B.Z. Niditch, 7 september 2016
Art with all senses
the colors that sets you apart
hits you in the reality
in each of design
of a Dutch grittiness
in the sponged face
of your "Christmas Card"
along with twice
the combinations
of past and future space
leveled in the linear unknown
at touching up
the avant-garde
for when your
propeller splashes
us on this nape of orange
in a museum canvas
we observe merely the surface
of red sashes
of geometric shapes
Mondrian's fusion drapes
in an illusion
of luminous shadow
of eccentric waves
of ink dreams
brushed between two oceans
in a parachute of our senses
hushed as an eccentric painter
craves to line and draw on
all of our anxious emotions.
B.Z. Niditch, 7 september 2016
Tell me everything my friend
about lighting candles
for the victims of fascism
about your love for the lost
of Christ,
for the scarred
from my voice's mouth
with Mary's eyes of sorrow
wishing to speak your parables
for those who look at tomorrow
with only an abstraction
yet turn it into
the avant-garde
migraine times
of Simone Weil
the writing letters
of Kierkegaard
Kafka and Gogol's
death wish
not to be known who yearn
to burn their life's works
as you start learning
about the trains of thought
those about to perish
when the late day shadow
of the sun remembers
the half observed,
those who served
the "Master Race"
or who still turn
away their Stalag face
at the cross in the Gulag
we still ask as Mary
for His grace.
Satish Verma, 6 september 2016
When life is done
and parrots are gone;
take me to the canal.
All life lived in small
footprints. There were eponyms
all the way.
When the name is done
and wigs are gone;
take me to the canal.
The kids had guns, when
you were hacked. You wrote
for yourself one beautiful elegy.
When the road was done and
stones were gone;
take me to the canal.
In one blue moon, one another day,
a journey will start in
elephant grass. They were hiding
behind the bush. When pink and white
I will unfurl a flag
take me to the canal.
Truth handbound in jail for a crime
I will dig a grave for you.
Take me to the canal.
Satish Verma, 4 september 2016
Would not wear
the seasoned face.
Eye for eye
blasting the truth.
The path becomes the tunnel.
Unending,
in pain of speech
at the expense of ethics.
Under the fingernails
they start interbreeding
the ideas, crimnalizing the
upright past.
A vultured darkness descends
on the raped bed.
The great seduction of moon
had triumphed.
Joe Breunig, 3 september 2016
There are times, when we all need to
turn away from the things of this World;
though sinful behaviors can be pleasing,
we must live boldly with Faith unfurled!
How can we contemplate or desire living
without God’s great Love and Salvation?
Can we even afford to wastefully spend
our precious time with sad frustrations,
knowing that we may find ourselves in
Hell’s eternity with no possible escape?
We’re fortunate, to be on this side of
Salvation, knowing how Love was shaped
in the crucifixion of Christ at Calvary.
We have the ability to build our lives,
while overcoming all unexpected sorrows;
let’s drop the weapons… guns and knives
of destruction; the weakness of our flesh
is calling and pleading with our spirits
to return to its fallen state; but we’ll
only see Death’s sadness and its limits
even though… we could be rejoicing forevermore!
Author notes
Inspired by:
John 3:16
A collaboration of poets Gabriel Eziorobo
and Joseph J. Breunig 3rd.
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2016, All rights reserved.
Joe Breunig, 3 september 2016
The time for decisions is NOW;
for tomorrow is… not promised.
Open up your spirit to Christ;
heed the words of the psalmist
and grow by the tenets of Faith.
Now is the time for Salvation,
which is acceptable in His eyes;
Upon The holy Word’s foundation,
we’re supposed to stand, as we
fight the good fight of Faith;
so press and move forward in Him,
until reaching… Heaven’s gate.
Procrastination isn’t the answer,
for we’ll kneel, before the seat
of Judgment; an accounting of our
time will be presented, complete
with both failures and successes.
Will you be recognized, as one of
those faithful few, who will be…
welcomed into God’s Kingdom of Love?
Author notes
Inspired by:
Psa 69:13; Isa 49:8; 1 Cor 3:11;
Matt 25:21
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2016, All rights reserved.
Satish Verma, 3 september 2016
Boots in air
an elite brain hangs out
from the tall tears.
It does not search an exit.
Time moves out
with a murder in eyes.
Leading a spartan life
in a lair, in tune
with absolutely zilch.
A sexy mouth mimes
for a glittering tree.
Parakeets were coming in swarms.
Can you believe, he was
in a hit list
of a gliding moon?
Satish Verma, 2 september 2016
A livid moon had started
a body count for undoing a book.
The base thinks it has arrived.
The death zones were unconnected
by quality of crime waves. People
have started sitting under green trees.
A social outcast silently reaches
the script. It was imperative that
two-edged sowrd should become sectarian.
The dew, the baked blood and the blades,
wait for the lifting of sorrow.
The fire would crack the code of death.
Do not bribe the stained linen
and dyed hair. The permafrost will
swallow the petrified feet.
Satish Verma, 1 september 2016
You were half-crazy
saving little buds
brutalized by storm
in a yawning night.
The ugly silver of a fringe
group becomes intentionally
a hate cult, developing
an epicenter for stripping
to devastate a religion. The
ghosts are walking in the
corridors of mirrored crimes.
There is a creeping sadness in the golden lock.
The blood craft brings obscene
inheritance. You hide the script of
murder in a wheel chair. Things have
not remained things. There is smoke all around.
Satish Verma, 31 august 2016
It was night sin
of domesticity. Dyed, I am loading
the white secret of pain
in the hollow of a mayhem.
Till every blunder takes a
downward flight striping the outsized
image of a kill. His flames are
now singeing the eyebrows of angels.
His foes have entered the compound.
The black was alluringly looped in
a stream of blood. Death did not
wait for a ceremony.
Lips forgetting the golden sheep,
tongue apologies for the wronged earth.
Poetry
Prose
Photography
Graphics
Video poems
Postcards
Diary
Books
Handmade
