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poetry

Satish Verma, 8 june 2017

Entranced

It was a broken lamp,
the orphean tragedy.
You were found sexless
in a naked bowl.

Making love on hay
the moon crashed/on moonstones.
Memory of shells tossed on bed
of roses/was still alive.

The divine leaf falls/opens the
scars of plums. Immoral,
a white tiger pounces on a
rimless scream.

Covered with crocus you break
the brown hills. Through touch
I meet you in dark. My green hands
hold you in folded palms like a firefly.

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Joe Breunig, 7 june 2017

Poem: Remaining Sin Conscious?

Though we’re forgiven sinners,
saved by His Grace, we should…
accept the sacred precept that
we’ve been made a new creation
and not spiritual beginners,

who are wallowing in the past.
Are we remaining sin conscious
and not focused on glorifying
Christ The Son and His Father?
In God’s image, we’ve been cast

to shine brighter… than stars,
with Christ’s essence emanating
from our Life and Love for Him!
Can we repent at a deeper level
and recognize that we’re jars

of human clay, who are broken
for His plan and purpose? He
strengthens, sustains and leads
us; therefore, let’s rise up;
into our hearts, He has spoken!

Author notes

Inspired by:
2 Cor 5:17; 1 John 4:17; John 10:26;
Eph 1:3-14, 2:8; Dan 12:3; Jer 29:11

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

By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2017, All rights reserved.

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Joe Breunig, 7 june 2017

Poem: Quiet Heart

Isn’t peace indicative…
of a Godly, quiet heart?
How else can one explain

the calm that’s realized
during personal storms?
Does His Presence remain

with us, in these times
of temporary crisis? Do
souls remain untroubled?

Can our spirits continue
unafraid, allowing us to
go forward with redoubled

efforts, to reach others
with the Gospel, as part
of… Heaven’s campaign?

Author notes

Inspired by:
John 14:27; Num 6:24-26

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

By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2017, All rights reserved.

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Sztelak Marcin, 7 june 2017

Menażeria

Bohater nabity na szpilkę schnie na wietrze,
ten przenika spłowiałe okrycia przypadkowych
egzekutorów. Czynią powinność
z ledwie zauważalnym grymasem.

Profesjonalnego znudzenia.

Ziąb do szpiku, a dumne sztandary
nie nadają się do zapychania dziur
w barykadach.

Więc wciskam tam palce, szukając
skarbu — jątrzę rany. Mam za małe
pięści aby zmieścić w nich powietrze.

I rzucić na jałową glebę,
z której wyrosną ludzie bez ust,
w zamian za to z czerwoną plamką
zamiast źrenicy.

Na razie w martwym polu ostrzałów
zbierają się święci, tymczasowo
bez przydziału.

Chociaż na pewno coś się znajdzie,
z rzeczy mniej ważnych, jak narodziny
albo cudowne ocalenie.

Bohater już w formalinie,
wygląda na zadowolonego. Za szkłem,
nieprzepuszczalnym dla dźwięków.

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Satish Verma, 7 june 2017

Elevating

It was not your body,
but blood was on the wall.

Inhale the stench of the day.
Grim scene, the multiple kisses
of marrow and flesh. You were
not drawing him, inviting-

him tonight for a date,
but the fetch was on the wall.

From, to turn. Put a starfish
in my bowl, to play. There was
a guest waiting at the door. Will
not abuse your lock and key.

Crawling, groping, darkness descends.
But there was a light on the wall.

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Sztelak Marcin, 6 june 2017

Loty ćwiczebne

Po zmroku odrywam ostatni zapięty
guzik. Ciasno upycham w pościel
nużące modlitwy — niezbyt wygodnie,
ale gdyby przyszło się nie obudzić
będzie jak znalazł na drogę.

U jej kresu nieunikniony powrót
do wody, jeszcze nierozdzielnej.
Tam puszczę pączki, zakwitnę
i nawet nie pomyślę o porannej
kawie. Nie wspominając o miłości.

Tylko że skrzydła
podcięte sprawną ręką rzezaka,
rytualnie.

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Satish Verma, 6 june 2017

Hepatica

Black livers?
Are you really desperate
after a vision? Miasma
rising?

A disheveled sky was
calculating. Tide was turning
back carrying the
tremors of shores.

Was that true, you faith
thinning? I see myself
getting ready for slanting moon
eating seeds of death.

It tears through
the veils of abstract. Are you
looking back at paralyzed
sun who has swallowed a stabile?

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Satish Verma, 5 june 2017

The Iron Gate

Do not remember the names.
Somebody is waiting in the wings.

It is very dark here. The drums
will break the mother’s heart.

The death will not accept the
dew on the grass. She wants tears;

The Buddha is taking a turn
in his sleep. Why is he so restless?

O, my father, I am watching the
fields turning into piles of ash.

Cannot shut the eyes for a jiffy.
Will you write something for the god?

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Satish Verma, 4 june 2017

In Thoughtless Mind

That fleeting incandescence
was branded witch
in grotto of a cloud.
For the first time I saw
your face in water.

You said this is manic
depression talking to flowers
and seeing a bizarre
apparition in dark blue sky.

What was the thing called
arrival? Every moment
a truth dies before
your eyes.

Between laughter and tears
I touch your eyes. Is that real?
And your brown ankles
walking on white snow.

I am soliciting a bloodstained
floor for a dance.

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Satish Verma, 3 june 2017

Scything

Why did your hand
become the fist?
You were thinking about the indignities
heaped upon the lake,
when you were retrieving a song
of freedom from the depth of questions.

There was no capitulation.
You went on opening the congealed-
blobs of blood to know
the keynote of violence.

The sectarian hate.
It outlives the love of brotherhood.
You want to go back to, from where
the jungle starts. It had swept
away the snow-white young
peaks.

Footprints of some movement.
Can you see that?

number of comments: 0 | rating: 0 | detail

10 - 30 - 100

Latest items:

poetry

Entranced

Poem: Remaining Sin Conscious?

Poem: Quiet Heart

Menażeria

Elevating

Loty ćwiczebne

Hepatica

The Iron Gate

In Thoughtless Mind

Scything

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