Saturday, August 8, 2015

My Award-Winning (cough, cough) Poetry by Karen S. Cole

Karen Cole - My and Your Poems and Poetry, for your Elucidation and Enjoyment


This blog is going to host all of my poetry, both in draft and final form. I'm planning on connecting it to my other work-related blogs, too. Also, I'm going to connect it to the International Library of Poetry, where my work has won several awards: six Editor's Choice awards, four Best Poet awards, a Who's Who in poetry award, a 2007 Commemorative Poetry Ambassador award, and two Poetry Fellowship awards. I have also won awards through Random House, Noble House and Reese Tyler publishing, being published multiple times in their major anthologies of poetry.

An Ice Cream Summer

The Last of my Seasonal Poems, Celebrating all Year Round

By Karen S. Cole

I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream!

Every summer's the same. I used to weigh normally
Now I feel every time guilt, for being a giant cream ho.
Thirty pounds overweight, I look like a small blimp.

So wasted, trickling down my neck like sticky sweat
The lines of goo from vanilla ice cream seem permanent
Masking my addiction to a sweet that will kill me.

I know as I eat it, my teeth no longer fulfilling their function
Slurping daintily at the specks falling onto my shirtfront
I have to have ice cream, it's all I have left of a perfect
Summer's feeling that I have something to celebrate.

What if I spurned the siren song of McDonald's vanilla cone
Dipped in childhood's chocolate, as in Ohio's heated blasts
My Daddy buying me a cone, twisted like me now, unable
To purchase without some explanation, that I deserved
A nice cream, a dream cream, an ice cream summer.

I'm fat! I'm overweight! I'm obese now, from chocolate
And worse yet, a fatty manifestation of cow's milk and the
Artful topping by nature of cream, a delicacy for those who
Don't mind a few extra pounds, or exercising athletes.

What can I do? I'm so in love with ice cream. And it's all
That's left of my summers of picnics, parks, green tree-lined
Streets and hopeful rain-free weather, pleasurable not hot.

If I can give up ice cream, what else will I do now?
Lose weight, and finally find myself under my own chin.
Oh, gee, I can run, race down to the corner store again...

...grab a reward for a whimsical run? Ice cream-sickle FUN!

Monday, April 27, 2015

Follow Scott on Twitter @ScottHastiePoet - in advance of new posts on

New Poem – as we toil and spin…

Guest poet Scott Hastie - tasteful, abstract, intellectual and graciously smooth.


As we toil and spin,
Pause and gather in the stillness,
Whenever you are able.

Trusting that,
Time after time,
This might bind ever deeper
In your soul
And, one day,
Come gloriously to bear.

Otherwise how vain
A deceit
Is such constant distraction,
That leaks into everything
To spoil our chances.

And, in so doing,
Look how we fashion instead

A raw and unnecessarily restless
Sadness in our hearts.

For it is what it is,
This life,
No more and no less…
And everyday
It shines upon us
With a patience
That is inestimable.

So take heart from this
And simply surrender in moments,
As best you can,
Even if only in modest ripples
That gently caress
The shore of your dreams.


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Sunday, March 22, 2015

Seasonal Poetry by a fellow Business Professional on LinkedIn

Luther Seahand - American Poet

Luther Seahand poetry

Today, we have a new featured poet. I met Luther on LinkedIn, and he agreed to lend us three of his best seasonal poems for the blog. Please enjoy, and feel free to comment too!


Gray is the season that withers

blossoms dulled by satin frost

how they sadly fall

cruel chill, it breaks them all

rest, rest immortal doves

while winter feigns treasures lost.

Crystal brooks still as dusk

mirror figures warm at heart

oaks over icy knolls

sprawling old souls

flutter, flutter leafless arches

for that single spark of life to start.

Blushing through frozen woods

morning hints at splendor, frail

a starling in the snow

sleeping on her bough

wake, wake feathered angel

sing sweet trills of the nightingale.



The finest day of spring

petals dance on sudden gales

counting everyone

before the sinking sun

fly, fly little wings

like love that never fails.

Shadows begin to wake

to a chorus that is the night

crickets fiddle, slow

warblers whistle, low

shine, shine velvet moon

till last you fade from sight.

Hear the sea in song

where the swallows play and die

starlight in the haze

flicker fireflies, ablaze

stay, stay gentle dream

beneath the candles in the sky.



This glorious time of year

grace is in bloom, divine

supple spindles gleam

by golden beam

waltz, waltz June fairies

from dandelion to lofty pine.

Off on a stroll above meadows

scented wisps, a tryst, oh my

sandalwood, sweet

fair mulberry treat

swoon, swoon ethereal swans

into the mild, evening light, of July.

Stirring for summer's farewell

frail wonders, tulips, up high

butterflies pair

with delicate flair

steady, steady August delights

primroses await your slumbering sigh.

Wednesday, January 21, 2015

Cormac McCarthy

Today, an obscure man with a great deal of poetic license. 

Cormac McCarthy (born July 201933) is an American novelist and playwright. He has written ten novels, spanning the Southern GothicWestern, and modernist genres.

The Orchard Keeper (1965)[edit]

  • Yes, he said. I busted him and he busted me. That's fair, ain't it?
    The boy was still silent, calmly incredulous.
    No, Sylder went on, I ain't forgettin about jail. You think because he arrested me that throws it off again I reckon? I don't. It's his job. It's what he gets paid for. To arrest people that break the law. And I didn't jest break the law, I made a livin at it.

Outer Dark (1968)[edit]

  • The man sat watching the road, the weedstem twirling in his mouth and the threadthin shadow of it going long and short upon his face like a sundial's hand beneath a sun berserk.
  • And as he lay there a far crack of lightning went bluely down the sky and bequeathed him in an embryonic bird's first fissured vision of the world and transpiring instant and outrageous from dark to dark a final view of the grotto and the shapeless white plasm struggling upon the rich and incunabular moss like a lank swamp hare.
  • Don't take in no strangers while I'm gone.
    She sighed deeply. They ain't a soul in this world but what is a stranger to me, she said.
  • Yes mam. I'm sorry you've had such troubles.
    Mm-hmm. Sorry. Don’t need sorry. Not in this house. Sorry laid the hearth here. Sorry ways and sorry people and heavensent grief and heartache to make you pine for your death.
  • And she waited again at the front door with it open, poised between the maw of the dead and loveless house and the outer dark like a frail thief.
  • What discordant vespers do the tinker's goods chime through the long twilight and over the brindled forest road, him stooped and hounded through the windy recrements of the day like those old exiles who divorced of corporeality and enjoined ingress of heaven or hell wander forever the middle warrens spoorless increate and anathema.
  • Now the entire herd had begun to wheel wider and faster along the bluff and the outermost ranks swung centrifugally over the escarpment row on row wailing and squealing and above this the howls and curses of the drovers that now upreared in the moil of flesh they tended and swept with dust had begun to assume satanic looks with their staves and wild eyes as if they were no true swineheards but disciples of darkness got among these charges to herd them to their doom.
  • Don't flang him off the bluff, boys. Tain't christian.
  • I've seen the meanness of humans till I dont know why God aint put out the sun and gone away.

This guy talked less about the way it is and more about the way it ought to have been. Wise man. But you know, life can be very unexpected. You never know why something happens. We're not God, so in the end, so many things happen that nobody even knows why, at least not in that time and space.