Mississippi River Nightmare…

Uncovered and wrinkled is my sack, a gigantic hump on my

Back. Frost clutches to these old rags, my body is covered

With burlap bags.

My flesh like ashes my face tinged with blue, my chest

Rattles, my lungs sucking in the morning dew. I have

Traveled on the railroad back and forth, does not matter

Where, south or north.

I sometimes walk city streets when they are dark and dead,

The side of a railroad is where I make my bed. I eat my

Food from old tin cans, I will steal candy from little hands.

I scream for the warmth I see coming from the riverbank,

A bright fire, from this cold I do tire. I think that I am

Burning, I smell smoldering hair, my arms are thrashing in the


I see evil darkness, what is this madness, I feel spiritually ill,

Then, I gasp in horror when I realize that I am dead. Here on

This cold and damp riverbank someone has severed my head.



Jagged Words of Hate…

Words of hate destroy the

souls of those who speak them,


Do they really help bring final

separation, severance from life,

from truth, has but One reality,

one certainty…


On the dreamscapes of time,

chosen paths encounter many

illusions; look intently into the

pitch-black pool of life.

Try to see beyond that which is

touchable, is disillusion the fear.

Jagged words of hate are born

in the beastly nightmares of life.

They are broken remnants of our

inter-selves and the mind will deny

the images of what it will see or hear.

Those words of hate have reached

their destination and have destroyed

the soul intended now in isolation,

so let this be hates final separation.



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-Lost Minds.Stolen Lives-~by Angela Angela Angela


Ron DuBour’s “Our Poetry Corner”…
Thank you Ron for the support you give to all of us. ajm

Originally posted on OUR POETRY CORNER:

-Lost Minds.Stolen Lives-

Living a life inside a steel bottle cage
With no life,darkness and a bloody sage
Fighting for real,a new turning page
Lost in nowhere without sanity on stage

In war with the unknown inside
Losing hope to see a radiant flare of light
A defective defense of a depleted soul
Lost all control with no way to crawl

Chocked with poison filled air and a slashing sight
Illusions of a world where you can’t fight
A poking sense of a blunted thought at night
Slowly taking innocense and replacing with freight

Killed reality without any consent
A murder done,every inch deeply felt
No offense for the defenseless brutal set
No recovery,bended,lost for real to forget.


View original

Imminent Thoughts…

Drinking from a vial of dark sadness, cannot forget,

will not forget; mind reeling, mouth twisted, choking;

this pain is not terminal it is permanent.

Pain, an accumulation from the past that lingers in

memory, drifting in dreams, floundering on invisible

winds of winter; searching through the impenetrable

haze called tomorrow.

A frosted pane, bare branches waving does not clear

the cobwebbed corners of a grieving mind.

A fractured mirror imaging the soul dances among the

sunlight, a pit of Hell or tower to the Heavens fear is no

longer the builder of an unfinished life.









The Smile of Death

Cemeteries are not lonely, only graves filled with people who are silent, they cannot make you sad. In the darkness they hide; those two-faced people that in life others could not abide.

Many descending hearts that lay beneath, hearts ripped from the living soul. Standing over the graves you will find hypocrites shedding false tears, pretending to love or care all those years.

The innocent do not want to lie in coffins under the ground, surrounded by clay mounds of the dead; they prefer ashes scattered in a wildflower bed. The steps of death can never be heard, like a tongue-less person there are no words.

Motionless, the abused, the portrayed, wait for death and with a smile.


The Storm Pit… (An excerpt from a story in progress)

The Storm Pit…

Daddy dug a big hole in the side of the hill that edged the land near our tiny clapboard house.  With shovel and pick in those big calloused hands he worked all day at the crimson clay dirt, I played while he labored making me a safe place to hide from the evil of the tornado’s that claimed domination over our valley. I ask why he was working so hard, I wanted to go fishing. “The Spring House is not safe”! He kept digging. The day over, the promised fishing trip complete and months passed when daddy looked at the sky and told me to get a jar of water and come with him to the storm pit. I entered the dark hole in the hill, daddy lit a lamp.   Roots ripe as old bait dangled from the ceiling covered by old mildewed crates. Their wicked necks looked like snakes. It stank, leaf mold and slippery planks. Even the dirt kept breathing small claustrophobic breaths.  I never entered the “pit” again, I would take my chances with a tornado!