Welcome to the Gryphon's Nest!

The gryphon lined its nest with such
As none will see again
But treasured most the deepfelt words
Sung from the hearts of men

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My Heart

written for Sharon Smith

Down in the wood there is a stream,
just larger than a brook.
That seems to hold all my answers,
as it travels to river.
I can hear it as I sleep:

knowing that this is my place,
knowing that this is my peace.

Always giving me clues,
so I find myself here again,
at this stream,
larger than a brook.
Conversing with God who knows:

that this is my place,
that this is my peace.

As I watch a pastel colored maple leaf,
follow its path to river.
Never being taken under,
yet coming so close.
I can smell Gods breath here:

this is my place,
this is my peace.

No man has ever been here,
but God and me.
This cold morning,
where I can see his whisper.
saying to me:

is my place,
is my peace.

I have never taken anyone,
this Secret place of mine.
Hidden past the rock by the pine,
where cold morning frost intertwines.
But this morning I find you at:

my place,
my peace. 

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**Copyright 1998 by Sean Collins. (Toysoldiers@webtv.net).
Reproduction is prohibited without express permission of the author**

Untitled

Best stay with promises well kept,
Rather than break,
That which was unfulfilled,
For no matter how small,
How minute,
This ripple of disappointment may be,
It grows,
Within me,
Every moment of the day,
And in unison with the many other ripples,
Becomes the roaring waves,
That is soon to crash down.
And no matter how strong my resolve,
What chance stand I?
When not even the mighty mountains,
Can stand against the ripple of despair.
Penchance I may crumble,
And pray you pick up the pieces,
but would that merely be,
another ripple in the sea,
that would crush me,
into dust...

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**Copyright 1998 by Woei Hern (heartsprk@hotmail.com).
Reproduction is prohibited without express permission of the author**


Leaf

Leaf shadows pirouetting
On the wooden deck
In a fluttering ballet
Dancing with the
Light through
A floating lace lattice
Opaque images
Sway
Like Lovers
They tangle and entwine
Trembling on the
Sudden breath
Of the sultry breeze
In the darkening dawn
The shadows elope
And sleep
With the night 

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**Copyright 1998 by Chelse (Realchelse@aol.com).
Reproduction is prohibited without express permission of the author**




         Balkan Memories


       Memories of years ago
       Adriatic blue dreams
      On a scorching hot day
        A beach near Budva
         Stinging sunrays
        and us white among
           brown bodies


       Memories of years ago
      A small island kingdom
    Reached by a small causeway
    Sveti Stefan, Tito's retreat
         A chapel of angels
      View from the restaurant
      of purple mountain ranges
      Bougainvilleas everywhere
         in glorious display


       On the ancient walls
     of medieval magnificence
    Dubrovnik roofs, clay tile
       vision, simmering in
         the noon day sun
        Glistening polished
          cobbled streets
        Witness to survival
            in calamity


        On an island, Hvar
       Remote and peaceful
      Fishing boats chugging
        their way leisurely
      in the morning coolness
         Remembering that
      lime green paint on one
   As it moved out nonchalantly
             to play


       An island of rosemary
    Vast fields of ancient herb
       The fragrance, strong
        Intensely memorable
    And blue vastness everywhere
        The oil, of rosemary
         Sweet and alluring
         Warm and seductive


         Balkan memories, of
              long ago
         Appearing now again
         The narrow streets,
       the bitter sweet coffee
     served in small copper jugs
        A barbecue on a beach
           A small island
           Swimming in the
            blue azure sea
          Consumed with heady
              white wine
          And nearly drowning
            in the blue bay
         Surviving, breathless
        And vivid memories, too,
              of long ago 
 

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**Copyright 1998 by Michael David Coffey (Poetrymdc@aol.com).
Reproduction is prohibited without express permission of the author**




 
White Men and Red Men




When I took back
    the bright red and yellow
band of feathers
    earlier traded for a piggyback ride,
Dad teased me,
    calling  me "Indian Giver!"


Only 12 miles away
    in what had become
a white farmer's scrubby field,
    150 years earlier
at Fort Stratha, Andy Jackson-
    who later claimed to Congress:
"Toward the aborigines no one
    Can indulge a more friendly feeling"-
plotted to steal Alabama.




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**Copyright 1998 by Louie Crew (lcrew@andromeda.rutgers.edu).
Reproduction is prohibited without express permission of the author**


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