Fire and Water written by J.V. Stanley & A.N. Ramey

J.V. Stanley & A.N. Ramey Fire and Water
Two lifelong poets, sisters, and best friends have fused together to bring you a variety of poems designed to melt the heart and inspire the soul. Separated for a time and coming back together stronger than ever they proudly present, "Fire and Water." The poems touch upon the earthly and otherworldly cares, delving into the complexities of the soul through the various trials faced through love, heartache, and everything in between. Join them on their journey through the dark and into the light. Travel with them through the gauntlet of poetic life with its obstacles at every turn. Each challenge they faced, however, paved the way for them to step forward with fierce determination and ever present love. Their poetry is mostly free-verse, but touch upon various forms such as the Kyrielle, Harrishma Rhyme, the Italian Sonnet, Etheree, and Twin Etheree.
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The Depth

THE DEPTH

So close

in the morning

with the known path.

Where there
are no mountains
where stone turns
into dust.

Where dust
turns to a vapor
in the mist.

So close
on the trail
shadow
in a black coat.



Author: Zoran S. Piljević

From Book NIGHT OF THE HOLY PICTURE

 

No One Calls Me Sweetheart Anymore (Dad)

Christmas with dad, 1979.
A couple of years after this photo was taken my dad passed away. The doctors had told us on March 25th that it would be impossible for him to make it through the day, much less the night. He could barely speak but we were still able to communicate with him right up to the end. We held his hands and sat with him the entire day. The doctors couldn’t understand what was keeping him alive and Eileen and I were so confused we didn’t know what day it was. But my father soon let us know why he waited to die, the following day, on March 26th.

No One Calls Me Sweetheart Anymore
(Dad)

His bony hands on my
two cheeks caused a
numbness to rise in my spine.
He gazed into my eyes with
his beautiful baby-blues
and they caressed my spirit.
He pulled me closer with
a start,

his chapped lips brushed my
cheek with a soft kiss.
His cracked and tired voice
had a sudden surge of
tender strength.

He whispered
in my ear as his two hands
haloed my face,
“Happy birthday sweetheart.”
The next day he was gone.

Copyright 2013 Dennis John Ferado

 

Bleeding

BLEEDING

Eyes bleed
Ever so helpless it seems
Wake me up from this chaotic dream
S
C
R
E
A
M
S
Released
Whispers to the dark
Trying to light a spark
T
R
A
P
P
E
D
As I Flat line
A sign of the end of times
I can do nothing but sigh
D
Y
I
N
G
On this lonely night
Buried in this fright
Searching but cant find the light....
 
 

Spirits Entwined

Summertime it was the summertime
my spirit soared so high when I looked at you
with your flashing eyes your smile a big surprise
you took my heart that night
when you said to me
beneath the full moon
as spirits entwined

“New love old love now I can see
that it’s all free,
blue love, bold love right from the start, love,
now you’re in my heart”

A burning comet flew into my life
an endless ocean bound in silent night
I tried to leave your memory behind
but what remains are spirits entwined.

Seventeen you were so sweet and lean
the words of love we spoke as our hands touched
our shadows danced along the water’s edge
you were a living dream.
Then you touched my soul
when you said to me
as Spirits ran free.

“New love old love now I can see
that it’s all free,
blue love, bold love right from the start, love,
now you’re in my heart”

 
Die Alpen-Aster-
auch, Alpen-Stern"
genannt,
blühend für das:

Drei-gestirn+White-Star-lovers!"

ENGLISH
The Alpen-Aster -
also called Alpen-Stern,

flourishing
for the:
 
"three stars shone White-Star -lovers!"


Advice from Grandma (Ragamuffin)

My Grandma was Irish, her name was Catherine (Kitty) Kelly and she arrived in NYC in 1902 when she was sixteen--all alone. She had that inbred Irish wisdom many of the Irish have and a wonderful way of communicating it. I remember her vividly as if she were still with me. My memory of the many pearls of wisdom she told me, during the few years I had her, all came in short sentences. I’ve tried to gather them into a sort of poem to the best of my remembrance
I never found out what a ragamuffin was until long after Grandma was gone.

Advice from Grandma
(Ragamuffin)
 
Beware of those with their heads below their shoulders,
watch out for the ones with them up in the clouds,
mind those who flatter and disguise what they are about,
keep clear of all deplorable rogues of deception,
you’ll recognize them when they open their mouths.
Trust no one and fear the worst that can happen,
beware of lingering louts over your left shoulder,
find the object of your flame of passion,
hold on tight and continue to grow bolder.

If you’re a painter go after that masterpiece
a dancer? then tango across your map of life
or sing your song whatever it be, loud and clear
let it ring all the way to down-under from here.
When you’ve married sometime off in the future
and committed yourself to the one you’ll call dear
your children shall be your grandest gifts from nature
They’re yours for a moment keep them from fear
cherish their lives encourage and nurture

Try not to splinter when the thunder claps,
banish your shyness don’t cut with your rage
or get drowned in the tide of fanciful traps
but play your music and fill up your page.

Some things are precious don’t take them lightly
empathy and love are paramount for the soul
keep your heart open let it shine brightly
without these things the spirit will wither and fold
bestow of them freely beginning today
love is the most difficult to give away
if you do these things the most scrumptious passions
will all come rumbling and tumbling your way
and you will be fine my little ragamuffin.

“What’s a ragamuffin, Grandma?”

Copyright 2012 Dennis John Ferado


Chaotic Climate

(Tanka) 
Chaotic Climate

Trees sway in bad wind,
Rain beats against the pavement,
Dark skies cover land,
Another turbulent day,
In this green and pleasant land.

Copyright 2013.

Pen'D Poem: October 20 - 26

The Mortician of Inevitable Immortality
J.V. Stanley

Here I stand upon
the precipice of life and death.
The work slowly molded
within lifetimes of synapses
points,
counterpoints
philosophies
circumventing through tapestries
lain out among stark white sheets.
The end, ever plain and ever so demanding.

I begin my procedure, preservation attuned
to the intricate details of what once was life
bearing fruits of knowledge
transgressions and mishaps
interplayed and poured into volumes
yet not even a lifetime could ever contrive.

I make the incision, intricately following the lines
post-dotted marks of post mortem thought.
It was alive, once…
breathing
against the lungs that cared not to draw breath
until the life was breathed in
and passion breathed out.

I cut away at the flesh, the vocabulary known
is unknown
although the truth is unbeknownst to its maker
and thus I make peace with that as
I watch the letters scrambling about
searching for the exit to make their escape.
Within a smooth red line of liquid crimson
their ballad is somber as some had marched in
the front lines, while others remain hidden within
the cavity.
I have to dig deeper to find them but I,
with fortuned heart at the ready,
reserved the most tender of organs for last.

They find their way down to the drain,
renegade thoughts that found themselves
lapping among the sides with the others
that came before.
For safeguarding is an art,
and justly warranted for the beauty and truth that
must be maintained
for memory’s and posterity’s sake.

I tie the knots, in artery, in place of which
I had bled what others could not.
Exchanged the red with the augmented solution
to the dire consequence of perfection.

But why…why must I do this?
Endure this process of preservation?
Prohibit the spread of volatile prophylaxis,
cutting the coagulating fluid and replacing it
with a subtle filtration system
in order to maintain the glorious intent
of life.
Why must one exert themselves,
struggle with tutelage,
safeguarding that which may become lost within memory
and will eventually hide among the other corpses,
buried
forgotten.
One final glance at the stark white sheet
riddled with splotches of blood sweated
from its creation only to be
then lost within the realm of time?

I preserve this work not for its demise
nor for its fractured existence as it falls
upon eyes that live
and breathe
reincarnating the memory
of a memory-
I prepare for its afterlife.
For with time, it will remain
for once it is finished
it will be as it will be remembered,
always,
even at the final glance as it is laid to rest.
Perfectly preserved wrapped in a blanket of linen
touched with delicate hands
in honor of the beauty of it when it was
a living breathing thought.
I assist in its venture into the next life;
the immortal world of words that live on
through the pages of history-
their mark upon this realm
in constant grace of creative perfection.


©2013 J.V. Stanley


 http://jvstanley.weebly.com/

J. V. Stanley is the co-author of ‘Fire and Water’ a collaborative collection of poetry currently available on Amazon. Her recent projects include her debut novel, 'Faces In Still Waters' with an expected publication date of October/November 2013 and ‘Irony, Karma, And Fate Walk Into A Bar', a collection of epic style poetry, prose, and short stories expected to be published January 2014. She has over forty articles and poems published, six literary awards under her belt, and over 15 years of experience tutoring over 30 individuals in English and creative writing. 

She is the Founder and CEO of Writerz Block, an editing service dedicated to serving independent authors and students with one-on-one attention. In her devotion to multicultural literature and her experience working with ESL writers, she took upon the position of Development and Marketing Director for Miracle E-zine in January 2013 where she also writes the book review column. Currently in the last year of the Bachelors program in English and Communications through the University of Phoenix, she also incorporates independent study of philosophy and interpersonal communication. She thanks the millions of coffee beans who willingly sacrificed their existence for all of her creative and domestic endeavors.

Release Me

Release me.

Vanity lost is beauty revealed.

Recalibrate love from hearts concealed.

Finding premonitions of wondrous bliss.

Translucent composure released by a kiss.

Simultaneous quivers ejaculate themselves.

Into heart felt emotions we delve.

Memories and angers put to rest.

Decisions a new, to start out fresh.

No more finger pointing.

Anticipated smooches prepare loves anointing.

Time won't wait.

The answer is here right now.

Change is on the horizon.

Just ask me how.

I prayed for this moment.

You in my arms is the ultimate atonement.

Can we just lock ourselves in this feeling.

Be in love like our beginning.

Kiss away the pain.

Until theirs no room for blame.

We can embark on a new love.

No looking back.

Release the doves.

No more cares about our faults.

We won't go back there at all.

If we can't look towards whats right in front of us.

This special gift of love is so wondrous.

If we cant turn our backs on all our wrongs.

Learn, forgive and move on.

Just let it be.

Just let it be new.

Just let it be love.

If we just can't let it be.

If not.

Just release me. 

LQ


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Jeff McCollum-Campbell

"lyrically I'm like a young Gil Scott Heron.
Viciously verbose."




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"With a beautiful mindset my mission is for you and I to make the world a
better place day by day." It is the simple things that mean so much.


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