B.Z. Niditch, 24 september 2016
Riding on my bicycle
with a broken right arm
and break in shoulder
after soccer practice
hurting from
a bully's wound
in days of Mercurochrome
still smarting on your body
of thought when left
with a shadow of memory
yet your anger smolder
over a first leather jacket
from your birthday party
after seeing
a James Dean movie
here on an Autumn day
you walk with a free ticket
to the Cape Ann museum
a pug on the sidewalk
accompanies you
with a Van Gogh postcard
from your Dutch uncle
still intact
in your side pocket
broken sunglasses
from today assaults
of an insensate encounter
you climb up
the art house steps
waiting to visit the moderns
taking out your oils,
notebook and poet's pen
unwilling to take any blame
for being an origin
Joe Breunig, 23 september 2016
Oh, those store mannequins
with their pretty, empty heads
and unending, plastic smiles,
are forever standing, never dead
on their small, well-heeled feet.
As prime examples of fortitude,
they’re ready to make a sale…
at your expense; smug attitudes
can be imagined, as they strike
poses with ease and flexibility.
Do they mirror us, as placeholders
in Life? Having potential energy,
they remain lifeless in display Hell;
what things about us, do they tell?
Author notes
Inspired by:
Store dummies and Prov 16:28; Matt 7:1-5
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2016, All rights reserved.
Joe Breunig, 23 september 2016
Between self-deprecation
and ideas of lowliness,
who am I to believe, that…
I’m completely unlovable?
When can I love… what God
sees in me? Is my Creator,
wrong in thinking that I…
have value? Does this flesh
prevent me from being fully…
submerged in righteousness?
I’m of the humble opinion,
that His wisdom is greater
and far more knowledgeable
than my own; His judgment
remains unquestionable; He
reigns with sovereignty;
after all, He’s still God
and His perfect perception…
transcends the comprehension
that I could hope to muster.
Author notes
Inspired by:
Luke 1:39-56
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2016, All rights reserved.
Satish Verma, 22 september 2016
Wind prowled.
You had a hornet’s sting
buried half in your hand.
Anaphylactic shock.
Translates into night of terror.
You hesitate to smile.
Midnight blues.
You cannot count the stars.
Pesky. Stories spread about moon’s pink thighs.
An ode to the death’s kiss.
You were sleeping in the
sole embrace of pain.
The denizen breaks the rule.
Moves into the sea
for courtship with depth.
Satish Verma, 21 september 2016
Was I sane?
Like poetry infiltrating,
when you were eating grass?
And money was walking free.
The hollow eyes
had the moral authority
to expunge the fidelity from the
book. Are the blue needles
hurting you, I was asking moon?
Moon’s stony eyes started
watering. Strangers in bed, the
trust had a different taste, another smell.
Words were loaded, they were
going to start beheading a tender song.
Satish Verma, 20 september 2016
Waiting for a birthing pool
to throw up a dream chaser
nestled in chains.
The grip was easing out
on sun, stung by moon.
Asteroids start hitting again.
The runaway tiger had
turned cannibal, to practice
a new escapology.
A spiral of smoke
rises after the hunt.
You throw the glances back.
Someone will put a knife
in the tulips. Take home
the colours of death.
The celebration starts today.
Children of a bubble have
come out on the road.
Satish Verma, 19 september 2016
After the organic death
of soaked breast,
I put up tiny islands of eyes
in spooked water.
The dead were coming back
to live on the terrace
amidst the roses
of roof-garden.
I talk to flowers to end
the war. The light was waiting
behind the hills and
birds were ready to sail.
Were you afraid of mother
earth or roaring sky?
The corpses are standing in row
to receive the mighty wrath.
B.Z. Niditch, 19 september 2016
Six outgrown petals
in a corsage
of last summer rose
not forgotten by time
a first woodland love
by wandering days
over my album leafs
page of my poems
in mute muse and stone by
the waiting hedges of vines
by yellow hyacinth groves
I'm in a Fall blue blazer
with apple scents
in faint trills
from my sax
playing in my backyard
along wind swept trees
along the home harbor Bay
by dangling shadows
of now ripened raspberries
on my walking path
holding my life within.
B.Z. Niditch, 19 september 2016
Words fall on me
on length of days
with the same pulse
of verse
as on my kayak
rolling on the bluest sea
on unexpected hours
or trekking
over back roads
watching cardinals sing
over Jacob's ladders
in an open language
of seasonal herons
climbing on mountains
a woman in red high heels
tells me she has lost
her tourist visa
and passport
on the last ship at eventide
holds my matches
on the sandy coast
for a neon campfire
near my hammock
out in the neighborhood
under the town's light
hearing my sax sonata
in the white deserted sand
my words wash over you
with a butterfly net
at the freshly
painted gazebo
by the lighthouse
luminosity
in wonder
of woodwinds
over blanket
quilts of love.
B.Z. Niditch, 19 september 2016
On the Concord river
we sail my kayak
in denims
by a swarming
nest of hornets
a fawn is rustling by trees
we're spreading
lines of Thoreau
at my students
orientation
wishing to hold
the hands of language
flashing love and nature
by first circles of light
with a glow
in companions
breathing hard
in a marathon
from grassy hills and dunes
under dry orange leaves
as new Fall acorns drop
we run into shadowy strides
as a horse back rider waves
to us down hills
of open songs
over Walden Pond trails
by breezy gestures
of the wind.
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