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Poetry by TOPS members selected for presentation on this website is changed
regularly so come back often to see what your fellow poets are writing.

Holiday Magic

Six weeks to zero hour
The framework is in place
We have our marching orders
We know what we must do
To stage the merry show.

And lest we forget
Mass media and its many minions
Like shopping malls and pop-up markets
Remind us daily
What a perfect holiday should look like.

Special gifts for special some ones
Festive lights and tasteful wreaths
Home baked cookies and imported chocolates
Family dinners with the usual trimmings
Excited kids unwrapping gifts
And parties, lots of parties
With stylish giddy people having fun
Lots and lots of fun.

But what of those
Without a place to sleep
Without a family to speak of
In poor health and on their own?
Tough for them, as they have no part
In this ideal holiday tableau.

N.K. Wilson

Changes

Winter has come with all Her fury,
with all Her eternal intentions to bury
the meadows and hills and once-green dales
'neath cloaks and domes and snowy veils.

Eventually Spring does arrive on the scene.
Mysterious magic turns white into green.
Resurrection eternal of Nature's fine art -
a time of renewal, joy to the heart!

Summer soon follows this splendid rebirth...
The rising Sun's brilliance bathing the Earth
in glow heating spirits to fervorous heights;
Jewel of seasons with sweet, sultry nights.

But Autumn inevitably fades Summer's warm,
replacing hot zest with Her own brand of charm...
Turning leaves deepest red and grains to rich gold
'til the Sun wanes away in the cycle of old.

Lyn Carlson

Villanelle: Fenestra
Every poet needs a picture window,
an extra-large TV to fix one's gaze,
a means to word-wrangling and manifesto,

a place to "stop and stare" and ponder how
unflagging life ploughs on in acts and plays.
Every poet needs a picture window,

as solstices and seasons come and go
inspiration kindled in the roll of days,
a means to word-wrangling and manifesto;

iambs gel with morning's bold crescendo,
a blazing sunset tapers offa phrase.
Every poet needs a picture window,

the eye invigorates the incipient flow
of rhythm ricocheting through the brain's maze -
a means to word-wrangling and manifesto

of metaphor, words tossed off with bravado
ensuring, line to line, the theme segues.
Every poet needs a picture window,
a means to word-wrangling and manifesto.

Louise Fairley

Coming Home
left the land of sun
abandoned the blue skies and pebbled beaches
blocked the whispers of the waves
try to forget the swollen breast of sea
the foamy crests
the white seagulls in their erratic fly
their cries

now
surrounded by grey and brown porous snow
skeletal trees
glooming sky
caressed by cold wind
cradled by lingering winter
i arrived home
where i belong

Simona Dragu

All Those Old Songs

Backstage, behind the scenes,
behind the limelight,
my heart beats rhythm
like a metronome.

No fully automatic system
performs all those old songs

I.B. Iskov

Figure Skaters

my heart pounds
of pride filled energy
a successful performance
I stand here
spiked into the ice
for an unseen crowd
in a forum of applause

my mind and heart
melt into the soul
of glass smooth ice
warmer to the next venue

each time in succession
is a test of pride
and dedication to perfection
under blinding lights
will test my heart

Ed Woods