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poetry

Gert Strydom, 12 july 2016

Divorce II (cavatina)

I am grieved at that what you did do,
amiss our love
have been trampled into the very mud,
as to remove
that which had close bonded the two of us;
I disapprove,
calling upon all that is still holy,
as you are treating me very lowly.

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Satish Verma, 12 july 2016

…… Distant Shores

Twilight song of a cuckoo
taps the window softly.
Gothic tree and drooping sky
humble my thoughts.
Past was me.
I will know then
why your hills turned away my clouds
by shifting sands.

Was it a colossal guilt of tomorrow?
Which never wanted to become present
and enter my house.
But my memory was sharp
and days were numbered.

I wanted to invite the death discreetly
while praising the life and listening to birds
without dropping the history
from my crooked fingers.

Between yourself and myself
a sea was surreptitiously raging.
The waves were dividing the shores.

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Satish Verma, 11 july 2016

You And Everybody

Again you made friends, words
wanted to leave the paper blank
for the parched lips,
crying eyes,
trembling hands.

Missing stanzas,
flowing river,
rootless floats.
You did not feel like-
time filled you every minute,
you were empty, poor.

When you read the end
you understood beginning.
Will to die was not sufficient
you had not completed the script.
Alone in crowd you wanted words
to commit suicide.

Democracy was a funny name.
Everybody was sad, except the lead
who did not know where to go.

One day you found your voice
and were surprised
you were everybody
when you were hurt, you bled inside
and your blood then mixed with
the blood of everybody. Then everybody cried
and you became separated from you and did not say anything!

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Gert Strydom, 11 july 2016

Divorce

Too suddenly our time has passed,
memories do constantly
cling to me,
the things that is intimate between us
does not want to end easily,

there is treason in each word,
with dividing the only thing on which we do agree,
secretive your paramour waits
at whom I stare hostilely
as if I feel like killing him.

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Gert Strydom, 10 july 2016

Respite

When the winter chill comes
with the transience
of each beautiful flower
in a own vulnerability
the winter rain pours down
as a kind of respite
for a time on every one.

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Satish Verma, 9 july 2016

The Spirit

How long will it go
this hurricane?
Let me go, open the sails
and put the boat on high sea.

Water is deep and blue, wind is strong
and I want to do it again
Tonight I will break the vow of moon
and bring it down.

Who knows where I land
the school of sharks
or turbulent isle
the body will be lowered to feed the hungry waves.

I was used to upheavals
up and down, up and down
and slept on pillow of clouds
who will wash the mirror today.

I am not going to die
not now but for ever
I will cleave, my body, my soul, my thoughts
into thousand pieces, each will grow into I.

Floral and thorned, rosy and scented
opening like a tribute
to fetishes of yore
The spirit must live.

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Izuoma Ibe, 8 july 2016

Croos-Roads

We stood at a cross-road
Each deciding on which to take
Suddenly you lifted the lamp of love
Then we saw this way you lead
So smooth was this road at eve
Our steps each spelt doom
Yet we evade gloom
But today we sit in gloom silence
This road has its rules;
When I fall you lift,
When you fall I lift.
Now is our fall
We should lift
Our part of the rules

number of comments: 0 | rating: 3 | detail

Gert Strydom, 8 july 2016

At times we are only set on passing (American sonnet)

At times we are only set on passing,
without any place to stop or call home
and then we miss the smallest little things,
while it feels as if we do not belong,
as we are set, forever more to roam
as if we hear faint whisperings among
a myriad of people, with dusty loam
that sticks and clings to our very feet

and then we miss the small bird’s happy song,
see unfamiliar faces in those we meet,
in life we are constantly swept along,
as if the ocean has only some foam
and to it there is nothing really sweet,
at times we are only set on passing.

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Satish Verma, 8 july 2016

Revocation

A grandson sails through the century
jumps into the chair of grandfather
and revokes the death penalty
for the iconoclast who refuses to be alive.

A truth should be deemed again
to find the mystery of death.
Between man and divinity
lies the fiction
which no body wants to write off.

Green goes the sea in full moon
the earth has a debt to pay.
Sometimes you walk a long distance
to know when the sun will rise.

Unchanged remains the odor of wind.
The chest feels the punch
fetching the burden of roaring sounds
in the domain of soundless solitude.

The grandfather is lifted by untainted words.
Still swallowing the emotions
the peacocks on a tall tree scrambling,
scream in unison.

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steven cooke, 7 july 2016

The Politics of War

To ask a flower to kill a bee
is to ask a man to become the beast.
That is the will of war

The skylark rages it’s voice above the battlefield
For destiny lies below.
No argument with this world ,
but a foreign invader has entered his field.
The song of life is threatened.

The immigrant guns have freedom of movement,
they scream a betrayal of life.
The seeds of the poppy are in turmoil,
the sound of the shells
replaces the tractors of life.
And in this chaos the poppy symbol is born,
in a reluctant will of sacrifice.

Innocence of poppy will dull man’s pain,
but nothing is real.
War belongs to foreign shores
for English tea must not be disturbed.

And history will prostitute these red petals
in the hope that we will remember them.
Remember a moment in time,
a dream that flows in atoms unseen.
This speck of man within the cosmos.
A vote of no confidence in God,
for eternity is a lonely place.

Mortals and ghosts remember them.
Remember the soldier who sang down this road of despair,
who marched on a foreign soil.
Made proud under the willow by glorious woman
and prayed for by siblings to come.
Made ripe by a glorious English summer.

Victory is a tinsel thing.
War salivates for the fools and the brave.
The devil is on the move
groaning in his orgasm of pain,
that spills this cup to quench the end.

And the streets of home will be swept clean
By the invalid that saw them die
Yesterday’s confetti, this mush that blows in the wind
gathered by a broken man,
smoking his last park drive.

And when the misty morn greets the milkman.
Fear of nations will give a copper pension,
a loaf of bread for a young man’s life
and a bugle to let the devil know,
“these souls are out of bounds“.

number of comments: 0 | rating: 1 | detail

10 - 30 - 100

Latest items:

poetry

Divorce II (cavatina)

…… Distant Shores

You And Everybody

Divorce

Respite

The Spirit

Croos-Roads

At times we are only set on passing (American sonnet)

Revocation

The Politics of War

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