Category: Uncategorized

Delayed Death
Hurry up! Come sharp !
The sun is ready to rise up.
Flowers in the garden have taken dew bath and wait for blooming!
Drowsy stars can’t keep their eyes open any more !
Birds are restless in nests for swimming in the barren sky .
Ripples of rivers are awfully eager to caress sun rays !
Flippant wind rests helplessly for tidal waves to kiss the thirsty shores .
Tired night birds rub their sleepy eyes in despair !
Hens are ready to sing the psalm to greet morning anew !
Why the night makes delay to depart – a serious law – break in the nature’s school !
At long last the bashful night dies behind the glowing wall of the day !
She was making courtship with the sleeping Earth!

The storm was unexpected
New Yorkers swept inside by snow.
In 4B a woman bathes her lover
careful not to wet his broken hand.
The Egyptian newlyweds
living in the building’s only studio
give their dream children names
underneath a tent of bedsheets.
Twin sisters, designers in Versace mules
play spin-the-bottle
on their penthouse terrace
with models from Milan.
Alone in her garden apartment
a Venezuelan widow
listens to vinyl records
she once danced to
with her husband.
And outside, on the street,
as the snow unfurls around them
like a ream of white velvet
let loose,
a girl in a scarf
the color of blood red calla lilies
says ‘yes’
to a proposal of marriage
while riding on the turned up handlebars
of her lover’s rusty Schwinn.

MARY EASTHAM
Website: http://www.rp-author.com/MKE
Twitter.com/WordActress

Polaris
and the Southern Cross
and Venus in the western sky
who call the star
who leads our way
along the path
and do they weep
oh should they weep

and do they weep
our lapse to see
the careless sham
our travesty
the world on fire
the price of lies
and do they fear
oh should they fear

and do they fear
the end of rhyme
for such as we
who’ve squandered time
who’ve wasted green
and left disgrace
and do they chide
oh should they chide

Bridge:
cityscapes
that choke on life
neon gases
the new darkness

Polaris
and the Southern Cross
and Venus in the western sky
who call the star
who cries alone
his laughing owl
and do they weep
and do they weep

Bellow the station, your arch stands
as neon vitral as I left it, I bet
Marking your place
Your best friend on your right
Your lover on your left

You would give me your food anytime
I would give you my tobacco every time,
I guess
For you to give me my tobacco,
every time, I guess
I don’t guess

It’s a shame, I was willing

Will always look for you, though
You fuck like a bandit
You’re incredibly true

Yesterday I…
Yesterday I…
Gave up my life again
like
(night fall off)
like
every night
(last night)
I thought I was sorry
I wish I was sorry
So I say, and
Trust me
Trust me
Imbibe my truth
Become
Become
Yesterday I
Did terrible things
I can’t remember
but can sense
I told stories
I can’t remember

But can taste

My taste of
Terrible things
Crawling
Up my head
My head my head
My head

I forgot how you tasted
The day your ship left my shore,
Only the rage of the waves
Reminds me.

I waited with arms wide-spread,
Legs tingling,
The imprint of your touch
Still longing…

Even the strong wind
That tore my heart
From my skin,
Could not bring you back.

Sands blistered by the sun,
If only you had remembered
How green spring rains
Bring flowers.

If in dreams
You do not appear,
Your shadow falls
On the wall
When waking.

The horizon, now tinted green,
Almost sunset,
Still
A flower may bloom.

Who will read my verses?
Who from all of you?
Who will ever find on them such depth,
The depth only I feel,
The depth where I dive, swim and adrift?
For to meet one deepest secret,
Ask them only to unfold their art.

Are we in the exact orbit of our soul?
Who could ever measure?
Who could be entitled to judge?

For if one wants to dream,
Let him sleep longer.
If one wants to think,
Let him be provoked.
If one wants to paint,
Let him choose his colors
If one wants to move,
Let him dance.
If one wants to teach
Let him learn his way.
If one wants to write poetry
Let him have his heart broken.
And if one only love is searching,
Let him come inside, take a seat and have a tea.
I came to stay!

Rather an odd quirk of Death,
Whom few would call a friend,
That it persists as near as breath
In loyalty without end.

But with this friend we hesitate,
Uncertain of its touch.
We do not stop for Death nor rate
Its presence welcome much.

Yet Death’s appeal at times is clear.
It shuns no human ties,
And some to whom it has come near
Gain solace from disguise.

So maybe I’ll give Death a break
Whene’er I beckoned be,
And humbly for my new friend’s sake
Show best civility.

Before I read Lorca
My words were blunt swords for
Slicing rotted wood
Constructing
Rackety trellises
To fortify
Pathetic castles of sand
Praying never the waves
Or even harsh winds
Ascend to my feeble heights
Where from above with disdain
Cupid mocked
My juvenile sonnets of adoration
Before I read Lorca
My muses imploded
Like small delicate fish
Swimming in a shallow stream
Scatter
As a rude rock rapes
Their calm tranquil waters
Before I read Lorca
I had never truly lived

How do I introduce a poem? Let me count the ways.
One. With dramatic flourish, commanding voice accompanied by a
flurry of trumpets, a clash of cymbals, or should I say symbolism…
I step into the spotlight and proclaim…
Ladies and Gentlemen! Children of all ages! Please turn your attention
to the center ring and witness…Ode On A Grecian Urn!
Two. Maybe a sporting theme?
And in this corner in the white trunks weighing in at ten thousand lines
of verse! Putting the iambic back into pentameter…Paradise Lost!
Three. Perhaps a more sombre and severe pronouncement of the
arrival of the poem…
As I stand here today, I humbly request that you welcome to this
modest podium…The Wreck of the Hesperus.
But then you may ask does the poem need such a grand entrance of the
gladiators?
That perhaps a more casual and low-key approach would be more
suited…
Hey everybody, meet Brown Penny.
It makes one wonder if the poem even requires an introduction?
The poem has no ego. (This is not a discussion about the poet.)
And the poem is much stronger than the poet. For the poet is mortal,
but the poem, immortal.
Not marble nor the gilded monuments, Of princes shall outlive this
powerful rhyme.
Yes, the poet may die of consumption in a drafty garret…
Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of
the light.
But the poem lives on.
And lives on in many forms. Yes, all sonnets are poems, but not all
poems are sonnets.
So, I find my task of introducing the poem to be daunting.
But I should not worry, for the poem does not need me.
It lives. It breathes. It thrives.
Why, just the other day, I saw a mullet-haired redneck in a T- top Trans
Am listening to Free Verse on his 8 –track.
Or was that Free Bird?