B.Z. Niditch, 16 october 2012
We exchanged autographs
in our slim volumes
between university streets
and picture card Warsaw
on country roads
of pre-war optimism
huddled between whispers
of childhood traveling
from rag pickers of the mind
hearing etudes of Chopin
as any Parisian exile
sinking between
premature fears
over bridges
of history and expatriation
passing sleep houses
from a voiceless hour
on a late train
when a mute shower
of ashes came down
from the heavens
on the tracks
leading to our own
death in life departures.
B.Z. Niditch, 16 october 2012
No inspection needed
at the border,
caught by authorities
reading "Trans-Atlantyk"
on a train
with the picture and odor
of the Katyn forest
and Treblinka,
from an old obituary notice
in a tabloid newspaper
stuffed in my shabby suitcase,
with a faded cross and star
on the luggage logo
by aimless trees
returning to Poland
after forty years of rain,
does anyone leave here
or return
without radar or passport
marked exile, pious
or cosmopolitan
stamped in one's conscience
of a lost soul.
Glenn McCrary, 15 october 2012
Fondled by the temptation of an autumn sunset
Erect stands a woman in the cradle of such potent winds
Quite dashingly contributing colour to the scene
Her silky, black dress enveloping her ever so tightly
Composing the shape of an inviting taboo
Whilst refraining all comely sounds of vernacular
How her lips whisper things of which previously I knew not
Sign o’ the times
Gert Strydom, 15 october 2012
(with apologies to Roger Woddis)
If I had my way with communist men
I’d bath them all in oil,
I’d fill a pot full of tea with every vitamin
and make it boil
and serve it to every terrorist
even those that shelter him
and if I were a moralist
I would anoint every limb.
Fanatics are a civil-breed in great need
who dependent men gather for fun;
who beg them until they bleed,
yes, every single one, every daughter and son
and they probably go abroad
to do the things they are at,
but instead I love my cat
and not like that.
For we should love the human mind
as wisdom lead us to,
and those that don’t are probably blind
or somewhere behind
and cannot see either black or blue;
who probably eat and do not pay the bill
and listen to the restaurant’s proprietor shriek
and beg, rant and demand until
they pay the other week or he turn the cheek.
[Reference: “Down With Fanatics!” By Roger Woddis.]
Gert Strydom, 15 october 2012
The words of an inspector became meaningless
as if he was all along talking rubbish and turned clueless
when he heard the music teacher fart
and without excuse had a attack of the heart
and his droll stories couldn’t amuse or bless, became nothingness.
Gert Strydom, 15 october 2012
Many professionals and people in the middle class
wait for their days to pass
to go under cover of the night
to live their lives over, to get their delight
at home where there’s nothing that harass.
Satish Verma, 15 october 2012
He climbs on his being,
crawls
like a lizard;
frightens.
Sometimes after,
in a shock
falls back.
Runs away
leaving behind
a trembling trail.
Satish Verma
Matthew Bass, 15 october 2012
Am I insane?
Blessed with trials
of unclean angels
perfected with imperfection,
mirrors of experience
reflected in a cracked iris.
The holy face that follows
comforts and watches over
with a holy smile radiating
in stark starry sleepless
pre-dawn mornings intertwined
in long walks to nowhere
from Yuma to the Middle East
with notebooks of noble philosophy
holding hard against supernova
storm clouds that sway blindly
into unknown fiery revelations.
Murdered with angry shotguns
on the brink of failed hope
as thousands and thousands of
trumpeted bugles scream down hills
in complete darkness one can only
discover in slippery black sand.
Slipping away on credit
in imagined Spanish avenues
that continue on until irrelevance
is no longer a petty comfort
to watch pretty girls
dance on giddy toes
refraining "This is how I am"
thinking about strategy, conquest
the science of sex, and
the next fix.
This is for you Priya Shah
This is for you John Caltagirone
This is for you John Bouse
because this life is not for
petty meaningless us, we
pointless chroniclers of
what we strive to be with
words destined to fade slowly
in the utter blankness
of pre-dawn mornings cursed
with the comfort of self-important
tarnished abstraction obssesed
with structure, form, and
stark raving expression.
Without you we are nothing.
Jorge Luis Molina Fentanes, 14 october 2012
Hemos cumplido veintiún meses de novios y me da tanto gusto que aun nos llevemos tan bien. He sido tan feliz contigo que todo me parece hermoso.
No sé porque pero no me quejare porque no tengo de que.
Espero que mañana sean veintiún años y no meses de felicidad.
Espero que nunca me olvides y aunque estemos juntos jamás creas que soy tuyo porque entonces nos habremos dado por vencidos, la rutina habrá ganado, y nuestro amor habrá muerto.
Espero que Dios cuide de ti, de mí, y de nosotros.
Espero que tu, que yo, que nosotros no solo seamos un sueno, un recuerdo, pero una bonita realidad.
JorgeLuis
louis gander, 14 october 2012
Do our hearts ache when swift waves break
and wash up sandy beach
or do the waves sing, "Jesus saves!"
when up on beaches reach?
Does 'make life fair' entwine our prayers
though time cannot reverse?
His divine force would change our course
for better - not for worse.
Though freewill stalk will alter walk.
We traverse where we will.
Through other lands or beach head sands,
we'll travel on until -
our final stride meets where we died
and breath no longer flows -
and final prints expose all hints.
...for that is how life goes.
As I looked back, my lifelong track -
I was so much dismayed.
I persevered - but disappeared
those tracks in life I made.
My earthly talk was not all walk.
Again I look around.
With seashore grim, so stunned I am.
My prints cannot be found.
All lost one day and washed away -
a life that lived in haste -
and purpose quashed when prints were washed,
away - ohhh, what a waste!
I don't succumb, but ponder some -
now when I bow to pray.
And so it was, His waves, because
He washed those sins away!
Divine, His grace, hung in my place
when Jesus died instead.
With sins forgiv'n and bound for Heav'n
my earthly work is dead.
Let heart not ache, when waves should break
to smooth out wicked beach -
but follow yon His footsteps on,
'til destination reach...
©2012 louis gander ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
http://www.ganderpoems.org/
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