Category: 2018 Poetry

Read Poetry: Don’t Paint the Roses, by A. Gouedard

she remembered she was falling
reaching for a cake crumb
swallowing a draught
that completely turned her head

 

she was running round the roses
painting red and white
challenging the chess board
to maneuvers in the dark

 

she had a distant memory
of a love that struck a spark
but the tables all kept turning
when he tried to take her hand

 

in the horrors and delusions
that stalked this troubled land
he loved her all the time
but he had lost his mind

 

lovers often lose their way
whether they are sane or mad
all is topsy-turvy
when the news is always bad

 

they race around in shadows
trying to find a light
their dreams become a nightmare
ruining their night

 

but up above the stars shine out
constellations point the path
if only they could both sit down
gazing up at last

 

the roses never needed paint
he knew that all along
check mate only brings an end
to more that can be done

 

lovers only need to sit
and think what love’s about
and forget the silly games
that pull them inside out

Read Poetry: DEATH IN THE SODA FACTORY, by Irma Beridze

We washed bottles, rinsing them in icy water,
We wore high galoshes and our feet got wet,
The other ladies were my mother’s age,
I was nineteen,
And promised myself,
Among the banging of bottles,
And the burbling of water,
“I will not leave you here,
I will not leave you!”

During a break we would take off wet aprons,
Sit at a table,
And either joke or complain,
That the soup lacked salt,
Or they would talk about children,
Relating about cutting fingers on the edge of bottles,
“You will not stay here,
You will not stay!”
I repeat.

The factory boss would usually lay me down flat at the lunch table,
A bald man with a beer belly,
I reached down to the bottom of his sweet bottles with brushes,
He starts to gossip like a brush inside of me,
“I will not leave you here”
I whispered.

Some trade unions helped us in a strike,
We demanded:
A change of management,
And some safe work,
Benefits for missed days,
The dismissal of of the Director.

Standing with heavy galoshes
In water up to the knees,
Being quiet,
Mute,
Was not life,
But death
In a windowless,
Sweetly scented,
Soda factory.

Read Poetry: Keep me off, but Remember ….., by Hira Sadhak

Keep me off from your party of glisten
Sound bit , song ,glass full of red wine
Friends are around, till affluence prolong
in pink world opens all wings of spring
Close the rank, changed all the narration
I will be away from exalted celebration

But remember me , when party is over
Disappeared all terminating you at a corner
When lighting clouds hovering over sky
Summer looming large ,thirsty earth cry
Don’t be pensive alone in autumn silence
To hold your hands, I will be there…

Remember me, if caught by Kalahari cyclone
in search of life looking for morning green
Or if caught in dark mid night lonely Amazon
Or crying for help in sinking boat ocean in cyclone
Volcano may erupt, fire in ice, breaking earth
I will be there to rescue with my last breath

Forget me when you have many to smile
But remember me when your soul cry in silence
I would put my hands on your reddish wounds
I will extend my palm to protect your tears,
Love is not mere a sign of word , yes or no
Life is not only an art of theatre show

Copy right@ Hira Sadhak

Read Poetry: Descant, by Sue Harper

Above it all, that peevish tone,

Sinuous, adroit,

Whispering what we forget:

 

“Come rain, come shine

I am here

 

Come bud, come bone

I am here

 

Come dearth, come foison

I am here too

 

O learn my harmonies, my

Ruthlessness, my 

 

Change”

 

 

 

 

(Sue Harper)

Read Poetry: Pasta and Parmigiana, by Al Glendinning

You may stand with your arms outstretched, as if a crucifix bathed in the glory and warmth of the Italian sun.

Barefoot, you walk upon the cobblestones that lead toward the milky road as you stride toward reward, where new lovers will soon become, as one.

 

Flushed with the colors in the haze of a European windswept morn. That is as sharp and shrilled, as a high-pitched whistle blow.

We all need to feed upon illusions that have a little imagination, to travel

the ravaged wastelands that create a matrix and allows small thoughts to   grow

 

from the devotion of jurisprudence and the dogma that can set minds free. A woman with diamond cut facets, means you can be what you want to be,

Not just an airbrushed image, for glamour, controlled by the council of stone.

The ages of love are like the summers that burn hot, so that single does not mean alone.

 

Just as Pasta and Parmigiana, just as the moon moves the ocean and tide. Sexiness and sensuality, is synchronized by both body and mind.

Mascara, red lipstick and perfumes are enhanced, by a décolletage, well exposed. Man’s eyes may be drawn to the neckline that is natural for Haute Couture clothes,

 

But as you wander through the hillsides and the valley in between,

You discover there’s a cultural landscape, of the likes that you’ve never seen That stands proud in celebration of the hunchback poet of Recanti town.

How much do you love me, is the question I ask now.

 

No Spectre from a past will ask, how you will remember me, my love.

There is no compromise or choice, to choose between the common coot and dove. Does a composer in the forest undergrowth, always score the tune you want to hear? Is the special day more than a memory that forever is sincere?

 

It’s nice to be loved. Not under suspicion, as the velvet darkness of evening falls.

To invigorate renaissance, so the glow of love reflects its light within the confines of the castle walls.

As you stand with your arms outstretched, and gaze up to the crucifix,

you will recall this evening prayers, when the sound of every church bell calls you

 

from the air, so fresh that the evening already feels just like a wild Italian celebration where one kiss is irreversible, once the beat of the aching heart has gone.

The love, La beauté du diable may one day, fade away

But you’ll enjoy a cappuccino, in the piazza, wave to friends and smile. At a cool Italian street   Café.

 

Read Poetry: Into Hiding, by Brian Wake

 

Hiding from me at bedtime, my daughter

sneezes and giggles from inside the wardrobe.

I wonder where she is, I act. Pretending

not to see her four small fingers clutching 

the door but, fearing the dark far more

than she does me, she surrenders. I gasp 

in mock surprise. Soon she will be sleeping.

 

In Germany once

whole families hid in cupboards

while friends pretended not to see.

But, seventy years on, most would say

forget, forgive, let ancient horrors be.

 

Me? I am reminded tonight of the mother 

who, on hearing footsteps on the stairs, 

hurried her children into hiding; four hearts 

thumping in a wardrobe.

 

Like mine, perhaps her daughter

would have giggled had she sneezed.

Sneezed and giggled, giggled and sneezed,

sneezed away four lives.

 

I smothered her so the others might survive.

It was Thursday, the ninth, in nineteen thirty 

Nine. November, she says, I remember, thinking 

even then how all her little movements

were as earthquakes when matched against 

the stillnesses to come.

 

 

 

 

Read Poetry: Fallen Angel, by Marysa Monkey

The angel with the broken wings

Doesn’t fly, they lie in slings

The light from her halo extinguished

Powers are slowly being relinquished

She sympathizes for the vessel possessed

She took away everything from them

Only to have her fate condemned

She wanders around in the dark

Knowing she never fulfilled her part

Heaven now finds her redundant

Leaving her feeling despondent

Ready to quit, she looks to the sky

And shouts the only thought in her head-“why?”

But whomever above, won’t answer this time

She’s left alone with the pain that she feels

As she realizes that heaven’s not real

Genres; Life, Dark, Death, Hurt, Painful, Redemption, Religion, Rhyme.

Read Poetry: Love and Words, by Butch Dias

Your love and your words,
Encouraged my heart.
You saw me broken,
And falling apart.

I was so broken,
I was a broken man.
But you told me I was special.
And that God had a plan.

You brought me up,
When others cut me down.
You said I was one in a million,
When they said I was a clown.

You sent me a huge hug,
When I began to weep.
You walked with me,
When my mountain was steep.

You encouraged me,
In every step.
You dried my tears,
When I hurt and wept.

You were there,
Every step of the way.
And built me up,
And by my side you did stay.

You sent me a picture,
To give me some hope.
Your words of wisdom.
Gave me comfort to cope.

Read Poetry: New Old Friends, by Deborah J. Johnson

Genre: Friendship

“New Old Friends”

5 years ago last night my best friend had an aneurysm in her lung and passed away at 61. You just can’t go out and meet OLD Friends.This is the one sentence I keep telling people that don’t understand why it is still so hard…You can’t meet someone and have them know all your secrets, or have laughed til you can’t hold it anymore… or be there at each others weddings. The kind of friend in serious situations you cannot look at or you’ll both burst out laughing because you know what they are thinking…You are blessed if you have an OLD FRIEND still in your life. Let them know you love them before it’s too late.

OLD FRIENDS

Going to high school and meeting there,

The first of many memories that we would share.

Going to different colleges we drifted apart

Our jobs brought us home our adult lives to start.

We both became teachers for the love of a child,

God touched both our hearts and smiled.

We talked of our classes,the hurts and joys they brought

Learning together to balance discipline and love as we ought.

We shared in the joys and frustrations of life.

With husbands and children, loves and strife.

Our hearts so close like the pages of a book,

We knew what the other thought with just a look.

In serious situations we didn’t dare take a peak

Or we’d bust out laughing without having to speak.

Going on vacations many memories were made

Laughing so hard, those memories would never fade.

Sitting with you all day, the day you were ill

Sharing memories and laughing until we were filled

With a lifetime of love between two OLD FRIENDS.

How were we to know it was the end.?

Hold those you love close to your heart until the end

For it’s certain in life you cannot make New Old Friends.

—
Deborah J. Johnson
author of:
Sunrise, Sunset-Recipes Through Four Generations”

“For Just five Minutes-Heaven, YES-Hell.NO”