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poetry

Gert Strydom, 22 december 2014

When I admire you (Rubliw)

Without
comprehension
you are when I admire
your beauty when you do makeup
but a small bit of a smile do linger
that does reflect your deep feelings
and the sun is setting
and the moment
is past.

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Satish Verma, 22 december 2014

On the battle turfs of a vernacular
hunger, the hikes were killing
the uncertain values. Committing suicide
was a regular feature.

To pay off the debts of a flag.
By using pesticides on unsuspecting
guests of tomorrow.
The clocks were set one century back.

What could be done of an anonymous
terror bomb placed in a lunchbox?
Do we wait for an accident?
Who will open it?

All summer, one hundred moons
I will wash your face
to read the command.
Who had put the stiletto in your hand?

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Satish Verma, 21 december 2014

ACOUSTICS ARE NOT WORKING

Maimed, tortured for love of resistance
this night appears to be
without an end.
There was nothing to lose,
it was looking for some reason
to die on the side of a cloud
when the sickle moon was sailing.

Tomorrow a new lie will be born.
Even a suicide bomber
will be tossed around,
like a new coin.
Weaving a dress of skin and bones
in the little sky of so many
purple birds.

Acoustics are not working
walls have no doors.
By night only a torch will be moving.

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Salvatore Ala, 20 december 2014

Firebird Sunset

That’s the Phoenix! That’s the myth!
That’s what the storybooks
Have been trying to tell me. The firebird
Nests in the searing winds of time.
It migrates to the forests of the sun.
It lives in the drop of fire behind the eyes
And perches on the volcano in the ribs.
You’ll know the firebird by its ashes,
By how the sunset beats its wings
And flames out like a cosmic fire.
Better to start living, to start loving,
Better to be consumed with joy
Than live another day without rebirth,
Without music that catches fire
Or words that cast a burning shadow.

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Satish Verma, 20 december 2014

BONES OF WINDS

Inside, the battle wages.
One step down,
I drown myself in the frowns
of a thought. Night sucks at my fear.

The rhyme of the fading moon
intends to fix me up.
I refuse to smell the breath
of the catch.

I bloom on the pain,
sweetened kill of the day. An empty jump
in void of a portrait;
shaking wall.

Watercolors were ruined
by smudging the reasons.
Clutching the bones of winds, falling
from the sky.

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Satish Verma, 19 december 2014

CROWD AT THE MORGUE

A new planet was taking birth.
Stem cells were coming out of
obedience to carnality.
For resuscitation from kiss of death
faith was at its best in its witchcraft.

Complete blood count failed,
to diagnose the strange madness.
It was a whirling chemistry.
The transmitters merely took in
the sin, the insanity.

A huge crowd collected at the morgue
to collect the severed limbs,
after the death of a sun.
Picking the scars of dark
and slaughtered tomorrow.

The rage of sunrise will come back.
One day the clouds will burst open. Yes
the death will come as a bride.

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Salvatore Ala, 18 december 2014

In a Gallery of Birds

The mind is brushed by sparrow wings.
                                 Hart Crane

All shadows of a kind                       cross the atlas of the mind.
Alone or with fledglings                  in realistic settings
The ghosts of those birds                           migrated into words.
The longer we stayed                         the sound of a glade.
Windows doubled as skies                  for eternity in their eyes.
Even for a feather                                   it is a heavy tether.
In each nest                                            eggs at rest.
Such stillness grows                               like flight in repose
Mounted there                                          in flying air.
What is seeming                                       if nature is dreaming?
What is death                                           to a hummingbird’s breath?
In an eagle’s gaze                                soar endless days.
A glass case sings                                     it breaks with wings.
All field marks fade                              light goes into shade.

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Joe Breunig, 18 december 2014

Poem: Committed to Him?

When we’re truly betrothed to Him,
we can’t help, but divinely succeed;
Christ’s not a Man that He should lie
and He’s promised to meet our needs.

Are we, not more important than birds
found about the land, trees and air?
Are we better clothed than flowers?
Are we committed to Him and His care?

Are we not made after God’s image?
As His Children, are we responsible,
for applying The Word to our lives?
Are we spiritually irresponsible?

We’re accountable for understanding
how to divinely develop and grow.
Spiritual progression doesn’t allow
us to blindly accept the status quo!

The Day of Judgment is still coming.
Will you be seen as a goat or sheep?
Are you joined to the True Vine or
will your soul burn on Hell’s heap?

Author Notes

Inspired by:
Num 23:19; Prov 16:3; Matt 6:25-34, 25:31-46

Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ

By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2014, All rights reserved.

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Satish Verma, 18 december 2014

BABY GOD

Carrying my words in a small jewel box
I was listening to silence
of falling rain,
to heal my truth.

A blueberry moon
was peeking from behind the hills.
Crazy clouds
started a celebration.

Sometimes you want to stop
in your tracks and look back
with doleful eyes. Was it important to collect red roses,
suicide notes, purple robes for seeking liberation?

The baby god I wanted to laugh with,
does not smile anymore.
His tinkles lie buried in heap of dust
in your skinny heart.