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Welcome to Cafe Del Soul!
This is the place writers and artists can display their work for all the world to see.
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On The Wire (1916)
By Jeff Milburn - Contributing Poet
Men are tangled on the wire
hanging onto life by a thread, crying in the darkness
and I wonder how long can this go on?
It's become a habit, like lying, there are no truths left.
Men are crying on the wire
weeping life's last tear.
Men are dying on the wire
cut almost in half, riddled with bullets
khaki holding them together by a thread of fate
a thread entwined into a tapestry of regrets.
Men are tangled on the wire
entwined in life's last thread.
Men are calling on the wire
men of conscience, call for the shadow of death
they hang devoid, in the wake of lies
hanging like portraits, in unforgiving finesse.
Des hommes sont accrochés sur le fil
comme une habitude.
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Gradient of Flint and Stone
By Darryn John Murphy - Contributing Poet
Accustomed to this world I walk alone
Beseeched by feelings and here I roam
Gradient of flint and stone
For in this world, I have no home
Eclipsed within the shadowed light
Beyond the world within your sight
No hollowed ground or fruit to bear
And all I seem to do is care
And so I look with a gentle stare
But do you see me standing there
Extinguish hatred from my heart
I long to live beyond the dark
Faithless I await the dawn
Where others wait before they morn
Fearful of the things that are to come
Before the light of the rising sun
Question this but answer none
I felt the greed before the sun
And felt the pulse beneath thy thumb
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Weekends and Loose Ends
By Laura Cavanagh - Contributing Poet
It was Saturday morning
when he told me that he was leaving
and its always sad to see someone go.
Especially on a weekend.
Weekdays are not so bad,
the world is ready to take your hand,
and give you Assam tea and those funny biscuits,
and make you feel that your life could be filled,
with one-word-at-a-time thinking.
Weekends are worse.
Weekends empty out around me,
they force me to think to where I'm going,
the drill me with holes, where have I been?
They are filled with longing,
They are broken children,
convulsively crying,
for what I could have been.
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Forgotten
By Julia Newbern - Contributing Poet
The derelict, against the canyon's slope lies
Forgotten long ago
--- And of undetermined age
A shell of its former grace, once someone's pride
Now slowly rusting away
--- Weatherbeaten and worn
Oblivious to its sad existence, noisy traffic speeds by
Drowning out echoes of memories
--- Burned away by the heat of the sun
Once full of promise and life, once with a name
Now no longer remembered or mourned
--- For something it can no longer be
High overhead, are heard raucous crow's cries
Beneath, the empty shell seems to weep
--- Half-covered in a blanket of sage
Ghosts of yesterday, for laughs and a ride
Take their seat, where only now exist
--- Small shreds of leather cracked and torn
Gazing across at it, I sadly wondered why
Man's progress seems to slide back two
--- For each step so hard won
Who, I wondered, was the one to blame?
How long ago was this derelict scorned
--- And blinded to a future it would never see?
The summer's breeze in the canyon sighs
Late afternoon shadows bring creeping
--- A darkness deep, from another age
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Someday I'll Be Free
By Maranda Russell - Contributing Poet
Someday I'm going to be
In charge of me
I'll do what I want to do
I'll be who I want to be.
I'm sick of taking
other people's crap,
having to dance in it,
having to breathe it in.
Someday I'll be free.
I'll break away.
I'll dance on my own stage;
which I'll create
with the stars.
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Woman is the Face of Man
By Gregory Jonathan Hill - Contributing Poet
When I see a beautiful woman with an insolate man
I do not feel envious, for I do understand
That the soul of the woman’s in the face of the man
And she carries an ugliness beyond his command
Her eyes are the torture of thousands of fools
And her spirit’s the substance of ominous ghouls
It’s her strive for perfection that will cause her to fall
And her lust for affection that will beckon the20call
As a fly is attracted to the light that will kill
It is also the thing that will conquer its will
And leave it to die without any reprise
At it watches the light fade away from its eyes
For great exploitation is the fever of man
but he is a grain in the palm of her hand.
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He Dreamt
By Michaela Sefler - Contributing Poet
He dreamt, as he sat
by the side of the road,
the burdens of the times
upon him.
And new beginnings,
he ponders,
for the promise from the heavens
still resounds in him.
And speculating on the mundane,
he aspires beyond,
knowing that beneath his feet,
is possibility still.
The skies are still bright,
and those moments bound;
unravel,
as he ponders.
As wisdom holds,
the cup of merit
is raised once again,
in adulation.
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Life Is Ironic
By Ida Duplantier - Contributing Poet
It's sad how those who hold their tongues are those who ought to speak
And those who ought to shut their mouths are those who blab and shriek.
A shame how those with brilliant thoughts prefer to keep them low,
But those with plans that lax in brains will let the planet know!
How those who do not care for friends have friendships by the load
But those who need them most of all walk a lonely road.
It's sad how those who wish to love seem always pushed away
While those who have a lot who care don't care for them to stay.
How is it that some people are so gifted but not nice
Yet those who seem deserving all seem to pay a price?
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For You
By Clifford K Watkins Jr - Contributing Poet
Singing in the drizzly recesses of this chaotic mind
I saunter through a burrow of eerie trees
Instantaneously affected by your poignant tone
Once forging through the darkness seemingly in vain
I delved further into the miscellany of a vanished realm
And was blinded by your radiance
As apathy faded into the warmth of your delicate arms
Yet I was sentient enough to sense your brook of mushrooming unity
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This Morning’s Storm
By Curtis Gould - Contributing Poet
I awoke to her blowing through the trees.
Her rain too was spinning and tumbling and gathering outside.
Her whispered voices were a tempest wet and windy greeting me to the day.
Her happy furry was building then peaking then building again.
As the sleep left my eyes I lay on my back and watched her.
She had wrapped the gray morning around her bare shoulders.
She played and rushed about stroking the chimes and the leaves.
Her wet rain tapped and drummed faster then slower.
Then she reached out to me with her cool breath on my naked skin.
"Wake up!" She spoke, "No sleep for you, my love . . . "
I lay there wondering why . . . but knowing she was right.
She reminded me of things I barely remembered.
Of feelings and longings that wander in my heart.
It was pointless to offer resistance.
I felt her wind hair covering over me . . . over my body.
She touched me here and there the way a lover does who is ready.
At first a hint to arouse me . . . a tease to see if I’d go further
She knows me all too well.
How could I refuse her and her steady liquid charms?
Her insistent strokes pulled and tugged squeezed and released me.
She was claiming what has always been hers . . . me.
No, I did not last long . . . I never do with her.
Afterwards, I lay spent and smiling as she laughed and danced
She woke me by making love to me.
In fact, she’s still here watering the world.
She’s outside singing ancient songs with the birds,
Meanwhile I’m just sitting here drinking my coffee,
and basking in the afterglow of her scent.
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