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Sentimental Poetry edited by Anthony Watkins

Different Versions of Me

My everyday, my Sunday best

My lighter self, my tired rest

My focused self, working hard

The outdoor me, in the yard

My Monday bore, such a chore

My gentlemen, holding your door

My sad eyes, when paid hurts you

An inside smile, even when I am blue

My adventurous heart, always loyal

My true love, never can over spoil

My wise thoughts, with no retort

Numb in thought, ideas can’t be taught 


My me for you, standing so proud

My party side, always echoing loud

My inner self, calm and blessed

Only you know, my silent quest

photo by Matthew Pollock

Matthew Pollock is a regular contributor to the on line poetry  group The War Zone.



In the little pond in my garden

rises an astonishing concrete fish.

Proudly standing on its tail

spewing a delicate water fan,

the sunshine this Christmas morning

turns the droplets into a million

hazed diamonds in rainbow colors.

Against all rules of Nature

Christmas surprises me with one perfect

white water lily. Floating, glossy green

leaves support the exquisite, cup-like blossom,

its heart tilted high to adore the stony fish.


“Oh come, all you faithful,

joyful and triumphant...”

I want to sing, but somehow no tones escape

my throat, as if I don't have the right

to sing, to enjoy, to be happy

seeing a water lily adore a fish.

Not even on Christmas Day.


Suddenly a loud laugh rolls off my lips;

and then... I sing,

joyful and triumphant.

Marjon van Bruggen



The lavenders sway from the lake

To dance in the frigid gusts,

Scar the gifted healing visions,

Only to rebirth vicariously

Within our intoxicated minds.


As we kneel at our beds,

Lavenders blossom at our knees,

Vines constrict our shells,

Bodies screeching out with ivory,

For the Lord shall witness

Our souls evaporating upwards,

Praying for him to scar us.


Oh Lord! I need your wrath!

Scar me with lavenders!

Send me down to the scarlet lair,

For I shiver with despair,

I bleed the fruit you bear.


Lord! Let the lavenders devour me,

As the Devil waits for my crimson

To drip into his skeletal throne,

For time and space will not restore us,

Yet our lore contains echoes of emptiness

What once flourished with flavor,

Power now gone from our grasps.


Devil! Strip the fruit from my veins,

As the bitter breeze releases

My bare corpse,

Hollowed by the might

Of the iridescence taking over

My once tainted soul.

Lavenders! Bury my bones,

Bloom with no trace left

Of my rotted remains,

For you will dance gallantly,

Lust for life lovingly,

And return me to my royals.


Joseph Anthony Samoles is a twenty-six year old aspiring artist from Oceanside, NY who has self taught his techniques and skills within a variety of art medium. He currently practices his techniques and style at Nassau Community College. Being that he is mentally disabled, he uses poetry as a vice for calming his demons, and has practiced writing poetry since he was ten years old. He aspires to evoke the minds of people around the world, having them tap into their deep emotions when viewing or reading his works. His life goals have very little to do with obtaining money, but rather contributing to positive changes in the world we live in today.

The Sea


My sleeping spirit wakes

As the town’s vespers

Climb the stairless sky

And the sea whispers.


The rushing waves crash

On the craggy                                  

Shores of consciousness

And the sea whispers.                                     


Like an ancient song

Or some sailor's dirge

Which the pale waves hum

As the seas surge.


Through the hidden grottoes

And deep cavern waters;

The countless demesnes

Through which she whispers.


Through some magic seashell

On some antique shore

Echoing, a thousand words

Of sage like lore.


On the earthly sod,

Of buried treasures

And sunken ships

She quiet whispers.


Like a forlorn nymph

Weeping sorrowful rivers

In some hallowed cave,

As the sea whispers;


Hoping for love’s tidings,

Her quiet vespers

Over boundless seas

Softly, she whispers.


Like a sinking swan

With broken feathers

Whose soul flies

On the sea's whispers.


So my dreaming spirit

Slumber enters                                                            

As clouds veil the moon,

And the sea whispers.



I long for the gardens at Cordoba

Where the maidens weep like morning roses

And the sun never rises without gilding

The clouds with the colors of red roses

Where the tears that fall from paradisal skies

Are the tears that quench Cordoba’s roses.


In the fairy gardens at Cordoba

I heard ancient moors sing of maidens meek

With cheeks soft like the rose’s calyx

Soft life the sides of Dian’s cheek

Where from golden braids are blooming roses

As the music softly reddens their cheek.


In those gardens blooming with myrtle

Troubadours sang of a love so true

As their lute strings bloomed with couplets of jasmine

Garlanding our thoughts with Beauty true

True like the maidens with garlands of myrtle

In blooming gardens with romance and virtue.


I yearn for the gardens at Cordoba

Where the maiden’s tears fall from morning roses

And the sun never sets without gilding

The clouds with her ambrosial roses

Where tears that fall from Arcadian skies

Are the tears that quench Cordoba’s roses.


Even enemies praise Cordoba’s roses

And faraway kings suspect that in those gardens

Hecate roams and haunts Andalusian groves

As she roams through Cordoba’s gardens

Where the buds of beauty know no winter

But ever dwell in perpetual gardens.


Minarets climb Cordoba’s stairless skies

Conversing with the peaks of heaven high

Where the Houris’ sighs are carried on the air

And blown through the gardens from heaven high

Where the crystal diadems of Andalusian peaks

Reach into heaven where the Houris sigh.


I still can hear the moor signing his songs

Singing of a cheek so white and pale and meek

As the sun kisses them with his gentle rays

Mirroring Diana’s soft pale cheek

Which stalks us like the moon in daylight;

A cheek now so pale and white and bleak.


Faraway kings sing with their tattered lute

Of the roses and gardens at Cordoba

Where now a teary eyed phoenix helpless weeps

Yearning for the gardens at Cordoba

Like a desert rose under envious sun

Longing for the gardens at Cordoba.


I remember well those Cordovan gardens

Where the lines and couplets of a mortal’s tongue

Could vanquish the feuds of warlike foes

Where feuds were sundered with an angel’s tongue

Vanquishing enemies with Beauty’s praises

Where feuds were conquered with a golden tongue.


How I long for the gardens at Cordoba

Where the maidens weep like morning roses

And the sun never rises without gilding

The clouds with the red hue of roses

Where the tears that fall from Paradisal skies

Are the tears that quench Cordoba’s roses.

David B. Gosselin has a website called The Chained Muse dedicated to a new era of classical  poetry.

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