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Send poetry for consideration to-palmspringspoetryletter@yahoo.com

The Palm Springs Poetry letter was complimented by the Managing Editor of Sacramento’s Literary Calendar and Review, Poetry Now.

Actor/Spider
by Stephanie Lynn Hilpert
USA

The actors spin their web like a spider- big webs
of their soul sparkle in the moonlight.

They get so angry, because we watch their life
like it’s the discovery channel.

Everyone is so intrigued about how the actor/spider
spins webs across the doorway of life.

Webs across the walkway.
Webs that leave no room to walk around.
Webs that we have no choice but to walk through.

Then we pull at the web that has clung to our face.
We pull pieces off and throw it on the ground,
but it sticks to our fingers and the next day
the web is rebuilt. The spider is clinging to the center
with lifeless bugs all around it.

© 2009 by Stephanie Lynn Hilpert
all rights reserved

The following poems are dedicated to Muhammad, but my heart I take back because he took his heart away in my time of need!

Eagle & Goddess
To Muhammad
by Stephanie Lynn Hilpert
USA

I can sit on the tip of your poetic wings
and fly. I am every word now. I am you
longing and we are one eagle soaring through
the clouds.

No one can stop the tip of your wings-
with me as the goddess riding. Dip your wing
into the heat of the sun. It will only tickle
the Goddess.

As I ride and laugh-The sun and moon
are my friends. The eagle owns the sky
that gifts him with the poetry he writes.
The goddess, she adores him.

© 2009 by Stephanie Lynn Hilpert
all rights reserved.

Wish
Dedicated to Muhammad A. Al Mahdi
by Stephanie Lynn Hilpert
USA

Your poetry first grew around my heart like a vine

and I watered it daily. I read the first piece so many years ago

and never thought I would be your friend. You live so far

that I never thought I would take your poetic vine,

lift it to God and wish for a Red Rose.

© 2009 by Stephanie Lynn Hilpert
all rights reserved.

Agape Mou
by Muhammad A. Al Mahdi
Cyprus

In the days I was a sailor
A pair of eyes by the shore
Held out to me their veil
And I asked the pearls of their pupils
I, who came from the island of pearls,
Who hides in your essence?

Break this flower, said the moon
And be free of all doubts
And when my lips dwelled on her secret
It was my heart that bled
This thorn I felt within my soul
Made innocence a dream of yore
And yet craved innocence

You led my hand and sang of guilt
While your flesh craved my sword
Fell me and fall and be condemned
And be my sacrifice
My will
And my last word
Your hair a dark silky net
And blooming velvet your breath
You sailed the ocean of my eyes
Like a fiery bird on the horizon
Your mast pierced
Coastal land
And in me you endured

I tumbled into you and bled
And was caught in my depth
“Who are you, heart?”, my heaven sighed
And her flame, like a breeze in the sea ports
Like a scarlet red rose in lithe wistful black hair
Replied: Call me Agape

The Pig Flu and Epilogue
by Muhammad A. Al Mahdi
Cyprus

Let’s revel in this bank holiday
It is the last
Before the pandemic
For the return
To the dark ages
To be sound and complete
We want for nothing
Save the plague
And lo,
Here it is
Silent death’s come upon us!
Burn the heretics!
But save the cats!
(Wherever you are,
The BBC’s with you)

Epilogue:

I, Muhammad Mahdi, am of the Golden Age
I’m from the age of knowledge
And the age of errors
In the days of my childhood
Man was so great he could see
His own aspect
Which tempted us, like children
To run away in fright
Out of the light

And we said: We are not what we are
And indeed,
We are not
But we saw in our fathers
Those who bore their own witness
And where descended from children like us
These heavens, my friend
Have witnessed the birth of the oceans
And know that darkness lasts only
One day

We, giants once, now children, know
That sickness comes as medicine
As healing and ailing are one
Each being the summary of each,
Each life
Is the summary of all life
And each life
And this darkness we know, then
For our eye dazzled
By light
Which cannot
But be light

During the earthquakes to come
I shall not, so I hope
Let my cigar be put out by the bitterness of its smoke
I, Muhammad Mahdi
Of the Golden Age
In darkness
In light
And in memory
And time
Of lives immemorial
One life

‘Ala’l Houb
(On Love)
by Muhammad A. Al Mahdi
Cyprus

Love, thou hast lost
Thine eyes
Where, love,
Eyeless,
Doest thou abide
And seest not
Thy meaning?
Thou art blind,
Heart
Vision,
Thou art false
Deceitful, yet
Deceived yourself
Art murderer and murdered
And he that speaketh of wisdom,
Let him be silent,
For it is lies
He that teaches to bear
That
Which cannot be borne,
I count him not
For wise

(And him where ‘ e dey for house
‘e go think too much
Without chop
Na brain dies)

love, i think
is always true
and if it kills you, it’s worth it
love, says I
is eyes full of madness
black fires in the night
the two of them
true
and mortal
and ready for every crime
o scent of roses
in cypriot air
i crave you
in my rhyme

© 2009 by Muhammad A. Al Mahdi
all rights reserved.

“No Title” was Published in Pyramid Arts & Literature Magazine and the book Daughter of a Rogue & Poems of the Dung Beetle Girl.

No Title
by Stephanie Lynn Hilpert
USA

How delicate the heart
when she opens herself
like a spring flower
to the season,
but how painful
when even the season
she trusted turns
to summer and burns.

© 2007 by Stephanie Lynn Hilpert
all rights reserved.

Nothing Like a U.S. Marine
by BUD (OYATE WAKIYAN)
USA

Red runs our blood as we bleed

Through our clothes of khaki green

Yet we are a fighting machine

Nothing like a U.S. Marine

For weeks the corp. trained us so hard

Through that trial we set the standard

We joined together as strangers

Yet as brothers face the dangers

We stand here, America ’s best

But yet our boots are all a mess

We face a skirmish every day

So many bravely die that way

You can hear the big guns blast

See the enemy running fast

For we are on a peace mission

And Marines don’t ask permission

Guarding old glory day and night

Stars and stripes, a glorious sight

Flag bravely waving in the air

Where ever we go that flag is there

We hook up, shuffle to the door

Jump right out and yell “For the Corp.”

On land, the sea or in the air

If we are needed, we are there

We travel far through foreign land

Protecting those who need a hand

At the ready to take a stand

For justice, freedom, rights of man

Some days we take an R & R

Never forgetting who we are

Work hard, play hard, be proud, live right

Keep the honor, fight the good fight

We proudly face all enemies

In the air, on land and the seas

Never forgetting what it means

To be a member of the Marines

Far from friends and family, too

Marines doing what marines do

A lean mean fighting machine

Nothing like a U.S. Marine

© 2006 by BUD (OYATE WAKIYAN)
all rights reserved.

“Joyless Word” was published in the book Daughter of a Rogue & Poems of the Dung Beetle Girl and Sacramento’s Literary Calendar and Review, Poetry Now.

Joyless Word
by Stephanie Lynn Hilpert
USA

The spirit of a quiet dawn
expands itself into the core

of my solitude through words
and dances through a timeless

passage of thought. Dawn escapes
my perception with a lucid howl

at the sun. I know nothing except
what is before me in a still

existence of desert. I know nothing
except time and a joyless word.

© 2007 by Stephanie Lynn Hilpert
all rights reserved.

Speak to me in the tender
voice of the moment
that only silence can hear-
when the wind pretends to
last forever, yet blows deep
into the shade of the night
leaving me deaf unto myself
and alone again, but who am I
to ask you to speak to me?

© 2009 by Stephanie Lynn Hilpert
all rights reserved.

This review is for the first part of my book-Daughter of a Rogue(The Poem)-is a riveting, heart-wrenching and utterly fascinating account of her father, and everything she has ever wanted to say to him. It pulls no punches, and although it is filled with emotion, it is by no means maudlin or sentimental. –Joseph Verrilli-Daughter of a Rogue & Poems of the Dung Beetle Girl by Stephanie Lynn Hilpert is available at Barnesandnoble.com, Borders and Amazon.com. Thank you!

The Timeless Poet
by Stephanie Lynn Hilpert
USA

The poet brushes up against time like a leaf brushing against the wind. We understand the timeless word like self since that’s exactly what it is. This timeless drop of self forms like dew on the paper.

Time is my favorite subject to write about since it engulfs us and forces us to grow spiritually, but time can also tear. Time could be compared to God and maybe we should pray for her mercy before there is yet another Edgar Allan Poe born to the heartless mother of solitude, writing one masterpiece after another, timeless like the eternal flame of poetry, alone like the heart of the timeless poet.

Should we allow time to be the hand that writes our poems, or is there a choice? Time is an overbearing and controlling mother that hovers over everything we do. Some of us are to close to time while others are lucky enough to be closer to life.

The timeless poet often reaches up from the depths of hell with burning arms that grab for the peace that only poetry can offer the restless spirit, but this poet can never really grasp the peace that he or she longs for like prayer, God and life.

Raw poetry speaks to us like the meat it is. We tear into the core of the flesh and chew, but the poet often stands slaughtered to sustain the life of the reader. Not all poets dwell in the murky waters of their misery, but the best poets and writers have been acquainted with pain at one time or another. They know how to bleed words from deep gashes and wounds in the spirit. As I’ve said before, “the best poems are bled not written.”

This is just a personal opinion, but I find it funny when an editor says they don’t want self indulgent poetry. Maybe I should figure out what the pope is feeling and write about it. Emily Dickinson only had about 10 poems published while she was alive. Does this tell you anything about Editors and publishers? You should tear open your gut and let it spill all over the place, so the reader can pick and probe through it.

Write your poem like it’s going to be the last thing you’re going to say, write for yourself and never give up your truth for what scholars say is REAL poetry.

May the hidden and timeless poet from within find a peep hole to peek through – out of your poetry!

© 2009 by Stephanie Lynn Hilpert
all rights reserved.