Tag Archive | "Poetry"




From Cassidy Porter…

Water bleeds from the bloated clouds,

Thunder rolls and lighting sounds,

I take it all in with wide eyes,

As the storm rages and my innocence die,

I cannot be heard on top of the merciless roar,

I am shivering as the storm rocks my core,

I’m shaken,


As I finally see,

The ugliest storm that lies in front of me,

Cruel and ugly and rotten as the devil’s breath,

Wondering if there is any sun left,

I scream and cry foul,

But my voice is drowned out by the storm’s ugly howl,

I struggle and fight what I already lost,

My delicate innocence shattered by frost,

I am hurdled and pummeled like a small feather,

That is no match for this dreadful weather,

From that feather I must sprout more,



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From Special Guest Iman Hassad…

Throughout my lifetime, I have learned to seek wisdom in what apparently seemed insane, to seek it in the uttered words of the illiterate and in the spontaneous actions of a little child. I have never depreciated the tiny rays of light in hostility. I have always believed in the human heart and opposed so many beliefs people follow as a standard criteria with which humanity is usually measured.

Life has taught me lessons to appreciate…I have learned that a human is not a stable unchangeable being and accepted this fact as a divine one completing a very huge picture of a colorful humanity.

Careless to what you might say about me and to how you might interpret every single word I write, I’ll keep sharing my thoughts with you in the hope that I might somehow touch your heart in a way that might save your life. I do not care about the fact that we have never met and never give any importance to our difference in religion or culture, knowing that when I was born nobody asked me to choose my nationality or religion, the two things were prepared for me and you to follow…

I do not care who you are, where you come from or how you see me…I will keep sharing my heart and mind with you and will ask almighty God to give me life as long as he still sees a good reason for me to be here.

I once needed to be heard and understood and God embraced my weakness and helped me grow and planted a brave heart in me to walk on the journey with faith and confidence.

Rise like the Phoenix and believe in yourself. You are the main source of support. You are your own healer and it all starts and ends in your mind.

Be present and open your eyes to the beauty of life….You have been blinded by encounters you failed to minimize their importance in your mind. Let your self respect and strong will be your GUIDANCE after GOD…..

Parents, brothers, sisters, your kids and all of your friends are not always there for you, provided that you have them….Your real intimate friend is the wise enlightened YOU.

Read my words over and over again and look at yourself. Dive in the depth of your heart. The answers of all questions you’ve been asking for so long are there for you, awaiting your acknowledgment….
Go for a walk in the nature and take a deep breath and say:

“Dear God, I am grateful for all the blessings you have given me in my life…I am grateful for what you have not given me too…I love and trust you and out of my deep love and trust, I surrender with full acceptance.”

With love I write…

For love I live…

A life with a meaning….

Faithfully yours
You can find Iman on Facebook


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Twas’ The Night Before Christmas…


Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St Nicholas soon would be there
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads.
And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tinny reindeer.

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!

“Now Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! On, Cupid! on, on Donner and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!”

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of Toys, and St Nicholas too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.
A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler, just opening his pack.

His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow.

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly!

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself!
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk.
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose!

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!”

-Clement Clarke Moore (1779 – 1863) wrote the poem Twas the night before Christmas in 1822.


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Designed Fearless


From Special Guest Iman Assad…

I can see life smiling at me and hear its words of love. I am fully present with my body and soul, totally committed to my dreams, not losing a single precious moment, living every instant with dedication and clarity of mind….

I have no doubts, I trust life and know well that whatever I might encounter or have already encountered so far, were divine gifts sent to me by the heavens and for that I am grateful.

All the pain and tears, all that tiny bits of happiness are equally cherished in my heart; for how could I be what I am today without those parts that have made my life and made me ?!

I am a divine soul, living in the heart of God, protected by him, inspired by the truth of our being.

I move in light

I move in love

I move in gratitude

Opening my heart and mind to all possibilities, firmly believing that I am making my destiny with my own will.

You can find Iman on Facebook


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Lone Tree


From Special Guest S Lynne Horton…

Alone in a vast field, forgotten by the forest,

Inhibited by the bursts of a violent wind,

Stands a weather beaten and scarcely foilaged tree.

Lacking grandeur befitting the majestic woods,

Banished to wither in this forlorn field alone.

Torrential rains did come and attempt to wash the tender sapling away.

Fiercest winds sought to strip it of its delicate adornments.

Tender and vulnerable a young sapling was adrift in the floods,

Roots sprang forth, tendrils seeking depth in the loose soil carrying it away.

What seemed only a field of weeds,

Offered an embrace in their tangled existence.

That young sapling accepted what was offered in grace,

Caught it became in a field to remain lost and forgotten but growing beneath the surface

Hidden away in the shadows of the swaying wild growth that knew no defeat.

A lone tree sought out light through the untamed hazy cover.

Defying the odds, though misshapen by vicious elements,

It grew and though small and lacking vibrance, it stands alone.

Its roots though hidden beneath the tangled web of unsightly weeds,

Grow deep, holding on tightly to what little it was given,

Accepting grace though found in the dark,

Though not found majestic and stately of beauty,

Testament it gives to more valorous plight,

It is not lost among a luscious forest,

Its beauty is that noticed it has become because it stands alone.


S. Lynne Horton is a thoughtful poet, writer and artist and author of the novel the Emerald Curse. She can found on her blog or via Facebook.


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Blind Passage of the Midnight Sun


j0444180Creeping dismay turns into passion,

power and obsession.

What I need is what I need.

And the passage of the midnight sun

reveals the true essence of being.

And the light shines on forever,

trailing like after-thoughts of today.

And the moment shines on,

like a diamond in the sky,

tracing the spaces of time,

harrowing the thoughts of none.


And I speak only from truth.

Oh boy, do I try.

And soon the fiber will pass through me,

becoming one with me.

And by the passage of the midnight sun

creeps slowly faster, every new day.

The journey never ends and has only just begun.

I sail on the rays of fire, shot down from mars.

And the passage of the midnight sun soothes me,

once again.


Forever and forever and forever – this is my mantra.

Forever in this life and forever in the next,

I will learn because I can and because I will.

Seething the guttural responses and reactions without any thought,

only action and my objection will follow me like a dog.

And by the blind passage of the midnight sun

I am blinded only when I look away.

To see the truth, to inhabit the reality,

imaginary as real, and all I want to do is play tag once more.

And the field is full as usual, yet no one really wants to play.

Yet here I am, cut like a knife, ready to make my stand,

knee deep in the most dangerous place in the world.


By the blind passage of the midnight sun,

I look on in revelation, my true moment has yet to come.

And the moment is building, waiting for me to grab hold,

as it is already there, waiting like the moon of the shadow,

translucent and all bearing,

For all too see, for all to witness,

in this glorious moment and the next.


From Carl Michael Hohol Jr…


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Confession Box


Submitted via email two weeks ago by a mystery guest, I asked the writer for a name, a brief bio, or anything else I could use as a background for RELATIVTY OnLine readers , but he or she declined.  Only the name Jyotishman sits at the bottom. I received several poems this past month, but the visual images of this one stayed with me.. as I’m sure they will with you.

He grows older
Just to become a snail
And inhales the frozen vapors’
Of hundred years
He sells his head
In an “x” mart
And searches absinthe
Like a poor Camus

With all the discounts he could afford
Buys a ticket to Auschwitz
To meet Jesus on a Ghetto
The same Jesus whom he met
On an empty confession box
Some years ago…

Even Jesus sells his nails
Of his head
Of hands
And of the soul


He grows older
Just to become a snail
And when he tries to
Break the shell
The restless wind whispers
“now you can walk
On the edge of a blade
Isn’t it blissful?”

In the streets of Bohemia
Snow covers them all
The dust the blood
And tears..
With a pale woman’s grief
The city cries
And he tries to find the rules
Of the game

Some tried before
with a sinking ship
to cross
the river
“what is not reality”

But when the survival rate comes down to zero
He remembers
Sylvia did the right thing
She put her head on an oven
For freedom, not for
A damn discount
Of heaven.



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Absolutely Aphorisms


The word aphorism denotes an original thought, either spoken or written, presented in a concise and easily remembered form. From Hippocrates to Blaise Pascal, they have been a part of humanity’s literary arsenal for thousands of years. The often profound Marty Rubin lends his work to RELATIVTY Online this month and we are grateful to have him. Pour yourself a cup of coffee, sit back and enjoy these original little snippets of semantic jewels.

How many truths are really true?

When I told the rainbow what its colors meant, it laughed.

If you’re in the fault-finding business, you’ll find me full of faults.

Dreams must be ground into bread and the bread eaten.

I’m the man to call when you need absolutely nothing.

Spend yourself; there’s plenty more.

If it rains tonight, rain will be the cause.

Happiness exists, but not the conditions of happiness.

There is a truth for each occasion, but not for all occasions.

Opinion: a sign of ignorance.

Things put in the wrong place have found a new place.

Lead me not into the corporate world but deliver me from evil.

The wisdom of old age: hardening of the arteries.

Every line is the perfect length if you don’t measure it.

Suppose nothing is wrong. What do you do, then?

Some lives, like some remarks, only make sense out of context.

Words make known. But we live in the unknown.

Tell the truth. It’s more disturbing than telling lies.

Rain is the picnic when it rains.

Press your lips to the fountain and drink life in.

Death is. That’s its only excuse.

Priceless things are things you put no price on.

Real dishes break. That’s how you know they’re real.

He’s the happiest who’s happy with nothing.

Does it really matter who the fastest runner is?

New ideas are nothing new.

New ideas wind up on the same trash heap as the old ones.

The riddle we’ll never solve is how to get along.

Blessed are they who expect nothing, for they’ll be pleasantly surprised.

If you paint a black picture, the picture will be black.

God may be an atheist for all we know.

Humanity will never solve its problems as long as there are people around.

It is incredible the number of things I find not to take seriously.

Lovers of beauty can’t be too discriminating.

If you’re glad to be alive, the rest doesn’t matter.

Cheer up. You don’t have to do anything.

If you need a second to think, it’s too late.

Miracles happen so often they become commonplace.

Bullets that miss the mark travel just as fast.

It’s easier to draw a straight line than to straighten a crooked one.

All rabbits are not the same rabbit. Just as all Roberts are not the same Robert.

What costs me time costs me nothing.

A few names have survived oblivion. In time oblivion will have them all.

Art: a conversation through a locked door.

Boredom is the price one pays for not enjoying everything.

From Marty Rubin. . .

Check out more of Rubin’s work here


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Essence of Life


poetry From Tarek Ibrahim…

Between true love and hate

Tender choice and ugly fate

In the rebirth of dusk

Rings the scent of musk


The birds may never wait

For hearts that always hesitate

Little boys burst into cries

Waiting for time to go by


But as days ahead unfold

Persuading us to grow old

We stand furled with regret

Life hurled us into an aging nest


Amid a blue bright sky

Where elusive hearts lie

Distant, far, and cold

Losing sense of a word


Feelings; they were so pure

Emotions; they used to cure

But on one late afternoon

A sun disappeared so soon


In one tear or maybe two

Immersed in an image of you

A message uttered so clear

That we shall no longer hear


A subtle melody so keen

Softened a heart in between

Tears dropped even more

As knocks quaked a wooden door


It echoed alone with no reply

It echoed waiting for an immortal sigh

So slight to wake her sleep

So vast it wounded deep


As a head is laid to rest

Reciting what it knew best:


“Happiness was a serene bliss

Sealed with a gentle kiss

They said troubles were close

Crawled to steal our lonely rose

If only we tried to heal the pain

Alas! We cried loud again

Chaos was around us as we queue

Thoughts got shattered as we knew

That a simple dream is like tender dew

So beautiful, so gentle, so true

But it vanishes just as our spirits do”


“Euphoria in life should never be taken for granted. Time steals an innocent laugh so prematurely”


Born and raised in Kuwait, Tarek Ibrahm is of a Palestinian descent but like many Palestinians, has never seen his homeland. After the Iraqi Invasion of Kuwait in 1990, he fled the war with his parents and immigrated to Canada while still a teen. While he’s not writing poetry, Ibrahim works as an international educator and mathematician.



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