The Web Poetry Corner
DreamMachineThe Web Poetry Corner is a Dream Machine Site
The Dream Machine --- The Imagination of the World Wide Web
Google

The Web Poetry Corner

Renee C. Stover

of

Parma, OH, US

Home Authors Alphabetically Authors Date Submitted Authors Country Submission Rules Feedback



If you have comments or suggestions for Renee C. Stover, you can contact him or her at:
stover@en.com (Renee C. Stover )


Find a book store near you, no matter where you are located in the U.S.A.!


Cerzan

...the best independent ISP in the Twin Cities

Gypsy's Photo Gallery


The Dawn of Misery's Relief

by

Renee C. Stover

As the young boy walks through
The doors of his life,
People surround him
With disturbing cries.
Few know of the hidden pain he bears.
For who could know...
They do not care.

As problems of childhood
In the young man's head grows,
Others treat him with disgust
Adding to his woes.
They can not see what they do.
"It's all in fun," they say as they pursue.

Hatred of himself is in the man's mind now.
These life-long jeers
Would finally end, somehow.
The final blow came one day.
His self-inflicted pain
Would end this way.
With silver blade, life he'd defeat.
The hidden pain was never to repeat.


The Essence of Love

by

Renee C. Stover

What is love?
A feeling, an emotion?
A fantasy, a dream?
Oh, not these,
Or others.
Love is an eternal bond
Between a soul, with another.
Which sweeps the other away...
With it.
Like waves, on an oceans beach.
Though they part,
They are not complete...
Without the others presence.
And soon are joined together...
Again.
Love is not a word,
But an action.
Which gives,
Never takes.
A sincere desire
To see happiness,
Within another's eyes.
And, if in turn,
You are made happy
Then...
So be it.
.. But if Not
Your sorrow has its joy,
For that sorrow is drowned,
By the other,
With their smile.
The two of you are one,
In mind, in heart, in spirit,
Forever.


Image of Innocence

by

Renee C. Stover

'Twas an infamous night
On that twelfth of June.
Two bodies lay, behind a gate,
Under the rising, western moon.
The innocent brutally killed,
By a knife's silver blade.
She was the object and victim,
Of her husband's angry rage.
He was a distant stranger
Who met his own blind fate.
A simple act of kindness
His future would erase.
The weeks and days, they pass
While the rumors freely grow,
Feeding off the media,
As a family's tears do flow.
The Enquirer has its field-day,
Loathing in the grief and pain,
All because the man accused
Was known and with a name.
We, the viewers ,of the circus,
Sort through all we see,
The Bronco chase, the bloody gloves,
The star that made history.
There he is in court.
We watch him as he cries.
I heard no tears on the tapes,
Just angry words and fists that fly.
We saw his confident look
As he stood and gave his plea:
Innocent, "one hundred percent,"
Let none doubt it, "absolutely".
But tell me, now,
Why was your glove lying at his feet?
How 'bout their blood in your car?
Or your blood at the scene?
Tell me more of Fuhrman,
With his racist names.
Feed me more of your lies,
But, here remains your DNA.
Be freed now with mistrial,
Or a jury's heartless sympathy.
You can't escape yourself, inside,
Or the final death and agony.