Latest items:

poetry

Dale, 8 january 2016

Die Another Day

I laugh at death,
a smile he does bring,
as he bears his jaws.
The more I feel his breath,
the louder I sing,
grinning at his gaping maw.

For sixty, seventy maybe eighty years,
he chases after me, constantly,
rapping my knuckles, hunching my spine,
but I have conquered all my fears,
so never does he frighten me,
though my vision dims and hearing declines.

He mocks my mortality,
but I could not care less,
for he will be my last dream,
my final unrelenting casualty,
although he has failed to impress,
as he serenades time's harem.

I keep luring him in,
only to push him further away,
for I am not ready to die.
I will only deny him,
living on for another day,
saving and savouring that last goodbye!

(C) Dale Mullock

number of comments: 0 | rating: 0 | detail

Dale, 8 january 2016

Coffee Coloured Skies

Coffee coloured swirls in your eyes
spinning irides my morning surprise;
luscious pouting lips
taking careful sips.

Taking you into my senses
has always been a passion for me.
If only I could undress you one more time...
yet I know it will never be enough.

With a shiver of delight
you end my passion plight!
Your simple agile smile,
captures me with cunning and guile.

Your arms are a gift held forever in time.
The way you place your finger-tips
oh so gently upon the whole of me.
I so love the look in your eyes as
you slip the silk from my bronzed shoulders;
coffee silhouette framed in candlelight.

There in the soft glow of charismatic candles
sweet sighs echo of paparazzi scandals,
but in the heart of you
your aura shelters so true.

I come to you;
I walked into your arms surrendered.
No flash of cameras, no entitlements
just you, and I.
I bow my head allowing flowing blonde
tresses to be captured in your hands
as you lift my eyes to gaze into yours.

Eye to eye with only flaxen strands
to be swept away by loving hands
you are my one and only thought,
lips to lips bound by hearts is sought.

Trembling I take your hand in mine;
melded and entwined we are one.
Fevered yet tender we are surrendered
under coffee coloured skies,
alight with the whispered night,
with jewelled stars our only guide.

(C) Dale Mullock

number of comments: 0 | rating: 1 | detail

Dale, 8 january 2016

Angel's Theme

Sedated sunglow shines tepid and true,
Illuminating the sky's seamless, chalybeous blue,
Albino candy floss clouds do float,
Shimmering in silvery, sugared coat,
But stood on terran spherical shape,
An angel surveys the landsacpe.

She smiles and summons solar heat waves,
Where she tiptoes lush greenery sprouts and paves,
This angel coolly whistles and whispers,
Awakening in harmonic hum her slyphic sisters,
Across jade garnished hills comes a rolling mist,
That surrounds and covers her in heaven's assist.
Around her feet argent frost sparkles and springs,
Sprouting wispy, wannish, brumous wings,
Hoisting her high into welkin's domain,
Flowers turn upward to her joyful rain,
Cast and spread from flapping winged form,
Pluvial prescription in sprinkler system storm.

The ever-echo of the ascending spirit in the sky,
Sprouting all manner of living things, emeralds to the eye,
Each globule glistens with a wink of soul to befall,
Engendering solemn sentience within us all,
Scattering a gentle but vital spark from above,
Which does susurrate out her heartbeat in love.

(C) Dale Mullock

number of comments: 0 | rating: 0 | detail

Karen Adams, 8 january 2016

Szczęscie

Szczęście to nie cel
Na końcu drogi
Szczęście to droga
Sama w sobie
Jeśli się nie rozwijasz
Umierasz
Szczęście tkwi w postępie
W procesie rozwoju
Nigdy w stagnacji
Życie jest podróżą
Zaczynamy ją codziennie
Każdy krok czyni nas
Lepszą osobą
Przynosi satysfakcję i radość
Trzeba mieć wyznaczony cel
I podążać ku niemu
Cała podróż już sama w sobie
Jest szczęściem
Uśmiech , radość jest drogą
A nie celem na końcu drogi.

Happiness is not a goal
At the end of the road
Happiness is the way
In itself
If you don't develop
You're dying
Happiness is in progress
In the process of development
Never stagnant
Life is a journey
We start it every day
Each step makes us
A better person
It brings satisfaction and joy
You have to have a goal
And follow him
The whole journey is in itself
It is happiness
Smile, joy is the way
Not a destination at the end of the road.

number of comments: 1 | rating: 3 | detail

Satish Verma, 8 january 2016

Falling Apart

A surreal religion comes, straight to altar.
The doubts shift, organise the intolerance.
Life looks deceitful and modesty goes awry.
The craft, the art, the maneuvering become sexed.
Sperms gauge the pathway.

The beauty of empty mind,
always delivers an eclectic music.
We search our hearts, the bared silence.
The death was creeping,
within the seeds and,
we were counting digital roses.
The pinnacle of vision was crumbling.

You squat on the cinders of untruths,
it was powerful dementia.
The denial of fire,
was your timeless perception.
The brain had ruined,
the realm of hard truths.
We were falling apart behind the curtains.

number of comments: 0 | rating: 0 | detail

Gert Strydom, 8 january 2016

Right against the morass

Forward I stride
in the mind’s swamp
immersing at places,
bogged down
in the damp mud
struggling on
treading were feet
had stamped before
through painful thoughts
and more happy ones.

Curtained off by swelling fog
rising all around me,
blotting out the copious flow
of the river of the soul
and the only thing
I am able to see
is the treads that I leave
below my feet, ever trampling on
through foul smelling, rotting weeds.

In front of me emerging
from all of this
a little hillock rises majestically
and I see hundreds of rock rabbits
running to and fro
along its slopes
and the nearer I get
the earth becomes more firm underfoot.
Orange-red aloes grow here and there,
Sugar-bushes with huge blooming Protea-flowers
are cupped in splendour in colours of red, white
and pink, scented sweet,
are all around me everywhere
as if I have stumbled
into a little piece of heaven
right against the morass.

number of comments: 0 | rating: 0 | detail

Gert Strydom, 7 january 2016

African September

Dawn now wakes me earlier each morning,
bringing light at a time
where a month a go there was only night
with a chilly breeze

and where the darkness
were like a blanket
spread wide over the garden, the houses
of the suburb
I now see the horizon getting grey
with the sun sneaking
slowly over it

and sometimes when I wake up
a little bit later
and pull the thick curtains open
and its already a bright sunny day
with a sweet freshness breezing in.

number of comments: 0 | rating: 0 | detail

Satish Verma, 7 january 2016

Non Real

My brothers killed me for a song
an antithesis to kiss for a chaste tree.
I hold my viscera in cupped palms.
Their eyes burn like flaming windows.
An evening primrose smiles at my stupidity.
Questions have no full stop, I grieve.

Why did they punish me, for my lone voice?
I die daily amidst the barbed
Hawthorns for the sake of posterity.
The ribbed cage of desolation, in the kingdom of potencies.
The innocence drops like,
a terrified mirror on floor.

Death will obliterate, the lights from blue eyes.
I adored a dream, which always stayed in shadows,
The moon will grab a cloud,
creating a music of eternity.
The non-real will become a solid absolute.

number of comments: 0 | rating: 0 | detail

Gert Strydom, 6 january 2016

A room in the past

It is a kitchen with a big settee,
and big old coal and wood stove,
a big table where the whole extended family
ate great meals, sat chatting for hours
sounding to outsiders
like a riot
with a fire burning joyously
or only having comforting glowing coals

and at eleven in the morning, or four
in the afternoon
tea in porcelain cups, sometimes Swiss roll
or her own fruitcake
soaked in brandy
and baked to perfection was served.

It was a place where my grandmother
was bigger than life,
a lady born from Scottish ancestry,
but more an Afrikaner than me
with a true belief in the creator God,
where her love was a dazing light

till one sad night, leukaemia finished her years,
stripped her from me
while I was away at university
and the family
had never been the same again
like it was then

and suddenly that kitchen, that house
was stripped bare from furniture,
was painted and sold
and somehow I was the only one
who did not get
any last words from her.

number of comments: 0 | rating: 0 | detail

Gert Strydom, 5 january 2016

The secret room

In the big old white house against the hill
my mother had a pantry, a secret place
which she locked,
where she kept ingredients
for cakes, cookies, ginger beer
and all the lovely surprises that she made

and there were baking powder,
icing sugar, raisins, cherries
and dried fruit
and sometimes I would wiggle
the lock open
with a small piece of wire

and just looked at the shelves
with stacked things,
in the twilight of the room
trying catch the great smell
of everything around me,
but wouldn’t dare to touch a single thing.

number of comments: 0 | rating: 0 | detail

10 - 30 - 100

Latest items:

poetry

Die Another Day

Coffee Coloured Skies

Angel's Theme

Szczęscie

Falling Apart

Right against the morass

African September

Non Real

A room in the past

The secret room

Latest comments:

contact with us