therapy Wall Starts Here:

 

9/29/20

Adrian Hart

Memories Turned Up Too Loud!

Every Fortune Cookie Contains Possibility 

A Prompt of Increased Probability 

A Syllable of Community Poetry

Etched in Public Memory as Philanthropy

A Contributor Built Yearbook Written By Our

Restomodded Media and Society

 

9/28/20

Anita Bloom

the wolf walks alone

on the ground there was snow
he walked and walked. on some wood and injured his toe
he was in so much pain
but no animal could walk with a cane
as he kept going
the pain kept growing
he came across a cave
it was something that kept him safe
he slept there 
so he doesnt always have to be aware
he had that look in his eyes 
as he often cries
by the cave where the wolf is
there is a light mist
the snow is blowing
and the cold is growing
the wolf had to stay warm
to keep his pool of blood from forming
the poor wolf so hurt 
it was hard to stay awake and alert
there was no help
noone to tend
he had to make it until the end
suddenly there was a noice from a distant
a person heard a loud cry in an instant
the person went up to the cave
saw the blood and cried
he didnt know what to do but there the wolf lied
he called SOS
the rescuers heard him he guess
they came up with a copter
helped it up and put him on a radar dopler
they helped the wolf to walk again
the wolf was instead of being mean it became their friend
the wolf became happy once again

 

9/27/20

Val Clark

Pandemic.

 

Some bought all the groceries.

Some had chaffed behinds.

They say so long before a cure.

The scientists will find.

Many people lost their jobs.

Wheres the fret for them?

When this is over how will they manage

To get back up again?

Some say its a boogie man.

To scare us out of life.

Some have chronicled the way

The country deals with strife.

We need the ones who've made it through.

To come up with a cure.

Aside from that...what to do?

 

Well im not really sure.

 

9/26/20-Poetry in the Park

Harrison Mc Cune

Harrison Mc Cune seconews.org

 

Anita Bloom

Life is what you make of it

You can have feelings that may fit

You may feel strong 

Feel that you belong

You can make life good or bad

But never feel so very sad

Life has its own way.

To make you feel that you're ok

Life may change history can't you see

It's up to you and me

The history that can last for many years

The deaths of loved ones that we hold dear

So let's make it a memory that we never forget

Yet some may forget I bet

The life we live will change day after day

Don't let the feelings of life turn grey

Keep your head up and smile

Let the life we live last a while

 

 

Donnie Hollingsworth 

Consciousness  Caffeinated  Antinomian Open-Mic 

I'm watching a Coca-Cola can

dance around on American Idol

the media carousels around like a b-movie stuck on repeat weather

(a scum that grows across the surface of rocks

paradise means 'a garden with closed-in walls'

a symbol without meaning and lives on

split down the middle (pieces of these are breathing in my hands

                           the sun reflected on a crow's back like a

ruby shining between

a jewel that can't be pulled from the bottom of the sky

created the universe        held floating

by fingertips

in a séance

 

(I dreamed that I dreamt of a dead person on a journey

 

walking in the morning

stumbling into a Kum & Go (I see people all trying to be different

in the same ways (cursed into us from indo-european castes

like I'm watching all the names of coffee

trying to find the right one

and this older man comes in (a more rigid cliche

addresses me "you lost?"

as usual, at the edge of my words     sitting still in the inner spotlight

cathedral without a G-d like an old pale flower

forgotten between pages of a book, buried between you and I

I (without a concert, a concrete world

mumbled

chewed out the words "I was born lost"

 

and tearing apart in the breeze like scraps of a plastic bag torn across barbed wire

se la vie

without a finished script

           I walk out to the corner

looking to cross the overpass of the Arkansas

the teeth of it chewing with high water

and stopping before I do        this is the part of the cartoon with only

their eyes in the dark

opened 

 

this is the part of the film where our hero fights off the town

with his cornered-coyote soul

and bubbles to the surface

 

and tries to make a little stage

 

9/22/20

Adrian Hart 

A Seconews Fortune Cookie . . .

You have no idea what your future may hold.

Wisdom says looking back is looking forward.

Hold on tight to the spoken word.

You underestimate the value of the forgotten. . .

Seconews.org Inspiration

Donnie Hollingsworth 

No Language

For years I'd see Tim free fall from some height while sitting still 

in the backwoods of his life 

after his wife 

died 

of alcohol poisoning he cut off his heart finger

like a Lakota

as he told her story I imagined the silhouette 

of a woman staring out of a window

the light is so intense it pushes the edges

of her silhouette towards the middle 

into a thin black line waving like a blade of grass in the wind

 

...while trembling we still offer our hand

we still take the journey 

 

off the grid: wireless walls (I still feel the feral freedom of being

when I asked about what's inside (what you taught from

a branch bowed down from 56 winters of snow

living from the bottom of the world you inherit 

the dread of things being upside-down forever

...you said

“what you see is what you get”

 

an unexpected heart attack while alone 

 

You existed. You took breath. 

You loved your cabin on the mountain: 

red gravel and clay silt

an old miner's road that led from your front yard (your best friend: a crow 

up the unnamed mountain (flies miles above searching for you

to a grassy cliff overlooking the 25 corridor

where we sat once in remnants of an 

older cabin--a silver miner 

only the outline of a foundation remained and it felt like wind and rain were

watching each other     and that we are all   

like missing stones ::: dropped into the sea

at midnight                  every day we live and die at the same time 

as blood runs the border between     like dead a man's river that drips away

like trying to see someone approaching through glass

when all you can make out is a glare                 from the inside

 

through the misty panes of the cabin   

:::   I see footprints  

 

:::  in the snow

                                                          leading up to the door

 

9/21/20

Donnie Hollingsworth 

Untitled 2020

(masking representing the quality defining society   the voice of the deity comes from this whirling sound    the infantile dies      needing approval           proof    (the way, the road, the only deserving statue    the concrete, the asphalt sculpture   a long byzantine tongue(tires massage in roadkill   skin falls like curtains(while dancing to drums  the stage blatant     reveals buckram stars beneath and beyond           without a hint while face to face    hymns and chants(with my thumb in the air  

and behind the mask only space     a skeleton rivers    a skeleton, carbon-black  

blazes and smokes    but I can’t find the phrase   maybe  it’s hard to see the oaks

maybe there is no one beneath the mist    the outlines  the echo masquerading                                                 but I can’t find the phrase   just the words of pavement grating   things keeps eating each other                     and time is not a mirror

 

prints of a Big Bang                                                  

left

the fig leaf                                                              beyond  

and then the night: cold and splashing                  and a circling bird of prey  

like a voice over                                                    waves alone on a hill with no paths 

the waves lick into the sand     kisses the beach to death      I linger above the pier and cry   

the ocean and I       want to drown the earth

in a spreaded delta growing giant    evaporating          the old photograph bleached in the sun  like a hardened radio signal from a dead star   fades into white

once we were young              desperate, waiting for the next role                            pink-petaled tongues      bloomed and trellised about            

the flesh is the mind of space          and I have no stomach for the la la las  

I swim the unrelenting river 

    

things keep eating each other                   and time is not a mirror 

 

9/20/20

Adrian Hart 

My first published poem appeared in the OJC Chinook Magazine in 1997, it was printed again in the Swink School Literary Magazine - Off The Wall, as it appears here:

Adrian Hart Reflection 1998Adrian Hart Reflection Community Poetry Therapy Wall



Follow SECO News on Facebook.
Subscribe to the SECO News YouTube Channel.