Sunday, June 29, 2008

Sunday is for Poetry: The Ocean, Unrequited, The Power of Ism, A Drop of Water


Waves slam the beach
forging, rearranging the shoreline.

They recede, I feel their pull
from New Jersey to Greece.


Through his songs
My love for him grew;
His presence only on vinyl.

Closest I came
One section away,
Our glances locked;
Never before did I feel eternity.


Human -- Humanism
Exist -- Existentialism
Fundamental -- Fundamentalism
Aesthetic -- Aestheticism
Plagiary -- Plagiarism
Erotic -- Eroticism
Nude -- Nudism
Hipster -- Hipsterism
Active -- Activism
Passive -- Pacifism
Militant -- Militantism
Racist -- Racism
Pragmatic -- Pragmaticism
Capital -- Capitalism
Global -- Globalism
Narcissist -- Narcissism
Yogi -- Yogism
Petra -- Petraism
Conservative -- Conservatism
Liberal -- Liberalism
Cynical -- Cynicism
Terror -- Terrorism
Absurd -- Absurdism
Altruistic -- Altruism
Humanitarian -- Humanitarianism

Thanking for remembering
George Carlin's Frisbeetarianism-The belief that when you
die, your soul goes up on the roof and gets stuck.


Can you see?
No beginning;
No end;
And everything between.

**written by petra michelle*

Saturday, June 14, 2008

POETRY IS FOR SUNDAY: Hope, Weekend Comes, Wise Owl Type, Just Out of Prison


Cruel is pain.
Is it ever kind?
Nor wanes
whilst fuels the mind.

Full of anger, remiss.
Remind the harbored fury,

Show no mercy
for the slack,
for the controversy.

Love's rays, held in abeyance,
bedecked in tears,
eventually penetrate,
displace fears.

So hark, take heart.
Capture love's rays.
There's hope.


Sweet are the sheets
My lover and I share
With no cares,
But the melting moments
of dissolution.
Gasps of joy, Ka-chapati,
Dithers and strums.
Weekend comes.


The wise owl type
Sat at her typewriter
Sat at her typewriter all day.

All day, all day,
She sat at her typewriter
Wondering what to say.

What to write
What to write
Whatever shall I write?

She thought and thought
All day she thought
And to her fright, all night.

That night she typed.
All night she typed.
Til she could type no more.

No more, no more
She could type no more.
Then came to an abrupt halt.

Suddenly, it came to her what to say
Typing her wisdom away.


On my way home one night
I heard a weak sigh,
Coming from a young man
On the street's side.

Emaciated and frail
He whispered,
Your kind face...
He appeared to faint,
Staring at nowhere.

Just out of prison.
Really, for some small reason.
Got no friends, got no home.
I feel so alone.
Living, in a living hell.

I studied his contortions,
There were no distortions.
I helped him up,
His dead weight prominent.

How we got to my place
was truly a miracle.
I got him undressed,
Helped him to bed,
A weak smile, he managed.

Between coughs and trembles
he forced his story.
In prison for some small reason.
Got no friends, got no home.
Dying, in a living hell.

Not another hour passed,
He fell asleep.
Near his side, I kept watch.
He stopped breathing.
His eyes remained closed.

Just out of prison,
For some small reason.
Had no friends, had no home.
Dead, no longer in a living hell.

**Written by petra michelle*

Friday, June 13, 2008

Ode to Sweetkins

Where are you? Then, where else would you be? In twelve years, you never strayed. On the bed, curled, you seem in peace. "No, Sweetkins, not yet," I begged. "We only have ten minutes together." Your eyes are open, watching me. I heave a sigh of relief as your chest barely rises and falls. Placing you on my lap, I gently stroke your sable fur.

Sweetkins. How the name suited you, my surrogate child. You were just a few months old, trembling with fear in your new home; away from your mother and siblings. Then came my car accident. Every day and every night, I held you tightly for warmth and comfort. You stopped trembling, knowing you needed the same; blunting and softening my excrutiating pain.

Now, it was your turn. Not once did you complain, the Veterinarian said. What you've been through these last six months. Yes, June; the growth on your neck was discovered. I was
reassured you weren't in pain. I searched your eyes that you might tell me that it was so. You weren't losing weight, your appetite remained the same, and you played, as you had for twelve years, preferring the run under cascading bedsheets--blissfully scampering, clawing, clasping, biting the billow.

How wonderfully simple and carefree your life had been my cool, Bohemian cat. In Spring,
birds' chirps were opera and when they took flight, it was ballet. In Summer, flowers' petals
allured you and Fall's leaves you'd friskily rearrange. But snowflakes were your favorite. You watched them in awe, appreciating the crisp miracles collecting on your fur. Day after day, year after year, the routine never changed. Was heaven yours already?

Your home was in my arms, holding you. But when I remarried, you were nowhere to be found for several days. You sensed something, didn't you? My husband's declaration that if you ruined the furniture, you were out. It was a declaration I couldn't tolerate. Our marriage would end soon. Not because the couch was untouched, nor because of my husband's shameful, relentless hissing at you; not even when my mother-in-law stepped on your tail while she thought no one was watching. But that when they expressed their unkindnesses to you, they did to me as well.

It wasn't your fault we divorced, Sweetkins. And in my arms, you're with me still.

**Written by petra michelle**

Sunday, June 8, 2008

SUNDAY IS FOR POETRY: Red Carpet, I Believed You, A Mystery, Dim the Light


Celebrate her pasts, todays, tomorrows.
Arm and arm, singing...
Of the woman as she was, is, and
will be.


Jealousy, you wily stalker,
Disappearing, reappearing,
Imposing yourself upon my soul.

Uninvited, unwanted,
You preyed upon my averse desire,
My perverse appetite,
For your cunning bounty.

You spoke of truths that were untrue.
I believed you, your quarry.
I'm sorry, darling.


Tis elementary.
A mystery envelops a sensory liason
of emotion and reason.

Clues abound, rally round,
Two lovers found guilty
of passional frenzy.


Don't expose the pain.
Broken dreams take flight
in search of new domain.

Through settling smoke,
shadows loom.
Dancing, gloating,
mocking our doom.

Passionate, golden rings
snuffed by scarred, frightened fingers,
Promised a lifetime of desire
to two wanton strangers.

**Written by petra michelle**

Saturday, June 7, 2008

It's Drawing Day!

Find out all about it at

Have a wonderful day fellow artists!
My 80's-inspired charcoals are on the walls of my living room. Water colors and oils, that have not been touched beyond these hands of younger days, are faded or gone with the wind.
You're absolutely right. Drawing is as natural as breathing. Are there better breathers than others? Well, perhaps so or not, but I surely am not in the same class as millions of others devoted to their craft. And what a wonderful sight; to behold beautiful creations all over the world and net.
How inspiring to have a platform created for such an event! Burn your lead, and enjoy the muse! Petra