Satish Verma, 4 august 2016
Put off the lantern.
I am waiting for the moon’s
primal face. The lesser flamingoes
were going to shed the pink color.
Nude as a python, the kiss
of pomegranates, kills by asphyxiation.
I suffer in the hands of protests.
The black ice now enters the eye of a needle.
A barefoot noun feeds the junta.
The butter babies will serve the poetry
of poor on the mats of principles.
I will remain unslept on straw.
A newspaper eats the story this side.
After the bloodbath surgeons weep.
An armless lover hugs a priest
for not calling the gods.
steven cooke, 3 august 2016
The face behind the harlequins gaze
hides the scars of yesterdays man.
Born in an Attercliffe slum
in the rags of fathers graft,
with a pencil for a voice
stolen from milk mans note.
A boy in possession of an imagination
and no future
Who can still see a glimmer in the rust
buried in the abandoned steel works,
lost in council’s regeneration
of a green field sites that now offers
the quest for a four leaf clover.
This gift can be a lonely thing
in a world of regimented minds.
Inspiration needs a partner
for every word is a journey.
Writing belongs to my addiction
and my love
for the glorious water of Scotland.
For a single malt can make a man hear
the ghosts from the past.
The fear of being the scruffiest lad at school
leaves a generals memory of war
bullies and a pregnant girls shame.
A school is a flag that I shall not pass
for its contents means nothing to me.
The wood that that lost its view
to the Stalag of tomorrow’s drones
Can only cry in silence.
But I who was born in its shadow
found solitude and my fortress
Inside a tent of twigs
in a cold uncaring world.
My soul could never connect with
the wage packet teachers
who are as forgetful as me.
The boy who found his dreams
In the cover of the oak.
Whose presence still remembers
the torn book of Sassoon
thrown into the brambles discarded,
as the generation within it was.
I am the voice whose audience was the wood
and applause came from imagination,
though the spirits of the past looked on.
The immortality of silence
is only a pretender.
For it shouts within my soul of past memories,
Of a ghost I do not know
existing in the denial of god.
A being that time cannot touch.
And long after I am dead ,
the wind will carry this immortal feather
and in its dance a ghost will be seen.
Looking for a stolen pencil
and a torn book that nobody reads.
Satish Verma, 3 august 2016
Melting in the cauldron to feed,
until later, I will seek you
in parallel interpretations.
Presently, thoughts are very disturbing.
Human rights for animals
caged in peals
of god realization.
I was thinking to quit the stage.
Symptoms are horrific.
Neoplasm was spreading.
I am scared of the plague.
Sweet corns of sex:
million pieces smile,
drained out healing?
Who will save the river?
Discharges are crippling
the soft limbs,
the truth.
Man walks, shudders, falls
wants to rise again,
from the ashes of hate.
Gert Strydom, 2 august 2016
There is something in how she looks at me and looks away again
and I think aloud Satan, Lucifer, demon, devil be gone
as she is going to seduce me with her summer sunshine laughter
in the twilight, dark night or bright day
with her eyes that glitter when she notices me
and I wonder if God does provide such lovely girls
with her walking away that continually whispers promises
and her voice that falls sweetly on my ear
but when she stands right in front of me
and talks to me my breath is taken away
and I notice a small muscle jumping, jumping in her throat
and her snow-white teeth, her hands, freckles and feet is something
against which I do not know how to resist
and then she brings her lips right against mine.
Gert Strydom, 2 august 2016
Your walking away is measured in watt.
Not the 1100 p.m.p.o. of a door slamming shut behind you
that are opened and slammed again
but it is the pattering gait that just can be heard
and the whisper of satin
when you do go to our bedroom
and welcoming the door stays open
when continuously the fourteen-day rain does softly fall
and flames hiss at the fireplace and wood gleam red from the heat
while Steve Hofmeyer on the Kenwood music system
does sing sadly like Neil Diamond
and candles burn romantically at the bath
like a Jewish candlestick that welcomes the Sabbath
and does announce the beginning of the year of jubilee
where everything is again nice and right
to far into the future
and no children or grandchildren
do bring resistance in their visiting multitude
and you and I are alone
like Adam and Eve
when they did noticed each other for the first time.
Satish Verma, 2 august 2016
Stay away from the main road
Subhumans are coming.
Face of black spiders, long arms
creeping, hopping.
The green blood and burning sticks;
gateway to moon
sun decides to vanish.
Confronting the flesh makes you clenched snake,
lymphocytes start crowding
death was drawing near.
A fawn wanders without mother
pink eyes, trotting on grass,
syndicated trackers are circling.
End or means? What you choose,
will decide the future of man.
Let the flame become nameless.
A cupped beak and hairy thighs
climb on the rock
to squander the seeds.
Clouds are gathering at distance
I may not wait for the rain.
I am going to swallow the pill.
Gert Strydom, 1 august 2016
Annoyed the small girl turns to him and says: “Oh no.”
Bees do fly around her in the garden.
Caesar stands in front of her
dangling a wooden sword in his hand,
eager to come to her defence.
Followers to come to their aid do not exist.
Great numbers of vicious bees want to sting them.
He hits a few as enemies down.
Ibises fly up frightened and screaming
just when a whole swarm of bees want to sting them.
Keen-witted he drags her away by the hand.
“Leave us alone you demons,” he screams.
More and more bees fly venomously nearer,
nowhere there is any escape
“Obviously we are going to loose this battle,” his princess says anxious.
Pacify they cannot the enemy. Who is the wretched
quisling that have betrayed them to the foes?
Racing, their hearts beat and they cannot guess while the enemy swish nearer
sting and buzz and they have got to
take defeat and fall back.
Unarmed against the enemy they flee to the protection of the
villa with its huge windows
where no bees can reach them and like a real
Xanthippe mother yells at them to get out of the
yard where it has become very dangerous.
Zulu, the Maltese poodle continually does howl outside.
Satish Verma, 1 august 2016
They entered the genome of enemy
to hide agoraphobia
I will be tortured now
by hanging man.
A loaded belief;
being with crocodiles was safe.
How far we swim in reverse currents?
The moon will annihilate us.
There was fear for dwelling in hateful ripples.
It was the gift of rivals,
a phenomenon of sacrfice for the lamb.
Not being with the times, you walk heavily,
waking stones in blood.
It was too late to ask for the pain – killers.
The language does not help.
The words trot clumsily.
You search the solace in coarseness
protecting cranium.
Satish Verma, 31 july 2016
Black emptiness.
Death opens like a flower,
somebody is walking in.
You think of a soft punishment
for becoming faithless.
It was becoming a way of life.
Unlimited agony of wait
something to happen.
Nothing is heard in the field.
No shots. No kill.
Your day was over.
Night descends like a puzzle.
Grey cornea on the white lens:
clouds are playing a game,
mist has a smoky smell.
A city sleeps at last.
A poem I will not read.
It was my ancient address.
Joe Breunig, 30 july 2016
I had been sadly blinded
by my sinful misery,
listening to Life pass by;
Would I, be able to see
the Love that You had bestowed?
I’m stuck on this broken road;
restore my vision today,
as my purpose has been slowed.
I was like Bartimaeus,
waiting for Christ to find me;
unto Him, I cried and called;
He lovingly met my plea.
He greeted me where I was,
shunned by the neighborhood crowd;
transfixed, I stood before Him,
with my spirit, humbly bowed.
With gentleness He then spoke:
“Son, what’s your heart’s desire?”
When I quickly answered Him,
my spirit caught Faith’s fire!
Surprised, I rose to my feet,
as my sight was now restored;
astonished, with thanksgiving,
I embraced and praised… my Lord!
Today, I’m walking by Faith
even when I can’t see it;
traveling this broken road,
prepared Your great will for me.
Teach me Lord, Your Holy Writ
and to live with renewed Faith!
Knowing that Your Grace has flowed;
please lift me up, from my knees!
Author notes
Inspired by:
Mark 10:46-52
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2016, All rights reserved.
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