Gert Strydom, 10 december 2014
At times
I do wonder
if You do hear my words
or do give attention to them
as constantly You are in the shadow
where I do see nothing of You
but small things do happen
and You are here
nearby.
Gert Strydom, 10 december 2014
My Lord
the day does break,
it does feel as if You
are right here and the great beauty
does linger while I find deeper meaning,
do feel very humble like a child
where You do determine
every small thing
with love.
Satish Verma, 10 december 2014
After the rain wets the ground,
a damp, naked silence,
floats in air
on the wrong side of the moon.
A strange mist, like a post coital whiff
envelops you savagely.
The testa breaks.
A forest heaves beneath your nails.
History moves through the layers
of family. You become a forgotten saint,
an archaic reminder of half-solid
truth. Green mirrors reflect a fading sun.
Wasps are climbing on a presence,
for a kill. A lake drifts in the yes
to stun the departure. You breathe
death dreaming a blue flower.
Salvatore Ala, 9 december 2014
If you weigh the stars in the balance
Glaciers are nurseries of the stars.
They are weighbridges to the borealis,
Ice roads into isolated communities.
They’re hydroelectric power plants,
Evolutionary clocks, mammoth museums,
Icebox mountains of organic matter.
Meltwaters surge from the summits
Enlivening salmon in summer streams,
Nourishing the valley with snowmelt.
Glaciers are a kind of counterweight
To their own absence tipping the scale.
Once gone, what could replace glaciers
That we’d not burn in water/drown in fire.
Salvatore Ala, 9 december 2014
You want balance, but this abandoned bicycle
In Amsterdam borders on paralysis.
It is Chaplin pretending to be the Fuhrer.
It is whoever survives, whoever escapes…
It is a flower cart that flowers in the same spot.
It is modern art, the unraveling of modes,
Picasso’s “Bull’s Head” reconstituted,
A bicycle trellis in European horticulture,
An instrument for the music of rarest days.
Someone left this bicycle and didn’t return.
Someone locked this bicycle here and died,
Or moved, or moved away and died,
Or became a novelist, like Michel Houellebecq.
It’s a sacrificial lamb, a contract with loopholes,
A love letter from the bicycle crazes.
The wheels of the sky ripen among vines.
The pedals are powered by the sun,
And with wind, deep-rooted to the spot,
The lock is slowly unlocking, like space.
Salvatore Ala, 9 december 2014
You who reason and speak
Speak for us who have no names and no names.
You who come and go
Walk among wheelchairs in random space.
You who are alone
Open these doors to see who is alone and alone.
You who are lost
Find yourself among the lost who are lost.
You who are jealous
Look at what men owning nothing own.
You who hate
Imagine hatred when temperament is all tenderness.
You who are in pain
Ponder this painless abstraction.
You who have God
Consider a God of global amnesia.
You who are searching
Exit the mind and it is still mind and you are saved.
Salvatore Ala, 9 december 2014
for Alan Blind Owl Wilson
I’m going up to music mountain
Where all my friends have gone,
Where the air is pine-scented
And you’re high all the time.
They say the mountain is tuneful,
You can hear the fire of the sun,
And at night the humming stars
And beyond them, God’s blues harp.
Salvatore Ala, 9 december 2014
After the first beheading, hope was severed like a limb.
After the second, love produced a fountain of blood.
After the third, faith changed faces with fear.
After the fifth, knowledge bled to the last drop.
After eight beheadings, God recoiled.
After fifteen, there was no more happiness.
After twenty, it all seemed propaganda.
After thirty-four, more headless people took office.
After fifty-five, a collective body was sworn in.
After ninety-nine, children played with human heads.
After two hundred, there were no more days of peace.
After four hundred, it was hell on earth.
After six hundred, the executioners were put to death.
After a thousand beheadings, they dare not stop.
After fifteen hundred, fate and freedom were indivisible.
After twenty-five hundred, the heads kept singing.
After five thousand, a dialogue began.
After seven, the heads became oracles.
After ten thousand, there were more priests than people.
After fifteen, the books were sealed.
After twenty thousand, it was a total human eclipse...
Renato N. Mascardo, 9 december 2014
turn of the screw
when you
catch a lucid
moment we share it with
such delight then you let it go
turning the screw that foils
your mind to break
my heart//
renato
monday 08 december 2014
Gert Strydom, 9 december 2014
A touch
of lips speeds up
the quick rhythm of the heart
and a silent single glance causes
a deluge of emotions to follow
when some simple act does love express
to explore uncharted
territory
with you.
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