We have a number of poets posting here. I thought I'd start a thread just for the peoms we write or the poems we've found to inspirie us. If you are posting someone elses' poem, however, please honor copyrights.<p>Here's my humble contribution, to start things off:<p>Divorce<br>by Parizade<p>They are enemies<br>biting at words<br>snapping at ragged edges<p>A broken vessel<br>they cannot contain the nectar<br>flowing away.<p>Each shard cries out <br>in senseless independence:<br>"you broke me!"<p>So loudly they cannot hear<br>their children<br>pleading,<br>thirsting, <br>scratching after the lost nectar<br>soaking into the earth<br>beyond their reach.<p>I cringe at my helplessness.<br>They are all <br>beyond my reach.

I wrote these two poems during marriage problems. They are not specifically about my marriage but were heavily influenced by it.<p>Water Under the Bridge<p>We talked for sometime, not long ago<br>The two of us, pensive, haltingly slow<br>About past regrets and nameless fears<br>Marked only by long dry tracks of tears<br>You told me how it hurt you most<br>That recurring presence of an unfulfilled ghost<br>Appearing at will, with stern remind<br>Whispering your chronicles of wasted time<br>You asked if I suffered a similar dread<br>And, if so, to what succor had I fled<br>Yes, my horizon that specter once claimed<br>My peace waylaid, my purpose maimed<br>Telling me that all I could do was done<br>Except to die and reduce by one<br>The sterile lives under the sun<br>But how can one simply lay down and die<br>Without seizing the reins of a sincere try<br>And though much carnage lay behind<br>I evicted the specter from my mind<br>Evaporated time I committed to God<br>Acknowledging the future with an inward nod<br>All miscarriage of intent betwixt you and I<br>No more to be fed and therefore must die<br>My friend, live no more on a jagged edge<br>For truly 'tis water under the bridge <p>By Bruce Newman<br>Copyright 1998<p>Gauntlet of Illusions<p><br>You've run the gauntlet, I can tell<br>'Tis etched into your visage well<br>You bear the unmistakable air<br>Of one who's learned to gauge his care<br>By substance alone, while shadow you shun<br>The gauntlet of illusions you've run<br>Of which a multitude has no notion<br>From torture to torture, perpetual motion<br>Their course redundant and mercilessly long<br>Compelled by a monotone siren's song<br>Toward illusions existing only in mind<br>A singular affliction of the willfully blind<br>But you grew weary of futility's diet <br>And a heart foreign to peace and quiet<br>You struck out on a different path<br>Not heavily traveled, but clearly mapped<br>And now that your vision has sufficiently cleared<br>You read the signs you formerly feared<br>That point to reality and fullness of meaning<br>No more gauntlet, no more gleaning<p>By Bruce Newman<br>Copyright 1998<br>

Wow! I didn't know you were a poet too, Bruce. Thanks for sharing your talent with us.

Parizade,<p>You're welcome. Writing is my first love.