Tribhawan Kaul, 22 july 2012
Nagging is a part of life. None remains aloof. A time comes when someone demands answers from you.
A tear in her eyes make me wonder
a chance for patch up did I squander ?
Never to complain..she, but questioning a lot
neither liked the questions nor liked the thought.
Life gets topsy- turvy, grilling when start
anywhere, anytime, at home or city mart.
when, where, why, how, who, what/s..........
inquisitor always testing your guts.
No chance for atonement
These word invented only for harassment.
Wish these could be wished away,..... but no
Entire life hinges on these, try taking them away.
--------------------o--------------------
copyright2012/Children of lost God/Tribhawan Kaul--
Satish Verma, 22 july 2012
Like a bikini top
two hills were rising
in a spiral optics. Has
an altruistic vision.
A wildfire erupts between
the thongs of dead.
You have a mobile message
not to praise the sunrise
in the woods.
I am watching the flames
with a fury
of a wounded tiger.
Satish Verma
Glenn McCrary, 21 july 2012
Whoah! Eureka!
The thieves are-a-comin’!
Whoah! Eureka!
The thieves are-a-comin’!
An elderly Caucasian woman screams
In the darkest corner
Of the cannibalistic church
An elderly Caucasian woman screams
The thieves are-a-comin’!
Glenn McCrary, 21 july 2012
The day is majestic,
So the passions of strangers.
The clouds are majestic,
So the diligence of strangers.
Majestic, also, is the moon.
Majestic, also, are the time tables of strangers.
Glenn McCrary, 21 july 2012
I do not love you,
For your eyes are spiteful, too.
I do not love you,
Your eyes are revolving lasers of ugliness and destitution.
Though why the desire to smite me,
O, brave ones,
Why the desire to smite me?
Glenn McCrary, 21 july 2012
Shall I beget a memoir of your fairness?
Shall I compose words about you?
Shall I beget a poem that will live through
Centuries and sculpt your history in the poem?
Glenn McCrary, 21 july 2012
A petite Midwestern raised child
Arrives at a Southern institution
And fears the labors of speaking
With the Southern children.
At first they appear favorable,
Then they taunt her
And call her “cracker.”
The Southern children
Disdained her, too,
Eventually.
She is a petite white girl
With an oval white face
And solid pink blouse.
Regarding this
Petite, fearful child
She might craft a story
Devising tomorrow.
Satish Verma, 21 july 2012
What was the idea of charity,
when you were hiding
yourself from you?
Was it a non-existence?
Or you were writing an
unseen anthology?
Was that your kin choice
for a reciprocal pain,
inflicted in dark?
Between right and wrong
I am laying my wreath
on my grave.
Satish Verma
Patrick Fleskes, 21 july 2012
Shiver the twisted hither,
As jazz beats by on the wings of flies,
Crusty swirled patterned ties,
Waltz down broadways st,
Looking for, an intoxicating new bore,
Of a place where they can drink their soup face,
Oh what a taste! What a waste,
Of non-existence, that silly textbook phrase,
S P A C E
Oh hum on by, my own kind of fly,
Zooming around in giant tubes, we’ll call max lines,
They scalp nature with electrode snap of powerlines,
Gee wiz, what a biz! Transport, cohort,
Money into funny, metal caskets,
So you can be swept away, for dollars a day,
To see the mad taper and escalator,
Caper, the city slaves for.
Patrick Fleskes, 21 july 2012
Rolling, the thundered energy,
Extended and converted, half pipe glide,
The glossy swath of air, thick,
Nestles into the pores, hands tight, locked,
To gears a-shifting and twisting,
Metal chains like messy first love,
A cascading avalanche of work.
The eyes, they’re set, piercing through,
The light spectrums, summers delectable’s.
Blue sky, white tarp, no tent,
No breathe wasted in humid life.
And the pavement, laid down attainment,
To those who’ll rub the sticks together,
And shelter the birth of their ember,
To erect the eventual flame,
Of a soul, elastic, untamed.
True freedom, if we must give this a name.
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