Goldie Lopez, 4 march 2013
Gentle petals velvet feel
Colors mix with luminous steal
Giving away beauty, a priceless thrill
A bud of a flower...
thorn covered stem,
what was the meaning of loving man than?
Entwine with pleasure, fueled with pain,
the ecstasy of beauty is like a pulsing vain.
Soft silky petals, sweet aromas dance
Blossoming embrace, hidden chance
Smile formed expressions
Starlit moon, none other could be mesmerizing as you
Enhanced intentions, fragrance of love
Though there is none greater beauty,
than a efflorescent bud.
Written by,
Goldie Lopez
{ You know I find myself always writing poems like this. I was wondering what kind of poetry is it? I'm writing poetry that tells a story with adding just a few words or using words to describe, yet are unrelated to the actual poem, though still connects to it. }
Gert Strydom, 4 march 2013
The time for reconnoitre expeditions
to icy remote places, to the highest peaks
and the to the depths of the primeval forests
are archaic and past.
The time for reconnoitre expeditions
to neighbouring countries
where military fighting was present
are seen by some
as vague legends and vague victories
where every moment could hold death
but any facts about those discovery expeditions,
reconnoitre of the inhospitable wilderness,
discovery of battle tanks, armoured cars,
helicopters that buzzed along like beetles
and the military action that followed
are avoided in this time of peace
and all that remains
is to climb to the peaks of the wind
with a oxygen mask;
to jump from very high
into the blue space
or with similar breathing apparatus
to explore and discover
the depths of the ocean.
[Verwysing: Ekspedisie (Reconnoitre expedition) by Johan Myburg.]
Gert Strydom, 4 march 2013
(after Ernst van Heerden)
Somewhere in the bushes
we camped on that cold winter night
and later in the darkness
the cold icily penetrated our bones;
on military patrol we had to know better
but to break the cold
we lighted a small fire
while men at first lay ready with their rifles
and we knew that the fire pointed out
our presence and our position to the enemy
but after days without any enemy contact
and being tired of the ration packs
a fire was made
where the wood hissed and crackled
and a snake came burning out of its hole
as that hell burned
along with worms, insects and beetles
and when we dragged another log nearer
worms and ants curled in the powder ash
as they went into that blazing fire
and we looked at this scene
with hands stretched out
over the comfortable heat
when an enemy rocket grenade
buzzed nearer and drew a bright red arc,
exploding in a hellish glare
and it destroyed almost everything
to bits of sand and dust.
[Reference: Uitwissing (Obliteration) by Ernst van Heerden.]
Gert Strydom, 4 march 2013
(after Ernst van Heerden)
There is something closing in this winter
that suddenly appears
something sad, merciless, something not earned
which in each fallen leave, dead flower
carries death as if everything living
in a way is now handed over
as if customs, hope, convictions
are shredded in the coming darkness.
There are thunderbolts descending
and drawing blue-white lines
as if the Godly voice once again attempts
to awake everything
while any kind of sheltering
is swept away by the one natural disaster after the other
and man’s technological wonders are in vain
while the planet is busy changing
and manmade destruction is spreading throughout nature;
radioactive radiation, pollution and earthly heating
has a impact on everything that lives and animals and man begins to suffer
while extinction circles out wider and wider.
[Reference: Droë somer (Dry summer) by Ernst van Heerden.]
Satish Verma, 4 march 2013
They walk in dreams
nightmarishly
spirits of nameless faces
staring without eyes.
The screams:
of a child
on whom you poured boiling water.
The screams:
of a girl made to wear only flesh, because
she ran away with a priest.
The screams:
of a wipped woman
who tasted the laughing moonlight.
Death makes a big hole
in a spooky silence!
Are you listening?
Satish Verma
Blossom Sol, 3 march 2013
A Moonful swallow of
wollowing waters
deeply enriched with siliver lined
hearts and pulses
pulsating the movement
of crossroad promises
taking me deeper into my destiny
drowning me in the pity
that has been waiting
anxiously to
smother me in molecules
of electric energy
pulsating pulsating
to the depths of death
to be reborn in the light
out of sight
out of mind
I become blind to its beauty
to its angel aura
river mermaid charm
singing bells
of a rushing water filled alarm
for an echoing fall
in a silver moon ball
that is
free
free
from all that is bound
I am everything
and I am nothing
Never to be found.
cauchy3, 3 march 2013
Public hearing…
Some argots from religion cults are here.
Mercy gods as fires will get us not to suffer all by erase the vicious. Gods from eight diagrams come and kill the evils. Either ways with magic fruits have immortal seeds.
Troops and arms are called by men. Points in eight have many ways. Routes in eight are army arrays. To be all to all is good. Just and sound you call my name. My nickname is silver moon. Talk to me in public. CIVICISM needs our public hearing. Some enactment may so good. Some enactments may so bad and need our gods to change.
-------------Cheung Shun Sang=Cauchy3----------
Blossom Sol, 3 march 2013
Purgatory iron bars reflecting
drip drying blood in the sun
of lost dreams
lost desires
empty thoughts
swaying in my wind for ears
cheers from the birds
they heard my footsteps
creeping up on love
praying to the above
oh have forgiveness on my sins
my will is your will
i am yours
yet silence crept around faster
smoothered in plaster
breaking at the sound of rain
chained to these bars
these iron death decaying
once betraying
illusionary, monetary bars.
Flash the gold,
blow the blessing
No secret to hide
in my unwashed dressing
of moment grabbing garmets
that caress invisible pain
that suggest I am insane
but yet in fact just remotley obsecure
to lure in false tendancies
to allure, to cure
to use hands that heal
steal steal steal
fatal energy
beautiful electricity
of this avant garde
remorse
i feel for
not feeling
anything
anymore.
Anthony DiMichele, 3 march 2013
you have to be short for a guy
misshapen and ugly
as if your face was made with the flat
side of a shovel
in wet cement
to lurk openly in broad daylight and mean it
unintentionally
suspiciously
while every caress leaves you feeling
secretly filthy
and your doppleganger is out there
looking to deal with the devil
who is beautiful
white and expensive
no not us we say
I wish I were green
or striped like a mandrel’s genitals
I would lay baskets of poppycock before goldilocks
you just have to be ugly
small
to key the boxcars full of you know who
going you know where for you know what
to clear nostrils on red carpet
or valet service for a ufo under a carport
don’t go there
once you have seen one and talk yourself out of it
only to discover you are a liar much later
you revel in the freedom of hair coloring
hand-me-downs
even ghetto was begotten
by the same sow
huffing a cocktail
mixed by a slave
oh yes
yes
smaller and uglier even
Satish Verma, 3 march 2013
When the hate began
subordinating,
where were you?
O!
My clothes were on fire.
When you climbed the lips,
words were livid on tongue:
beyond the earth and sky,
water and air,
fire!
You stutter?
Speak not truth.
I don’t exist;
my flesh has become food
red meat,
dirty orchid!
I will forget me! !
Satish Verma
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