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poetry

Bob Gotti, 27 november 2013

Confused Atmosphere

Mother Nature may be confused, just like those, who have used,
This demeaning title to describe, the very God they have denied,
The Lord God, Who orders all, weather patterns, great and small,
He may never enter their minds, while stirring weather of all kinds.

Confused He isn’t or will not be, for He is The Lord of all Eternity,
He is God of Order, up above; controlling weather men speak of,
And they truly don’t understand, He controls the weather at hand,
Confusing only meteorologists, who dream Mother Nature exists.

They forecast the weather to come, not aware of where it is from,
Knowing not who is really behind, the weather they bring to mind,
Being shaken and very surprised, when it’s not as they surmised,
But taking credit from their peers, for saying good weather nears.

Often times, you may even note, as weather is good some gloat,
About the returning of the sun, as if, it’s something they’ve done,
Even though they may shy away, as bad weather comes our way,
Almost with a real reverence to, The Lord, to whom it is truly due.

For He is The Creator of this earth, Ruler over the whole universe,
He has, and always will control, all weather patterns, big or small,
With change meteorologists see, that fools the latest technology,
And it’s those who have refused, God’s Truth, who are confused.

(Copyright ©02/2012 Bob Gotti)

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Joe Breunig, 27 november 2013

Poem: Called to Worship (XIII)

Now sing unto The Lord, a new song;
offer up your voice on this glad day.
Give heartfelt thanksgiving often,
with the joyful sounds of praise.

Our genuine appreciation of Him,
should be reflective of open hearts!
Cling to His Presence and not flesh;
don’t allow His Spirit to sadly depart.

Take time to quietly commune with our Lord;
recognize His essence permeates the universe,
seeing that He is the ruler of all creation.
By divine inspiration, compose songs and verse.

On this day, honor Christ Jesus’ kingship -
be faithful, know you’re… Called to worship!

Author Notes:

Loosely based on:
Psa 96:1; Gal 5:16-17, 25; Gen 1:1

Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/

By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2013, All rights reserved.

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Satish Verma, 27 november 2013

FLESH AND BONES

Signs versus shadows in city
of reasons burst amnion.
White cranes manipulate black clouds,
smudge the nomenclature.

I want to become deaf
in grazing blasts. Young lovers
dance on machetes; nifty wounds
of red alpines.

Thieves loot the basket of zodiac,
death on tall trees.
Even the grief has enemies,
for another farewell to sky.

You could hear the finger tapping
on the empty belly of little girl
from the broken childhood, not allowed
to scream loudly.

Will the sanity grieve on the charred
remains of a virgin, in the exiled home
of a brave truth? Then two little hands
will thump again in fog?

Satish Verma

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Gert Strydom, 26 november 2013

While the night takes of her nightdress

While the night takes of her nightdress,
spreads her stars out blue-white and naked
and prepares herself for the caress
of the coming sun

I see the wind pulling
on your blonde curls of hair,
catch your fragrance
like lavender on the evening wind

and your lips
are pomegranate-red in the moonlight
that spreads her golden cloak
and you are prettier than just beautiful

and a mere moment does linger
when you walk right into my arms.

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Gert Strydom, 26 november 2013

You are a part of me

You are a part of me
and I carry you along
every night and day

and even the yellow sun
reminds me that you are the one
and no fate or religion
or any kind of destiny
can convince me
to let you go

as you are the breath, the blood,
the synapses that binds me
and you are in every thing, every part
of my beating heart.

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Satish Verma, 26 november 2013

LAND’S SMELL

Our mouths go dry
at midnight charter on papyrus leaf.
Are we reverting back to pristine stone reliefs?

How far we will go revolving around eclipse,
stumbling on the phraseology of cosmos?
Man was becoming inferior to beast.

Who will walk on the bones of ancestors
to dig out the truth from scriptures?
The proud cows have become violent –

separating milk from grass in agony.
The perks were increasing the rifles.
Freedom had fled away from the legacies.

The split lips cannot speak coherently.
Terror attacks were reaching there, where
drenched amnesia wants to remember only door bells.

Satish Verma

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Milena Sušnik Falle, 25 november 2013

GOLE GREDICE

V teh dneh,
dež žalosti dneve.
Daleč od sonca in morja
zateglo kličem
za bosim poletjem,
ura za uro mineva
brezkončno počasi.

Čutim dih jeseni.
Plazi se vame –
skeli, kakor rana.
Odkar sanjam preprostost ljubezni,
so moji dnevi nedosegljiva daljava.
In beg pred hlastočim vrtincem
samote.

Milena Sušnik Falle - Slovenija
(pesniška zbirka Prozorni kristali jutra)

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Gert Strydom, 25 november 2013

Sabbath of a unemployed man

I stand just outside the Pick-a-Pay
and have got no money to buy
some bread and milk
and the smell of hot bread
hangs in the air.

It’s a humid, cloudy hot Sabbath day,
however the sun is scorching
while for a few Rand
and sometimes cents
I am looking after cars,
are minding them from being stolen

and suddenly a Higher Being decides
that I need a shower bath
and the clouds open
causing streams of water
to run down my clothes
while I flee to the shelter
of the roof

and I wonder who does control everything,
the weather, and the destiny of people
when suddenly it stops raining
and steam rises
as vapour from the tarred road

and a man presses a hundred Rand into my hand
and say: “take this friend”
and I am astonished
on the kindness of some people
and in the distance
a lightning bolt flashes down to below
and I shiver where I am standing in the sun

and I buy bread and milk,
already prepared chicken,
the newspaper
and ride like a prince
with my bicycle back
to the shack
where my wife and children
are waiting hungry.

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Gert Strydom, 25 november 2013

Dear Lord

Sometimes it feels, it really looks
as if you are unaware of my existence,
maybe busy with more pressing things
than me a simple human being

yet in the waking morning, the first light of day
(and I have not got to pray
to be aware of this)
it’s as if you are in the world around me,

not in a great serenity, but touching
even other smaller things
like bees and birds and blooming flowers,
sending rain showers at the appropriate time

and I do pray
please help me,
please guide and open the way
with each passing day.

[Reference: To The One Upstairs by Charles Simic.]

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Satish Verma, 25 november 2013

DEATH OF ABSENCE

Gladioli stand in a tantric daze
under siege of prism. The colors fall dangling,
unsettling silent memories.

I thought I was nervous
while playing a smell game of wild guns,
when tanks were rolling out on streets.

A final farewell before exiting
the garden, in my ceremony of death.
A child lies down waiting for the boots.

The wheat grass of beggers,
never to mourn a falling cloud
undesires a dropp of blood on tongue spilling on skin.

A terrified leaf disturbs a mirror,
civilized image of a private crystal, beyond
the virulence of hiding legs.

Satish Verma

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Latest items:

poetry

Confused Atmosphere

Poem: Called to Worship (XIII)

FLESH AND BONES

While the night takes of her nightdress

You are a part of me

LAND’S SMELL

GOLE GREDICE

Sabbath of a unemployed man

Dear Lord

DEATH OF ABSENCE

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