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poetry
B.Z. Niditch, 7 september 2016
AUGUST DOG DAY
Seizing to protect a pug
by the kiosk
tasting bread and wine
amid the chants
of the choir at St. Paul's
in Harvard Square
forgetting all triangular
morning masks and mysteries
near Cambridge Common
you eye Elizabeth Bishop
stopping at the crosswalk
returning from Brazil
with her luggage
in the glittering heat
of August's still noon
amid a phalanx of red birds
reaching out to a blue slate sky
when the first light
decides to shine
in taciturn airless hours
feeling the angst
of Sisyphus
amid the purple flowers
burning from
a high mountain
as a stone unable
to move or rise for us
hearing word lines of poetry
from the ancients like Ovid
sharing on divine
solitary horizons
transfigured by gold star dust
or listening to sister
in a far voice dreams
from a Greek chorus
burning your imagination
as we are a little changed
in sleepwalking liquid silences
of endless fervid fevers
as David among his flock
like old Cinna or bold Catullus
among the Caesars.
B.Z. Niditch, 7 september 2016
MONDRIAN'S UNIVERSE
Art with all senses
the colors that sets you apart
hits you in the reality
in each of design
of a Dutch grittiness
in the sponged face
of your "Christmas Card"
along with twice
the combinations
of past and future space
leveled in the linear unknown
at touching up
the avant-garde
for when your
propeller splashes
us on this nape of orange
in a museum canvas
we observe merely the surface
of red sashes
of geometric shapes
Mondrian's fusion drapes
in an illusion
of luminous shadow
of eccentric waves
of ink dreams
brushed between two oceans
in a parachute of our senses
hushed as an eccentric painter
craves to line and draw on
all of our anxious emotions.
B.Z. Niditch, 7 september 2016
TELL ME EVERYTHING
Tell me everything my friend
about lighting candles
for the victims of fascism
about your love for the lost
of Christ,
for the scarred
from my voice's mouth
with Mary's eyes of sorrow
wishing to speak your parables
for those who look at tomorrow
with only an abstraction
yet turn it into
the avant-garde
migraine times
of Simone Weil
the writing letters
of Kierkegaard
Kafka and Gogol's
death wish
not to be known who yearn
to burn their life's works
as you start learning
about the trains of thought
those about to perish
when the late day shadow
of the sun remembers
the half observed,
those who served
the "Master Race"
or who still turn
away their Stalag face
at the cross in the Gulag
we still ask as Mary
for His grace.
Satish Verma, 6 september 2016
Criticality
When life is done
and parrots are gone;
take me to the canal.
All life lived in small
footprints. There were eponyms
all the way.
When the name is done
and wigs are gone;
take me to the canal.
The kids had guns, when
you were hacked. You wrote
for yourself one beautiful elegy.
When the road was done and
stones were gone;
take me to the canal.
In one blue moon, one another day,
a journey will start in
elephant grass. They were hiding
behind the bush. When pink and white
I will unfurl a flag
take me to the canal.
Truth handbound in jail for a crime
I will dig a grave for you.
Take me to the canal.
Satish Verma, 4 september 2016
Into The Lair
Would not wear
the seasoned face.
Eye for eye
blasting the truth.
The path becomes the tunnel.
Unending,
in pain of speech
at the expense of ethics.
Under the fingernails
they start interbreeding
the ideas, crimnalizing the
upright past.
A vultured darkness descends
on the raped bed.
The great seduction of moon
had triumphed.
Joe Breunig, 3 september 2016
Poem: This Side of Salvation
There are times, when we all need to
turn away from the things of this World;
though sinful behaviors can be pleasing,
we must live boldly with Faith unfurled!
How can we contemplate or desire living
without God’s great Love and Salvation?
Can we even afford to wastefully spend
our precious time with sad frustrations,
knowing that we may find ourselves in
Hell’s eternity with no possible escape?
We’re fortunate, to be on this side of
Salvation, knowing how Love was shaped
in the crucifixion of Christ at Calvary.
We have the ability to build our lives,
while overcoming all unexpected sorrows;
let’s drop the weapons… guns and knives
of destruction; the weakness of our flesh
is calling and pleading with our spirits
to return to its fallen state; but we’ll
only see Death’s sadness and its limits
even though… we could be rejoicing forevermore!
Author notes
Inspired by:
John 3:16
A collaboration of poets Gabriel Eziorobo
and Joseph J. Breunig 3rd.
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2016, All rights reserved.
Joe Breunig, 3 september 2016
Poem: Now is the Time
The time for decisions is NOW;
for tomorrow is… not promised.
Open up your spirit to Christ;
heed the words of the psalmist
and grow by the tenets of Faith.
Now is the time for Salvation,
which is acceptable in His eyes;
Upon The holy Word’s foundation,
we’re supposed to stand, as we
fight the good fight of Faith;
so press and move forward in Him,
until reaching… Heaven’s gate.
Procrastination isn’t the answer,
for we’ll kneel, before the seat
of Judgment; an accounting of our
time will be presented, complete
with both failures and successes.
Will you be recognized, as one of
those faithful few, who will be…
welcomed into God’s Kingdom of Love?
Author notes
Inspired by:
Psa 69:13; Isa 49:8; 1 Cor 3:11;
Matt 25:21
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2016, All rights reserved.
Satish Verma, 3 september 2016
Many Namesakes
Boots in air
an elite brain hangs out
from the tall tears.
It does not search an exit.
Time moves out
with a murder in eyes.
Leading a spartan life
in a lair, in tune
with absolutely zilch.
A sexy mouth mimes
for a glittering tree.
Parakeets were coming in swarms.
Can you believe, he was
in a hit list
of a gliding moon?
Satish Verma, 2 september 2016
Lovelorn
A livid moon had started
a body count for undoing a book.
The base thinks it has arrived.
The death zones were unconnected
by quality of crime waves. People
have started sitting under green trees.
A social outcast silently reaches
the script. It was imperative that
two-edged sowrd should become sectarian.
The dew, the baked blood and the blades,
wait for the lifting of sorrow.
The fire would crack the code of death.
Do not bribe the stained linen
and dyed hair. The permafrost will
swallow the petrified feet.
Satish Verma, 1 september 2016
The Wax Palace
You were half-crazy
saving little buds
brutalized by storm
in a yawning night.
The ugly silver of a fringe
group becomes intentionally
a hate cult, developing
an epicenter for stripping
to devastate a religion. The
ghosts are walking in the
corridors of mirrored crimes.
There is a creeping sadness in the golden lock.
The blood craft brings obscene
inheritance. You hide the script of
murder in a wheel chair. Things have
not remained things. There is smoke all around.
Latest comments:
2 january 2026
Jaga
Z nadzieją :)
2 january 2026
I dla Ciebie Sam :)) Może sięgnijmy półwiecza
2 january 2026
ha, ha, ha :)) W przymierzalniach mają te same
2 january 2026
Za chmurośnieżek pięknie dziękuję/ a zima
2 january 2026
Na nic zaciski na prawie wrzaski/ i trupy ścielące
2 january 2026
smokjerzy
dzięki, z nawiasami, oczywiście, masz rację,
2 january 2026
znaczy, że sprawy zaszły dalej, niż myślałem...:)
2 january 2026
AS
świetny; jedna uwaga: nawiasy domykamy szczelnie;
2 january 2026
Weronika
Będzie okazja na kondukt wyschniętych butelek.
2 january 2026
chmurośnieżek...:))
2 january 2026
widać, że zaopatrują się w tym samym sklepie
1 january 2026
sam53
Może i dobrze,,, Najlepszego w Nowym Ćwierćwieczu
1 january 2026
wiesiek
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