Author The Society

. The Obsession of Emily Rose (A Cautionary Tale) Emily-May Matilda Rose, from the age of three, Acquired the habit of picking her nose wherever she might be. Though otherwise a child of whom her parents...

. https://youtu.be/6gDs63kyLhc . CREDITS Poetry: Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822) Voice-Over: S.A. Todd Photos/Footage: Photo of Pharaoh by ArchaiOptix, licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-Share...

. Some Days in the Life of a Bride of Christ “But he that is joined unto the Lord is one spirit.” —Paul, 1 Corinthians 6:17 Some days my Lord and I rejoice __Like honeymooners gay; Some days our joy is...

. FIRST PLACE https://youtu.be/F3aTnHiJ4yU . Amends to the Innocent by Brian Yapko Dear Falun Gong, I owe you my amends. I heard but would not listen to the sighs Of battered souls I should have known as...

. Resist Arrest Instead of Arresting Resistance In Denmark, something now is very rotten, As fetid as the food-scraps in the trash That we have, somehow, carelessly forgotten To take outside.  Our mood...

. Moments in Marble from Michelangelo’s sculptures; above from left are depicted Dusk, Dawn, Night, and Day Day hustles up, impelled to humanize His world of work by wary energy, To make hours grow,...

. Patriotic It’s really clever, isn’t it, The words they use to smear us with? They call the righteous hypocrite; It’s just a ruse, veneer, a myth. They’ve tried to make vile racist stick, Then...

. Read by Susan Jarvis Bryant . In This House... In this house... We value science so much we accept that male and female chromosomes exist and gender is not merely a suggestion. In this house... We know...

. Reviewed Book: Virtue’s End by Joseph Sale by James Sale In writing this review I have to come clean and confess an interest that not many poets or critics often have to do: and the confession is...

. "Tomorrow, at Dawn" Sung in English . "Tomorrow, at Dawn" Sung in French . Tomorrow, at Dawn by Victor Hugo (1802-1885) Translation by James A. Tweedie Tomorrow, when the countryside is kissed by...

. Euryalus Describes His Mother In Vergil’s Aeneid, the youthful Euryalus volunteers for a dangerous nighttime raid, asking that his mother not be told of it before he leaves, but that she be cared for,...

. In Honor of Birthing Person's Day In gratitude and thanks I bless the one Who gave me life, who sacrificed each breath; Whose love unbounded warmed me till their death. I praise my dear, beloved birthing...

. A Mother’s Worth A mother’s worth, it glows and gleams in eyes. It beams in grins and giggles sent her way. It echoes at the core of coos and cries. It greets a burst of cheers and fears each day. __It...

. The Canterbury Tales---General Prologue, Lines 1-18 by Geoffrey Chaucer (1343-1400) Translated by Evan Mantyk When April’s sweetest showers downward shoot, The drought of March is pierced right to the...

. Mind Games---Three Cerebral Triolets  Propaganda  It wants your mind. It wants you blind. It warps and washes wayward brains. It gains control of humankind. It wants you blind. It wants your mind To cave,...

. The First Spring Rain a rhupunt The first spring rain ends winter's pain; new growth again, the earth revived. Soft melting snow will quickly go, small brooks will flow; life has survived. Frost leaves the...

. A recording of our Christmas and New Year Poetry Reading in December has just been made available. Thank you again to the host, James Sale, and all of the poets and...

. This, Too, Will Pass This, too, will pass--- They like to say. This pain now here Will fly away. This, too, will pass--- This broken heart, This dear, sweet loss--- Tears me apart. This, too, will...

. Incense I cast my words aloft this way and that, Imagining they’re incense offered sweet And fragrant, curling in their brief conceit, Their wisps as agile as an acrobat; And think of priests the Covenant...

. Crank Out a Few, Please by Joseph S. Salemi Many years ago, when I was in graduate school, I attended a seminar on Vergil’s Eclogues. These are the lovely bucolic verses that Vergil modeled on the earlier...

. Guardians of the Sunset III. The years go down like liquor.  Drink and pour and drink again, and laugh or sigh, and look behind you at the dark streets of the past, the rows of street lamp dandelions. ...

. The Song of Nina Jankowicz The lies burst ripe and rife today. __Their juice spurts forth with pride. The thirst of those who’ve gone astray __Is quenched by gossip’s tide. My job is drenched in poisoned...

. A Sonnet for My Nephew Your mother held you first, and then your dad, And after that, the nurse. But then: your aunt. You curled inside my arms—such a small lad— My heart was yours right then. You did...

. May Day Note: Maypoles were a feature of ancient Roman festivals to mark the renewal of Spring. The feast days of Saints Philip and James were celebrated by the Church of England in May.   Having hewed a...

. Apollo’s Lament He pounds his naked chest and looks for bones Suspecting that the bay tree is a sham. At last he falls upon his knees and moans “My little doe, my tender dove, my lamb!” He scans the...

. Apocrypha Two orbs in hand—one large, one small— He climbed the tower to the top. He let them go and watched them fall, And those below who saw them drop Were dumbstruck when they hit the ground With a...

. Beauty at the Waterslide She stood at the top of the waterslide, Bikini, new curves, wavy hair; Surrounded by boys in their swimmers, Unsure as to why they were there. Moved by some insistent...

. Seasons of Change Our fervour was apricity’s embrace. As neon streaks awash a Nordic night, it flared unfettered through the carapace of clotted clouds to cast its fluid light. Accrescent cravings bloomed...

. Revelation You never see suspects admitting their guilt, __Or partisans stating they lied. You’ll never hear soccer stars fearing defeat, __Or macho guys saying they cried. In a world where the truth’s...

. Douglas MacArthur, Et Al. Douglas MacArthur waded through the surf, Unafraid to lead his men in battle. Today, they’d rather write a book, tattle On their bosses, and walk on Astroturf. Just sayin’:...

. A Tale of April 25, 1999 I’d practiced Falun Gong for seven years. It stopped my spine disease’s jabbing spears And repositioned bone and smoothed skin pores. Such cures were far beyond mere earthly...

. Photo of Uluru / Ayers Rock by the Poet Uluru / Ayers Rock The winter outback chill of mid-Julys Cuts to the bone as waning suns conspire To send their sparks through darkening cobalt skies That set the...

. St. George Updated Our age old bold defender __Now an up to date transgender Is consorting with the witless and the woke. He has quit his knight malarkey __Now he hates the patriarchy And our green and...

. By George! By George, St. George! You really are a slouch. Arise, pick up your lance, eschew the couch. Like Patrick, Andrew, David, fill our breasts with pride and we shall wear upon our chests your...

. Remembering Ophelia His scathing tongue had thrust her to the edge. It nudged her through the willow’s sunless fringe. She teetered on that petal-littered ledge Where Hades howls and bluest moons...

. A Call for Secession by Adam Sedia The fine arts currently lie atrophied in utter decline and degradation. Poetry is no exception. Ever since the advent of modernism in the decades leading up to the First...

. With Boots On Soon after break of day an old man comes Trudging along the thawing roads of Cottage Country (the common land of day and hope) Considering the analects of Spring. At every unploughed drive...

. All Out of Hope I am right here, Lord All out of hope. What of me now, Lord? End of my rope! What shall I do, Lord, What shall I know? Tie now a knot, Lord, Or just let me go? So much of life, Lord, I’m...

. Is form in poetry making a comeback? It is according to the BBC. In this BBC podcast series, aspiring poet Andrew McMillan talks to a group of "contemporary British poets who are re-framing traditional...

. The Chained Oak This tale concerns the fifteenth Earl of Shrewsbury, A member of the English aristocracy. With mighty Halls and Castle where he’d often go, Perched high above the river running down...