Stephen J. Vattimo, 11 may 2014
My spectrum of self expression is not captured in a portrait of black and white.
My artistic talent are received from One source of pure light.
Passing through me like a glass prism, expressing them in diversity of colors in my life.
Christ is my muse,
But in this life I will reflect His image like a polished piece of metal.
Not perfectly clear like a glass mirror,
because their are shades of gray in my vinear.
My spectrum of self expression is not captured in a portrait of black and white.
One day I will step into the presence of the source of pure light.
His spectrum of glory will blot out the existence of black and white.
My impurity will be berried in my grave,
I will enter His glory resurrected in the perfect image of Christ.
In that day my spectrum of artistic talent will be perfected through One Source Of light.
I can't wait,
Because My spectrum of self expression is not captured in a portrait of black and white.
Written by Stephen J. Vattimo
Nov 28,2013
Satish Verma, 11 may 2014
I will deceive the immortality
in my inadequacy, between myself
and a messy belief.
The sky cracks open.
One unreal moon
slaps the dark clouds.
You want to rest on my shoulder
till eternity.
The silence leads to nothingness.
Over the rifts, space and time
eyes stalk the hands.
You cannot write your name.
You will not move a step,
I will not stay for long.
The distance will defend us both.
Satish Verma
Milena Sušnik Falle, 10 may 2014
Noč je dišala po dežju,
ko sva se na njenih dlaneh podarila...
Utrinki sreče
so stkali bajko
v žarišču noči,
samo v duši živeči,
vedno znova rojeni sni,
lebde njene sledi.
Morda me je že izsanjala,
na plesišču vsakdanjosti,
s solzami;
na ožganih dlaneh nove noči,
zapuščen,
otožen sem.
Milena Sušnik Falle - Slovenija
(pesniška zbirka Prozorni kristali jutra)
Satish Verma, 10 may 2014
He was wading through the frozen pain
unhappy at himself.
Staring vacantly at the blurred stars.
Who was not guilty when the staircase
collapsed? The half-men were busy
in arranging to open the trap door.
Amplified hunger was spilling like
acid rain, changing the colour of
fault-line, kindled bellies.
A twin murder has yet to be resolved.
There is no more pursuit of the menace
and the fear lurking under the dirty eyes.
Green stomach sends the odor,
becomes a reminder of stones in the bowl.
The thick men are walking on air.
Satish Verma
Gert Strydom, 9 may 2014
Mother, far too quickly the days are running past
and it’s as if it was only yesterday
that we did live in the old white house against the hillock
and in all of the bad times
I can only remember how you lead me nearer to God
but we cannot avoid the way that life goes
and yesterday is like water that we want to hold in our hands
and we see only flashes of the back of tomorrow
while we try to fit into the big old world
but as a mother there is nobody just like you.
Mother sometimes I struggle to find the right words
that tells about your sacrifices,
that tell how you are still selfless
and if I do not comprehend life fully
I can still in my fiftieth year go to you
and between us there is a tight bond
and how precious is every small thing
in the hands of your adult child.
Gert Strydom, 9 may 2014
In most things I am free
to make my choice
but still she tries to guide me
with her look, with her voice
and I wonder why mothers
keep on bothering?
And to think of it, it isn’t surprising,
but till eternity they do the mothering thing?
Gert Strydom, 9 may 2014
My Lord, when I look at the world around me
It’s a breathtaking beautiful place
that on no day looks just the same
and even though my life at time is stained with sin
You do still come nearer to me
and You do not just use pure logic of black and white
when Your blood does make me free
and everywhere there are coloured buds on the branches
where You constantly touch my life and the whole world,
constantly do bring better and new perspectives
to make life just better and better
and I see Your hand in every pretty thing.
Still You do remain near even when I do not understand
how things and events do make sense and to where life is going.
Gert Strydom, 9 may 2014
Outside the weavers are twittering
where they sing with joy in the branches of a tree,
children laugh at the neighbour’s quince hedge
while cars are passing one after another
and the light in the room is still grey with curtains closed
when sleep folds around you again.
Far away an old church bell rings constantly
to attract people in the city to the church.
It’s eight o’clock when I wipe the sleep from my eyes
when you turn around and make a whimpering sound
and the light in the room is still grey with curtains closed
when sleep folds around you again
When I bring you a cup of tea
the sun falls over your face on a spot
with a small vein beating in your neck,
for only a moment you look at me
and the light in the room is still grey with curtains closed
when sleep folds around you again
Satish Verma, 9 may 2014
The green hills are drinking
the clouds,
keep pouring out
the scented breath.
In capsuled hour the wind was its own rival.
A slant on confessional suicide:
the charm obliterates the solitude.
A gray shower of thoughts outside the window,
I forget, I remember in coyness
my sparks are humming.
The plundered land
by advancing columns of hunger
tosses around the dead lips of tropical
hues.
The fear demands learning,
finding the uninvited death
in the manipulated existence.
Satish Verma
Satish Verma, 9 may 2014
The green hills are drinking
the clouds,
keep pouring out
the scented breath.
In capsuled hour the wind was its own rival.
A slant on confessional suicide:
the charm obliterates the solitude.
A gray shower of thoughts outside the window,
I forget, I remember in coyness
my sparks are humming.
The plundered land
by advancing columns of hunger
tosses around the dead lips of tropical
hues.
The fear demands learning,
finding the uninvited death
in the manipulated existence.
Satish Verma
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