B.Z. Niditch, 1 june 2016
The city opens in Buenos Aries
thinks of its good fortune
in having Jorge Luis Borges
upon the literary ladder ring
as a poet's higher critic
researching amply for orations
reaches on the library wall
for life's diction of explanations
located by antiquities design
here in his Eden of a living room
explores paraphrased commentary
rooted by vast heirloom histories
when beseeching a scattered fiction
located at pastimes, places, signs,
in presences, phrases by art masters
covers bizarre geometric lines
on global geographical maps
as an intelligent mind encounters
visions,awakenings,horizons
epiphanies,memoir and diary
in a glossary of personal testimony,
as Titian and Tintoretto appear
on his artistic projecting screen
over Borges recent revelation's lips
silently records what shapes
all of man and woman kind
from Creation to Apocalypse
when a sculpture of Donatello
closes the the curtains of his mind
which drapes his world era,
then Mexico landscapes appear
on a Spanish veiled scrim
drapes a freeze of Diego Riviera
and Frida Kahlo vanishes with him
Jorge suddenly hears far off notes
of Mozart's musical miniatures
in a played sonata part on his piano
as he leaves with his last exit
at the contrary atheneum's archives
with a good friend driving with him
after a morning's addendum,
returning from his study guide
now rests on the patio
under a generous sunshine
as he feasts on salad, filet of sole
and a pepper mint herbal tea at noon
feeding over his verbal finger tips
with a mouth of shared herbal wine,
soon this scholar Borges is reading
his parchment of a Torah scroll
sent as a day dream fiesta arrives
reading his Aleph, Bet it seems
as a thousand birds rise to circle
their way to the South pole
from an Argentine celebrated sky,
later a twilight lit city will dazzle
the stars through dusty blinds
by guilds of a history's wrinkle
he yearns for an hour in the park
listening on a hilly breeze
to jazz sax riffs till dark
by wide greensward of trees
as a Cinereous Mourner's ashes
rise on the shading
of a seasonal four lateral wind
a black bird sneezes on branches
for an exile's miracle kiss
near a rural cattle ranch lawn
on a bench by coral flowers
he hears an astral visionary's call
on an hour's masked starry sky
to sip from a proverb's looking glass
in a talisman's floral flask
disclosing a new lyrical translation
and reading his creative reviews,
yet hearing of the burning books
on the news from Germany
upon learning of persecuted Jews
how a carnival festival
or a holiday maker can quickly
turn to war and fascism's sins
in a devil's abyss,
Borges has compassion
from his depth of thinking
in an alpha and omega's creation
to span over a radical fashion
at a magical realism's generation
to challenge millions of poetry fans.
Gert Strydom, 1 june 2016
She wears a kind of apron,
both of her hands are full of paint
where she is standing on the dark-red porch,
some shadows are burnt into the painting
and weeds bubble out at the steps,
both of her hands are full of paint
where she is observing it, does frown, and does drop the paintbrush.
She gazes at tables on a hobbling street
and weeds bubble out at the steps.
She does talk thought struck
but looks at Spanish building and a sea background,
she gazes at tables on a hobbling street
and later she moves around in the kitchen
and she has to serve some food
but she looks at Spanish building and a sea background
and she is scared that her husband is going to notice her newest painting.
She wears a kind of apron,
and she has to serve some food
where she is standing on the dark-red porch.
Satish Verma, 1 june 2016
Slicing thoughts, destiny
timeness of present, trying to watch
inside. The inverted question. Mask
removed.
Your own progeny spying on you,
disowning the moon bears. Beyond
truth was a huge wall. Ensnarement.
Whispers silenced.
A vast void. Interpretation of disguised
Voilence. Hostilities in elliptic orbit. Moon
slaughtered. Death was quick, spurting
the blood. Smearing the intelligence.
Paper weight. Surface tension. Shrinking
supreme. Parthenogenesis. Breaking
the square. Ending of scrolls. Cosmic
disorder. What brains were thinking?
Long speeches. Verbatim fuel. Nubile
bombers. Circus of mediocre legends.
Failed epidurals. History is squinting.
Select values are outworn. I am watching
a very red sunset.
Gert Strydom, 30 may 2016
(after Judith Rodriguez)
Some devious fiends hold to the statement
that there’s two sides
to everything and to each viewpoint.
Some horror hides
in oppression in this very principle,
forcing to abide
as a true view sheer inhumanity,
anti-Semites killed millions gladly,
said they were only doing their duty,
and then to blame
they left a whole nation while they had fled,
in the great name
of patriotism, for the fatherland,
they brought great shame
and while they just meant extremely well,
they sent innocents straight to fiery hell.
[Reference: “How Come the Truck-loads?” by Judith Rodriguez.]
Satish Verma, 30 may 2016
Entrailes were sucked by grief
and pleasure bruised;
beyond the possible
I aspired to find
meaning of life.
A will to reject
unbearable waste,
I trim humiliation.
Time scares by taking revenge
breaking the inner serenade,
and I climb the doubts.
Heartache persists without revelation.
no bitterness descends.
I dip my fingers in blood
to write a flaming entity.
Tell me where the masks are assembeled?
Where the lies are born?
Joe Breunig, 29 may 2016
In my darkest moments, O Lord,
You are the illumination I need;
the lamp of Thy Holy Word glows
with Your Truth and I concede
the value of Your principles.
Despite my feelings, emotions
and thoughts, I’m still assured
that I can raise my perception
to conform to Your high standard.
Your soft Light, easily penetrates
the darkest moments of my life;
the narrow path, leads me straight
to You and Your unending Love.
Therefore, I’ll trust Your Word;
storing it within my heart insures
that my spirit will remain stirred.
Author notes
Inspired by:
2 Sam 22:29; John 8:12
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2016, All rights reserved.
Satish Verma, 29 may 2016
It was otherness which bothered me:
nothing happened otherwise.
Brisk and upright
He failed penultimately.
I still hear the footfalls
of circumstances,
of retreated sounds.
The hidden fire lights up
I squirm in pain.
The canopy of false rumors
falls on dirty road.
His gangrene was evident;
still he walked with a glow,
all alone, but listening to howling
and surveying the floods of tears.
A single argument
lifts the tanned skin
displeases the mob
and abandons the search.
Satish Verma, 28 may 2016
Sometimes death lives for eternity,
a captive of silence,
or in hidden journey to flesh;
unless the body betrays the falling stars from eyes.
Dying was an appropriate thing
a festival of freedom for veils,
to leave you alone with your morality.
This terrible life ejects you
on the gravel to become a stone.
The fall from the beautiful height
was meant for charity.
No body wants to die for a toss-up
with life,
for a secret game of tears and smile.
The true thing of despair generates
a darkness, whom I owe my light.
Gert Strydom, 27 may 2016
I have missed my country
and suddenly did land in another world
where everything is third worldly
and does fall apart and is backwards.
Before I could wipe my eyes
people are working in government offices
and they do believe that the day of tomorrow will come
to do the things that is necessary
with those that had been qualified
pensioned off early
so that everything is in a mad confusion
and I am lost on another planet.
Satish Verma, 27 may 2016
As if my inner sound was demanding
take me for
meiosis;
I want to break into many daughter things.
Half my genes
half my color
partly male
partly female
disowning the boundaries,
my lasting pain of grief and anguish
becomes an androgynous god.
I hear the voices in brain
I see the nebulous thoughts dancing
I touch the fallen tears
from faceless eyes.
All my thoughts are leading to void
coming from nowhere
going to nowhere,
I am water and I am sand!
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