Circadian Poems

Moved!

2007-01-11T19:17:00.000-08:00

Circadian Poems has moved, links and all. The poem for Friday, January 12, 2007, and all subsequent material is now here:

http://circadianpoems.wordpress.com

Come with us to our new abode!

News and Spam Hell

2007-01-11T18:13:00.000-08:00

Not much to report just yet in the New Year.

If you've submitted and not heard back -- my apologies. I'm getting 1200 pieces of Spam per day into the account -- and that's what's getting through the Spam filter, which is set as high as it can go. I'm not even looking at what's in the Spam folder.

I'm working my way through everything else as best I can.

Please make sure you put "submission" into your poems or essays.

Please make sure you include a bio with every submission -- and contact information, so I can email you back.

I'm thinking of moving this site over to Word Press -- I've moved several other sites over in the past few weeks. I have to investigate a bit more and see if we can move the arachives as well.

Thanks for your patience, and may you have a poetic New Year!

Image

2007-01-10T05:25:00.000-08:00

Image
By Violetta Ashe

Wisp
Fragment
Scrap
Gossamer

A movement
In the
Peripheral
Vision

Ethereal?
Corporeal?
Illusion?
Reality?

Passing the
Mirror
In the darkened
Hallway

Catching
A flash of
Movement
Within

A friend
I hope
No foe
To fear

Who is in
The mirror
And why reveal
To me?

What It Feels Like to Write A Poem

2007-01-09T05:54:00.000-08:00

What It Feels Like to Write a Poem
By Brenda Braene

When I’m asked what it feels like to write a poem, I always pause and think. Not because I don’t know the answer, but because I’m not quite sure how to articulate it to someone who hasn’t experienced it.

For writing a poem is more experiential for me than it is intellectual. Anything can spark it – an image, a word, a sensation, an emotion, a scrap of conversation. The spark turns into a series of images, tied to feelings. Then words start to form, like clouds before a rain storm. And I have to pick out the words to best express the images and the emotions.

I want my reader to see and feel what I see and feel. A poem, to me, is a moment of intimacy in experience. It’s frightening to be so open, and, at the same time, it’s wonderful.

But finding the right words with the right shade of meaning is a challenge. It takes draft after draft, talking the poem as well as writing it. It means putting it away and trying to approach it days later, with fresh eyes.

A good poem will make me see the world differently, somehow, to present a new experience to me. Hopefully it’s an experience with which I can either connect or understand. And it’s something I can revisit, year after year, both to re-experience the familiar and to learn something new.

Brenda Braene is a frequent contributor to Circadian Poems. Her blog is Poet Meets Muse, and she shares a website with her sisters, The Three Braenes.

New Year

2007-01-09T05:53:00.000-08:00

New Year
By Bliss Monaghan

A new year
A clean slate
An unsullied cloth
A fresh page
On which to write
The latest installment
Of the novel of my life.

Bliss Monaghan lives each day as it comes. And the days are better when they are filled with poetry.

Lone Traveler

2006-12-22T04:55:00.000-08:00

LONE TRAVELER
by Rachelle Arlin Credo

There's a sudden strange silence
Amid the busy whirl around me
Disclosing the scars of my innocence
From a dreadful yesterday

Shadows paint the spectacle
Of a vision that used to be enchanting
Catching me half a miracle
While a song consumes my thinking

Gradually I drifted into another reality
Like a wind from nowhere blown
Lost in a paradise of adversity
Only to find destiny on my own

BIOGRAPHY:

Rachelle Arlin Credo is a writer/poet from the
Philippines. She writes on a variety of topics for
print and online publications. Feel free to check her
website at http://www.rachelle.co.nr

Note: My apologies to Rachelle Arlin Credo. This poem should have been published on December 11, but with blogger/beta problems, this is the earliest I could get it up on the site.

I hope everyone has a lovely holiday season.

Circadian Poems will return on January 8, 2007.

Happy Thanksgiving!

2006-11-20T06:12:00.000-08:00

Circadian Poems will return on November 27.

We wish everyone a happy, joyful, and safe Thanksgiving.

Why?

2006-11-16T04:57:00.000-08:00

WHY
by Rachelle Arlin Credo

As a tear ran down my cheek
I wondered innocently to myself
What the possible reason could be
Why you left me alone and dreary

I wondered just what you saw
That propelled you to go
Or perhaps just what I said
That pushed you to leave

I wanted to know the reason why
You had to say goodbye
Question after question filled my mind
Hoping answers I would find

You told me you loved me
And that you'd always be there for me
Now I wonder why you lied
The truth, why you tried to hide

As I lay in my bed at night
I still wonder with all my might
Still asking the same query over and over again
Why you had to leave me in excruciating pain

BIOGRAPHY:

Rachelle Arlin Credo is a writer/poet from the
Philippines. She writes on a variety of topics for
print and online publications. Feel free to check her
website at http://www.rachelle.co.nr

Still

2006-11-13T07:16:00.000-08:00

STILL
by Rachelle Arlin Credo

Maybe I'm screwed up
Or maybe just a bit confused
About what's going on inside me
That I can't seem to muse

Maybe I'm surprised
Or maybe just not used to
But I know this eerie feeling
Has got something to do with you

I can't seem to forget you
No matter what I do
And the more I attempt to
My heart keeps coming back to you

Sometimes the feeling just hurts so bad
That all I can do is sit and sigh
And at times when the pain just seems so much
I can't stop myself from starting to cry

I know I can't possibly do anything
To bring back our past
But still I wish that someday
We'll be one in heart at last

Now, I have to forget you
I have to say goodbye
I know I must move on
And leave the past behind

But though we part our ways
Though we should say goodbye
I will and still love you the same
Because my heart just cannot lie

BIOGRAPHY:

Rachelle Arlin Credo is a writer/poet from the
Philippines. She writes on a variety of topics for
print and online publications. Feel free to check her
website at http://www.rachelle.co.nr

Regrets

2006-11-10T19:17:00.000-08:00

REGRETS
by Rachelle Arlin Credo

If I could only stop my heart from beating
I should have not lived in vain
If I could only stop the aching
I should have eased the pain

If I could only see what's behind
I should have not been like this
If I could only control my heart and mind
I should have not lived in a mess

If I ever just knew
What you were really up to
I should have not gone through
Loving you so...

BIOGRAPHY:

Rachelle Arlin Credo is a writer/poet from the
Philippines. She writes on a variety of topics for
print and online publications. Feel free to check her
website at http://www.rachelle.co.nr

Holding On

2006-11-09T06:22:00.000-08:00

HOLDING ON
by Rachelle Arlin Credo

All these days I have been alone
Uninspired, too tired and wasted
Lots of cherished moments keep lingering on
Causing so much agitation in my head

I tried to keep the emptiness within
As I search for a way to start anew
But as another bright day begins
My heart keeps coming back to you

Now, it only seem like yesterday
When you left me for somebody new
And yet I'm holding on with old memories
Wishing that someday you'll come back to me though

BIOGRAPHY:

Rachelle Arlin Credo is a writer/poet from the
Philippines. She writes on a variety of topics for
print and online publications. Feel free to check her
website at http://www.rachelle.co.nr

Brokenhearted

2006-11-06T06:14:00.000-08:00

BROKENHEARTED
by Rachelle Arlin Credo

Dreamlike silence shrouds my sullen world
With loneliness keeping me company
A feeling of dejection creeps inside me
As a moment of mourning shares the tearful reality

I find myself in solitude
in the vast expanse of immense emptiness
Queries overflowing, wailing and wondering
for things still left unspoken

All the things turn out to be
bleary, bleak and dreary
As tears trickle tenderly
Knowing failure has come my way

BIOGRAPHY: Rachelle Arlin Credo is a writer/poet from the Philippines. She writes on a variety of topics for print and online publications. Feel free to check her website at http://www.rachelle.co.nr

I Hate You

2006-11-01T04:29:00.000-08:00

I HATE YOU
by Rachelle Arlin Credo

I hate you since the first time we met
For it marked our inadvertent fate
For coming into my life so suddenly
And invading my thoughts since that fateful day

I hate you for smiling at me time and again
For it made my heart smile back deep within
For the way you stare at me in deliberation
Driving my thoughts crazy with anticipation

I hate you for sending me SMS from time to time
For it made me remember you for a lifetime
For giving me countless missed calls everyday
Reminding me of your presence needlessly

I hate you for always spending your time with me
For it made me appreciate your company
For always being there when I need consolation
Helping me realize you're someone I can lean on

But most of all, I hate you so much
For loving me forcibly without a hunch
For making me say I hate you, with charms all pure
Because the truth is...I'm just learning to love you more and more

BIOGRAPHY: Rachelle Arlin Credo is a writer/poet from the Philippines. She writes on a variety of topics for print and online publications. Feel free to check her website at http://www.rachelle.co.nr

Halloween Poems

2006-10-30T03:15:00.000-08:00

Night Riders
By Alissa MacKenzie

Rising up
out of the deep
Midnight strikes
they cannae sleep.

Reach for the moon
tread in the damp
Mind the headstone
don’t bump the vamp.

Pumpkins, cats,
brews and sweets,
Straw and spice,
light running feet.

Little girl lost,
little boy found
Big, wide eyes
scary tales abound.

Tastes of Halloween
By Brenda Braene

Clean, crisp, tart, sweet
Apples are Halloween’s treat.

Gooey, sticky, chocolate, mint
Candy sweetens the souls of flint.

Laughter, shrieks, glee abroad
Behind each mask a happy fraud.

Trick or Treat
By Hunter Cole

Littlest a ladybug
Eldest a pirate
Middle a witchy princess
Or maybe a princessy witch.

Each stitch made with love.
Each step handled with care.

Who knew a night
Of fright
Brings such
Delight?

Bios:
Brenda Braene is a frequent contributor to Circadian. Her blog is Poet Meets Muse.

Hunter Cole loves his Maine woods, and loves watching his kids delight in the home-made costumes made by his wife.

Alissa MacKenzie has nothing to say in a bio.

Picnic in San Fernando

2006-10-23T06:31:00.000-07:00

PICNIC IN SAN FERNANDO
By Rachelle Arlin Credo

She lays the white cloth
on the ground of grass
and opens the cans of coke
with gentle flicks.

On a little narra table
she sets the plates,
each with three hanging rice
and a quarter of lechon;

while he broils some meat
on a rack over hot coals,
the heat of the sun
and the coals before him
scorching his cheeks and forehead.

Smiles paint the little faces
of their children running against
the count of hide and seek
with the other kids in the plaza.

As the embers dry to the cooling sun
she calls them all to gather round
hands washed, faces flashing
they say a little prayer before partaking
from the small banquet of love.

BIOGRAPHY: Rachelle Arlin Credo is a writer/poet from the Philippines. She writes on a variety of topics for print and online publications. Feel free to check her website at http://www.rachelle.co.nr

Circadian Poems will be offline the rest of the week, and return next Monday.

Heart Break

2006-10-18T06:04:00.000-07:00

Heart Break
By Wren Fallon

When your heart breaks
They don’t warn you
About how you can feel
The pieces shatter inside your chest
Shards running through the
Bloodstream
To poison every
Piece of you.

When your heart breaks
They act as though
It is something transitory
As though you will
“Get over it”
Forgetting that you
Have to learn to
Live with it.

When your heart breaks
You can feel the pieces
Move inside your body
Cutting off your breath
Cutting out your soul
Making it impossible
To love again
Until next time.

Wren Fallon has neither a blog nor a website, and that’s the way she likes it.

Paralysis

2006-10-16T06:13:00.000-07:00

Paralysis
By Emily Kline

I weep at
the torn bodies, the destruction of
war
the continuous escalation of crime
without punishment
of any but the victims.

I do nothing
but write what I see,
what I hear, what I feel.

Does anyone listen?
Even if it is widely received,
does anyone care?
Or does experiencing words on a page
free one from having to take personal actions
to right wrong?

Is the pen mightier than the sword
to attack evil
or merely to commit suicide
from society?

Emily Kline is a graduate student in anthropology and world history.

Poems for Friday the 13th

2006-10-13T05:42:00.000-07:00

Friday the 13th
By Adele Swift

Oooh! Aaaah!
Stay home
Little frightened ones!
Today is Friday the 13th!
You know what that means!
Ooooh!
Bad luck
Because you feel guilty
For all the things
You’ve done to hurt people
For which you’ve
Yet to be caught.

Habits
By Brenda Braene

I find a penny
I pick it up
I give it to my sister
So she has good luck.

I skip the cracks
No broken backs
I knock on wood
To keep it good.

I cross my fingers
So good luck lingers.
I laugh and play
To save the day.

The 13th of Friday
By Cassandra Oleander

Frost on the glass
Creates patterns that blast
Away fears from the day.

Peeking through Jack Frost’s
Gifts given in the night
Seeing land so clean and bright.

It’s quiet because people
Move carefully, clearly
Fearing a misstep.

Their fear makes them polite.
Superstition takes them to
New heights.

Brenda Braene is a frequent contributor to Circadian Poems. Her blog is Poet Meets Muse.

Cassandra Oleander thinks the world is a funny place, and enjoys it. Her blog – not updated as often as she should, is Askew.

Adele Swift doesn’t like to be labeled. Her neglected blog is Swiftian Logic.

Breath of Autumn

2006-10-11T10:44:00.000-07:00

Breath of Autumn
By Joan Spoon

Warm moist air
Turns cold and crisp.
Warm interior air
Exhales as dancing sprites.

Deep earth hearbeat
Slows towards winter
As people rush to fulfill
Fall’s promise of fresh start.

Sensations of crunch
In step, in taste, in sound.
Light no longer lush
But delicate.

The earth breathes differently
Preparing to hibernate
As people increase activity
Preparing for holidays.

Joan Spoon loves her garden, her pets, and her students. She writes, paints, and plays piano whenever she can.

A Heaven of Sand and Stones

2006-10-09T06:06:00.000-07:00

A HEAVEN OF SANDS AND STONES
By Rachelle Arlin Credo

Build me a heaven of sand and stones
A castle out of sprays of sand
Where I may rest at the close of the day
For refuge from a whole day's run

Build me a heaven 'neath the azure sky
A little house far from the road
Where I can see the swallows as they fly
And the sampaguita leaves as they fall

Build me a heaven of little rocks
A residence that's stable and sturdy
Where the catastrophes of life
Could never topple down facilely

Build me a heaven of muck and soil
A hermitage away from civilization
There will be drawbridge and a moat
And walls from clashing religion

Build me a heaven of sand and stones
Not of bricks, of blocks and other stuff
For I do not wish to live on a throne
A home of sand and stones of love is enough

BIOGRAPHY:

Rachelle Arlin Credo is a writer/poet from the
Philippines. She writes on a variety of topics for
print and online publications. Feel free to check her
website at http://www.rachelle.co.nr

Whisper

2006-10-06T03:57:00.000-07:00

Whisper
By Danielle Frézier

Whisper
Shooooosh
Softly
Slowly
Say the words
Can’t hear
Want to
Need to
Do I?
What is?
What was?
Will it be?
Me?

Attendez!
écoutez!
Comprenez!
Restez!
Aimez!

Moi.

Danielle Frézier is at her best in the moonlight.

Goodbye, Ghost

2006-10-04T04:29:00.000-07:00

GOODBYE, GHOST
By Brenda Braene

I leave the grounds of the Alamo.
The ghost walks with me as far as the gate.
I cross the threshold.
He tries
And fails.
I take his hand
and try to pull him across.
His hand pulls away
As a chasm opens between us
The chasm of the living and the dead.
He is trapped.
I make my own traps.
I watch him stand
With tears trickling down transparent cheeks.
I turn and walk away
Feeling crueler than the soldier who killed him.

I turn back
He lifts his hand.
I smile.
He disappears.
My window overlooks the garden.
I look for him.
I hope he is free.
I see him wandering
Lost and alone.
Through uncaring tourists
Try to make contact
But they can't respond.
I visit every day.
We walk the grounds together.
He tells me his story. His longings.
The final morning
I go to say goodbye.

Brenda Braene is a frequent contributor to Circadian Poems. Her blog is Poet Meets Muse. She and her sisters love Jane Austen; they plan to resume “The Austen Conversations” on their blog, The Three Braenes, this fall.

Conversation With a Ghost

2006-10-02T04:10:00.000-07:00

CONVERSATION WITH A GHOST
By Brenda Braene

I sit in the Alamo courtyard.
Tourists pass, laughing, talking, taking pictures.
Little boys pretend to be James Bowie and Davy Crockett.
Little girls pretend to know better.
The courtyard clears.
There is a breeze.
A bird calls repetitively behind me.
I feel the blood in the stones.
I hear the tears in the breeze.
I feel the pain absorbed by the trees.
I look up.
He is crossing the flagstones in his home sewn uniform.
Slowly, as though it hurts to walk
Although his feet do not touch the ground.
He stops, a few feet away
And turns to look at me.
I see the water fountain and the far wall through him.
He looks into my eyes.
I look into his.

His eyes are dark and deep.
I am not afraid.
He is trapped here.
He wants comfort, needs release.
He needs to know why he had to die.
Why was the bloodshed necessary?
Why did he have to be brave?
Why didn't he follow Moses Rose over the wall?
He didn't have a woman waiting for him
And now he never would.
He dreamed of her often.
Not of how she looked.
But that she would love him. Always.
And now she would never exist
Because he no longer existed.
Why did he have to die?
Why did he have to feel the bullet rip his skin?
See the soldier above him swing the club,
Feel the blows from the beating as the blood drained out?
I want to tell him it was for "God and Country"
(Or, in this case, God and Texas)
But the words stick in my throat.

I do not believe God wants a good man to die like that,
As an example.
We need good men.
And I do not believe God punishes someone who
is less than perfect under Man's idea of God's perfection
With a death like that.
I can only surmise
That God was busy elsewhere
And that Free Will took a turn for the worse.
One should not have to die for one's country.
That, too, is a false concept created by men
To devise meaning for violence
Where there is none.
Man is best at destroying himself and others.
Billions of people have died throughout history
For no good reason.
It is not survival of the fittest.
It is survival of the meanest.
I reach out my hand.
He takes it.

His hand is cool and dry.
If I close my fingers too tightly
They meet through his.
I want to comfort the ghost.
I want to release him,
Send him on his way.
But I can't.
So I sit there in the courtyard, holding his hand
As the ants bite me.
And I weep with him
While train whistles wail in the distance

Brenda Braene is a frequent contributor to Circadian Poems. Her blog is Poet Meets Muse. She and her sisters love Jane Austen; they plan to resume “The Austen Conversations” on their blog, The Three Braenes, this fall.

Vulcan's Child

2006-09-29T05:53:00.000-07:00

VULCAN'S CHILD
By Rachelle Arlin Credo

A raving beauty relinquished
From the earth's molten sheath
Vents her wrath
Upon a spellbound victim

Like a monster enraged
She strikes a frail creature
Without mercy
Without thinking twice

Strewn with rippled light
And furnace's soft flames
She vanquishes
His resistance at will

With her hands clutched
Tightly into her captive
His freedom is
All hers to hold forever

BIOGRAPHY:
Rachelle Arlin Credo is a writer/poet from the Philippines. She writes on a variety of topics for print and online publications. Feel free to check her website at http://www.rachelle.co.nr

Our Marriage

2006-09-27T07:39:00.000-07:00

Our Marriage
By Helen Grace Bellows

We did not have the ceremony,
We did not exchange the rings,
But we were married in our hearts
(or so I thought).
I smiled every time I heard you refer to me as
"My wife" or "the wife."
It was as precious as every utterance
of "Honey" and "darling"
and those private names you had for me that no one else will ever hear
(how many other women have heard you use those names?)
The quiet dinners, when we smiled and kissed across the table;
Snuggling beside you in the back of a black taxi in a moment of bliss;
Sitting together watching TV or reading;
The drinks; the laughter; the caresses; the nights of passion and
warmth;
The plans; the promises;
(How could you keep up the charade for so long?)
All the daily details that constitute building a life together.
I loved and I believed we had forever.
We didn't.
At least we don't have the pain and the money
of divorce papers. Or prenuptials.
We could part, not as friends,
but as humans.
We go our separate ways now,
But a part of me has changed forever.

Helen Grace Bellows prefers traveling to putting down roots.

Our Marriage

2006-09-27T07:26:00.000-07:00

Banned Books Week

2006-09-26T05:42:00.000-07:00

Banned Books Week
By Devon Ellington

Today ends this year’s Banned Books Week. What is it? Not a week advocating censorship. Banned Books Week was created by librarians, teachers, book publishing professionals, writers and readers who believe it’s important to have diverse literature available to all.

In my opinion, anyone who is secure in his or her beliefs is not going to feel threatened by a book or a poem or a play or an article expressing an opposite opinion. If one is secure in one’s beliefs, if one truly knows, deep in the soul, that one is right, different points of view and opposing arguments are welcome. Points can be debated. Opinions, if the views are argued well, might not be changed, but broadened. Greater understanding is possible.

However, when someone suspects that perhaps their beliefs are faulty, they’re afraid of other points of view. Because they can’t fashion an intelligent argument with evidence to back it up. Therefore, to cover their own fear and their own knowledge that they’re on shaky ground, they censor and they oppress. Oppression is created by people who know, at least on a subconscious level, that they are wrong. Faced with their wrongness, they feel they must destroy it.

There are plenty of parents who don’t want their kids “exposed” to many of the books on the Banned Books List in school. Again, this is ridiculous. The whole point of school is to expose children to as many points of view as possible within the safety of a school environment. They are supposed to learn, in school, how to read a variety of materials and make discerning judgments on them.

When they come home, it is the parent’s job to sit down and discuss what the child has read and learned in school, and then, calmly say, “That’s an interesting point of view. But we don’t believe that because . . .”and then lay out a well-reasoned argument. To say “We don’t believe it because that’s not what we believe and anyone who believes differently is doomed to hell” is not a well-fashioned argument.

So do a little research on Banned Books. Take a look at the current list. Write letters to your school district and your newspapers and in your blog explaining why it’s important for as much information as possible to be available to everyone.

The wider the variety of viewpoints to which our children are exposed, the more opportunities they will have to learn how to think individually and make positive choices for themselves, their communities, and the larger world. That’s something that should be encouraged, not censored.

Devon Ellington is the founder of Circadian Poems. She publishes under a half a dozen names in both fiction and non-fiction. Her blog on the writing life is Ink in My Coffee.

Cadence

2006-09-25T05:51:00.000-07:00

Cadence
By Brenda Braene

Cadence
Ca – dance.

Tumbling, hurrying,
Rolling, swaying,
Fumbling, lolling,
Skittering, jittering.

Cadence
Kay Dances

She sways with her eyes closed
To music only she can hear.
She dances with her partner
Amongst the stars.

Cadence
Words dance.

The rise and fall of voice,
The ebb and flow of words,
A person’s natural rhythm,
His imprint of uniqueness.

Brenda Braene is a frequent contributor to Circadian Poems. This is the first in her series “Word Poems”. Her blog is Poet Meets Muse and she is one third of The Three Braenes website.

The Voice on the Phone

2006-09-20T05:19:00.000-07:00

The Voice On The Phone
by Sheryl Joy P. Olaño

The enchantment your eyes bring…the enticing lips…
that bear a smile that makes my day
The strength in the gentleness of your touch…
Your charming ways…warm embrace...
Living testaments of the beauty you possess…
Yet all these I forsake
For my heart betrays what my eyes seek.

My mind sees that you are all I could ever hope for
But…my heart troubles on…

I fell in love...with the voice on the phone.

Not with the face unseen,
Not with the unfelt arms,
Not with the identity kept,
Not with the anticipation,
Not with my imagination,
Nor with the hope of a love returned.
That’s not how I fell in love
With the voice on the phone.

The voice on the phone is rich with tenderness,
With a comprehension that eases my pain;
A voice that has guided and comforted me
Through all my crumbling glories;
A voice that makes me strong
While the sight of you makes me weak.
A voice like no other…

I fell in love with what my eyes cannot see.

Suddenly the smile that is borne
On your cherry-kissed lips
Freezes…drops its bows…then suddenly soars!
Like a resurrected phoenix
Getting brighter and brighter…

Calm…and then a spark in your eyes
Your arms…they envelope me in a firm certainty
Surprise me…you’re unmistakably happy

And in a voice that haunts me even in my sleep,
You tell me it’s proven infallibly true…
I fell in love with the voice on the phone
And the owner is…

Sheryl Joy P. Olaño lives in Cebu, Philippines and is a senior editor of business news publishing firm CannonCreek Asia Inc. She is a contributor of Writers Gate, The Write Spot, Sun Star Daily Cebu and other Web publications. Her blog is at www.onbutterflyswings.blogspot.com.

Homeward

2006-09-18T05:30:00.000-07:00

HOMEWARD
By Rachelle Arlin Credo

After flailing with the wings of dreams
in satisfaction of vaulting whims,
I was finally headed back to our abode
into the forgotten zone beside the road.

As I trotted the all-familiar path,
I remembered my li'l bro - oh, that brat!
Yet my heart was wrenching down to my soul,
I guess I did miss that brat after all.

Countless trees lined up the aisle -
one after another they ran for a mile,
reminding me of Little Miky, Fran and Camy
queuing in line to wait for Daddy's candies.

The morning breeze blew against my face
sending shivers through my spine to base.
Oh, how I missed Mommy's delectable cuisine
of chicken soup, meatballs and mmm, ch'ao mien!

Counting past five houses and one old bridge,
my anticipation grew and all excitement merged.
A few more steps and a turn to the right,
I'd finally be facing them all sound and bright.

I finally arrived and walked through the door.
Then the lights went on and everyone roared,
"We all miss'd you!" they bawled with cheer.
I simply cried, I just couldn't be happier.

BIOGRAPHY:
Rachelle Arlin Credo is a writer/poet from the Philippines. She writes on a variety of topics for print and online publications. Feel free to check her website at http://www.rachelle.co.nr/

Manhattan Morning

2006-09-15T05:45:00.000-07:00

MANHATTAN MORNING
By Lydia Yorke

Sirens silent
Garbage trucks come and gone
Radios off.

Unusual quiet
in a cool, grey morning light
barely brushed with yellow.

The thieves have gone underground
and prostitutes haven't emerged . . .
in this neighborhood.

A few buses groan in and out of Port Authority
along with a sprinkling of yellow cabs
and vans.

Almost-empty streets
almost-clean air
in an almost-human city.

Lydia Yorke loves Manhattan.

Footsteps

2006-09-13T01:24:00.000-07:00

FOOTSTEPS
By Adele Swift

Footsteps on the stairs,
clomp, clomp, clomp.
Footsteps on the stairs,
stomp, stomp, stomp.
Just when I reach a crucial point
and I'm picking at the air,
as the right word laughingly eludes me,
footsteps on the stair
distract me.
Who can that be?
Are they going all the way up,
or turning down the hall?
Will I have to wait for the bathroom?
Usually
in a house with wooden stairs
one learns a familiar tread
so it's familiar music,
a marker in the day
as it passes.

Adele Swift is a previous contributor to Circadian. Her infrequent blog is Swiftian Logic

Interview with Wanda Campbell

2006-09-12T04:42:00.000-07:00

Here is a wonderful interview with Wanda Campbell, who was our very first Circadian Poet when we began last year, and who was kind enough to take a moment to speak to us:

Do you begin from image or emotion?
Both, I suppose. The smell of a flower, the color of a stormy day sky or just about anything can bring back a memory for me that begs to be written about. Whenever I condense a memory into sensory words and tell it with as few words as possible, it seems the emotions automatically embed themselves. I think usually a poem is born for me from a concept or a phrase that is almost always linked with a memory, whether it be something that happen five minutes ago or thirty years ago.

Why do you think poetry touches the soul so deeply?
The old Hebrew word for poet was also the word for prophet. I think that is right on target. For me, true poetry goes beyond the facades and shallowness of our manufactured worlds; it sees into the soul of a person and mirrors that soul's reflection. I love a poem that makes me say..."Hey, that's me, too! I understand that. I have LIVED that!" My main goal as a poet is to connect with people. To put into words the common human experiences that are rarely voiced because we don't know that we share them or haven't stopped to think about them.

What do you feel a poet's responsibility is in the context of the world?
Above all, in my view, to show that the natural is merely a reflection of the spiritual and that the grandest moments in humanity are often small, will never be written in history books or have wars fought over them. I think it is our responsibility to report our observations of this world as best as we can remember it and to provide a window for the earthbound to see into another realm, to understand that we are frail, helpless creatures, yet not even the angels in heaven hold such a high and esteemed place, that every life is precious, not to be taken lightly and that each person's life is an eternal poem in the process.

Wanda D. Campbell is a poet, novelist, artist and teacher from the rolling hill country of southern Kentucky. Her work has appeared in The Taproot Literary Review, Pegasus, River Walk Journal, storySouth, Midsouth Review, Farmland Publications, The Rogue Scholar and many other traditional and online publications. Most of her work has appeared the pen name, Nochipa. She is a member of the Kentucky State Poetry Society and attends workshops throughout Appalachia and the South.Visit her at: At Home in the Cumberlands

Elegy

2006-09-11T04:43:00.000-07:00

Elegy
By Brenda Braene

Close your eyes.
Smoke rising.
Screams of the dying.
Twisted metal.
Ripped lives.

Open your eyes.

OPEN YOUR EYES.

The pain coils and strikes
Day after day.
Year after year.
Ebbing and flowing
Like tides of tears.

Open your eyes.

OPEN YOUR EYES.

You weren’t there.
You are shocked
From a distance.
It’s not real
Because it’s not you.

Open your eyes.

OPEN YOUR EYES.

Everyone lost.
Everyone is
Responsible.
A few gained
Money and power.

Open your eyes.

OPEN YOUR EYES

Don’t accept
Lies fed as truth
By self-serving
Politicians
Along for the ride.

Open your eyes.

OPEN YOUR EYES.

Brenda Braene would like to thank her sisters, Beatrix and Bridget, for helping her talk out the poem. Brenda is a frequent contributor to Circadian Poems. Her blog is Poet Meets Muse, and she shares a website, The 3 Braenes, with her sisters.

Lake

2006-09-08T05:06:00.000-07:00

Lake
By Pixie Pearsey

Black water
Scrying mirror
Enter at your own risk.

Blue water
Life elixir
Enter to rejuvenate.

Which one is the real me?

Biography:

Pixie Pearsey is a performance artist. She often speaks in poems; now she writes them down.

Sept. 7 Poetry News

2006-09-07T05:20:00.000-07:00

Check out Rachelle Arlin Credo’s website, here. She is a frequent contributor to Circadian Poems, and, in November, we will feature a cycle of her poems.

Are you tired of the killing all over the world? Visit Poets Against the War, and find out what you can do to promote peace.

Sea Blues

2006-09-06T05:54:00.000-07:00

SEA BLUES
By Rachelle Arlin Credo

Look into my eyes
and search through
my life's unexplored depths
What do you find? What do you see?
Power? Passion? Tranquility?

I am serenity
a refuge of comfort
a hermitage for broken hearts
a home for lonely souls
in a world of broken dreams

I don't have tears to shed for sadness
for tears flow through my veins
But I have arms to wrap around you
and soothing softness to touch your heart

You can bathe, soak or play around me
and do whatever your heart desires
I will be there when no one will
for I am infinity,
a servant at your command

I offer you my world
my treasures are yours to keep
You can collect and trade them all
You are the guardian of my soul

Yet the shadows of my past
will still and always remain
For behind a beautiful facade
lies a weeping heart within

A wound so deep, a past so dark
Lurks in silence awaiting time
Until then I shall wait
Until then shall I dread
Until then...

BIOGRAPHY:

Rachelle Arlin Credo is a writer/poet from the Philippines. She writes on a variety of topics for print and online publications. Feel free to check her website at http://www.rachelle.co.nr

Want to participate? Read our guidelines and then submit.

Update on Circadian Poems

2006-07-04T07:37:00.000-07:00

Thanks to everyone for their patience and fortitude with the problems surrounding Circadian Poems. In addition to dealing with a family crisis over the past few months, there has been a problem with the host for the mail account for this site.

I think it’s been fixed; however, there were over 3800 pieces of spam in the account. I believe I’ve gotten through everything. I’ve fixed some errors that you so kindly pointed out, and my deepest apologies to any errors that were on the site. I will go through it in the coming weeks and check links, etc., to make sure the edits were accepted by the system.

If you’ve submitted something to me in the past few months and do not hear from me by the end of the week, please let me know and re-submit. It may have been inadvertently deleted.

I’d always planned that Circadian would take a publishing break during the month of August. However, it seems to make more sense to use the summer to sort out the account, read and schedule new submissions, etc. I am reading and scheduling submissions in the next few weeks from now until the end of the year.

The site will resume publishing again on Wednesday, September 5, 2006. New poems will publish on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Articles and essays will appear on Tuesdays; Poetry News will appear on Thursdays.

The site will be off on Thanksgiving week, from Nov. 20-26, and again for the holidays, December 18-January 3.

Short holiday poems (12-14 lines) are sought for the Fall Equinox, Halloween, American Thanksgiving, and the Yuletide holidays.

Other guidelines remain similar to the previous guidelines:

Submitted poems can be up to 40 lines. Essays and articles should run 800-1000 words. Please do not send links as submissions, but send the actual piece you wish to submit. Please (as many of you do) indicate in the subject line that this is a submission. Please submit a short bio with every submission and indicate whether or not you’d like your links to be included in the permanent links list or just in the bio for that submission.

Circadian Poems treats all material as a one-time anthology permission. We are happy to present something that has been published elsewhere, with permission and the appropriate credits; and any work that debuts with Circadian, we hope will have a long and happy life beyond the site. Let us know when and where it appears, so we can add it to the Thursday "news" feature. There is no pay at this time.

I do the best I can with formatting, but often the site will not honor unique formatting. My apologies in advance for any format changes.

We only publish the submitter’s original work (i.e., as much as we love poets such as Emily Dickinson, Walt Whitman, et al, we can’t/don’t publish their work on this site). So please do not submit any other poet’s work, and especially don’t submit it under your own name. If you are enamored of a particular poet, I encourage you to write an essay about it and submit it for consideration for the Tuesday series. You may quote the poet’s work, but all quotes must be footnoted in standard fashion at the bottom of the article.

Photographs and drawings are welcome to accompany poems/articles. Please submit as jpgs and please include the proper photo credits and/or permissions for each photo.

You should receive a response to your submission in 2-4 weeks.

Submissions should go to circadian at devonellingtonwork dot com.

Many thanks for your continued support! And, again, my apologies for the difficulties encountered over the past few months.

With deepest appreciation,

Devon Ellington

Mother Sister

2006-05-12T06:44:00.000-07:00

Mother Sister
By Brenda Braene

Mother
Sister
Daughter
Friend

How often
One sees
That list
In obituaries.

My mother
Is the mother
To my sisters
And myself.

My mother
Is the sister
To Trudy
And Eleanor.

My mother
Is the Daughter
To her mother
My grandma.

My mother
Is the friend
To all who
Cross her path.

On Sunday
We celebrate
Our mother
Very much alive.

Let us remember
Each day
To celebrate
Those who are alive.

Brenda Braene is a frequent contributor to Circadian Poems. Her blog is Poet Meets Muse, and she shares a website with her Jane Austen-addicted sisters, The Three Braenes.

Bitter/Sweet

2006-05-10T04:10:00.000-07:00

Bitter/Sweet
By Wren Fallon

The acrid metal blood bile
Rises up in promise
Of gut-emptying remorse.
The hell is release
And a moment of repose
Is discovered.

The racing heartbeat of joy
At the sight, sound, scent
Of that shimmering Other.
It make syou believe
In flight without wings
And natural ecstasy.

A coin has two sides
Janus two faces
A heart two lies.
The love is as bitter
As it is
Sweet.

Wren Fallon has neither a blog nor a website, and that’s the way she likes it.

Summer Senses

2006-05-08T06:14:00.000-07:00

Summer Senses
By Cornelia Howe

Fresh squirt
Of green grape
Not yet wine
Fresh not fermented
Provokes laughter
Encourages seduction.

Budding trees
Growing grass
Clear skies
Air caress
Joyous rain
Beckoning stars.

Old books
Musty smells
Hidden worlds
Enticing treasures
Treehouse reads
Summer joys.

Cornelia Howe misses the summer days of youth that seemed endless. She is exploring the possibilities in poetry.

Tomorrow's Dreams

2006-05-02T17:35:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow’s Dreams
By Patricia Gallant

Will tomorrow’s dreams ever become real?
Will the harshness of today someday be concealed?

Will I ever know the happiness that I’ve tried hard to achieve?
Will the struggling and the pain of the past and present leave?

Heartache, illness and debt haunt me every day,
Make me cry and sweat; I kneel down and pray.

Today is just yesterday playing itself again.
If tomorrow’s dreams come, I ask you now – when?

The trials of experience help us learn and grow.
Memories that teach prepare us for tomorrow.

But when will that happen? When will tomorrow’s dreams come true?
It seems I’m stuck in yesterday, forever feeling blue.

Patricia Gallant is a mother of two daughters from Ontario, Canada. Her first poem was published in the Toronto Star Newspaper in 1978. She writes poetry when the mood strikes. She meets with a writing group on a weekly basis and is currently working on a novel.

Compassion?

2006-04-24T11:05:00.000-07:00

COMPASSION?
By Wren Fallon

I talk about compassion

Stridently, passionately.

I deify it in my work.

I adopt stray cats.

I work for charity.

But when the man on the subway

Begs his piece and holds out his hat,

I close my eyes

And put my hands in my pockets.

Wren Fallon has neither blog nor website, and that’s the way she likes it.

Compassion?

2006-04-24T04:38:00.000-07:00

Town Without Pretty

2006-04-21T05:03:00.000-07:00

Town Without Pretty
(Being the tale of town that wants to be a city)
by Pisces Iscariot

Citizens bask in glory baptising
in the small town of Tranquillity
in the month of downsizing
to a state of green humility.

And on canine crutches of anguish
tongues wagging with scandal
the dogs of war languish
by the well’s rusty handle

Across from the School of Demolishing
where the headmaster quarrels
Major Smith resumes polishing
his collection of morals,

finding it harder and harder
their tarnishing to allay,
but unable to stop
for fear of public dismay.

After turning her living room
upside down in myopia,
Ms X breaks the loom
of her lost cornucopia,

having found, in disgust:
no cause for concern;
Jesus and lust
And a stick of luscerne.

The last she discards
in the perfumed pink bin
that loiters at her back door
like a dust hungry djinn.

Deep on Parable Street, desolate
With their age at the door
Able & Mandy play games
of control on the floor.

Their children, resigned,
nod their heads in agreement,
knowing no other option,
their thoughts in concealment.

And in this game so erratic
The kids gave up learning
They hide in the attic
Of the school of mild yearning

Mandy clucks like a hen
as her thoughts wildly scatter
Able’s disapproving tone spills
from his lip to besplatter

the green carpet they bought
from the sale of desperate years
with the love that they built
in a back street in Algiers.

I watch from the window,
of this little black tower;
I’m the madman on Main Street
And they expect me to cower

I can hear Pretty laughing
her high pitched bird twitter
in the studio next door
where she creates her art litter

from threads of her hair yellow
and thoughts from head empty.
I imagine her boring
her lover aged seventy

a husk of a man
with a narcissistic fringe;
whom she discovered in her bed
after a choc-latte binge.

She squeaks in deliverance
of how the world works,
her voice like cold helium
in the afternoon ignorance.

The grass has turned blue
on the lawn by the shed,
blue as the thoughts
in Mr Melancholy’s head,

blue as the veins of
bitter distrust
that pollute the lit mind
with calamine rust

blue as the hair
that writhes with unrest
obscuring gay tattoos
on Constable Conservative’s chest.

Copyright Pisces Iscariot 2006

Pisces Iscariot is the madman who loiters in the Far Queue.
http://thefarqueue.blogspot.com

Intimate

2006-04-19T04:24:00.000-07:00

INTIMATE
By Lea Drake

The first time
I came to visit you,
on the big silver bird,
I was nervous.
We spoke on the phone
every day
but had spent less than
eight hours
together
in person.

You picked me up at the airport
in your big silver car.

It reminded me of
the big silver bird.

We stopped on the way home --
your home --
for breakfast.
As I walked beside you
from the car to the diner,
Inhaling the scent
of your brown leather jacket,
I thought to myself
that I will know
this man's body
intimately
before I return to New York.

And I did.

As you knew mine.
As we learned each other's
bodies
and minds.

I missed you.
I wanted you.

You flew to see me
In a big silver bird.
I couldn't sleep the night before
From wanting you so much.
Would you want me?

Yes.

But it was different.
A quieter passion
instead of
a fitful need.
Sometimes I like it.
Sometimes it made me afraid.
I still loved you.
Did you still feel the same way?

Or is the trophy once won
put on the back of the closet shelft
and fresh trophies sought?

I miss you.
I want you.

I prepare to fly to you again
on the big silver bird
and you'll pick me up
in your big silver car.

This time, I won't wonder
about your body
because I know
how to trace the patterns
to make you tingle.
I look forward to the melding,
the molding, the readjustment,
yet a little nervous
to trust in the love
that instinctively I know is there,
but intellectually I doubt.

Lea Drake’s work appeared in several small poetry journals. She is currently working on a book of poems.

Alone

2006-04-17T06:58:00.000-07:00

Alone
By Patricia Gallant

Where would you rather be
if not with me?
playing
drinking
smoking
joking
boys with
toys
not men at all.

Tears I cry
from weary eyes.
I am alone
crying
sighing
wondering why
as time goes by –
Alone.

January 20, 2006

Patricia Gallant is a mother of two daughters from Ontario, Canada. Her first poem was published in the Toronto Star Newspaper in 1978. She writes poetry when the mood strikes. She meets with a writing group on a weekly basis and is currently working on a novel.

Good Friday

2006-04-14T05:45:00.000-07:00

Good Friday
By Brenda Braene

Last Sunday
we left the church
carrying palms
that next year
will bless our skulls
on Ash Wednesday.

Last night
we left the church
in silence
as the altar
stripped bare.

Today we sit
listening at 3 pm
as the bells toll
to signify
Murder.

I am supposed to feel reverent.
I am supposed to feel
glad
that a
man
was nailed to a cross
to save
me.

I did not ask
for someone to die
to save me.

I do not feel
Awe.
I feel
Anger.

I remember going to
Church
as a little
Girl
with my sisters
and grandmother.

Holy Week
meant shifting around
on hard pews
in itchy clothes
until we could go home
and
Eat
Chocolate eggs
which we were not
supposed to find
until Easter morning

But our parents
“hid” some
where we could find them
Early.

I do not want
anyone to die
for me.
I want
the world
to
Live.

Brenda Braene is a frequent contributor to Circadian Poems. Her blog is Poet Meets Muse, and she shares a recently sorely neglected websites with her Jane Austen-loving sisters, The Three Braenes.

Poetry News

2006-04-13T13:53:00.000-07:00

April is National Poetry Month, here in the US. It’s an exciting time for poetry, and I hope everyone is getting inspired by the poems flying about!

Check out these links to learn more about National Poetry Month:

http://www.infoplease.com/spot/pmonth1.html

http://www.poets.org/

and, this very exciting site, Poetry Daily:

http://www.poems.com/

Poetry Contest
Pamela K. Taylor, one of our Circadian contributors, sent me this information:

Hello and Salaams,

I would like to announce that the Islamic Writers Alliance is holding its second annual poetry contest, in coordination with National Poetry Month, which is, of course, April.

Our theme this year is the Prophet Muhammad, and was chosen because of unfortunate the cartoon incident. It is our intention to publish an e-book chapbook of the best poems, which will be free to the public and hopefully serve to inspire Muslims and non-Muslims alike, as well as edify us all about the true nature of Prophet Muhammad, and exemplify the Qur'anic teaching to reach out to others with the most beautiful of words.

We have three categories: One for youth (ages 6-17), one for adults (18 and older) and one for IWA members, so as to avoid any suggestion of unfair judging.

The contest is open to everyone. All forms of poetry welcome. One poem per author.
Submissions are due by April 30th, and should be emailed to poetrycontest@islamicwritersalliance.net. Please include a cover page with the author's name and contact info, subsequent pages should have only the title and page number, with no labels to identify the author, to ensure blind judging.

The Misuse of Laughter

2006-04-12T07:02:00.000-07:00

The Misuse of Laughter
By Adele Swift

Laughter is created
With intent
Of joy
And release.
Good energy flows
Outward.
Whether a trill
Or an explosion
Or a bray
The receiver feels
Pleasure.
When used
To garner
Attention
For a self-involved
Nitwit
It is
Abrasive
Offensive
Manipulative
It is an
Insult
To Joy.

Adele Swift is a writer, dammit, who does not suffer fools gladly, if at all. Visit her blog, Swiftian Logic at http://swiftianlogic@blogspot.com.

Spring Fever

2006-04-10T09:08:00.000-07:00

Spring Fever
By Casey Jonquil-Evans

Green
Wet
Luscious
Rolling
Smack
Slurp
Luurchk!
Rise
Fall
Twist
Laugh
Delicious
Fulfilled
More

Casey Jonquil-Evans is new to writing and to marriage. She hopes they mix well.

Apologies

2006-04-03T08:06:00.000-07:00

There's a problem in the Circadian email account. It's been flooded with spam pretending to be submissions -- literally thousands of them -- and it's taking time to sort it all out without deleting genuine submissions. I hope to have the site sorted and up and running again properly by the end of the week.

My apologies to all waiting poets and essayists -- as soon as I find your submission in the mess of spam, I will respond immediately.

And yes, I am taking it up with my internet provider.

Return Planned

2006-03-22T04:51:00.000-08:00

Circadian Poems will return to its regularly scheduled posts as of April 1.

Happy Spring!

To An Almost Lover

2006-03-06T07:31:00.000-08:00

To An Almost Lover
By Wren Fallon

We met blazing
With knowledge of each other
That we could not have.
Soul knowledge that no other has.
Passion drove us together
With volcanic intensity.
Hours passed like seconds.
Our lives changed.
We were ourselves in the truest sense of the world
Our souls were naked
And we were beautiful.
There was no other reality
Outside of the two of us.
Then intellect took over
Locked the passion in a trunk
Hid the key.
We could not take the responsibility
For making each others' decisions.
We wanted to be
Adult.
Rational.

Yet passions ranged in dreams,
Night sweats and day-mares.
We flew together in our sleep.
Clasped.
Bonded.
Woke up apart
But with each other's imprints on our bodies
And in our hearts.
No one has ever possessed me as completely as you have.
Our bond transcends time, space, and lifetimes.
We met so that we could acknowledge
We are both on this plane in this time.
Our "rationality" separates us in this life.
Our need for each other
Will force our honesty
And bring us together
In the future.
We cannot deny who we are.

Wren Fallon is a poet. She has neither a website nor a blog, and that’s the way she likes it.

I'll Remember You

2006-03-03T11:06:00.000-08:00

March 3, 2006

I'll Remember You
by Sheryl Joy P. Olaño

I remember you back when
You first crawled into my life
Four-legged tenderness out of
A bundle of fragile delight
Your eyes, mirrors of my surprise
And though yet wordless
Endless were our what's this,
What's that, then when
More, more! Our chant in life
I remember you...
In vibrant colors of pink, red,
Yellow and green
With hair of finely spun midnight,
Rose-blessed expectant lips;
Your eyes glistened with a
Play of dawn and twilight
Against skin of sun-kissed ivory
I saw only hope of what was to come
We asked the hows
Then…the heartbreak pouring
From your eyes
You asked for why
Yet still seek for more

Now, I see you
Hair gleaming silver with
Well-earned years
Lips of thin paleness sealing
Volumes of golden reality and dreams

Your eyes…now tendered with
Acceptance and goodbye
Wrench my heart; you leave
With but a sigh
And yet, beyond my mortal eyes
You're still very much alive
For you will only cease
To exist for me
Not at the last of your breath
But at the end…of mine.
I'll remember you, old friend...forever

Sheryl Joy P. Olaño is a journalism graduate and now working as a junior editor in publishing company CannonCreek Asia Incorporated, where she deals with business news writing. She is also a contributor to the Philippine newspaper Sun Star Daily Cebu, www.poetrypoem.com, www.writing.com, ezine and goarticles. She writes essays,
short stories, poetry and sometimes novels.

To The One Who Broke My Heart

2006-02-15T01:46:00.000-08:00

TO THE ONE WHO BROKE MY HEART
("Were" Is The Word)
by Sheryl Joy P. Olaño
You had my heart...
You were my soul... Y
ou were the air I breathed
And everything beautiful

You were my beginning
But chose to be my ending
When you left and tore
My dreams apart

I didn't understand back then
You needed a life where you
Wouldn't have to pretend
A life without me
No, I didn't understand

I forgot that you were also
A human being
Capable of hurting and of being
Hurt

Your leaving I mistook
Thought no one could ever love me
The way I loved you J
ust because I plainly wasn't
Good enough for you

I didn't know that
Out of the ruins, out of
The one you left behind
You gave me a new beginning
That out of the pain,
You showed me truth
Out of your leaving
You gave me hope
Out of the loneliness
And the lack of you,
You gave me a chance
To live my life
Oh, I was given the world When you faded from my side

Then I was free
Free to see so much beauty
Much more than what I saw in you
Free to fulfill
What I can be
That was wasted
When I was confined in you
To stand alone when I used to
Live because of you

Your leaving took away
The fear of losing you
As well as the thinking that
Your loving me
Was all I needed to know
I thought I never could
Imagine life without you
But now I know better…
There is a life Even after you

Sheryl Joy P. Olaño is a journalism graduate and now working as a junior editor in publishing company CannonCreek Asia Incorporated, where she deals with business news writing. She is also a contributor to the Philippine newspaper Sun Star Daily Cebu, www.poetrypoem.com, www.writing.com, ezine and goarticles. She writes essays,
short stories, poetry and sometimes novels.

Where are the Angels?

2006-02-13T06:52:00.000-08:00

Where are the Angels?
By Lea Drake

In church, they tell us
Tales of Angels.

How they love us.
How they help us.
How they guide us.

In circle, they tell us
Tales of Angels.

How they love us.
How they help us.
How they guide us.

Yet . . .
Famine in our own country
And all over the world.
Pain. Suffering.
Murder. Child abuse.

Instead of praying
To Gods
We pray
To Dollars.

Where are the angels?

Lea Drake’s work appeared in several small poetry journals. She is working on a book of poems.

Goodbye, Ghost

2006-02-08T07:30:00.000-08:00

Goodbye, Ghost
By Brenda Braene

I leave the grounds of the Alamo.
The ghost walks with me as far as the gate.
I cross the threshold.
He tries
And fails.
I take his hand
and try to pull him across.
His hand pulls away
As a chasm opens between us
The chasm of the living and the dead.
He is trapped.
I make my own traps.
I watch him stand
With tears trickling down transparent cheeks.
I turn and walk away
Feeling crueler than the soldier who killed him.
I turn back
He lifts his hand.
I smile.
He disappears.
My window overlooks the garden.
I look for him.
I hope he is free.
I see him wandering
Lost and alone.
Through uncaring tourists
Trying to make contact
But they can't respond.
I visit every day.
We walk the grounds together.
He tells me his story. His longings.
The final morning
I go to say goodbye.
He tries to be brave
But he is no longer
Bound by the expectations of men
And can now feel sad.
We lace and unlace fingers.
He watches from the gate
As I walk away the final time
And he sighs.

Brenda Braene’s blog is Poet Meets Muse. She shares a blog and a love of Jane Austen with her sisters on The Three Braenes. Brenda is a frequent contributor to Circadian.

Care-less

2006-02-06T06:30:00.000-08:00

CARE-LESS
By Wren Fallon

You don’t care that I love you

You’d rather love someone else

You don’t care that I love you

You push me away in self-defense.

You prefer them young and dumb

enough to be manipulative.

You prefer them shallow and false;

it gives you more initiative.

I watch you self-destruct

When all I can do is stand by.

You rather trade love for pain

You will never see me cry.

A real emotion frightens you

And so you run away.

But I am real and I am strong,

My love will find its day.

There is no future with you

Somehow it’s no surprise.

Someday I’ll love one who loves me back

On that I will not compromise.

Your eyes are shallow as puddles

Your kiss is clumsy and dry

Your touch is heavy and hurtful

I no longer want to know why.

I loved you once; I do no longer

I turn and walk away.

Where I once was a hole exists

Your patch will only fray.

Wren Fallon likes to play with words and see what happens. She has neither a blog nor a website, and that’s the way she likes it.

Of My Father's Mandolin

2006-02-03T06:11:00.000-08:00

Of My Father’s Mandolin
By Gianna Opris

Two olive-moons shined
in my father’s eyes
as he played the mandolin.
People stared at his hands
and his fingers performing
a music that easy entered the heart.

His concerts began a celebration
sometimes his gift for someone’s birthday.
He played mostly the waltz.
The mandolin sang in Peruvian
a sea of fresh violets
my happy birthday song
the harmony of a September that is gone.

Some of us ‘bravo’ standing!
Members of the family “salud” to each other.
My parents kissed across the face in the living--
I had my shy smile --my strawberry cheeks.

I fully understood the light in my father’s eyes
moved me --
while he tuned a “La menor, Fa mayor”
to play more songs.
Mom wearing her hand-made apron that smelled
like rice just made, took off her glasses; sat.

The mandolin rested, contemplating its audience.
If you looked carefully at its strings they vibrate --still
experiencing a rumba of flavors,
fingering one, two, two, one, two, two.
My father grew like this, going to bed late
writing his letters, with no showers in April.

Biography

Gianina Opris currently resides in Denver Colorado after originally moving from Lima, Peru. She is currently pursuing a Masters Degree in Creative Writing at Naropa University. She has been published in various journals, including Bombay Gin, and has received an honorable mention at Columbine Poets in Colorado. Gianina was selected for the 2004 international poetry exhibition in NW Cultural Council in Barrington, Illinois. Gianina is a second grade school teacher in the Denver Public Schools. She is part of a performing poetry group known as The Invisible.

Imbolc

2006-02-01T08:24:00.000-08:00

Imbolc
By Danielle Frézier

Moonlight begins
its shift to the sun.

Sunlight begins
to wax in the gloom.

Under the ground
pushing, shoving

seedpods crack
striving to give birth.

Inside my soul,
striving, pushing

Something awakens,
something needs room.

Danielle Frézier is at her best in the moonlight. Her work has previously appeared in Circadian.

Burns Night/Virginia Woolf's Birthday

2006-01-25T12:55:00.000-08:00

Today is Virginia Woolf’s birthday, and, also the infamous Burns Night is celebrated in Scotland, honoring poet Robert Burns.

In honor of both of these writers, Circadian presents the following:

Dear Virginia
By Joan Spoon

My dear Mrs. Woolf,
You do not know me,
Yet I feel I know you
through books, diaries, letters..
I worry about you
‘though you died long ago.
I mourn for you,
‘though you would not care.

Your words touch my soul
And they soothe my spirit.
I rush to your defense
when the misinformed
feel the interesting things
in your life
are your suicide
and your sexuality.

You never took
the easy way
you pushed your form
with each stroke of the pen.
You were never satisfied,
never complacent.
And yet get little credit
for your merry laughter.

Your books fascinate
Your diaries, your letters
make you present
though your present is far gone.
And yet, strangely,
I have no doubt
that had we met in person,
we would not be friends.

********

Ah, Mr. Burns!
By Brenda Braene

Ah, Mr. Burns!
(For I’m too shy
To call you Robert)
Tonight’s your night.

Tonight the revels start
Tonight the haggis pipes
(Or is piped? Forgive me,
Please, I can’t bear haggis).

Yet “Auld Lang Syne”
Seems like only days ago.
The test of timeless poet, sir,
Is the daily use of his words.

Brenda Braene’s blog is Poet Meets Muse, and she shares a website, The Three Braenes, with Bridget and Beatrix Braene. The three share a love of Jane Austen’s life and works. She has been previously published by Circadian.

Joan Spoon loves her garden, her pets and her students. She writes, paints, and plays piano whenever she can.

Celebrating the Life and Genius of Robert Burns -- Part II

2006-01-24T14:54:00.000-08:00

. . .continued from yesterday. By Colin Galbraith

Many of Burns’s songs and poems have become international favourites over the centuries and January 25th is now a significantly major day on the Scottish calendar. It sees Scots from all over the world come together to celebrate the life and genius of their greatest ever writer; the National Bard, Robert Burns.

It is to Burns’s testament, that Rabbie Burns Day is celebrated with more fervor and passion in Scotland, than the National Patron’s day for St. Andrews on November 30th.

To celebrate the life of Robert Burns, Scots will gather and undertake an ancient and traditional set of protocols under the banner of a Burns Supper. Whether it be a small gathering or a formal event, Scots will gather celebrate Robert Burns through the eating of Haggis, drinking of whisky and recital of the great man’s poems and songs.

The Scottish traditional dish, Haggis, is a centuries old recipe containing lamb’s liver, suet, oatmeal, onion and spicy peppers. These ingredients are combined and stuffed inside a sheep’s Pluck, (cleaned stomach bag). The bag is then boiled for about five hours, pierced very carefully to avoid explosion, then served.

Before serving, however, there are some very important traditions that must also be upheld.

A piper, dressed in full Scottish regalia, will first pipe in the guests. The audience is required to stand and applaud while the High Table is seated. This usually includes the venue’s hosts, Chairman, Speakers and other VIP’s.

The Chairman then welcomes everyone to the celebration, which will include The Selkirk Grace. This is a short, but important prayer.

Some hae meat and canna eat,
and some wad eat that want it,
but we hae meat and we can eat,
and sae the Lord be thankit.

The Haggis is then piped into the room. Guests remain standing for this and will clap their hands in time to the music while the Haggis is delivered on a large silver platter, accompanied by the Chef, the Piper, and the Addresser.

The Honorary Reader will then perform the Address to the Haggis, by reciting the poem, "To A Haggis".

To A Haggis

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o' the pudding-race!
Aboon them a' yet tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy o'a grace
As lang's my arm.

The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin was help to mend a mill
In time o'need,
While thro' your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic Labour dight,
An' cut you up wi' ready sleight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like ony ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin', rich!

Then, horn for horn, they stretch an' strive:
Deil tak the hindmost! on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
Bethankit! hums.

Is there that owre his French ragout
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad make her spew
Wi' perfect sconner,
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view
On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckles as wither'd rash,
His spindle shank, a guid whip-lash;
His nieve a nit;
Thro' blody flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!

But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread.
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He'll mak it whissle;
An' legs an' arms, an' hands will sned,
Like taps o' trissle.

Ye Pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o' fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies;
But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer
Gie her a haggis!

The audience normally joins in as the last line is read and a triumphant applause follows. The Haggis is then toasted to fully charged glasses of Malt Whisky and the words, “The Haggis!” cheered by the room.

The Haggis is then served, normally with Neeps and Tatties (mashed Turnip and Potatoes) and beer or wine.

Immediately after the meal the first performer is invited up to the stage to sing one of Burns’s famous songs or recite one of his poems. This is then followed by the Keynote Speaker who delivers a speech entitled "The Immortal Memory", which is traditionally a speech on Burns’s life told in a witty and loving way of Scotland’s National Bard. The speech always ends with the line, “To the Immortal Memory of Robert Burns”.

Another song or poem is performed, followed by The Toast to the Lassies. This is a humorous highlight of the evening usually consisting of selected works from Burns’s poems, which celebrates the role of women in the modern world today. It is rounded off with a tumultuous, “To the Lassies!”

More poetry and songs follow before the Reply to the Toast to the Lassies. A woman will reply to the Toast to the Lassies on behalf of the ladies, thanking the toast-master and then through the use of some of Burns’s work, upstaging the men.

The final entertainment follows and finally the Chairman will close the evening by inviting guests to stand and recite one of the most famous of Scottish songs, "Auld Lang Syne".

Auld Lang Syne

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And auld lang syne!

Chorus -
For auld land syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne,
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet
,For auld lang syne.

And surely ye'll be your pint stowp!
And surely I'll be mine!
And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.

Chorus...

We twa hae run about the braes,
And pou'd the gowans fine;
But we've wander'd mony a weary fit
Sin' auld lang syne.

Chorus...

We twa hae paidl'd in the burn,
Frae morning sun till dine;
But seas between us briad hae roar'd
Sin' auld lang syne.

Chorus...

And there's a hand, my trusty fere!
And gie's a hand o' thine!
And we'll tak' a right gude-willie waught,
For auld lang syne.

Chorus...

Robert Burns became a Scottish legend before he died, but Scotland never quite realised until he was gone. He was taken so early in his life, had he lived beyond his thirties one can only imagine what he might have achieved and how many children he might have gone on to have. He gained more fame and notoriety after his death than he ever did during his lifetime, and Robert Burns is now perhaps the only person who can genuinely stake a claim to being the most internationally famous and influential Scottish writer there has ever been.

Colin Galbraith has seen many poems of his poems published. His first chapbook, Brick by Brick, was published in April 2005 and a second chapbook about the recent Edinburgh Festival, Fringe Fantastic, was published in December, 2005. He can be contact through his website: http://www.colingalbraith.co.uk or his daily blog: http://freedomfromthemundane.blogspot.com

Celebrating the Life and Genuis of Robert Burns -- Part One

2006-01-23T06:03:00.000-08:00

Celebrating the Life and Genius of Robert Burns

By Colin Galbratih

Sitting on the edge of the North Atlantic Ocean and the North Sea is a small, seemingly insignificant island. This island is divided into three parts, England, Wales and in the north, Scotland.

There are 5 million in Scotland; five million people forming a nation which has a national history and pride to rival any other nation in the world. Whether in politics, sports, the arms or the arts, Scotland has produced many fine men and women who have fought long battles, invented world-altering machines, and created beauty beyond all recognition.

Yet there is only Scot who has an annual national day of celebration. It has lasted hundreds of years and is as strong now as it was back in the late 18th Century. This celebration is for a young man who was not a Royal, nor was he a Nobel Prize winner. His name is Robert Burns, and he was a poet.

Robert “Rabbie” Burns was born in a small cottage in Alloway, near Ayr, on 25th January 1759. Born to William, a farmer and gardener to the Provost of Ayr, he sometimes attended John Murdoch’s School in Alloway, but in the main, grew up under the influence of his father’s teachings in traditional school subjects. Scottish Calvinism played a huge part in his upbringing; his father once wrote a pamphlet for his children called A Manual of Christian Belief. Conversely, he was also responsible for instilling in Robert, a spirit of tolerance and understanding as well as gentle rebellion.

The family was poverty-stricken and it was financial stress that eventually forced Burns to start work on the family farm. He was generally uninspired, though time spent hard labouring introduced him to Nelly Kirkpatrick who lived nearby; his first love. She inspired him to write his first song to the tune of a traditional Scottish reel called, O, once I lov'd a bonnie lass.

O, once I lov'd a bonnie lass

O once I lov'd a bonnie lass,
An' aye I love her still,
An' whilst that virtue warms my breast
I'll love my handsome Nell.

As Bonnie Lasses I hae seen,
And mony full as braw,
But for a modest gracefu' mein
The like I never saw.

A bonny lass I will confess,
Is pleasant to the e'e,
But without some better qualities
She's no a lass for me.

But Nelly's looks are blythe and sweet,
And what is best of a',
Her reputation is compleat,
And fair without flaw;

She dresses ay sae clean and neat,
Both decent and genteel;
And then there's something in her gait
Gars only dress look weel.

A gaudy dress and gentle air
May slightly touch the heart,
But it's innocence and modesty
That polishes the dart.

Burns worked through a succession of labouring jobs that would contribute to his stooped posture later in life, and from 1783 he began to write poetry regularly. His verse came in traditional style using the Ayrshire dialect of Lowland Scots, which many people to this day still find difficult to translate.

When his father died in 1784, Burns, who was only 25, and his brother Gilbert, rented a farm near Mauchline to live and work. It was always going to be an uphill struggle to keep financially afloat and Burns didn’t help matters by fathering eight children with five different women over the next decade. One of these women, Jean Armour, would eventually become his wife in 1788.
Burns’ first collection to be published was Poems, Chiefly in the Scottish Dialect, in July 1786 by a local printer in Kilmarnock. This book contains many of his best work, including the famous "To a Mouse", "The Holy Fair", "The Twa Dogs", "The Address to the Deil", "Hallowe'en"", The Cottar's Saturday Night", and "The Daisy".

To a Mouse
Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie
O what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi' bickering brattle !
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee
Wi' murd'ring pattle !

I'm truly sorry man's dominion
has broken Nature's social union
,An' justifies that ill opinion
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor earth-born companion,
An' fellow-mortal !

I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve ;
What then ? poor beastie, thou maun live !
A daimen-icker in a thrave
'S a sma' request ;I'll get a beleesin' wi' the lave,
And never miss't !

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin !
Its silly wa's the win's are strewin' !
An' naething, now, to big a new ane
O' foggage green !
An' bleak December's winds ensuin'
Baith snell an' keen !

Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste.
An' weary winter comin' fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell,
Till crash ! the cruel coulter past
Out-thro' thy cell.

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble !
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the winter's sleety dribble,
An' cranreuch cauld !

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain :
The best laid schemes o' mice an' men
Gang aft a-gley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain
For promis'd joy.

Still thou art blest compar'd wi' me !
The present only toucheth thee :
But oh ! I backward cast my e'e
On prospects drear !
An' forward tho' I canna see,
I guess an' fear!

The success of this book convinced Burns to scrap immediate plans to emigrate to Jamaica, where he intended to become a bookkeeper on a plantation. Instead he travelled to Edinburgh and quickly became a well-known figure amongst the higher cultural circles and his profile was raised significantly.

He found work editing a collection of Scottish folk songs entitled, The Scots Musical Museum, which was published in five volumes over the next sixteen years. Burns contributed over 150 songs, including one of unknown origin called "Auld Lang Syne".

Burns and his wife Jean moved to Mauchline, where in 1790 he produced Tam o' Shanter, which was first published merely as an accompaniment to an illustration of Alloway Kirk. He was offered a job with The Star newspaper in London and was also provided the opportunity to become a candidate for a newly-created Chair of Agriculture at the University of Edinburgh. He refused them both.

The growing Burns family gave up the farm in 1791 and moved to Dumfries. Burns had been requested to furnish words for The Melodies of Scotland, and he responded by contributing over 100 songs, many of which form the basis to the claim of which his immortality now rests.
Burns Statue, Dumfries

Burns went on to contribute a further 114 songs to A Select Collection of Scottish Airs, but he received very little payment for his efforts. In 1795 he was inspired by the events of the French Revolution to write For a' that and a' that; his cry for human equality, which he lost many of his closest friends over, as they took strongly opposing views.

For a' that and a' that

Tho' women's minds, like winter winds,
May shift, and turn, an' a' that,
The noblest breast adores them maist-
A consequence I draw that.

Chorus:
For a' that, an' a' that,
And twice as meikle's a' that;
The bonie lass that I loe best
She'll be my ain for a' that.

Great love I bear to a' the fair,
Their humble slave, an' a' that;
But lordly will, I hold it still
A mortal sin to thraw that.

Chorus

But there is ane aboon the lave,
Has wit, and sense, an' a' that;
A bonie lass, I like her best,
And wha a crime dare ca' that?

Chorus

In rapture sweet this hour we meet,
Wi' mutual love an' a' that
,But for how lang the flie may stang
,Let inclination law that.

Chorus

Their tricks an' craft hae put me daft.
They've taen me in, an' a' that;
But clear your decks, and here's -
"The Sex!"I like the jads for a' that.

Chorus

By early 1796, Burns’s health was giving way to concern. Some commentators of the time spoke of his premature ageing and fits of despondency, to which he had suffered continually throughout his life.

On 21st July 1796, Robert Burns succumbed to rheumatic fever and died. He was 38 years old.
As he was being laid to rest in the churchyard of St. Michael’s Chapel in Dumfries, his wife Jean was giving birth to their ninth child. News of his death spread quickly across the nation and within days money started to pour in from all over Scotland to help support his widow and children.

Continued tomorrow . . .

Colin Galbraith has seen many poems of his poems published. His first chapbook, Brick by Brick, was published in April 2005 and a second chapbook about the recent Edinburgh Festival, Fringe Fantastic, was published in December, 2005. He can be contact through his website: http://www.colingalbraith.co.uk or his daily blog: http://freedomfromthemundane.blogspot.com

The House on the Point -- Part III

2006-01-22T13:10:00.000-08:00

The House on the Point
By Horatia Karrille

Part Three

A figure stood above,
Silhouette in the night
A hand with no glove
Gave Drew quite a fright.

“No more violence here
On this, my true land.
No girl needs to fear
To die by your hand.”

“Who are you, lovely spirit?”
Janné asks with a thrill.
A slick as a ferret,
Drew moves in for the fill

A vivid force yet unseen
Sent him flat on his back.
The ghost looked a Queen,
Treated boy like a sack.

“I did it! I confess!”
Drew’s hands covered his face.
He cowered and wept
To avoid her torn lace.

“I don’t know what hits me.
I can’t justify
A lovely girl’s mystery
Sets me all awry.”

“I know,” said Janné.
“Why else would I come?
To trap you this day;
I don’t fall for scum.”

“You knew I was guilty?”
The blood left Drew’s face.
“You think I am filthy?”
Outside he did race.

A scream and a splash
Were all that were left.
The murderer made hash,
The “dead girl” upswept.

Ghost, girl, and Janné
All joined their three hands.
Don’t get in the Fates’ way,
They’ll revenge their own lands.

Horatia Karrille is a poet.

The House on the Point -- Part Two

2006-01-18T05:26:00.000-08:00

The House on the Point
By Horatia Karrille

Part Two

“What do we do?
We can’t leave her there.”
Janné touches her shoe,
Stops from touching her hair.

“They’ll think it was us.
We can’t take the risk.”
Drew’s brain feels like mush
His eyes round as disks.

“She is real, she is true,
She deserves some respect.
I’m so ashamed of you,
Afraid for your neck.”

“Justice and Law are two different things.
We don’t have the money
To oil the springs.
Please trust me, honey.”

“I cannot believe
You lack such a heart.
For her I shall grieve
And now I shall start.”

“We must leave right now.
Let others respond.
She’s just an old cow.
Why should you feel a bond?”

“She is lovely and young,
Should not meet this end.
Before rise of the sun,
Her killer I’ll send.”

“I shan’t leave you here
To ruin our lives.
It’s me you should fear.
No ghost gives you hives.”

“Is it you who did this?
To one young and fair?
Your plans for my bliss?
Strangle me with my hair?”

Before Drew could respond
A scream rent the air
Cold air mussed the blonde
Came a step on the stair.

To be continued . . .

Horatia Karrille is a poet.

The House on the Point -- Part One

2006-01-15T11:51:00.000-08:00

The House on the Point
By Horatia Karrille

Part One

The tall dark house
Squats on the point
Alone with no spouse
Structure runs the joint.

Below is a cove,
A sapphire jewel.
Behind is a grove,
An earthbound fool.

The round, buttery moon
Rises high in the night
Urging couples to swoon
Giving parents a fright.

The legend of ghost
Sends shivers and chills
The thought of such host
A battle of wills.

Under moon of this night
Travel Drew and Janné
Hand in hand, such a sight
No one could be blasé.

They long for a place
So quiet, so velvet
Their love needs a space
To only be well-met.

Together they climb
With a pause here and there
A kiss and a sigh
To steal on the stair.

A creak of a floorboard
Causes them to take pause
Drew longs for a wall-sword
To defend his love’s cause.

All is quiet yet not well
They can feel in the air
Janné’s voice is a bell:
“It might be a bear.”

A lump on the floor
Towards it they creep
Not washed ashore
“She’s dead, not asleep.”

To be continued . . .

Horatia Karrille is a poet.

Poems to Celebrate Friday the 13th

2006-01-13T05:05:00.000-08:00

Day O’ Beauty
By Joan Spoon

But why, dear love,
would ye fear a date
of the calendar?

Especially one with the grace
and the form and the poise
of Friday the Thirteenth?

‘Tis a day for luck
‘Tis a day for joy
‘Tis a day for expansion.

Only the foolish,
only the ignorant
would fear this day.

*************

Soul Search
By Chloe Ann Clementine

Mystic dark
Fatiguing light
Embracing Night
Soft dawn mark

One candle alight
Live the flame
Don’t play games
With Mystic sight

*************

Friday The 13th
By Cassandra Oleander

Stay under the covers
Don’t venture forth
You might spill salt
Double jinxing the day.

Yes, do well to believe
You superstitious fool
With your shallow breath
And the look over one shoulder.

Go ahead!
Fear it all
Run and hide
Silly thing!

I will dance
I will run
I will love
I will sing.

*************

It is Friday. It is 13.
By Isobel Edge

Hum-mah Hum-mah Hum-mah

Om-A Om-A Om-A

Rhy-THM Rhy-THM Rhy-THM

Heartbeat

Friday (Friday . . .Friday . . .Friday. . . )
Day of Venus. Silk and velvet. Wet and warm.
Aphrodite. Skin and sweat. Soul Ecstasy.

Thirteen (Three. . .Six. . .Nine . . .)
Magic Number. Dark and light.
Feel its pulse. Feel it. Feel.

Rhythm
Builds
Power.

Chloe Ann Clementine deconstructs and reconstructs image in words and mixed media. She may even mix up a website one day.

Isobel Edge works to her own, personal pulse.

Cassandra Oleander tries to find the world entertaining and humorous, even when it’s not. Visit her at her blog, Askew.

Joan Spoon loves her garden, her pets and her students. She writes, paints, and plays piano whenever she can.

Poetry News

2006-01-12T08:59:00.000-08:00

The Academy of American Poets

This organization, whose link is www.poets.org, is a fascinating and useful resource for readers and writers of poetry.

It contains poems and essays on the site. You can create your own “notebook” and enter the poems and essays that speak strongly to you. There’s a free newsletter, and a variety of other services, grants, and awards for poets. It publishes a magazine and a calendar of events and readings, both by Academy and non-Academy members.

In your search for resources, it’s a worthwhile stop. Their mission is to support American poets at all stages of their careers. Yet poets and readers from all over the world can enjoy the site and its offerings.

Aftermath

2006-01-11T05:30:00.000-08:00

AFTERMATH
By Wren Fallon

The lovely quiet
After the rains are spent.
The calmness
After the sky's restorative tears.
The heaving breast of the Heavens quiets
And settles into the Earth's embrace.

{Written at Palenville Interarts Colony}

Wren Fallon says everything she has to say through her work. She has neither a blog nor a website. This is her second appearance in Circadian Poems.

Wish

2006-01-09T06:50:00.000-08:00

Wish
by Sheryl Joy P. Olaño

It's been long
Since the first time
I whispered you to the moon,
Which granted me
A sight of you
In my dreams

I've prayed the wind
Would take upon its wings
This little wish
And take it straight
Into your heart and mind

Though I know, I know
You may not hear it
In your eyes…
I'm but an angel
And your lips
Call me friend

So now I can only
Gaze at the moon
And...
Wish

Sheryl Joy P. Olaño is a journalism graduate and now working as a junior editor in publishing company CannonCreek Asia Incorporated, where she deals with business news writing. She is also a contributor to the Philippine newspaper Sun Star Daily Cebu, www.poetrypoem.com, www.writing.com, ezine and goarticles. She writes essays,
short stories, poetry and sometimes novels.

A Different Cry

2006-01-06T07:00:00.000-08:00

A DIFFERENT CRY
By Gianina Opris

I sit
In the back seat
Breathing doom
Paralyzed
More than a week ago
I put my eyes on awkward explanations

Clean my plate
The only one I recognize

Perhaps
I help
To wake
Those swept
Away
In the hurricane

Elizabeth Lee Age 4
Andrew Lewis Age 2
Aoliyah Lewis Age 6
Asha Lewis Age 8
Avionna Lewis Age 12
Atora Lewis Age ?

I find the distance
Between us
Take a look
I drop like a stone
I speak one language
My heart speaks another

I talk to dogs in my way

I live in a portrait that is alive
¯Wipe my face

Gianina Opris currently resides in Denver, Colorado after originally moving from Lima, Peru. She is currently pursuing a Masters Degree in Creative Writing at Naropa University. She has been published in various journals, including Bombay Gin, and has received an honorable mention at Columbine Poets in Colorado. Gianina was selected for the 2004 international poetry exhibition in NW Cultural Council in Barrington, Illinois. Gianina is a second grade school teacher in the Denver Public Schools. She is part of a performing poetry group known as The Invisible.

Poetry News

2006-01-05T04:05:00.000-08:00

The premiere issue of The Scruffy Dog Review is now online -- fiction, poetry, non-fiction and more.

Hop on over and read it -- their submission policy is open, so, if the mag's to your taste, also consider submission!

http://www.thescruffydogreview.com

Sparkle

2006-01-04T06:14:00.000-08:00

Sparkle
By Cassandra Oleander

Snowflakes roll and tumble
like puppies at play.

A ray of sunlight
touches an icicle
exploding into a prism
of rainbow beauty.

Frost blankets the pavement
treacherously gorgeous.

Sunlight and clouds spar
as joy and anxiety,
potential and pain,
for another New Year shines again.

Cassandra Oleander tries to find the world amusing, even when it’s not. Visit her blog, Askew.

22 Steps to Poetry -- Freestyle

2006-01-03T05:32:00.000-08:00

22 Steps to Poetry - Freestyle
by: Sheryl Joy P. Olaño

First things first: What is Poetry?

Poetry, as I learned in my literature class, is a timeless and creative expression of beauty, humanity and reality. It is a language of the heart to the heart. It is a union of heart and mind. Writing poetry is like dressing up - you consider the style, the cut and accessory and harmonize them with a touch of good taste.

Here are 22 steps to make it right:

1. "Don't study an art, practice it." - Japanese Proverb
It is practice that can propel you to greater heights. And yes, natural talent wouldn't hurt either.

2. Charm - The success in writing poetry lies in the personality of the poet. You are coaxing readers to read a few words, go on reading until you win them over.
Charm in poetry requires:
A big heart - I'm talking about kindness, unselfishness, a sympathetic nature and humility and being fair.
A big imagination - for you to come up with your own string of words and manner of presentation, for you to be able to put yourself into certain situations.
Take a stone. How would you describe it? Consider where it came from, what it could be and with it will be. See. Feel. Imagine.
Honesty - with how you feel and what you think Make poetry your testament; make it yours.
Eloquence - Describe in any way you can, in any way you want…any way. Just make readers feel and see, make them experience.
Uniqueness - It is what sets you apart from other writers. It shows in the way you use words in writing. Just be your lovely self and everything will follow.

3. Write when you feel like emotions are about to overflow from your heart or, find your strongest emotion and use it. Being rich in emotions would help you go a long way in poetry. Emotions are powerful tools. Humans after all are also governed by them. If poetry could speak, it would probably say, "Judge me not with your mind but with your heart. Don't tell me I don't make sense, only tell me if I have touched your heart."

4. If you don't quite trust yourself, have an audience in mind. Know who to please or who to share. It gives you focus. Take sides - "pro" or "anti". Ask yourself what you want your readers to feel and think.

5. Have a reason. Why do you choose such topic? Why do you write your poem that way? Why do you want your readers to feel that way? But you can keep the answers to yourself.

6. The right environment. Although a silent environment is conducive especially when you write about tranquility or loneliness and lots of other things, you may write with noise all around you. Blaring stereos and people screaming each other can help fuel your writing especially when it is about anger and chaos. Keep it close to real.

7. Consistency. It is easier when you write only with one emotion or when you write about emotions that are closely associated such as anger and pain. I'm advising this to beginners. Shifting emotions (like from sad to happy or happy to fear) is quite a job to do. Do it when you are more able. For short poems, I discourage you to shift emotions but if you can find a way, the better.

8. Short poems are catchier than long ones. Having room for spaces eases the mind and makes you think of simplicity. The problem with short poems is, you tend to become unsatisfied especially when you could have written a lot.

9. Long-short-long-short or long-short-short-long - you've got the idea. This pattern may be modified according to what suits you. Like in paragraph rules, long-short patterns are also effective in lines and stanzas. You may follow a long phrase with a fragment. Play with the dots. But use them reasonably.

10. Punctuate to emphasize and to show. Ellipses, for example, can heighten and prolong emotions by giving the reader pause. It can cause doubts, reveal satisfaction, regret, doubt and confusion. Through ellipses you may make your readers "fill in the blanks".

11. Don't be too obvious. Make your readers think. Place a bit of mystery; play up the details. Play with your readers' minds. Grasp their curiosity. 12. Play with words; enjoy. Discover what you can come up. Make them dance, laugh, cry. Use sound effects and you may even put in your reactions. For example: Splash!

13. Be able to identify poetic words. There are words that sound dull in poetry such as collaboration, augment…business words. They're unromantic! But if you can't do away with them, do something with the phraseology or change the word. Instead of evening (sounds unromantic), use night - shorter, but gives you a picture of dark sky, shadows and stars. Leave evening to business correspondence or to formal writing. Trust your poetic ear - gut feeling, in other words. Read not only with your eyes but also with your mind's ear. Translation: the lines should sound good.

14. Accessorize, but not too much. Use adjectives sparingly. Prefer verbs. They are simpler, but they give you a clearer picture. Adjectives, on the other hand, make your lines bulky.

15. Be graceful. Don't merely tell it in plain language or what's the point of writing poetry when you can just write it as prose? Try not to be corny, please. Don't use word that bring no impact or that does not add weight and meaning to the line.

16. Allow your thoughts to wander. Follow the trail they make by writing whatever comes to mind. Be in a trance, and then be reasonable afterwards.

17. Use your innocence or innate goodness. Most people sympathize with that. But also, being someone knowledgeable or cleverly bad (whichever) is an advantage. Learn how to use whichever persona. With the innocent persona, don't overdo; with the knowledgeable, don't boast…never boast, period. You'll drive away your readers. In poetry, too much is too much.

18. Choose the mood. Cheerful? Gloomy? Anything you've got.

19. Be able to see beauty and appreciate it. There is poetry everywhere because beauty is everywhere. In silence, in tears looming (tears that hang from long, thick lashes), there is beauty.

20. Gentleness is the key. Even in anger and vengeance, the readers must be able to sense your gentleness and even vulnerability, consciously or subconsciously. Even in the vengeful, they must see innocence. Use the why or the how of the situation. Make them want to care for you.

21. Use symbols. What does a blanket give you? Comfort. Warmth. Protection from the cold.

22. Inspire! Make them believe. Move them.

Sheryl Joy P. Olaño is a journalism graduate and now working as a junior editor in publishing company CannonCreek Asia Incorporated, where she deals with business news writing. She is also a contributor to the Philippine newspaper Sun Star Daily Cebu, www.poetrypoem.com, www.writing.com, ezine and goarticles. She writes essays, short stories, poetry and sometimes novels, and she is a frequent contributor to Circadian.

New Year's Wreath

2006-01-02T05:43:00.000-08:00

Welcome to a fresh year of Circadian Poems!

Many thanks to Pamela Taylor for starting us off so beautifully this year:

New Year’s Wreath
By Pamela K. Taylor

For New Year’s Day
I hang a wreath
Of bittersweet berries
Orange and red
To color drab winter days
Hint of daffodils and tulips to come
Remind of flaming leaves faded away
This year my oldest daughter turns sweet sixteen
My baby turns seven
There are days when I burst with joy
To see them growing up
And days when I weep
Oh! For them to be babies again!

Pamela Taylor is a free-lance writer, author and poet. She is Director of the Islamic Writers Alliance, and co-Chair of the Progressive Muslim Union. She lives in Indianapolis with one husband, four kids, two cats and a handful of fish. Her website is: www.pktaylor.com.

Happy New Year!

2006-01-01T09:54:00.000-08:00

First and foremost, Happy New Year!

I want to thank all the poets and essayists who’ve helped make Circadian a success over the past few months – I truly appreciate you. I hope you will continue with your contributions, visit our site regularly, and also visit the sites of your fellow poets and writers.

Again, basic guidelines:

Poems – not more than 40 lines
Holiday and specialty poems should hover around 12 lines – I have some flexibility here, but I want to keep the work on multiple poem days fairly short
Essays, articles, reviews, etc. – not more than 1000 words

Please submit your work free of HTML coding and do not submit it as a link. If the poem has specific indentations and format, I try as best I can to hold the format, but Blogger does not always allow me to do so. Include a bio of 50 words or less with any relevant links, and let me know if you would like those links to be permanent or only posted on the day of publication.

It usually takes me 2-4 weeks to respond to submissions, depending on the influx. Rights count as one-time anthology rights – you are free to sell your work anywhere else at any time. I do ask that, if the work first appears in Circadian, that you credit it so in any future publications, but again, that is at your discretion. I am happy to post work that has been published elsewhere; please let me know when and where it was originally published.

Please do NOT submit work submitted by someone else, whether it’s your Uncle Bob or Emily Dickinson. Even if a poem is in the public domain, the purpose of the site is to share original work. I’ve received quite a few emails recently asking to swap links and cross-post – yet the work on said links are by the likes of Wordsworth, Auden, et al. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a fan of the work, but that’s not the purpose of this particular site.

Upon acceptance, I will let you know on what day your piece is scheduled for publication. Because of the high workload and small staff, I usually don’t send a reminder on the day of publication.

If, for some reason, something happens and I can’t publish on the day promised, I try to either post on the site or will do my best to let you know. For instance, if something happens and I know I’ll be out of town for a few days, I try to post everything ahead of time, so it will be up for a longer period of time, rather than missing a promised publish date. Sometimes, however, I get caught out without either computer access or the disk.

Holiday-specific poems or articles should be submitted approximately two months ahead of time, unless otherwise specified in Thursday deadlines. I try to prepare each month’s entries a full month ahead of time, so all I have to do is upload. Actually, for 2006, I’m working on the first three months simultaneously.

All submissions and correspondence can go here.

I’ve been so thrilled with the work submitted by the contributors in 2005, and I look forward to an expansive and creative 2006.

A Selection of Yuletide Poems

2005-12-19T04:42:00.000-08:00

Solstice
By Danielle Frézier

On the longest night
A glimmer of light

On the darkest scope
A glimmer of hope

Over a merry feast
A glimmer of peace.

************

Christmas Morn
By Hunter Cole

Just asleep
(Up all night playing Santa’s
Handy elf).

“Mommy! Daddy! Wake up!
Santa’s been here!”

“There are reindeer prints in the snow!
Rudolph got tired of waiting on the roof
‘Cause Santa put so much under the tree!”

Little feet make big noise
Running down the stairs.

We hear the squeals of delight
As they see the bounty.
“At least we remembered the batteries this year.”

Cats pouncing in paper
Children pouncing on toys
Hot chocolate for breakfast.

Now we pack the car
With pies and playing cards and books
To visit the local senior home;
The kids’ turn to be Santa’s elves.

*********

Midnight Mass
By Brenda Braene

Everything sparkles
The enormous trees on each side
of the altar
are decorated with angels and doves.

So many people
we only see once a year
packed into pews
like well-dressed dolls in a box.

One sister sneezes
another scolds.
I am eight
and want to be home.

I don’t want to miss Santa.
I put out his plate of cookies
before we left
just in case.

After all, he has a lot to do tonight.

Lovely carols
“Peace be with you”
Holding my sisters’ hands
As we sing walking home through the snow.

Brenda Braene’s blog is Poet Meets Muse, and she shares a website, The Three Braenes, with Bridget and Beatrix Braene. The three share a love of Jane Austen’s life and works. She has been previously published by Circadian Poems.

Hunter Cole loves the Maine woods. His first published poem was here at Circadian on Thanksgiving.

Danielle Frézier is at her best in the moonlight. She does not have a website . . .yet. She was previously published by Circadian Poems on Halloween and Thanksgiving.

Circadian Poems wishes you a peaceful and joyful holiday. We are on a break, and will return on January 2, 2006.

If you wish to submit a poem of 40 lines or less or an essay of 1000 words or less, please do so here.

Please read the guidelines found on this site before submitting. It is in one of the earliest posts in the archives.

In Your Cup

2005-12-16T06:27:00.000-08:00

In Your Cup
By Michelle Miles

Give me the sun
Lemon yellow and bright
In your cup

Give me the moon
Silvery calm, round and full
In your basket

Give me the stars
Twinkling diamonds on velvet
In your palm

Give me the dawn
Blistering the sky orange
In your eyes

Give me the dusk
Warm gold and dusty pink
In your heart

Give me the world
Full of indescribable color
In your love

Give me all of you
You that means so much
In your body, mind and spirit

Michelle Miles writes in a variety of genres. She recently completed her first erotica novella, the first in the Coffee House Chronicles, to be released in summer of 2006 and is currently working on her second, NICE GIRLS DO. Visit her daily blog, Ye Olde Inkwell, at http://www.michellemiles.net/blog for all the latest news.

You My Best Friend

2005-12-14T06:12:00.000-08:00

You My Best Friend
By Rachelle Arlin Credo

The moment I'm sad
You're always there to make me glad
The moment I'm weeping
You look for ways so I'll stop from crying

You console me when I'm lonely
You brighten my day when it's gray
You give me hope when I'm hopeless
And you lift my spirit when I'm in distress

You're always there to support me
To care, comfort and to point out the way
You've been the friend I can surely rely on
The only one that I can truly held on

And I know I could never find
Somebody like you who's one of a kind
'Coz you're simply the best
And you'll always be the greatest!

Rachelle Arlin Credo is a poet from the Philippines.
Her poetry has been published in various magazines and
online poetry publications. This is her fifth poem published by Circadian Poems.

Family Heirloom

2005-12-11T08:18:00.000-08:00

Family Heirloom
By B.K. Birch

His face was swollen and red

His hands trembled until the first sip

"I'm dying my child,

it'll kill you too."

"Oh Papa, please don't,"

I begged him often,

"Save yourself,

Let go the drink."

He was too far gone

I failed to reach him

Consumed by his thirst

Destroyed by addiction

His body could not survive

He lies in eternal restI

left him with his kin

In a tranquil, wooded place

The sins of the father

Handed down with the memories

My destiny was foretold

With each drop he drank.

B.K. Birch’s publishing credits include Wildchild Publishing with two Editor's Choice Award wins, Copperfield Review, Penwomanship, Bygone Days, Mid-South Review and Emerging Women Writers. Her poetry has been published extensively in the U.S. and abroad. She also writes book reviews for Midwest Book Review and Curledup.com. She is the founding editor and publisher of The Scruffy Dog Review. Her website is http://www.bkbirch.com.

Life is a Storm

2005-12-09T05:53:00.000-08:00

Life is a Storm
By Patricia Gallant

When will the raging ache in my body ease?
When will the rain of pain in my heart stop?
When will the storm in my soul cease?
When will the sunshine clear the clouds of my mind?
The thunder that is my life floods me with grief.
The stress drowns my spirit.
The winds whip me into despair.
The lightning shocks my brain.
The tempest torments me.
The deluge drops me into darkness.
I live as a town flattened by a hurricane.
There is nothing left but the oceans of tears,
The rivers of fear,
The sea of sadness,
The turmoil of life.
When will I find my island of relief
The place of peace and happiness
Where no storm dares to touch down?
(March 31, 2005)

Patricia Gallant is a mother of two daughters from Ontario, Canada. Her first poem was published in the Toronto Star Newspaper in 1978. She writes poetry when the mood strikes. She is currently working on a novel.

The Wait

2005-12-07T04:56:00.000-08:00

The Wait

by Sandy Jones

In anticipation I wait for the end
of our time
Together.

When I am no longer plagued
by these feelings
Within me.

When your eyes no longer hold
mine captive
Reluctantly.

And your face no longer haunts
my dreams.

In anticipation I wait for my life
to be my own
Again.

When I stop struggling to catch
a glimpse of you
Everywhere.

When my heart can rest from its
pounding
At the sight of you.

And your touch no longer thrills me
into ecstasy.

Sandy L Jones writes paranormal fiction, poetry, and has plans for a children's inspirational series. You can visit her on her website www.sandyljones.com or her blog www.sandyljones.com/Blog This is her first poem to be published.

(My apologies to Sandy Jones -- Blogger will not support the format in which the poem was submitted -- I cannot change alignments or size within the poem)

A Fool in a Box

2005-12-04T13:11:00.000-08:00

A Fool in a Box
by Sheryl Joy P. Olaño

I was a fool in a box,
A sheltered fool that hungered
To spring out and have a taste
Of the intoxication they called love
With a smile painted on my face
For I always thought it sweet

Not for long, my waiting was paid -
The box was unlocked
And out I burst
In vivid colors of joy

Yet before I could even
Touch the ground
Of the world I so craved,
Of a freedom I so envied,
Back I was pushed with
The truth of the door

And I merely bent to its will
Till I was locked up again
Still I lay waiting…crumpled,
But not lost
As this happened over and
Over again

For the feel, the sight
Of the open space
Fed me dreams

Sheryl Joy P. Olaño is a journalism graduate and now working as a junior editor in publishing company CannonCreek Asia Incorporated, where she deals with business news writing. She is also a contributor to the Philippine newspaper Sun Star Daily Cebu, www.poetrypoem.com, www.writing.com, ezine and goarticles. She writes essays, short stories, poetry and sometimes novels.

"Remember Me"

2005-12-02T04:54:00.000-08:00

Remember Me
By Rachelle Arlin Credo

Remember me when I am gone away
Into the farthest land I could ever stray
Where the golden moments we shared together
Will only seem like dreams that can't be remembered

Remember me when the happy days we've known
Will all be forgotten and outgrown
When the songs we sang joyfully together
Will mean no more than a sigh of sheer despair

Remember me when the sunbeams will be dawning
And the tide of life will stop surging
But though the memories of our past fades away
Will you promise to still remember me?

Rachelle Arlin Credo is a poet from the Philippines.
Her poetry has been published in various magazines and
online poetry publications. This is her fourth poem published by Circadian Poems.

Poetry News

2005-12-01T04:56:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow is the launch of Colin Galbraith’s new book, Fringe Fantastic. This wonderful, witty, ecstatic compilation of poems and photos is available here.

What a great way to start December!

Colin’s contributed both wonderful poems and terrific articles to this site. Best of luck to him!

Circadian Deadlines:

If you’re interested in submitting your work to Circadian Poems, click here.

In addition to always reading submissions with an eye to the poetry or essay slots, I’m looking specifically for the following:

Poems for Friday the 13th – yes, we have one in January! Poems should be 12 lines or less, due on Dec. 13.

Poems for Burns Night or Virginia Woolf’s birthday – both of these fall on January 25; deadline December 30. Again, poems of 12 lines or less.

Poems for Imbolc/Candlemass (Feb. 1) due Jan. 1 – preferably 24 lines or less.

Poems for Valentine’s Day – due Jan. 14 – 12 lines or less.

If you have any news on your projects, please send me information and/or a press release. Also, starting in January, I will be posting more news and information from other poetry sites, ezines, etc. I’m putting together a list of poetry sites so we can exchange information.

Brunette

2005-11-30T03:26:00.000-08:00

Brunette
By Colin Galbraith

Nursing a pint
and a quiet thought,
writing loose words
in a tranquil spot.
She sat down beside me
with a bottle of beer,
pulled out a menthol
flicked her hair.
I couldn't resist
to offer a light,
she turned on her chair
filled me with might.
"What are you doing?"
said she to I,
"I'm writing a poem
to remember you by".

Colin Galbraith has seen many poems of his poems published. His first chapbook, Brick by Brick, was published in April 2005 and a second chapbook about the recent Edinburgh Festival is scheduled for release on December 2. . He can be contact through his website: http://www.colingalbraith.co.uk or his daily blog: http://freedomfromthemundane.blogspot.com

Why Write Poetry?

2005-11-29T04:11:00.000-08:00

Why Write Poetry?
An Opinion by Brenda Braene

“Why write poetry?”

I am often asked the question. And then it continues:

“It’s not like you can make a living at it.”

“It’s not like you’ll ever be famous.”

But that’s not why I write poetry. I don’t want to be famous. The very thought of it makes me cringe. Maybe someday I will make a living at it. There are professional poets. Sharon Olds, Marge Piercy, May Sarton, Robert Louis Stevenson, Keats, Shelley, and Jane Augustine are the names that immediately come to mind. Shakespeare was a poet as well as a playwright, and his sonnets still inspire us hundreds of years later. I might never become proficient enough or prolific enough to make my living as a poet, but that’s okay.

I write poetry because it feeds my inner rhythms. I like to read novels. But I view the world in smaller pieces. Instead of looking at an entire forest, I’d rather truly study one particular tree – the scent of it, the sensation of the needles across my palm, the texture of the trunk against my back, the way it looks as it reaches up towards the sky. There are writers who could create an entire novel out of the experience. But I am not one of them. I like to celebrate the small details of daily life.

People have longed for poetry since ancient times. Think of the Celtic Bards. Think of the tales of The Odyssey and The Iliad. Those are long poems, telling heroic tales, and reflecting history. Perhaps not genuine archeology, but the personal history of the bard and his time. Poets used to be revered and feared. Perhaps because of that “society” -- that demon group who wants us all to be part of a faceless, nameless herd instead of celebrating our individuality – began turning them into a joke.

Far too often, the word “poet” brings to mind a pseudo-Beat, pseudo-literary, pretentious person who does not want to work for a living. Instead, he writes self-indulgent verse, drinks and smokes in cafes (even though it’s now often illegal to smoke indoors) and sleeps with the students from his continuing education class. Or she writes floating verses about smoke and fairies that are incomprehensible and waits for someone with money to rescue her.

I believe many writers and non-writers flirt with those stereotypes at some point in their lives. But true poets have an insatiable curiosity about the world. Instead of dealing in theory, they deal in detail. And they try to communicate that detail with a minimum of verbiage.

Four short lines which transport me into the poet’s heart, which let me see through the poet’s eyes, which let me hear what the poet hears affect me longer than the most powerful one thousand page (and pound) novel.

It is not because I cannot concentrate for long periods of time. It’s simply that a simple arrangement of beautiful words have more impact on me. A single rose in a lovely vase is more beautiful to me than three dozen roses crammed into a bucket. I can take my time and enjoy each petal of the rose, instead of feeling as though I’ll never give each petal of the bouquet significant attention.

There is so much discussion about living mindfully. Yet, with all the mobile phones and email and having television on non-stop from the moment one walks through the door, it is almost impossible to truly notice anything.

Unless one pauses and experiences it through a poem.

I want to participate in the world, not view it through a screen. I want to touch it and taste it. Words make the experience more immediate to me than any computer-generated image can.

That is why I read poetry and write poetry: To experience the world instead of merely inhabiting it as a voyeur.

Brenda Braene’s blog is Poet Meets Muse, and she shares a website, The Three Braenes, with Bridget and Beatrix Braene. The three share a love of Jane Austen’s life and works. Her poems “Harvest I in Two Voices”, “Harvest Moon”, and “Gran Fletcher’s Apple Pie” were published by Circadian Poems.

"An Epiphany"

2005-11-28T05:31:00.000-08:00

An Epiphany
By Patricia Gallant

When we see things in a new light,
We realize what we could not see,
For our racing minds kept us in the dark,
But now we have an epiphany.
We do not always know the way
When our trials are sad and rough,
But a guiding light appears to us
And helps us with support and love.
We learn new ways every day,
For that is what it is to live,
To struggle and fight and cry,
To learn how to accept and give.
The light bulb blinks above our heads
Telling us discovery is near.
We open our hearts, minds and eyes.
We discover what we need to hear.
Our guardian angels have led the way
To help us through troubled times.
And the gift we learned through it all
Is that the sun will always shine.
(July 15, 2005)

Patricia Gallant is a mother of two daughters from Ontario, Canada. Her first poem was published in the Toronto Star Newspaper in 1978. She writes poetry when the mood strikes. She is currently working on a novel.

Poems Celebrating American Thanksgiving

2005-11-21T03:44:00.000-08:00

My First American Thanksgiving
By Danielle Frézier

On my first American Thanksgiving,
turkey tasted odd and bulky in my mouth;
sweet potatoes like candy; cranberries tart.
An atheist spoke Grace, giving thanks, holding hands.
We drank Beaujolais and ate chocolate cake.
Why eat corn? Cows eat corn.
Enormous sandwiches two hours past the meal.
Laughter. Conversation. Debate. Dishes.
My first American Thanksgiving
taught the importance of a single day
devoted to thanks, warmth, and love.

**********

Thanksgiving Morn
By Hunter Cole

Steel gray skies threaten to unroll a snow curtain.
Smoke curls from chimneys – different woods, different scents.
An owl calls; an unseen creature scatters dead leaves in fright.
Fisher tracks remind me to lock the barn.
Sweat rolls between my shoulder blades
As the axe splits the logs.
Aromas of coffee and biscuits and bacon
Urge me to hurry in my tasks
So I can rejoin Beth, standing at the stove making breakfast;
Donna coloring on newsprint beside a brown stuffed bear in his own chair;
Evvy and Kyle fighting over who’s old enough to peel potatoes;
Preparing for a day of guests and laughter.

*********

Gran Fletcher’s Apple Pie
By Brenda Braene

A slightly burnt smell of cinnamon and sugar
transports me back to snowy days
in Gran’s blue and white kitchen,
a black and white cat watching from her wooden chair.
The day was spent in soft four
Rolling, kneading, cutting cutter.
“Do it just so.”
“Why don’t my pies taste like yours, Gran?”
“The older you get, the more kinds of love you put in.
I gotta few years on you, dreamy girl.
Older bakers got more kinda love in their pies.”

Brenda Braene’s blog is Poet Meets Muse, and she shares a website, The Three Braenes, with Bridget and Beatrix Braene. The three share a love of Jane Austen’s life and works. Her poems “Harvest I in Two Voices” and “Harvest Moon” were published by Circadian Poems.

Hunter Cole loves the Maine woods. This is his first published poem.

Danielle Frézier is at her best in the moonlight. She does not have a website . . .yet. She was previously published by Circadian Poems on Halloween.

Circadian Poems is off for the holidays. We will return on Monday, November 28 with a featured poem.

In the meantime, the address is up and working again. You may submit poems here.

Have a wonderful week!

A Friend

2005-11-18T05:53:00.000-08:00

A FRIEND
By Rachelle Arlin Credo

Someone who makes you happy when you're blue
And keeps your company wherever you go
Someone who's there when things go wrong
To give you courage and keep you strong

If you are tired, weak and weary
He is a refuge of comfort and sympathy
And if you're weighed down by great despair
He's always there to lend a shoulder

His presence makes everything else easier
His wisdom to help, his laughters to cheer
Indeed he's the one whatever you'd call
A companion, guide and counselor - one and all!

Rachelle Arlin Credo is a poet from the Philippines.
Her poetry has been published in various magazines and
online poetry publications. This is her third poem published by Circadian Poems.

Poetry News

2005-11-17T08:12:00.000-08:00

The Scruffy Dog Review is open to submissions of poetry, short stories, and non-fiction articles. This bi-monthly literary ezine will launch in January, 2006. For more information and guidelines, visit The Scruffy Dog Review.

Reminder: Next Monday, the 21st, will feature a variety of short poems in honor of American Thanksgiving. Circadian will then be off for the holidays until the following Monday.

The email address is back in operation. For correspondence and submissions, email here.

The deadline for short Yuletide poems is November 19 – ten lines or less.

We’re also seeking short New Year’s poems, to celebrate our first publishing date after the holidays in January. Again, ten lines or less. Deadline – Dec. 1.

Deadline for short Valentine’s poems is Jan. 5.

Empty

2005-11-16T06:13:00.000-08:00

Empty
By Colin Galbraith

You were missing from our bed
when I woke up this morning
and you were missing last night
when I fell asleep
I guess that means
our love is broken
or you got sick
during the night
probably of me
or something else
to do with me
Either way
I miss you
like an eagle
needs the sky

Colin Galbraith has seen many poems of his poems published. His first chapbook, Brick by Brick, was published in April 2005 and a second chapbook about the recent Edinburgh Festival is scheduled for publication later this year. He can be contact through his website: http://www.colingalbraith.co.uk or his daily blog: http://freedomfromthemundane.blogspot.com Both his poems and essays have been published by Circadian.

Edwin Morgan

2005-11-15T06:05:00.000-08:00

Edwin Morgan - Scotland's Makar
(b. 1920)
by Colin Galbraith

Edwin George Morgan was born in the West End of Glasgow on 27th April 1920 and has lived there all his life. He attended school locally at Rutherglen Academy on the South Side after moving there with his middle-class parents soon after he was born.

Morgan’s teachers often complained about the amount of work he submitted for marking, such was his keen interest in language at an early age. He proceeded to attend Glasgow High School and then Glasgow University in 1937 to study English Literature with French and Russian.

By his late teens, Morgan was "pretty sure" he was "going to do something with poetry", but his aspirations were halted in 1940 when he left for the Middle East during the Second World War as a member of the Royal Army Medical Corps. He returned in 1946 to complete his studies and graduated the following year with a First Class Honours Degree in English Literature. Shortly after, he was approached by Oxford University but he took up the position of Lecturer in Glasgow University’s English Literature Department.

Morgan’s interests were widely spread and his fascinations with technology, art, and film spurred him to start to travel the world during the 1950’s. He began to translate poetry, producing versions of poems and plays from a large number of languages into the Scottish tongue. He would later go on to translate Rostand's Cyrano de Bergerac and Racine's Phèdre into Scots, both of which would be highly acclaimed.

The early 1950s were "not a very thrilling or throbbing period” according to Morgan. He explained, “It was just at the end of the war and a lot of people were picking up loose ends. I don't think I was terribly aware of what was happening in Scotland.”

Yet Morgan has become perhaps the most important poet ever to come from Scotland, documenting the history, people and politics in a way never before accomplished. And it’s not all serious works either; he has experimented with science fiction poetry and in Sonnets from Scotland, he explores the life, landscapes and potential of the country. Morgan's poetry is inventive and challenging as his acceptance of change. It forces those who read his work to think about the world they live and of Scotland’s place in it. In particular, Glasgow suits him, as it too is a city constantly reinventing itself, yet remaining vibrant.

In Glasgow Sonnets, Morgan describes the changing side of Glasgow in a "warts and all" collection of poems.

A mean wind wanders through the backcourt trash.

Hackles on puddles rise, old mattresses
puff briefly and subside. Play-fortresses

of brick and bric-a-brac spill out some ash.

Four storeys have no windows left to smash.

One of Morgan's poetic identities is as Scotland's, if not Britain's, best comic performer of verse. Poems such as "The Loch Ness Monster's Song", with its remarkable attempt to recreate the voice of Scotland’s most famous mysterious monster, or "The Clone Poem", which is based on the conceit;

“when you've seen one you've seen them all seen them all seen one seen them all all all all”

Morgan’s first book of poetry was published in 1952 and quickly gained international recognition, but it wasn’t until the early 1960s that he became involved with the International Concrete Poetry Movement. He corresponded with Concrete Poets in Brazil and along with Ian Hamilton-Finlay, soon became one of the major exponents of Concrete Poetry ever to hail from the UK.

Morgan once said, "there is a purist side to concrete poetry, which is very different to what I do, and which I like, but I felt I wanted to give it a bit more body." A typical Morgan concrete poem is "The Computer's First Christmas Card", from 1968, which begins:

"j o l l y m e r r y h o l l y b e r r y j o l l y b e r r y"

and ends, after many attempts:

"C h r i s m e r r y a s M E R R Y C H R Y S A N T H E M U M"

Or how about, "Siesta of a Hungarian Snake":

s sz sz SZ sz SZ sz ZS zs Zs zs zs z

In 1973 his collection, From Glasgow to Saturn, further supported the diversity in his subject matter as well as being chosen as the Poetry Book Society Choice for that year. Then in 1975 he became Professor of English before retiring in 1980 aged 60, thus ending his successful career as Professor Emeritus.

He wandered back into education in 1987 when he took the post of Visiting Professor at Strathclyde University for three years and then at the University of Wales until 1995. In 1990 Morgan openly admitted he was gay and became an active supporter of the repeal of Section 28, openly criticising Church and business leaders and publicly endorsing Gay rights campaigns.

Open-minded and humane is how Morgan is most often quoted as being, for there is not one thing he cannot write about and transform into a thing of beauty. Once, when asked to write a poem about something as mundane as a coffee cup, he came up with "Mug Poem":

Sip delicately as a snake in the midday sun,
Slurp hugely as a hippopotamus after a lumbering run.
Snort like a sow at the wallow.
Swallow as sweetly as a swallow.
Drain me deep
let freshness sweep
throughout your veins
to slake you, make you
laugh and leap
to old refrains.

Morgan was announced as Glasgow's first Poet Laureate in October 1999, which lasted until 2002, but it was during that same year he was diagnosed with an incurable disease. The news of this was a huge shock and caused him to think about his own mortality and in turn, reflect this in poetry.

In the last verse of "Epilogue: Seven Decades", he uses a beaded curtain as a strong metaphor for his death:

The beads clash faintly
behind me as I go forward. No candle-light
please, keep that for Europe. Switch the whole thing
right on. When I go in
I want it bright, I want to catch whatever is there
in full sight.

Edwin Morgan is still enjoying his poetry and last year (2004), became Scotland’s first official National Poet or ‘Scot's Makar.’ He wrote a poem for the opening of the Scottish Parliament called "Open The Doors", which was read at the opening ceremony by fellow poet and playwright Liz Lochead, and his newest collection, New Selected Poems, won the Poetry Book Society Choice for the second time.

Long Live the Makar.

Colin Galbraith is Associate Editor of The Scruffy Dog Review and the author of Hunting Jack, a mystery serial published by KeepItComing.net, which won the Editor’s Choice Award in February 2005. Colin has had several short stories and poems published, as well as his first e-book of poetry and photography, Brick by Brick, in April 2005. Colin is currently working on a new novel, several short stories and his second poetry chapbook, Fringe Fantastic: The Poet's Experience of the 2005 Edinburgh Fringe Festival, is scheduled for publication on December 2nd 2005. Colin lives in Edinburgh, Scotland, with his wife and daughter and can be contacted through his website, www.colingalbraith.co.uk, or through his increasingly popular daily writing journal, http://freedomfromthemundane.blogspot.com Both his poetry and his essays have been published by Circadian.

Monday's Poem: "Clarity"

2005-11-14T06:16:00.000-08:00

Clarity
By Michelle Miles

I see you there in my dreams
But you are just a ghost
I’ve lost you to the world above
I think I miss you most
I wake to find myself alone
And somewhere in the darkness
As the ache rises in my breastbone
The scent of you still lingers there
I feel your presence next to me
Warm and heady and musky
In the quagmire of my gloom
I turn to find you are not there
You are but a wraith
A scent
A feeling
A spirit
You are the one I long for in my dreams
Knowing I cannot be with you in this life
I pick up the knife
Carving my anguish and despair
Tracing the blue veins under the skin
Bringing the blood forth
It is my only respite
In a life of loneliness
Shadows overtake my eyes
And I know my time is nigh
I see you standing there
Reaching your hand to me
And I know this is not a dream
I dream no more

Michelle Miles writes in a variety of genres. She recently completed her first erotic novella, the first in the Coffee House Chronicles, which is on submission and is currently working on her second, NICE GIRLS DO. Visit her daily blog, Ye Olde Inkwell, at http://www.michellemiles.net/blog for all the latest news.

Friday's Poem: "White Cap Warriors"

2005-11-11T07:51:00.000-08:00

White Cap Warriors
by Michael Levy

It was a calm morning,
the ocean glistening
with magnificent sparking diamond,
uncountable treasures,
there to be savored, by the ob-servant eye,
Suddenly a blast of cold air sprung up,
armies of white caps began their assault
wave after wave of infantry,
apparently, all with a purpose,
seemingly, on an important mission,
Their supremacy could not be halted,
I tried to fathom their cause
why did they destroy the diamond treasures,
that innocently brought such pleasure,
unceasingly, they formed their groups
advancing, so they thought,
Their journey was not smooth
rather, rough and chaotic
onward, towards the final destination,
a simple shoreline, that just enjoyed
its place in the sun,
finding no objective to their quest, the white caps
vanished into nothingness,
just like belligerent human beings.

Michael Levy is the author four books: What is the Point?, Minds of Blue Souls of Gold, Enjoy Yourself - It's Later Than You Think and Invest with a Genius. His new, book, published on 1st June 05 ,titled: The Joys of Live Alchemy. The words "Live Alchemy" are an anagram of Michael's name. His web site is ranked number one in the world out of 1,800,000 websites when "Inspirational books" are the search words on google.
Web Sites : http://www.pointoflife.com

November 10 Poetry News

2005-11-10T06:07:00.000-08:00

One of our talented poets, Pamela K. Taylor, has tied for first place with her poem “Solidarity”, which will be published in the next issue of Q-News Magazine. Congratulations to Pamela! It’s always great to see wonderful work well-appreciated.

Visit her website: www.pktaylor.com for more information on her work.

On our own front, all poetry slots are now filled through the end of the year. Anything submitted from now forward will be scheduled in 2006 – which isn’t that far away!

The one exception is the Yuletide holiday poems. We still have room for one or two more, ten lines or less. Get them in by November 19, please.

There is still room for a few essays. However, I need to be stricter on the guidelines for essays – please do not just send me a link to an essay. Please submit the actual essay. And please edit it down to 800-1000 words before you submit.

The website transfer should be complete soon, and the Circadian addresses re-set. Keep an eye here and on your e-mail for the update.

Hope you’re having a great November!

Wednesday's Poem: "Reminiscence"

2005-11-09T06:32:00.000-08:00

REMINISCENCE
By Rachelle Arlin Credo

I remember the first time we met
When you gave me an intense look I could never forget
With your eyes glowing with so much passion
I felt being engulfed in a spell of tender affection

I remember the moment when you greeted me with a smile
Right away on the spot I melted after a while
And I saw the tender sparkle in your eyes that captivated me
I felt peculiar, I thought I was in heaven already.

And I remember those romantic walks we used to take
Wherein you held my hands my knees would shake
The way you ran your fingers through my hair
It reminds me of sweet moments we shared together

And I still remember the words you whispered into my ears
That no matter what you'll always love me now and forever
For this, I'll do everything to make you return to me
I'll take you back whatever price I'll pay.

Rachelle Arlin Credo is a poet from the Philippines.
Her poetry has been published in various magazines and
online poetry publications. This is her second appearance in Circadian Poems.

Tuesday's Essay:"Blake's Universe Through a Tyger's Eye"

2005-11-08T05:28:00.000-08:00

Blake’s Universe Through A Tyger’s Eye
By Deborah Adams

The Tyger
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright,
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare sieze the fire?
And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears,
And water'd heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
-Willam Blake

“The Tyger” is probably the most anthologized poem of William Blake (1757-1827). It's from his Songs of Experience (1794), and even though his writing is difficult to explain, it's understandable that as a graphic artist who aspired to convey very complex ideas that he would apply his ideas, and then take the written word to his engravers to get his point across. Most of his colleagues deemed his work a joke, however in spite of how crazy he was his universe remained consistent and complex. When the reader understands this cosmos, his work becomes more readable, even anticipating some modern thinking by a century.

The insistent rhythm almost memorizes itself as Blake makes the composition of verse seem a simple task. While many poets of his day used blank verse or self-contained pentameter couplets to convey ideas he took simple language suggested by his reading of Elizabethan and Restoration authors and modified it to define his complex ideas. He contains them in six four-line stanzas, and used pairs of rhyming couplets to create a sense of rhythm and continuity. The notable exception occurs in lines 3 and 4 and 23 and 24, where "eye" is imperfectly paired, ironically enough, with "symmetry.” The majority of lines in this lyric contain exactly seven syllables, alternating between stressed and unstressed syllables and the pattern has sometimes been identified as trochaic tetrameter.

The clever trick here is that he has taken this musical force of versification with the intention of defying any sense of interpretation. First the reader must be aware of the ideas behind Blake's Songs of Innocence and Songs of Experience:
Good and evil are not opposites but rather different aspects of the nature of God;
Good and evil are different and do matter in the natural (as opposed to spiritual) world, especially in the way that men react with God's creation.

With that discovery one can see that it is the first idea that Blake is expressing in “The Tyger” one of the natural symmetry in life.” The Tyger” is neither good nor evil, just the two ideas put together in a powerful and beautiful image where one spotlights an exposition, that one cannot resonate without the other. One would not see good if it were not for evil and vice versa; the simplicity and symmetry ingenuously echoed by the framing of his written words creates a clear picture of the engraver employing his poetical hand. “The Tyger” has long been recognized as one of Blake's finest poems and more than one scholar has attempted to explain it:

(The Tyger)..."happens to have been quoted often enough ... to have made its strange old Hebrew-like grandeur, its Oriental latitude yet force of eloquence, comparatively familiar"
-Alexander Gilchrist, Life of William Blake (1863)

"’The Tyger’, frequently contrasting it with the language, images, and questions of origin presented by its "innocent" counterpart, ‘The Lamb.’ (It) satirizes the lyrics found in ‘The Lamb’ that is not the poem's primary function. It is the combination of tones of terror with awe for a being that can create the tiger as well as the lamb, the poet ‘celebrates the divinity and beauty of the creation and its transcendence of human good and evil without relinquishing the Keatsian awareness that 'the miseries of the world Are misery.'"
-E. D. Hirsch, Jr, Innocence and Experience: An Introduction to Blake

...the poem demonstrates that "creation in art is for Blake the renewal of visionary truth" ...... that while the tiger may be terrifying, it presents an intensity of vision that should be welcomed with "a gaiety which can find a place in the divine plan for both the tears and spears of the stars, ... and for both the tiger and the lamb."
-Hazard Adams, William Blake: A Reading of the Shorter Poems, (1963).

"While 'The Tyger' can be read in a variety of ways, the juxtaposition of lamb and tiger points not merely to the opposition of innocence and experience, but to the resolution of the paradox they present." As the lamb is subjected to the travails of the world, "innocence is converted to experience. It does not rest there. Energy can be curbed but it cannot be destroyed, and when it reaches the limits of its endurance, it bursts forth in revolutionary wrath."
-Mark Schorer, William Blake: The Politics of Vision.

"As with so many of Blake's lyrics, part of the poem's strategy is to resist attempts to imprint meaning upon it. The Tyger tempts us to a cognitive apprehension but in the end exhausts our efforts." As a result, the critic concludes, "the extreme diversity of opinion among critics of Blake about the meaning of particular poems and passages of poems is perhaps the most eloquent testimony we have to the success of his work."
-Jerome J. McGann, “Essay” (1973).

It doesn't take much for the every day reader to understand this work from a certain point of view. At the its very heart lives the question humans reach for in struggles for enlightenment of God the benevolent creator of nature, Why is there horror, pain, and bloodshed? Blake refuses to answer that question for us. Here in lies his cleverness, by leaving it open it reflects back the all too human experience of not getting a completely satisfactory answer to this essential question of faith. Evil should not happen, and makes no sense, but there you go one would be blind to the goodness if evil was absent, yet when one sees this happen:

the stars throw down their spears
and water heaven with their tears.

Blake understands from his own cosmology that evil becomes sharply outlined and separable when the reader is left to decide whether the Tyger encompasses more.... maybe it is not "evil" for a real tiger to eat a lamb, but is part-and- parcel of the world. It's no wonder that 100 years after his death he is considered among the greatest of English poets.

Sources
Blair, Bob
http://www.geocities.com/%7Ebblair/011128.htm
Accessed Nov 28 2001

Public Domain text taken from The Poet's Corner
http://www.theotherpages.org/poems/blake04.html#tyger
Accessed May 31, 2005

The Wondering Minstrels
http://www.cs.rice.edu/%7Essiyer/minstrels/poems/66.html
Accessed Nov 28 2001

Deborah Adams is an Editor for Everything2 (http://evrything2.com). A
retired teacher from Saint Joseph's Catholic School in Tucson, AZ. She
researches poets and their poetry highlighting the history and era
with a desire to learn what may have inspired the verse. Deborah has a
Bachelor's from Southwestern College, Winfield, KS.

Monday's Poem: "Bleeding"

2005-11-07T08:25:00.000-08:00

Bleeding

By B.K. Birch

I am bleeding
on the inside
where no one can see
my wounds fresh and gaping.

I scream from the pain,
where no one can hear
they can only see
the smile on my face

I writhe in agony
behind closed doors
I pound my fists
I curse and stomp

I live two lives –
the one on the outside
trying to love and be loved
to give what I cannot get.

I long for understanding
but I am considered different
called a freak, wanderer, or trash
no one cares.

I long for isolation
far away from the hate.
There is nowhere to flee
yet I do not belong.

B.K. Birch’s publishing credits include Wildchild Publishing with two Editor's Choice Award wins, Copperfield Review, Penwomanship, Bygone Days, Mid-South Review and Emerging Women Writers. Her poetry has been published extensively in the U.S. and abroad. She writew book reviews for Midwest Book Review and Curledup.com. She is the founding editor and publisher of The Scruffy Dog Review. Her website is http://www.bkbirch.com.