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poetry

Satish Verma, 19 december 2015

Waking Is Painful

Reading the innocence of leaves,
a tree, yellow stars,
I was always glad of new birth
and another death. Ceasation
did not repeat itself.
I hold the nightmare, hypnotized.
Pride without flame, ending in smoke,
until you come at dawn
like an echo in silence.

At process of transmutation
old memories are indelible
stains the solitude,
when I am in retreat, to awake the silence.
The wilderness haunts
the morning glory of creation.
Hope imitates the wings
for a brief time. Waking is painful.

In attachment to walls,
labyrinth of miseries
we wanted our language
to show non-conflicting assumptions.
Love generates the search
for cloudless humility.
Seeing through was not
the romance. Denying
was the essence of purity.

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B.Z. Niditch, 18 december 2015

UP GREEN MOUNTAINS

How close are we
to verge of our journey
up the Green Mountains
as our hiking boots turn
in an unseen silence
sighting a deer in first light
a morning fills with frost
encircled in a path of snow
sheltering words in these lines
which emerge outliving our time
from an earth-wise nature
on this Fall
seasonable pike
as flakes drift trekking
from Vermont's
long memory
saying canticles
of St. Francis
in white coated anonymity
walking into a concert
of Chopin
crowded with patrons
of the symphony
by lovers of music.

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B.Z. Niditch, 18 december 2015

MARATHON (2) 2000

Rising to a jazz rhythm
keeping in the lane
forgetting past riffs
by helping one beside us
to get up from the grass
of a recent blueberry harvest
grinding around us
with four hours left
to mimic last night's sleep
yet pressing toward
the recondite right landmarks
gambling on this day's calling
with no stop watch
not quitting until dark
until the yellow finish line
appears out of nowhere
near crooked peaks
and red birch
as runner ups in landslips
over greensward dales
trying to be undaunted
but not fully understanding
why here at my age
taking turns over this time
off and on windy lashes
unlaced in a chalk circle
following an eagle
on the Bay
not frightened by a scarecrow
on the side of the road.

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B.Z. Niditch, 18 december 2015

MARATHON 1990

Jolts in my body
hitting the wall
hearing barefoot fans
interceding for us
by road beds on river ruts
our shaken up bodies
near birds on statues
singing by tree stumps
at the first hour of dawn
by indelible tracks
on distant paths
crosswise near green hills
some recounting time
others wishing to make
a record for themselves
under bridges
soon with wobbling knees
and sweated shoulder pain
bodies with feet blisters
cramping hope
on rugged terrain
far from home
with one hand clasping
from two sidelined
recumbent leaning bodies
wishing us well
all in search for meaning
or here for charity
as our salt eyelids
rivet from its blur
wanting oxygen
and a bottle of water.

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B.Z. Niditch, 18 december 2015

LET THIS DECEMBER

Let this December dawn
be a morning
of such American perception
that signs and wonders
will be in our
hiking direction
thinking to pause
on windows
to watch chimeras
of songbirds
hearing cicadas
and cardinals go South
on whatever road
by Robert Frost's birches
or James Dean's cycles
thanking life's moments
for a worthwhile day spent
bemused by glimpsing times
of recluse J.D.Salinger
in Vermont
looking for miracles
of Kerouac's prose
or visiting Emily Dickinson
at Amherst groves
where we park
on the right routes
over expressway obstacles
by a thick river of cars
as a cool mortal Beat
and a smooth jazz guy
within my hands,
toes and feet
may pardon, circle
and disclose
of their memory.

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B.Z. Niditch, 18 december 2015

A WARSAW LETTER

You sent me a letter
from Warsaw
in between my phlox
and rock garden chores
with pebbles from the sea
the dead stones come alive
from my noon daydream
of busy tackle fishing
on the other side of the Bay
here for a last run
miles away from the shore
as trout survive
seconds, seasons, times
now remembering
my headlight
of the motorcycle
needs to be switched off
e mailing my sailor friend
Ringo over predicable waves
who is going to my
Beat poem reading
hoping he would become
an ecologist
traveling like on roads
always of exodus
living in tabernacles
over desert borders
to protect and rescue turtles
sea lions, whales,
other mammals
by outposts
of crowded sails
under chromatic rays
by sunshine
with look-outs
over grassy island
Ringo is now
riddled by his own jokes
in his blue angler kayak
who says he noticed
my old Harley and fixed it
in the parking lot on the dock.

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Gert Strydom, 18 december 2015

Inside you and I dance

The flames in the fireplace make tongues
and we are dancing slowly
while the candles are burning intimately
and are throwing long shadows

and your eyes glow large,
you look innocent
and it does feel as if the whole world
is laying open before us

and I feel the artery
beating in your neck,
your perfume fills my nose
and there is something very deep
that I do read in your golden eyes.

Outside the branches of the avocado tree
Is beating on the roof
and time is busy
growing its own wings
but inside you and I dance
as if free from all things.

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Joe Breunig, 18 december 2015

Poem: In Dawn’s Early Light

Your unfailing Love and new mercies,
greet me in subtle waves of unsung joy.
My weary and hurting soul now embraces
yet another opportunity to be with You;
in dawn’s early light, I begin to see

the fulfilled promises of another day.
Completely open my heart, eyes, soul
and spirit with Your ethereal Presence.
Show me the ordained path that’s lit
with the Light of Your Heavenly sway.

When I’m with You, I’ll never stumble.
My life has been entrusted with You;
there’s no turning back, since I’ve
decided to move forward with You alone,
having been saved and divinely humbled.

Author notes

Inspired by:
Psa 17, 143:8

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

By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2015, All rights reserved.

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Satish Verma, 18 december 2015

Communion

This shapeless fear
gives birth to cosmic vibrations
a prelude to porous thoughts.
Foreign in pain, a face burns
in deep meditation.
Nothing consolates. Hurting
the contents of judgement,
a reflexive existence exonerates
itself from a spiral fall.

Indecisions of sun
to penetrate the fissures of dawn
failed the valley of flowers.
Aloneness was speechless.
The shoots plucked
the sky in flakes. The wind
played at the mercy of trees.
The royal departure
of night sprang a surprise.

The dying seed had
a pride to offer. The sprout.
Nothing is upsetting the garden.
no one is certain of crazy fate.
The sap has a sense of liberation
coming out of conflicts
and chaos. A communion
with space takes place.

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Gert Strydom, 17 december 2015

One Military Hospital

At Klipdrift military base
just outside Potchefstroom
where now the kaki bush,
other weeds and grass are knee high

through ash holes, rubbish, broken glass
barbwire, tins and stones we went
with fire in movement exercises
and live ammunition fired over us.

We ran, cat walked, leopard crawled
and was sent to and fro
with bullets hitting up dust around us
and some grenades were tossed
a distance away.

The very next day my left knee
was busted good and well
and when I reported sick
the PTI-corporal
almost busted his gut
and touched the crossed swords
on his arms

and told me if by any chance
I came out of the sickbay that day
he would see to it
that I would really take a beating.

The doctor at the sickbay,
called in another one
and yet another one
and the three of them
didn’t want to treat me

and said that there was a big chance
of me losing my knee
which was swollen like a rugby ball
and they sent me by ambulance
straight to One Military Hospital
at Voortrekkerhoogte in Pretoria.

I was wheeled into casualties,
where I had to wait some time
while shot up people
flown in straight from the war
was treated first.

When they finally got to me
they took one look at the leg
and wheeled me into
an operating theatre
where they asked
if I wanted to walk again?

I just said heal me
and they removed my uniform,
strapped me down
with bands around my feet
hands and legs

and gave two injections
just above the knee cap
and said that it was local anaesthetic
but wouldn’t help much
and that nothing would really
take the pain away
of the next procedure.

They pushed a big syringe
with a large needle
in under my knee cap
and the pain was great
as they pulled out puss
but I didn’t make a sound
while tears of pain
were in my eyes.

The laboratory identified
the infection that I had
and they said that I have got
septic arthritis
and everything was swell
while I got a drip
with the right antibiotics
and some pain killers,

watched television from a set
on the wall,
had my own radio
to choose music from
and could even order
from a menu
and it was like staying
in a great hotel
where they fixed me properly
and after two weeks
that was like a holiday
I walked out of there.

[PTI=Physical training instructor.]

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10 - 30 - 100

Latest items:

poetry

Waking Is Painful

UP GREEN MOUNTAINS

MARATHON (2) 2000

MARATHON 1990

LET THIS DECEMBER

A WARSAW LETTER

Inside you and I dance

Poem: In Dawn’s Early Light

Communion

One Military Hospital

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