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poetry

Aurora, 11 april 2014

Ins(p)ecting your nature

Hurdling in between love and fate,
my dear love sits in order to contemplate.
Her destiny awaits in chariots of gold,
but is this a destiny already fortold?

For does the white widow,
recognise and know its own shadow?
As it so elegantly creates,
a milkyway web of doom.

Who knew that creation,
would be the cause of such destruction,
and yet the creature does not realise,
that it is under divine instruction!

But alas the fairytale does not end here
nor there
or anywhere in between.

For perhaps there were to be a library
that only a secret key could unlock.
Would a countess such as yourself
be prepared to stop the time, before the time becomes a clock?

What would thee do with the words,
that could not be spoken by profane?!
And yet the ants on the mould hill,
still think those ants with wings insane!

Oh look how they fly,
but why would they want to be in the sky?
When the ants have so much earth down there,
look at the mould they have been building,
nearly all of there ancestors lives,
So then why would they want wings,
when they can have numerous ant wives?

But little did the ants understand
that one day their mould mountain of dirt
would be the main soul reason
for hundred of years of hurt

and when the earth has crumbled
and the ants have no home, once more
the only thing they will have left to beg for
Is for wings that will now seem to allure!

So now the ants with wings
become like angels,
in which plays the harp and sings!

If only the angels were angles,
in which the ants could bend too once more,
then it would be there own reflection,
that they could truly adore!

But now they feel alone,
inadequate to say the least,
the years of building up to save the earth
has left them with an empty feast

and so they pray to the ant angels
in hope of another chance
for there ancestors never believed in them
and now they are left with a danceless dance!

If only they did not have so much attachment
to the ground beneath there little ant feet,
For see how the air has changed now -
Defeat! defeat! defeat!

(Dost thou not strive? Ist thou not alive??)

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Aurora, 10 april 2014

22022

She glances through a lock of hair,
but do not stare,
at this wandering grace,
For the planets are forever moved,
by such an angelic face.

Neigh not the face,
that fills with tears and blood,
that sways with the winds
and predicts the armageddon floods.

Neigh not the face,
that screams in the dark,
and corresses the mirror with sin,
that prays to the lord:
"oh lord,oh lord, where have you been?"

Neigh not the face,
that loved neither sun nor moon,
and claimed that the sweet hummingbird
was too out of tune!

Neigh, that is not the face that I speakth' you.

My sweetest dear,
my whitest dove,
for the face I see of you,
is of the face from the above.

And 'though your veil,
moves softly throughout my golden lair;
I care, I care, I care,
I care!
for you, my sweet blossom
that hath yet to bloom,
I care for you.

And 'though your veil,
teases my every dream that is yet to be,
I want you to know
that although you are blind,
you can always feel me.

And 'though your veil,
marks the sorrow of your soul,
I am the one to lift it,
sweet isis,
O' sweet isis!

So lift I shall
and show you the world
through the eyes
inside the face ,
of the one I speakth not yet
the one that I have been saving from you,
to keep you within bounds of earthly grace!

So that no mountain may seem
too benelovant to lean on,
in the aid of such a mighty fall,

I do not want you to cry anymore!

As like boulders of olives, do your tears
fall onto my iridescent, omnipresent skin!

And like arrows, do your words shoot
when you call to me:
"oh lord! where have you been?"
"where are you my lord? I can not see!
Please, please, please,
please my lord, come and save me!"

In light I return and darkness I stay no more,
Here I am my queen,
saving you from your fall.

For if you fall, the world shall too
and the rivers will turn to blood,
rather than skies of blue
and the fish will float
and feel life no more
so set sail on lifes wind
and prepare for the child you are to yet bore.

number of comments: 0 | rating: 1 | detail

Joe Breunig, 10 april 2014

Poem: In His Hands

Although I’m still clay,
upon God’s pottery wheel,
He continues to mold me.

Fashioned after His image,
He reworks this human vessel
to accomplish what He sees…

in the combination of gifts
that were previously bestowed,
into this elysian creation.

Mirroring Christ’s brokenness,
I can share in His suffering,
from fully embracing Salvation.

Free of the law of sin and death,
my unveiled face radiates His Love,
as I am ‘taking back the land’.

Living under my Savior’s authority,
I am forever grateful and thankful-
to remain permanently in His hands.

Author Notes:

Loosely based on:
Matt 5:1-16

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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Gert Strydom, 10 april 2014

In each raindrop there is a kind of magic (Enclosed Triplet)

In each raindrop there is a kind of magic,
magic in the falling blue-white thunder,
the thunder that in a flash downward flick

the flick of something about which I wonder,
the wonder that again brings fresh new life,
new life to where seeds are turned under.

The bright rainbow has a own kind of spell,
a spell of time when the hot sun blazes,
blazes in brilliance as all is well,

while the deep well suddenly amazes,
amazes with water that is clear and pure,
pure to the taste as heat hangs in a haze.

Nothing can the power of rain remove
as overnight the grass and the crops jumps,
proving the great power of divine love.

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Satish Verma, 10 april 2014

A NAME OF CLEMENCY

Belief will lynch all the vistas,
one by one,
for art of living,
to break the silence of innocence.

I will scream, when hurts bruise
in temporal sleep,
for man’s hymns of wheeled corpses
wafting in eternal cliffs of truth –

being proud strings of a forgotten song
in the valley of death
chastening the majesty of scars.

I will pray for the brief funeral
of old age,
I shall not beg for mercy.

Satish Verma

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Gert Strydom, 9 april 2014

I want to go to the high-veldt

I want to go to the high-veldt,
I want to look up into the pale-blue sky,
stand next to the green hillocks

and I want to walk on the red sand
when the stormy weather rises
and barefoot leave my tracks there,

I want to raise my eyes to the heavenly lights,
and at night look at the bright stars.
I want to go to the high-veldt,

leave marks that betray my presence,
see the blue-white sparks jump
when the stormy weather rises,

smell the falling rain,
see how the wet ground looks,
stand next to the green hillocks

where nature pays homage to the Creator
and I want to experience the world of my childhood days,
see the blue-white sparks jump

and fold my hand around beautiful stones
and like marbles stroke over them.
I want to go to the high-veldt,

leave no place unvisited on my hike,
find all of the old secret places again
and I want to experience the world of my childhood days,

follow the sun on its bright white orbit,
to where the most distant horizon is,
stand next to the green hillocks

and blinded in the eyes of a child
live out moments of my childhood days again,
find all of the old secret places,

just walking on and on
without diverting from the old footpaths.
I want to go to the high-veldt,
stand next to the green hillocks,

for moments be woven back into the fabric of time
and I want to walk on the red sand,
live out moments of my childhood days again
and barefoot leave my tracks there.

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Satish Verma, 9 april 2014

STONES IN CRYPT

It was midnight moon
cruising in the bedroom.
I step aside in the depressed window,
watch the overwhelming spillover.

I listen, then do not listen to alien voices
of bipolar beings, speaking Aryan,
artfully in cryptic signs
crunching the bones.

Black crucibles throw up bright stars,
in cruciferous crow bars. Pungent
smell of armpits. Dizzing heights
of memorials, becoming digital targets.

Deathless deluge of totems, claim the
corpse of earth. The screams start
coming from buried caskets.
Divining rods disappear.

Blue spirits trying to fly away.

Satish Verma

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Nightrayne, 8 april 2014

I'm over you

I tell myself I’m over you -
yet find myself thinking of you,
far more often than I should.
Yet it doesn’t hurt like it use too -
now only a phantom pain lingering
after a long ago cut off limb.
Does that mean I've come to accept?
Does that mean I've pass through
all the dreaded stages of grief?

I can see I've tried to beg,
I've tried to bargain.
I've been consumed with rage,
sometimes I still am...
I’ve cried my heart out,
I've shouting to the stars in a desperate plight...
I felt the hopelessness set in
as the realization near drowned me;
I will never find comfort in your arms again

number of comments: 0 | rating: 1 | detail

Gert Strydom, 8 april 2014

Sometimes the things I do (Persian / Rubiyat quatrain)

Sometimes the things I do and say
is like a sword a that I do sway
and it’s not mine to take up
but yet I do it day by day.

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POEWHIT, 8 april 2014

P O E M B O Y 8

The moon turns

SPIN earth SPIN

who am I ?????

Spot of living dust

Air of must

SIT, [wonder an hour ]

Smell of the flower

Life turns with power.

5/8/2014 JOE POEWHIT

JESUS SAVES

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10 - 30 - 100

Latest items:

poetry

Ins(p)ecting your nature

22022

Poem: In His Hands

In each raindrop there is a kind of magic (Enclosed Triplet)

A NAME OF CLEMENCY

I want to go to the high-veldt

STONES IN CRYPT

I'm over you

Sometimes the things I do (Persian / Rubiyat quatrain)

P O E M B O Y 8

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