Glenn McCrary, 26 july 2012
In the California mines
There are 300,000
Native Americans hustling.
What type of verse
Could you possibly
Craft from that?
300,000 natives
Hustling in the
California mines.
sathyamala, 26 july 2012
I want to thank God
for giving your lovely spirit
to the world.
I want to thank your parents
for giving you
to us.
I want to thank you
for being
"My Friend."
I do not have experience to
bless you. But I have
little true heart
to wish you.
I want you to be like a
Phoenix which overcomes
all tribulations in its life.
And I want you to
be happy throughout your life.
sathyamala, 26 july 2012
Decorative locker,
full of printer papers
that leads the poor
to depression and
rich to madness
with it's power and beauty.
I'm not interested in those
colour papers,
I need some rest
in my mother's womb
it was also a failure one
because of these papers.
Now I got some sleep
in the hands of God.
But my parents are
still searching for those papers
in their life
for their loving son.
sathyamala, 26 july 2012
I feel so lonely Father,
I do not want a no man's land,
I feel so ditched,
Be a joker and make me laugh,
I don't want to continue this isolation.
Give me your hand,
That will make me feel better.
Give me some divine thoughts,
So that I can manage to
Live in this sinful world.
Give me some forgiving quality,
So that I can forgive myself.
Give some purity to my heart,
So that I will get rid of my impurity.
Do not let me go off
Into the hands of evil-
Protect me from the darker side of the world.
I always want to be yours
And yours alone Father.
Joe Breunig, 26 july 2012
Now that people are becoming more aware of my poetic efforts, interests are being expressed regarding the background of my poetry - in addition, to my spiritual muse. In this installment, I briefly look at the crucifixion of Christ - an event central to the core beliefs of Christianity. This poem was composed in February 2007, in anticipation of that year's celebration of Resurrection Sunday (Easter).
If I were relegated to a single television channel, it would be the "History Channel". It's amazing to witness the variety of programming on this one station; I love the many shows presented, especially "The Building of an Empire" series. Learning about the struggles of mankind, whether against people, weather or circumstance, is truly fascinating to me. Seeing ideas and concepts from the Egyptian and Roman empires really touch my spirit, having causally learned about them throughout "The Word" in various Bible pasages. To see the re-eanactments of cultures, coupled with their accomplishments and reasonings, creates "paradigm shifts" in my thinking and increases my ability to learn and retain new information.
At a young age, I taught myself to recognize lessons from others' experiences, which can be categorized as: good, bad or neutral. We all know that life can be hard; however, times during the Roman civilization was outright brutal. The Persians were the first group of people to practice crucifixion, a torture methodology improved upon by the Romans, after learning about it from the Carthaginians. Part of the Roman culture was the ideal of efficiency. Although they are notorious for their bloodsport, as witnessed by the cruelty displayed in the games of the Coliseum, the Romans were in the business of building an empire. However, in order to support their culture, they needed and wanted productive citizens. After all, productive citizens can be taxed and the money is then used for constructing the infrastructures required to support society (in general). So the Roman government used the cruelest method of torture available for one simple reason - to stop and prevent crime against its citizenry.
In the Word, we are instructed that the ways of Jehovah 'are higher than our ways'. With God's ability to transcend time and His wisdom surpassing the knowledge of our own revelations, we will always be behind Him in our understanding of this World. Meanwhile the preaching of The Cross is considered to be foolishness by those who reject the gift of Salvation. However, given the current explosion of earthly knowledge, it's interesting to look back at history with understanding recently achieved. [Please note: I'm not going into the gory details of crucifixion; others have provided more qualified details on this subject. Nor will I focus on who killed Him. So, it's "safe" to continue reading...]
One of the facts regarding the human body, is that we each (on average) contain eight pints of blood. The number eight has a spiritual significance, in that it represents the concept of "new beginnings", as first seen in Noah's ark. [Eight people were present - Noah, three sons and their four wives.] Also modern studies about crucifixion have shown that part of the stress the body endures is that the heart literally "breaks apart". So from my spiritual perspective, the death of Christ on the Cross is truly representative of a holy sacrifice, whereby the shedding of His innocent blood fully implies that a "new beginning" between God and Man has been initiated. In effect, Christ was the Earth's first blood donor when he was crucified - for He was wounded for the World's transgressions. His dying from a broken heart re-enforces the idea of God's continuing Love towards us, for Christ willingly and freely accepted His role to die on our behalf - in the worst possible way (known to mankind at that time). Concentrating on these concepts allowed me to create this effective poem, while I envisioned the irony of this one event (from heaven's perspective).
Joe Breunig, 26 july 2012
Now that people are becoming more aware of my poetic efforts, interests are being expressed regarding the background of my poetry - in addition, to my spiritual muse. In this installment, I share the background and poem "In Remembrance of Grandma".
I recognize that most of you reading this article will not know much about my maternal Grandmother, other than what you're able to glean from this page. However, there are universal lessons that need to be shared. This poem was originally written for her funeral.
For nearly forty years, I was blessed to have known my grandparents; blessed - because many people don't have the opportunity to know their family history personally from those who came before them. Within about one decade, mine were all gone - with my maternal grandmother being the last one to die. Of the four of them, I had spent the most time with her. My grandmother had moved to Portland, Maine; this came about as the result of two significant events in her life. First, her husband Al Massa died unexpectedly; second, her oldest daughter (and my mom) had gone through a divorce. So they decided to purchase a home jointly and move on with their lives. Also living with them was my aunt Tina, my mother's younger sister.
My grandmother was an intelligent woman; she was one of those people who completed the New York Times crossword puzzles - in ink and usually in under an hour. And she grew some of the most beautiful roses in her tiny backyard. It was wonderful to see the joy in her eyes when it came to her flowers. The problem was that she was heart-broken when Al passed away; for decades they would go dancing at night, just to hold one another more often. With him gone, she stopped living for herself. Less than a year from his retirement, her husband died on the picket line at work. Although I can only imagine her grief, it was difficult to see the affects of this tragedy slowly eat away at her soul. She rarely left her home, with the exception of going to Church, the grocery store or some of the neighbors' homes a few times during the month. She and Al were to go to Hawaii for a second honeymoon, but she could not bear to go there without him. In The Word, we are essentially reminded that "people without vision perish" (and yes, I know that there are variations of interpretation of this concept). Despite our ability to absorb pain, we must learn to move forward in life and not let the pain consume us.
For many years, she smoked cigarettes and was unwilling to give them up. She did so eventually; my mother moved out of their house, Tina got married; she and her husband lived with my grandma. Tina and husband Greg started their own family, raising three boys - thus giving her the incentive to quit. As most everyone knows, smoking increases one's risk of having cancer. My family were under the impression that she had managed to escape the misery of that disease. Less than two weeks from her death was when most of the family learned that she had contracted cancer and emphysema.
Although I understand and appreciate the need for privacy, it was selfish of my grandmother not to share the condition of her health. Her justification for not telling anyone, was that she had decided not to go through with the cancer treatment. By not telling us, she figured that no one would be given the opportunity to dissuade her from her decision. After all, it was her decision (and rightfully so). Before she died, Tina started quickly gathering information about cancer - to better learn about what to expect regarding the few remaining days of her mother's life. One cancer brochure shocked her; as a result of reading the material, she was now having to deal with guilt. This particular pamphlet laid out symptoms and patterns of human behavior of those suffering from this fatal disease - stuff that Tina had observed, but never realized the meaning of until it was too late. So in effect, my grandmother caused her family more pain by not sharing. In addition, not everyone who cared about her, had enough time to say good-bye (while she was alive).
Although I had time to compose this brief poem in her honor, I did not have enough time to process my grandmother's death fully (prior to the service). I was supposed to read the following poem and share a few words. To my surprise, I was choked up with immense grief, which kept me from delivering my eulogy; my wife kindly stepped in and presented the poem. One of my brothers was extremely upset for my inability to talk on behalf of my grandmother; so he spoke on my family's behalf. It's one of my few regrets in life; however, she was the only grandparent of mine that got to read my poetry manuscript. Less than two months before her death, she had taken time read my poetry and was pleasantly pleased with my efforts. During her appraisal of my work was the first time I learned that she wrote poetry - as of today, I've never gotten to read a line of poetry that she wrote. So it breaks my heart not to know what she composed, as well as not being able to share any more of my writing with her. And so here is my tribute for her...
In Remembrance of Grandma
A manicured garden
of colored, cultured roses
now goes untended.
For Marguerite has been freed
of all mortal constraint;
left behind
is a silver trowel
and dancing shoes,
as her spirit flies
to the Hawaiian shore
for pirouetting barefoot
on the seashell sand.
Goodbye Grandma Massa; I miss you already.
(18 June 2006)
Gert Strydom, 26 july 2012
When tree branches rub against the roof
the small bulbul runs past
during the afternoon hour
to the pool where it dives and rolls,
stretches out wings and shoot them out straight,
walking boldly up and down
stretches out wings,
stretches out wings
as he walks to and thro.
When tree branches rub against the roof
a light breeze blows,
while the sun burns hot as fire
and the neighbouring child calls
when the afternoon comes with its peace,
with thoughts from the past
when the afternoon comes,
when the afternoon comes
and sometimes I forget the present.
When tree branches rub against the roof
birds peck around everywhere
while moments are lingering
as leaves blow to the ground,
and I think of God as if He is here,
while the shades bring a kind of tranquillity
and I think of God
and I think of God
and find some deeper meaning to life.
Gert Strydom, 26 july 2012
Above the shed, the winter porch
a young wild dove
continually calls its mate
and when the door slides open
I see dots on its breast
and at the pond it quenches its thirst
and I see dots
and I see dots
that shines; when it is frightened it becomes sullen.
Above the shed, the winter porch
the oak tree rustles
and then my mother coughs badly from croup
where sometimes she sits and dream
as the sunshine flames up hot
and I watch her caringly
as the sunshine flames up
as the sunshine flames up
as if a field fire runs past.
Above the shed, the winter porch
a swarm of swallows peck,
sometimes doves land in a group,
and at times I hear my mother sneezing
while I am caught with a kind of hope,
but I know that time is running out
while I am caught,
while I am caught
and my life at times feels sold out.
Gert Strydom, 26 july 2012
(after P.W. Buys)
When you look at the green starling
it screams in the long grass,
gleams green in the morning dew
and catches your eye
as it comes out of a hole, out of a tree,
as it picks up insects at a small stream
as it comes out,
as it comes out
as if caught in your daydream.
When you look at the green starling
it sparkles here and there
as if it sometimes is holding onto rays
and it warbles
stretches out under the sun,
view it as a red balloon
stretches out
stretches out
and it would fly away if it could.
When you look at the green starling
it pecks at a sorrel
when at times it holds onto a big worm
before it sings a song of joy
flies up fluttering, spreading its wings
and for moments distract you,
flies up fluttering
flies up fluttering
and so a whole mornings swishes past.
[Reference: “Groenspreeu” (Green Starling) by P.W. Buys.]
Satish Verma, 26 july 2012
Walking out of the body
I was drowned,
accepted and condoned by depth of sorrow.
A wide circle of testosterone
giving pardon to a sin
becomes sexless.
You were overwhelmed by the missed beats.
Your prosaic crime of not fathering
the words becomes a belly dance
for wrinkled verses. There was no meaning left
for the artifacts, the national shame.
The autumn was praying for the
well-being of pine needles in fog. The repetition
of the outbursts was cold and I
was smiling.
Satish Verma
Poetry
Prose
Photography
Graphics
Video poems
Postcards
Diary
Books
Handmade
