Satish Verma, 8 august 2016
A tumbler climbs a rain
in all crimelessness.
Perhaps you will never know
my invaginating self. The thirst has
become a river.
A pile of books and I cannot read.
The shadow lengthens on the wall.
An eagle melts in the air.
They are shifting him for amputation.
Truth cannot walk.
I become my father tonight
and watch the house burning.
I am told there was lot of bleeding before.
There will be no need to rescuscitate.
The dead man says, why not?
Satish Verma, 7 august 2016
A golden fish in
blue waters, with many eggs,
collecting the sperms.
Haiku in sun-
light was the essence of
the daydreaming.
The lost road in
bamboos comes out
as solitary song.
steven cooke, 6 august 2016
A fertile wind lures a petting call
from the bull who will swim the Lough.
Immortality lurks within its perfume
of dynasty and a future king.
The scent of tomorrow makes love extinct
for our genes are perfumed with success.
Prada and Versace can make the lemon sweet
but the offspring will question this statue,
we call David.
Poets will bleed a loves embrace
this beauty of presence a royal write.
While nature spins the spiders web
of a lover who creates life with death.
These tears will soon be forgotten,
in the rose that greets the winter.
For love grows cold in the markets of man.
But love should not be abandoned
for creation is a spiritual thing.
As the warrior holds his head against the tree,
unspoken words transcend this earth
that only his isolation can see.
And in its meaning
love can find a nobility,
that prostitution will never be.
Love was a word that once made empires fall,
now reduced in the confetti of modernisation.
A face book soul caught in the pouting lips
of adolescence,
staring into the depths of an old man unseen.
And the obese teenager that parents adore
go blind to this locked door .
While mirrors delight in snow white dreams
and a wardrobe that secretly desires perversion.
For the window of porn gags for that.
Sex is the ticket to the premiere
that eventually all her friends will see
and the weak will be the spillage
Of a corn sack filled
by a man that only a rapist will see.
Walk into this gas chamber
And succumb to a kiss,
prostituted by a River Island fee
and a Rimmel greasy lipstick.
That makes the suitor hard
inflamed by the chemical caress of perfume
which will procreate another lost child
Into oblivion.
And love will show its face once more
In the bottle of regret
and a being too fat to work.
Spilling the grease from his chips
while watching the latest premiere
Of another adolescent dream
Joe Breunig, 6 august 2016
When you… embrace His Grace,
you are made complete in Him;
the moral purity of His Word
and the power of His Presence
are sufficient for your race,
that you take alone on Earth.
He is your definitive Source,
your eternal, tireless Counsel,
your All-in-All and The Almighty.
Christ’s shed blood was worth
the sacrifice, He made for you!
Trust His Word, the finished work
on The Cross and His promises;
speak His Truth over your Life;
and you’ll discover breakthroughs
that draw you… even closer to Him!
Believe for His health, provision,
plan and purpose that He’s offered;
His efforts are final and complete;
honor Him now with songs and hymns!
Author notes
Inspired by:
Mal 3:6; Num 23:19; Psa 33:11, 143:8;
Col 3:16; Eph 5:19
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2016, All rights reserved.
Satish Verma, 6 august 2016
While drinking the long night
you became taller than the eternal
question, bitten by the moon.
Witchhunting will not stop
in oligarchy. A human right
stands on the ivory gate to enter the dust.
The weightlessness is paraded
nude amongst the full-lipped
follies of ornamental speech.
The duende was lacking in palace.
Rivals held the moonlight.
Now the muse will become celibate.
A giant mantis hops on a podium
to bless the dying god, and the candle
burns whole night.
Florian Konrad, 5 august 2016
to tekst niealfabetyczny
podpisujący się trzema krzyżykami
(pod jednym śpi drewniany smok
zgadnij pod którym)
czytasz- i widzisz jak na dłoni
że to poezja dotknięta mutyzmem
wycofana z życia
to park kryjący w sobie uroczy cmentarzyk
zdzierasz wierzchnią warstwę granitu i piasku
odsłania się fragment, połyskująca kość
fragmenty łusek
i żar stopiony w strzałkę
wiesz że prowadzi do wewnątrz
fałszywy kierunek
tam tylko drzwi- na głucho
odźwiernego pochowali w zeszłym roku
obiecywał że wróci
z torbą pełną jabłek
Florian Konrad, 5 august 2016
z ziemi florskiej- pod włos!
- mój nocny Stróż szczerzy nie najświeższe zębiska
a jakbyś przyciął pióra
poglądy- koniecznie w wybielacz
podleczył wyznanie(za bardzo zawiewa wonią blachy!)?
- pytam gościa z szyb i luster
może zawołać go/ ich/ nas
owinąć mapą i poczęstować
pseudochińską zupką z folii
niech znają miejsce w szeregu, zapamiętają
trasę zawodów (no dobrze- ucieczki
przed Gwardią Szwajcarską)
może uda się zająć któreś z pierwszych miejsc
e, jednak znielubiłem tych ja- ludków
odkąd przyłapałem jednego w szpilkach
z harlequinem w dłoni
-gardzi mi się, podśmiechuje
leciutko
Florian Konrad, 5 august 2016
w czasach rozkwitu rzadko zapinano nas pod szyję
praca była groźną używką
pycha- w dobrym tonie
uważaliśmy się za ćwierćcarewiczów (feldszczeniactwo!)
mediatorów w odwiecznym sporze
pomiędzy kruchtą a piwniczką
(poczekaj aż pękną, okaże się że w niepoświęconym
winie było więcej veritasu)
a potem rozpylono sen, zza niedokończonych
lasów dała się słyszeć melodia
(techno? dancehall?)
idziemy tak, drapiąc słowa piosenek
(czerwone flaki na Monte Cassino
- chłopaki
przyszłam na świat po to, aby kochać cienie
-laski)
weselicho się rozkręca, a my- w rozklekotanych halówkach
brzuchy z głodu- jak bębny pralek
franie wypełnione żwirem
bzdurzymy o dziewczynie, co to na rauszu
upadła na podłogę. twarz wrosła w dechy
zaraz przyplatał się pop czy pastor, oprawiono
głowę nieszczęśnicy w ramy
i wisi w jakiejś cerkwi, czy zborze
poczerniała od kopcących świec
upragniona biesiada- coraz dalej. państwo młodzi
pewnie doczekali się wnuków
oplatamy nowe historie, kaleczą się usta
nie rozdziobią nas pawie, nie rozwloką brony
na ikonie
krzywi się przedwcześnie postarzała buzia
Satish Verma, 5 august 2016
Do I have a choice
before knifing the page
for a meaning, when I was
drowned in a nostalgia?
Cinchona bark. This was my
keyword for living bitterly
under a tryant inciting
the riots of colors.
The digital death comes as
a reward for insane truth.
You turn the back on home
and walk towards the sea –
to count the empty shells on beach.
Here life completes a cycle
from emptiness to emptiness.
You are ready to go in void.
*On the death of Steve Jobs.
Gert Strydom, 4 august 2016
Will it last this romantic fantasy of shadow and light?
The crimson-red rising moon hangs low where we do walk
through this lovers-lane that it is making tonight.
You are right against me while of lasting love we talk.
Is it magic or a strange kind of reality
when your arms slip around my head,
when you do passionately kiss me
am I alive, in heaven or dead?
As if God on us does His blessing endow
when you promise to be my wife
your whole face does glow,
and this is a day in my and your life.
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