When Tall Shadows Fall

A Tonepoem
by Jerry Vilhotti

Almost all the Greek gods thought that Elysium was not
located in the Underworld but on Gaea's earth in such playing pastures
called " Youse Bums", "Aolean Winds" , "Where Polo Horses Frolic",
"Ruth's House" and "The Green Monster" where Zeus found his beloved Bambino
only to have him sold away for a Broadway play entitled "Moodanda
Nanette" that so angered the great god, beaner of his father Kronus, that he
put a curse on the Beantowners not allowing them to win another World
Serious in many years in this thing stolen from mortals who once dyed
their bodies blue.

"So tell me Prometheus, liver-pecked one, this writer, who is
depicting us watching this thing below our feet and for the first time is
going for the Bloodsox, what does he mean when he says: 'Most everyone
will accept a lie as a truth if given half-truths so fooling all the
people all the time if done a bit at a time'?"

"Depends, Your Penetrater One, on how you define dumb? Einstein
said: 'two things are infinite the universe and humanity's stupidity and
I'm not sure about the universe'. If one calls great crimes against
humanity and says it's good and has countless ways to justify it - will
not that lie become truth? For instance, if one steals land from a
people and calls them just stupid heathen scalpers and leaves out the fact
he taught them to scalp and to boot gave them small-pox laden blankets
as gifts for them to die in and then begins the process of ridiculing
them in cartoon fashion and then makes them menacing creatures at the
ready to rape all his roving-eyed women and then lastly renders them as a
totally disgusting thing - he has successfully dismissed them from the
human race! Look at that one head cave dweller having his third limb
carrier who is supposed to be the best limbswinger in the club-mortal
lineup has him bunt instead of going for a big scoring round!"

While the god who gave humanity fire was speaking two other gods
betting against each other almost drove a pitcher insane after he
fashioned a sack on whack and after awhile found himself on third sack -
unaccustomed to such unknown territory - was attacked in each ear with one
god telling him to go when the earthchewer was sculpted as the other
god was shouting that he should stay put and hug the rye sack; so
confused the mound mortal was that he kept going back and forth until
mercifully a pellet-holder tagged him for a getout which prevented a possible
avalanche of pentagon dents to happen; beginning the end of the bird's
comeback flight.

It was then - since Zeus acquiesced and allowed the incident to
happen - all the Greek gods watching from their mountain perch knew that
the hex "Babe's Curse" the omnipotent one had placed on the Beantowners
was finally done away with and the green monster mortals would win a
World Serious that was alluding them since Zeus's great Babe had been
with them many many years before. Now the poor fanatics who loved pain
could sigh a sigh of relief. Their tall shadows had fallen.

END

Eagle

I saw an Eagle
this morning, driving
on my way to work.

It's silhouette

Perched
on a streetlamp

it spread its

wings emblazoned
on the light
of the morning sun.

Then

it


flew



away.

Somebody's Divine Lifetime

by Michael Levy

Tranquil inspirations of creation
award a serene dawn,
in order that mortal reservations can
rent, unstoppable time and earth bounded space.

Each splendorous year is akin
to one divine sentence,
from the blessed first page,
in the sacred transient book of existence.

One astonishing life equals one miraculous page,
as each incredible leaf turns,
one fantastic light dims,
another spectacular light rekindles in fresh garb.

Life; tis but a brief spark of excellence,
an exquisite luminosity,
filled with exciting adventures,
mysterious myths,
n delicious creativity.

Surrounded by velvet darkness,
enveloped in incredible curiosity,
not a flicker must blow in provocative annoyance,
or preposterous bedevilment of insane dogma,

Grace's phenomenal coloring,
joy's pleasurable gloss,
love's heavenly fragrance,
all, fuel the radiance of someone's gratifying existence.

One page that signifies somebody's divine lifetime,
beautifully embossed and engraved,
in awesome, wondrous bliss,
This is your page of
life.

http://www.pointoflife.com
*******************
Bio sketch MICHAEL LEVY.
Michael levy was born in Manchester, England on the 6th March 1945.
After many life experiences and a successful business career he retired to Florida in 1992.

In 1998 Michael established Point of Life, Inc., as a vehicle to project his philosophy and spiritual understanding. The website www.pointoflife.com and the associated newsletter (Point Of Life Global Newsletter) are visited and read by thousands of people around the world every month.

Michael is a frequent speaker on radio, television and at seminars where he shares and discusses his views about the purpose of life, finding peace and enjoyment and leading a healthy, stress-free life.

In just a few years he has become a world renowned poet.

In 2002 Michael was invited to become a member of the prestigious Templeton Speaker's Bureau.


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 poetry and essays now grace many web sites, Journals and Magazines throughout the world. His philosophies have become a major source of Truth, Wisdom and Love for many people


Web Sites : http://www.pointoflife.com
E-mail: mikmikl@aol.com

A poem of optimism

Not Meant to Be

Without you life is like dream,
waking up and realizing things may not be what they seem.
This feeling I have is great remorse,
for I know our hearts travel there separate course.
There’s no way to depict what you do,
to make my passion flourish over you.
Gazing deep, searching in your eyes,
for I find my heart's great demise.
Though few words have been shared,
the elegance of one word was plentiful beyond compared.
Thoughts of integrity come from within me,
but shan't be returned this love was not meant to be.

written by:josh

Poems by Eric Marks

Because

Reckless as a yearling raven courting,
I salute you with spontaneous gifts:
blood oranges, wine and chocolate,
Italian soup and Scottish wool,
a wooden clock shaped like a whale.
Asked why, I¹ll only shrug: Because.
Because today the sky was tarnished blue,
a copper lid the ocean simmered under.
Because I am myself and not another,
and you are yourself, and not another,
and we share these surroundings for a while:
A miracle, unappreciated
because at first it seems so commonplace.
Because pleasure is sharp, sweet and fleeting
as champagne, chocolate or oranges.
Because pain is swift and careless as a razor.
Because the wood I carved into a clock
is flesh, and so am I, and so are you.

Medusa

When you greeted us that Hallowe¹en
in your Maxfield Parrish toga,
coiffed hair and tiara of snakes
your guests laughed and doubted whether
a gorgon could have looked so fine.
Perhaps they did not realize
Medusa was a comely maiden
who had the power to transfix men
before Athena cursed her.
But you knew. And I recalled, once,
seeing you in the supermarket
at a distance, your back turned.
I didn¹t recognize you at first,
saw only a woman so bewitching
I held my breath as you moved.
Remembering this, I think of Medusa,
her tiny feet and shapely calves
snug in the thongs of her sandals,
her sculpted arms and bare shoulders
like the finest blue-veined marble,
and how her hair seemed to move
with life of its own. How difficult
it must have been for Perseus
to look away as he approached.
How quickly his heart beat. How keenly
he anticipated her beauty;
how fearsome was his desire.

Love and potatoes

Love and potatoes
sprout from the eye
and root in the dark:

You can force one,
but not the other.

Pommes d¹amour

i. Brunswickers

My great-grandmother¹s dowry
was a basketful of apples
and an orchard beside the forest.
These were God¹s people, plain folk
with hands shaped by axe handles.
They held cards and fiddle music
to be the Devil¹s instruments
but played both, and knew by heart
the Song of Songs. Their love was sharp,
sweet, frothing and quenching
like cider still warm from the mill.
They are gone half a century;
the grove remains, rank and fertile.
In this no man¹s land I stalk grouse,
study deer, try to woo women
with gifts of tart fruit. If I fail,
I am comforted with apples.

ii. He offers his love an apple

Here these are Brunswickers. Try one.
They¹re as wholesome as peaches and cream,
as bracing as whiskey and marmalade.
Who needs ripe figs or omelettes of quail¹s eggs?
I wouldn¹t share these with just anyone,
only a friend but, if, at first bite,
you feel a bit like Snow White,
I suppose that is only natural.
I¹m no Paris, nor you Aphrodite;
though for this long autumn night, we could be.

Halifax, 1917

by ERIC MARKS

Halifax, 1917

The old man never mentioned it
without shaking his head
in disbelief or sorrow:
Halifax, 1917,
the city levelled in an instant
by a blast unequalled
until Hiroshima.
He was 16 and a half years old,
a cadet still in training
to a crew of fishermen.
He never spoke of the rescue,
the days he dug for corpses,
the nights of guard duty,
the choking smoke,
the looting or the silence.
He had a panoramic photograph
that said most of this for him,
but until the Alzheimer¹s
stole his sense away
he would tell anyone who asked
how the shockwave struck their boat
like the left hand of God,
or how the mushroom cloud
devoured the horizon
and the stolid old bosun
sank to his knees
and wailed like a child.