love rain
drown me in your love
kiss me in the rain three times
love pours over me
Angie’s Song
At no point does her music adhere to one specific genre or mode
And her lyrics seem to dance around in western wear
Careful not to step on the raw, bluesy pace of the bassline
The steely whine of the electric guitar penetrates the song
Her sound, as she describes it, is “Urban Cowgirl,”
But none of the urban cowgirls that I have heard
Who can get down on dirty blues riffs quite like Angie does.
If you were to close your eyes and imagine the neon lights of a bar sign,
That is Angie Atkinson’s music.
The lyrics and her vocal range elevate the sound out of the bar
And reintroduce it to the mainstream in a way that suggests
That it was never really all that far away to begin with.
Her words create not only an emotional landscape
but a physical landscape, as well
Complete with sounds, sights, and smells.
Wordplay streams from her lips like ewers overflowing
With expressions of self-doubt and vulnerability,
Which by their very admission only reinforce
The strength and the resilience of their author
Attempts to direct the listener, she taunts you with her success
And her ability to focus on astounding poetry and a powerful voice
Presented in such a passionate and progressive dialect,
That is both familiar and foreign at the same time
Her prose is rampant with subtext and backstory
Adding that extra dimension.
She creates a shadow box through which her music shines.
The shadows cast on the walls of the listener’s mind
And stir deeply in their hearts.
At no point does Angie miss a beat
Or an opportunity to make an emotional connection
With you, me, we, the audience, at Large.
Her edgy, provocative words seem carefully selected
As perhaps only the daughter of a Reverend could,
There is no other gem to have ever inspired me
To create and let my passion go free
Because she is a perfect example
Of strength, and vulnerability, and talent
Poem #22
Thoughts are flitting carelessly through my mind.
Memories brought on by a chuckled word or a passed-along tale.
If I let it, the stream will continue flowing for hours,
thoughts and feelings from years ago pouring forth from every corner of my mind.
Isn’t it funny,
the directions that our minds take?
They will hop the tracks that were layed out for our trains of thought,
and blaze out into uncharted territory,
creating connections in their wake.
There are so many different paths to tread,
that our minds can travel. So many, that it truly is unlimited.
The only things holding our minds back from exploring new, uncharted worlds,
are our own hesitations and insecurities.
Isabel Allende
The Story ISABEL ALLENDE
is a tale of two unfortunate lovers
they lived in another time;
another place,
in a small Chilean town
two brothers battled each other
fighting for Eleanor’s favor and love
one brother, proud an jealous
and the other, pure of heart
one day the jealous brother told Eleanor a nefarious lie
that his brother had run off with another
Eleanor felt as if she would die
she ran away,
to another town
to live out the rest of her years,
where she could roam
and make a home,
to be left alone with her tears
then one day she returned
to the house her family owned,
and the haughty brother summoned her
for he was ill and near death
he wanted to make wrong a right
and finally confessed
he told poor Eleanor that everything was a lie
his brother too, pined for her
and had spent his years in wait
only sorrow and a broken heart to pass the days
then she ran out into the garden
and there the second brother was
they ran toward another
with tears filling their eyes
By: KMH 2015
hour 22 poem
her red nails
on the touchscreen…
sunrise
Love Poem
Oh how I love thee
Let me count the ways
Well there’s that sense of humor
The way you yell at your computer
I could list your stylish good looks
Or your beautiful blue eyes
Traditionally I would swoon
Tell you how virile you are
how ruggedly handsome you are
But you know that already
I could list your admirable qualities
How you would sacrifice your life for your cat
And a friend too I suppose
You would go to the ends of the earth for cheesecake
But then so would I
I could share how cuddly you are
How domestic you aren’t
How brilliant your poetry and
political interpretations are
Yes my love, I can count the ways
The poem would be endless
The hour grows late
So in an untraditional
Traditional way
I guess I just have to say
I love you and let it go at that.
Farewell
You cannot remember my name.
I believe it is best for me to bid thee farewell.
by Karen Sullivan
Form: Landays
Hour 22 – An effing love pome
‘ere’s my effing pome
about love and all o’ that
I wish I ‘ad an effing beer
and a bloody awful ‘at
so I could ‘ide behind my world
and dream about the time
when I was effing single
and I didn’t ‘ave to rhyme.
But yeah, I guess I luv ya
but please don’t tell me mate
or I will have to stuff ya
behind a storm-drain grate.
Twenty second poem
To my future babies.
I can’t believe how lucky you are.
I learned the hard way what love should be,
I’ve faltered and fallen,
I’m covered in flaws,
But she fills in the pieces,
As I fill in hers.
We’re partners in love
And we’ve made you a home.