poetry

Satish Verma, 25 september 2016

Ending War

Lashed together
for a better tomorrow,
ending war of words.

Heralding the new
moon I sacrifice
my becoming age

I will sleep now
on hawthorns in bleeding
flames of forest.

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Satish Verma, 24 september 2016

It was a complete disaster.
I will listen to moon tonight, while
writing your name
on bikini top,

holding the pigeons. The
birds had abandoned the
walnut tree in haste. Between
them can you see a butchered

image of little god, who
broke the cold chain of flirting
and sat on a rosette of
tears blocking the sun?

Was it true that death always
sits on our shoulders like an
owl undocking the life for piercing
contentious lips?

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B.Z. Niditch, 24 september 2016

WATCHING

Watching from a telescope
heights of stars
after my bicycle ride
rests along the Bay
meeting a lost sailor
who caught yellow jack
in islands far from home
here at a frozen shore
ice fishing in a few holes
that he plummets
in halting waves
on waters
at the home harbor anchors
rescuing my orange kayak
still anchored for the spring
as a Canadian robin appears
along the shore.

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B.Z. Niditch, 24 september 2016

ASHES

"Have a nice day"
say the living neighbors
who do not envy the lost
as news reports
on victims ashes
in Europe and Asia
cannot speak or reply
to the unthinkable
in an absence of gazes
from tiny snapshots
ex camera
in a former life
concealed among caves
and white stones
along the beach
your luminous eyes
cannot hide ourselves
on the unspeakable.

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B.Z. Niditch, 24 september 2016

THE CHILD SOLDIERS

The child soldiers
smile and gaze
in a nightmare
as your furniture
and personal pictures
are being removed,
then you are taken away,
there are few
photos of you left
bathing on the sea
or up on skis
or on a white mountain
vacation,
no one to greet you
in the city market
without any fruit
or vegetables
in a time of war
reporters visit
after the horror
who now stare
at your losses.

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B.Z. Niditch, 24 september 2016

FALL BLUES

A Beat poet
cooped up like a canary
in a New England winter
tired of TV. screens
and faded old films
clouded over
his bloodshot eyes
wanting to be a runaway
or a Rimbaud
here in Vermont
a red French wine
takes out his sax
to play riffs
along the Green Mountains
yet afraid to be
terrorized from a water bed
abandoned from home
and his made up
spiritual exercises
with a crusade
against his lost friend
shows me her balancing act
in his disturbed universe
by throwing a football
from the Patriots
telling her a Chinese proverb,
"Tension is who you think
you should be, relaxation
is who you are."

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B.Z. Niditch, 24 september 2016

TWELVE CANDLES

Riding on my bicycle
with a broken right arm
and break in shoulder
after soccer practice
hurting from
a bully's wound
in days of Mercurochrome
still smarting on your body
of thought when left
with a shadow of memory
yet your anger smolder
over a first leather jacket
from your birthday party
after seeing
a James Dean movie
here on an Autumn day
you walk with a free ticket
to the Cape Ann museum
a pug on the sidewalk
accompanies you
with a Van Gogh postcard
from your Dutch uncle
still intact
in your side pocket
broken sunglasses
from today assaults
of an insensate encounter
you climb up
the art house steps
waiting to visit the moderns
taking out your oils,
notebook and poet's pen
unwilling to take any blame
for being an origin

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Joe Breunig, 23 september 2016

Poem: Mannequins

Oh, those store mannequins
with their pretty, empty heads
and unending, plastic smiles,
are forever standing, never dead

on their small, well-heeled feet.
As prime examples of fortitude,
they’re ready to make a sale…
at your expense; smug attitudes

can be imagined, as they strike
poses with ease and flexibility.
Do they mirror us, as placeholders
in Life? Having potential energy,

they remain lifeless in display Hell;
what things about us, do they tell?

Author notes

Inspired by:
Store dummies and Prov 16:28; Matt 7:1-5

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

By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2016, All rights reserved.

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Joe Breunig, 23 september 2016

Poem: Can I Love… What God Sees in Me?

Between self-deprecation
and ideas of lowliness,
who am I to believe, that…
I’m completely unlovable?
When can I love… what God
sees in me? Is my Creator,
wrong in thinking that I…
have value? Does this flesh
prevent me from being fully…
submerged in righteousness?

I’m of the humble opinion,
that His wisdom is greater
and far more knowledgeable
than my own; His judgment
remains unquestionable; He
reigns with sovereignty;
after all, He’s still God
and His perfect perception…
transcends the comprehension
that I could hope to muster.

Author notes

Inspired by:
Luke 1:39-56

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

By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2016, All rights reserved.

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Satish Verma, 22 september 2016

Anarchy

Wind prowled.
You had a hornet’s sting
buried half in your hand.

Anaphylactic shock.
Translates into night of terror.
You hesitate to smile.

Midnight blues.
You cannot count the stars.
Pesky. Stories spread about moon’s pink thighs.

An ode to the death’s kiss.
You were sleeping in the
sole embrace of pain.

The denizen breaks the rule.
Moves into the sea
for courtship with depth.

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Latest comments:

poetry

Ending War

Delinquency

WATCHING

ASHES

THE CHILD SOLDIERS

FALL BLUES

TWELVE CANDLES

Poem: Mannequins

Poem: Can I Love… What God Sees in Me?

Anarchy

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