Satish Verma, 9 june 2017
Listening to a gleaming
word whole life
and finding its meaning at
the fag end.
And you are in thrall
to a sinful pleasure.
The yearnings
of a small Pteris,
which drinks arsenic daily
to rescue a withering smile.
A poem sings to me
under a lantern, when a
storm was raging to roil
the blue birds of imploring peaks.
It looks into your eyes
to find the answer
of complete shutdown
of cotton feel.
Sztelak Marcin, 8 june 2017
Zamykam obwód, porażenia dobrze wpływają
na strukturę rzeczy.
Widzialnych.
Chociaż dookoła tyle zjawisk
pogodowych, że zaczyna brakować
pojemników do przechowywania
cudów.
Takich jak przejście na drugą stronę
okna. Zasnutego pajęczyną
nieprzepuszczającą odbitego światła.
Jednak pod skórą wciąż pulsuje,
na nic codzienne wypalenia.
Chociaż ból zasklepia nienasycone
poranki.
I wieczory zagęszczające siatkę
prądów. Błądzących
w zapomnianych słowach, niespełnionych.
Satish Verma, 8 june 2017
It was a broken lamp,
the orphean tragedy.
You were found sexless
in a naked bowl.
Making love on hay
the moon crashed/on moonstones.
Memory of shells tossed on bed
of roses/was still alive.
The divine leaf falls/opens the
scars of plums. Immoral,
a white tiger pounces on a
rimless scream.
Covered with crocus you break
the brown hills. Through touch
I meet you in dark. My green hands
hold you in folded palms like a firefly.
Joe Breunig, 7 june 2017
Though we’re forgiven sinners,
saved by His Grace, we should…
accept the sacred precept that
we’ve been made a new creation
and not spiritual beginners,
who are wallowing in the past.
Are we remaining sin conscious
and not focused on glorifying
Christ The Son and His Father?
In God’s image, we’ve been cast
to shine brighter… than stars,
with Christ’s essence emanating
from our Life and Love for Him!
Can we repent at a deeper level
and recognize that we’re jars
of human clay, who are broken
for His plan and purpose? He
strengthens, sustains and leads
us; therefore, let’s rise up;
into our hearts, He has spoken!
Author notes
Inspired by:
2 Cor 5:17; 1 John 4:17; John 10:26;
Eph 1:3-14, 2:8; Dan 12:3; Jer 29:11
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2017, All rights reserved.
Joe Breunig, 7 june 2017
Isn’t peace indicative…
of a Godly, quiet heart?
How else can one explain
the calm that’s realized
during personal storms?
Does His Presence remain
with us, in these times
of temporary crisis? Do
souls remain untroubled?
Can our spirits continue
unafraid, allowing us to
go forward with redoubled
efforts, to reach others
with the Gospel, as part
of… Heaven’s campaign?
Author notes
Inspired by:
John 14:27; Num 6:24-26
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2017, All rights reserved.
Sztelak Marcin, 7 june 2017
Bohater nabity na szpilkę schnie na wietrze,
ten przenika spłowiałe okrycia przypadkowych
egzekutorów. Czynią powinność
z ledwie zauważalnym grymasem.
Profesjonalnego znudzenia.
Ziąb do szpiku, a dumne sztandary
nie nadają się do zapychania dziur
w barykadach.
Więc wciskam tam palce, szukając
skarbu — jątrzę rany. Mam za małe
pięści aby zmieścić w nich powietrze.
I rzucić na jałową glebę,
z której wyrosną ludzie bez ust,
w zamian za to z czerwoną plamką
zamiast źrenicy.
Na razie w martwym polu ostrzałów
zbierają się święci, tymczasowo
bez przydziału.
Chociaż na pewno coś się znajdzie,
z rzeczy mniej ważnych, jak narodziny
albo cudowne ocalenie.
Bohater już w formalinie,
wygląda na zadowolonego. Za szkłem,
nieprzepuszczalnym dla dźwięków.
Satish Verma, 7 june 2017
It was not your body,
but blood was on the wall.
Inhale the stench of the day.
Grim scene, the multiple kisses
of marrow and flesh. You were
not drawing him, inviting-
him tonight for a date,
but the fetch was on the wall.
From, to turn. Put a starfish
in my bowl, to play. There was
a guest waiting at the door. Will
not abuse your lock and key.
Crawling, groping, darkness descends.
But there was a light on the wall.
Sztelak Marcin, 6 june 2017
Po zmroku odrywam ostatni zapięty
guzik. Ciasno upycham w pościel
nużące modlitwy — niezbyt wygodnie,
ale gdyby przyszło się nie obudzić
będzie jak znalazł na drogę.
U jej kresu nieunikniony powrót
do wody, jeszcze nierozdzielnej.
Tam puszczę pączki, zakwitnę
i nawet nie pomyślę o porannej
kawie. Nie wspominając o miłości.
Tylko że skrzydła
podcięte sprawną ręką rzezaka,
rytualnie.
Satish Verma, 6 june 2017
Black livers?
Are you really desperate
after a vision? Miasma
rising?
A disheveled sky was
calculating. Tide was turning
back carrying the
tremors of shores.
Was that true, you faith
thinning? I see myself
getting ready for slanting moon
eating seeds of death.
It tears through
the veils of abstract. Are you
looking back at paralyzed
sun who has swallowed a stabile?
Satish Verma, 5 june 2017
Do not remember the names.
Somebody is waiting in the wings.
It is very dark here. The drums
will break the mother’s heart.
The death will not accept the
dew on the grass. She wants tears;
The Buddha is taking a turn
in his sleep. Why is he so restless?
O, my father, I am watching the
fields turning into piles of ash.
Cannot shut the eyes for a jiffy.
Will you write something for the god?
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