Glenn McCrary, 30 june 2012
The hours screamed
Fine warnings eclipsed
By the science that is
Her lovely masquerade
for no woman upon bended knee
have I fostered much passion
The love of my sexy nightmare
Breast of the famous queen
kay kareman, 29 june 2012
a place where no one knows
no one passes me around...
Place where no one identify
no one
no one even i dnt no myself
place to hide myself
a place to cage my self...
I need one now...
Need to role off tears behind
my eyes are burning.....a rage to embrace myself
a place to hide my self
a place wide so i can ran myself
to smash my head
to tear it apart......where Your memories live inside..
A place, a dead hive... To get buried alive..
Its all start up again
no word to express love hidden in ribcage
that i wanna breach
plz no mercy against myself
what you thought
or not
but you are over me......opening my wounds
with drager of words
To startel me.
aNd am crying to clean my life with no mercy
that you always did to make hurt
i need place
a place to hide myslf
place to get died where your thousnd memories in my mind is mo.. more alive.
Just a place to cage my self...
A rage to let it go...as mercy to SELF..
Gert Strydom, 29 june 2012
In the sandy desert we were silent;
where white and brown sand lies next to each other
we saw aloes and lilies growing together,
a sand-grouse or maybe another bird
and still we did not say anything
but thirstily did not spill a drop of water.
The vastness, the intensity,
the sun that burnt scorching
brought us nearer to God
whose love pierces through all things,
even in places of dry rock and sand
and total forsaking.
Gert Strydom, 29 june 2012
Near to Gobabis,
(when it still was South West Africa)
a farmer gave me a lift
when I was on military leave
and that hardened pioneer
who daily struggled against the desert
told me about the grace of God
and about His great love
while he watched me
where I was sweating in his pickup truck
and I was very sure that God measures out
the way of each human being
and the urgent blue eyes of that man
still stays with me
as he did know
something more about his creator.
Satish Verma, 29 june 2012
Must I give you
the chilled truth of dry winds
till the fire
reaches the backyard?
The half-thumb
was held by the wheels.
Why you were pushing
the hearse
of a dead lie?
Anonymus
was the letter written by moon
to the damp cloud.
The rain drops will never
agree for the trysts.
Satish Verma
Joe Breunig, 28 june 2012
Hasta la pasta?
Annoying filament knots
of spaghetti spools.
The squeals of delight
flow from all fishing children
with uncontained joy.
Sounds of spinning spools
always brings me much comfort,
for I’m not at work.
Floating down the stream?
Not a dream, after dropping…
A bag of bobbers.
In early morning
anxious fish are awaiting
the autumn school bells.
Author Note:
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2006, All rights reserved.
Joe Breunig, 28 june 2012
Lures, flies and spinners
provide variety for
multiple techniques.
Casting carefree lines
the sportsmen and women look…
For fishy hook-ups.
Moonlight over pines –
Adds a touch of elegance
to nighttime fishing.
Daytime sea trollers
combine leisure travel
and hands-free fishing.
The ignorant fish –
Unaware of keepers of…
Life’s aquarium.
Author Note:
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/
Joe Breunig, 28 june 2012
Cool flowing waters
cater me with plenty of…
Aquatic playmates.
Smallmouth and largemouth –
Either kind acceptable,
if they are landed.
Get them in the boat!
Fishing stories without proof
are just plain-faced lies.
Imitating bugs?
Fishing is an art form of…
Posing as insects.
The splashing fishes
are vying for attention
during school’s recess.
Author Note:
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/
Glenn McCrary, 28 june 2012
Through hazy mirrors
A doxy appears to be doused
Within suicide languages
Hips bemoaning white filigrees
Caressed by a famine of beatitude
designed to elicit tragedy
Ankit, 28 june 2012
To the roar,to the groan,to the listlessness, Enhanced a opaque glance through thick air, Anoint the passion of as 'twere bleak fare, Were not the deep night sounds govern the whole things, Smuggled with beliefs laid by the intuition of wrong limbs. But there had been a quiet sheep, To gawk at the apparition outta his steep sleep, Naive retinas roving palpably over the frozen ground, He saw very wild with no living syrup, Though it changed,tethered to the alone bounds. Last time-when he scraped off his feathers, The world now lies solid and leathered, To the vapid eyes,to the stupidity, we dare, To ask and skeptics might care. Cold is the day-same was the night, He never felt hunger-never desired, Things fo' he craved-lied down in basement in pairs. He walked as long as he could pretend, No life was to be entertained, Shallow was the hood,hunger and sex was all meant, former was hard to get, Indeed,introspection he could only rent. What he found mustn't be judged, a posteriori,except by him, whorl of his ear thrusted, No-love,hate,fear,happiness,sorrow-ever were, died was he already-through every nerve.
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