Seeker: The Gryphon's Nest

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 women and men

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Slumber

by J. Hernandez

Dreams,
They flow like
The gentle rememberances
Of a warm summer day.
The soothing breeze
Of days gone by
Sweep through
the recesses of
The mind
Into sweet, but
Faint whispers
Of imagination.
It conjures up
A myriad of images
Like fireflies that
Dance over wildflowers.
They're mystical
Yet illumenscent,
As it taps into
The very depths
Of soul.
Then as quickly
And vibrant
As it englufed
The subconscious,
It fades into
A distant echo
Like the dusk
Before the dawn.

Copyright 2000 by J. Hernandez. (Raveno24@aol.com).
Reproduction is prohibited without express permission of the author.
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Endangered

by Richard Denner
Birds and rain
turtles on the waves
deep in your heart
you know harmony.

Keep your eye peeled
for litter along the way.
If it talks to you, pick it up.
That's politics, too.

"Hi, I'm a moldy doughnut
in the dumpster wishing you
a really nice day
with sprinkles on top."

"I'm a recycled plastic bag
giving you longevity vibes."
"An aluminum can, here, sending
blessings of happiness and peace."

"No, I want to send peace!"
"Shut up, you dumb Styrofoam,
get back, and wait your turn."
"Then, I'll send joy and light."

Birds and rain
turtles on the waves
I sing of lovingkindness
as a responsible use of power.

Copyright 2000 by Richard Denner. (rychard@sonic.net).
Reproduction is prohibited without express permission of the author.
For more of Richard's poetry, visit his website at dPress
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absence

by john cylc
a tree that has no shade,
i seem unreal.
a child without laughter,
i seem somber.
water that does not refresh,
i seem purposeless.
a night sky lacking stars,
i seem dullish.
fruit that is tasteless,
i seem lacking.
i, without my love,
long for her.
her scent.
her laughter.
her touch.
her love.
her.

Copyright 2000 by john cylc (JaxBeachJohn@aol.com).
Reproduction is prohibited without express permission of the author.
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Message from the Ghetto Girl

by Rodney D. Coates

Chocolate
fantasy,
intellectual
rhapsody,
Sweet comedy
played
within this
four cornered
room.

East Bougie
born,
South of
the tracks,
Grew up
fast, hard,
and against
the whacks.

Funky times
Misbegotten
Rhymes
Stolen legacies
Straining against
The tools.
Sistaah Truth,
Warrior sleuth
Rockin booths
Clockin fools
Checkin rules.

Catch this drift,
Watch this rift,
Work this lift
As they
bum rush
the door.
All you
player haters
and young
skirt chasers
dis -miss
from
the score.

Message from
the Ghetto Girl,
She don't
give a damn
bout your world.

Copyright 2000 by Rodney D. Coates (coatesrd@casmail.muohio.edu).
Reproduction is prohibited without express permission of the author.
For more of Rodney's poetry, visit his website at : A Collection of Poetry Writing
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A Life Without Poetry

by Michael LaRocca

It has been said that those of us with no poetry in our lives are lacking. Perhaps. But to say that we are less human than you... We do what we must do. Go to our jobs, Raise our families, Love our wives or husbands, Tend to our dogs and cats, perhaps our children, We try to always there when we should be, We do what we believe should be done. Yes, we have beliefs. We also have feelings. So what if we don't read or write poetry? Perhaps we simply are not able. Did this not occur to you who have been to the mountaintop? Poetry is a beautiful thing - we all know that. But some of us are not capable of putting it into words. Does that make us any less poets? Does that mean we have no feelings? Does that mean we can't look at a sunset or an ocean or a flower and feel something? What of the poetry of our lives? If you must judge us, then do not judge us by what we write. Judge us by what is in our hearts.

Copyright 2000 by Michael LaRocca (michaellarocca@lycos.com).
Reproduction is prohibited without express permission of the author.
Michael will have a short novel, "Vigilante Justice" published on-line by Crossroads Publishing in December.
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Stupidity

by Raging Thunder
I.
Soft subtle words spoken so gracefully
may not, however, bring comfort.
'Tis a matter of who listens to your pain,
your words after-all could be in vain.
If you told them everything
would they leave you walking
straight forward, eyes open, into the barb-wire
that is your soul....
Would they watch as you bled,
Secretly laughing on the inside.
You have to admit, it's pretty funny,
It's your fault you're here bleeding.
"You only brought this upon yourself."
that is what they all will say....
But what do they know.

II.
Such beautiful sounds the earth creates
Just waiting to be discovered.
Telling you to follow them and be saved
But what makes them "holier than thou?"
They don't even know who you really are.
If you told them your thoughts,
You'd probably ruin their lives,
"So keep it to yourself,"
That's what they all say.
But what do they know.

We only know what we are told....

Copyright 1999 by Raging Thunder. (Smliy211@aol.com).
Reproduction is prohibited without express permission of the author.
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The Flower

by Nathan C. Carr
Look at her sitting there
Thoughts lay on her lap
Her eyes begin to gloss,
As one tear falls, staining her garment
She turns slightly, lifting her head
Vision fixed upon the sky
Perhaps she's looking for answers
Or reasons to explain her sorrow
Or perhaps she tilts her weary head
To hold the tears at bay
Unsuccessful, though she tries
And as she fumbles through her tattered emotions
She collapses to the ground and weeps
She's broken now — the pieces scatter
The Flower wilts to sleep

Copyright 2000 by Nathan C. Carr. (NCCSTEEK@aol.com).
Reproduction is prohibited without express permission of the author.
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The Verandah

by Vivian Cassina
We sat on the verandah, watching the moon,
silence interrupting our thoughts as we stumbled
with words that needn't be said.
The night moved cool air around us that warmed our hearts,
or did our hearts warm themselves?
For there was no breeze, yet the coolness moved,
transporting music barely heard by our ears.
As the lyrics floated above us like mylar balloons
carrying messages of "You Make My Day"
and "Glad You Are Here."
And so we danced without moving our feet
and held each other, though neither of us moved a hand.
As we sat on the verandah, watching the moon.

Copyright 2000 by Vivian Cassina. (PoemsbyViv@aol.com).
Reproduction is prohibited without express permission of the author.
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Prague at dusk

by Sam Vaknin
Prague lays over its inhabitants in shades of grey. Oppressively close to
the surface, some of us duck, others simply walk carefully, our shoulders
stooped, trying to avoid the monochrome rainbow at the end of the hesitant
rain. Prague rains itself on us, impaled on one hundreds towers, on a
thousand immolated golden domes. We pretend not to see it bleeding to the
river. We just cross each other in ornate street corners, from behind
exquisite palaces. We don't shake heads politely anymore. We are not sure
whether they will stay connected if we do.

It is in such times that I remember an especially sad song, Arabic sounds
interlaced with Jewish wailing. Wall after wall, turret after turret, I
re-visit my homeland. It is there, in that city, which is not Arab, nor
Jewish, not entirely modern, nor decidedly antique that I met her.

And the pain was strong.

Copyright 2000 by Sam Vaknin (palma@unet.com.mk).
Reproduction is prohibited without express permission of the author.
For more of Sam Vaknin's poetry, visit his website at Sam Vaknin.
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Table of Contents

Letter to the Editor: Cherie Staples (skyearth1@aol.com).