Joe Breunig, 24 june 2016
We are not motivated
by a sacred concept
of moral regulations;
the heart’s context
of pleasing The Lord,
presses us… forward.
His Love covers sin
and senses of awkward-
ness that afflict us.
Before Him, we come
to offer our praise,
heartfelt thanksgiving
and lives to essay
a lifestyle of Faith.
As His adopted Children,
we’re to mature, grow
and rise above the din
of this World’s noise.
Author notes
Inspired by:
1 Tim 3:15-16
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2016, All rights reserved.
Joe Breunig, 24 june 2016
O Lord, let them see You, in me.
With the Light of Your Presence,
the lost are unknowingly brought
closer to You and Your essence…
for the benefit of their souls.
With the divine manifestation,
of Your Spirit brightly shining,
allow Your message of Salvation
to flow effortlessly… out of me.
Let them see Your Goodness, Mercy,
Joy, Grace, Peace and Gentleness;
caress the souls who are thirsty
in tangible ways, so they may find
abundant Life and promised victory,
for which provision has been given.
Touch them Lord and let them see!
Author notes
Inspired by:
Eph 3:8-12; Gal 5:22-23; 2 Cor 13:3-5
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2016, All rights reserved.
Satish Verma, 24 june 2016
Prisoner of praise
was slave of anger:
sucks the rival in high speed.
The violence travels
from roots to leaves
The lake bleaches, puts out the skull
a myth is washed out
in complete agony.
Give me the hemlock
I am ready to burn inside.
Crazy moon
where did you go?
Hunger had been arrested in bloody eyes.
Now fumes are rising.
The iron fist no longer strikes
demands to know
why you had to go?
For the first time
I had no answer.
Satish Verma, 23 june 2016
Leave something for me to imagine.
A skeleton in a pond
leaps to the moon.
In an air bubble
lies the history of a suspended
name, wasted away on water.
A war is declared on the
family of words, not spoken
to anguish of man.
I thought of my sun
averting a disaster. The sprouts
will not come out of the earth.
An enquiry into the nature of
immanence, leads to starvation.
The body of truth turns into a snake.
The revolution within, shows
a false victory. You start again
from the ugly fingers.
Satish Verma, 21 june 2016
I don’t fake the pain
pain was me.
A grafted rose opens up along the road rage.
This was the city of my birth
my oblivion, my reincarnation
ejaculated from the dark.
Here I found the golden dust
nuggets of truth
and the nostalgia of a broken moon.
The marble white love
and green bowl of arms
a happy valley of stings.
The sun backtracks on hills
when I walk on sands
leaving the deep scars.
A small horizon was my window
hunger of nightingales on branches.
The tree was walking in, my house.
Satish Verma, 20 june 2016
Creeping in waking night
was fear of fear
and you wanted to accept the defeat
retreat,
It gives you solitude of
blank space, featureless.
The terrorist mask of blazing guns
bribing the absent gods,
for whom you are aiming?
The holy man on road
fakes,
crushing the grass
lilies getting flattened under the giant wheels.
Moving an bloody toes
festering heels
carrying the sacred earth under the nails
all night.
peeling the time, throwing the skn
and waiting
for the dust to settle.
Satish Verma, 19 june 2016
He was not him,
today the day ended with a boom,
had walked aimlessly for hours
in half fear and half hope.
Window filters a new moon. It
burns the pillow, wets the glass,
had he kissed goodbye
to the glass house?
Tired of being a dwarf
bridging the gap between hurts and animus.
The truth was only known to the deported.
Smoldering in the cauldron for years
he was never ripe for the plunge;
his kind refused to cling to straw for ever.
Wanted inner shength to stand
against the shots, to read the illegible words
and pick up the dawn from falling stars.
Satish Verma, 18 june 2016
An all pin pricks again
draws blood from empty hands
blank papers fly.
Trying to learn Braille
to write a canto
for unseeing Budha.
Unbroken tinnitus violates peace.
night is also blanking the vowels
Pain has become wordless.
Light can only be assumed
fleeing from the moon.
only breeze gives the hint.
The burning grass scrolls back:
there is no healer
in the bush.
David de la Croes, 17 june 2016
in caskets of husks
buried in shallow graves
faint pulses are beating -
waiting on the sun
to flower again
David de la Croes, 17 june 2016
wet shadows
on misty morning -
lonely trees
have cried
all night
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