Interchanging Poetry, A New Poetic Genre
Interchanging Poetry, A New Poetic GenreBy Mac McGovern Poetry is the absolute beauty of the human heart expressing emotion in a form that delights, and leaves the reader with a feeling of contentment in one spectrum, and a feeling of remorse in another. No other form of writing has the ability and power to inspire the emotion created through poetr
"Cry Me Freedom"
"Cry Me Freedom" Beautiful faces wrecked with pain.... The pain of being stripped of the pride that carries the head high..... The pain that weakens the once strong voice that would shout across the land for this I stand.....The pain that closes the bright eyes that were open wide...... The same eyes to witness evil lurking behind sheets and fire r
Rise!
Rise like the Phoenix from the burning flames! Rise like the mountain tops reaching for the sky! Though a few may wish in envy for your fail, the voices of many scream you prevail! In this world where nothing is perfect or truly guaranteed, street soldiers die over material greed.... It is time for you to rise like the queen or king you were born t
"Quiet"
Quiet the voice of the hurtful... Hide those sounds of words that hurt with or without determined purpose.... Silence those painful words that leave emotional scars for years to come.... Scars that mold the steps that will be taken or missed in this life journey.... Scars that create the personality of the spirit raising and molding the future....
What My Love Do.....
Orgasmic highs They capture you Journey to the sun Shoot past the moon And watch you orbit the world I am the eight wonder And this is what my love do Mental telepathy Souls intertwined Caught up in the rapture Hypnotic mind potions You're under my possession Because this is what my love do Just watch as I lick my lips They whisper the words That i
Mahogany Keys: The Complex Image of the African American Man.(4) The Black Man as an Artist and Promoter of Literacy
Interview with Anthony Pathfinder – Author, proofreader, poet, reviewer and contributing writer for the Urban Book Source The image of the aggressive-looking African American male, who cannot spell his name, has a limited vocabulary and has trouble keeping a job has become -- sadly! – common in the media. However, there isn’t too much said about th
THE LILY POND, THE JAPANESE BRIDGE by Claude Monet and Sal Buttaci
THE LILY PAD, THE JAPANESE BRIDGE Painting by Claude Monet (1899); Poem by Sal Buttaci (1994)   Who could imagine what Monet was thinking when he took his brush to this! Ask him what inspired him  and he will no doubt lie, say "The Japanese Bridge" or "The lily pond: the way the lilies sit on the brown river" or "The mood I was in, the feeling  I h
I`m stuck in here
I`m stuck in here! I cannot move or think… My feet won`t walk… I can see but it`s only me.   I can`t get out! It`s dark and cold and I can`t feel words… Pain crawls around inside… There’s nowhere to hide!   I`m trapped in here! Can anyone see what I see? Or is it just me? Everything is heavy and moving slow--can I go?   I`m chained and I can`t move
THE CART: THE ROAD UNDER SNOW IN HONFLEUR by Claude Monet and Sal Buttaci
THE CART: THE ROAD UNDER SNOW IN HONFLEUR Painting by Claude Monet, 1865; Poem by Salvatore Buttaci, 1994 The road under snow we ought best not to complain about! Yet we do so every winter, don't we? You say the jostling ride hurts your back or the old horse is too slow or that I see so poorly I cannot avoid the rocks jutting in our path.   As for
BERTHE MORISOT by Edouard Manet and Salvatore Buttaci
                                   BERTHE MORISOT                      Painting by Edouard Manet (1873)                      Poem by Salvatore Buttaci  (1994) "Too  much yellow!" I tell the painter. "You've made me out to appear  some pasty-looking, half-dead matron who has never seen the sun! Devotees of art one day  will stand before this canvas
THREE POEMS by Salvatore Buttaci
        You can't see it, but there's a silencer at the end of her pistol.  Does Your Gun Need a Silencer If You Plan to Kill a Mime?   who can hear in the forest who cares if the tree falls there   on the city concrete  the mime bobbing  like a stringless marionette acts out a wordless life    heart beating without sound hands and face dotted with