|
Gerry Bravi, CA
Free Verse
Making Do
Grass like wire,
screeches underfoot.
Dry,
dry as last month's jug of whiskey,
and you can count the bushels
of rye, wheat and barley
marching off the acres
for want of water.
Just another year of farming.
Back full of aches,
mind full of worries and unknowns.
One certainty,
another year with empty pockets,
another year of making do.
Beyond
Unexpectedly he stiffens.
Rigid, he almost sits up.
Suddenly, seeming aware
of the emotions and memories
that surround and engulf him.
More likely a spasm,
but perhaps some recollection
or thought
that narrowly escapes his ken.
He sinks back, inert,
beyond recall.
All those things he was
scattered by some voracious wind
or god.
A history now beyond him.
Furl your sails old man,
father, lover, friend, son,
grandfather, uncle, teacher, toiler;
all those things and more.
Relax, give up the ship.
I no longer beg you to stay,
to suffer,
to battle the battering winds
of my need.
Let go.
It has been a long
and arduous journey.
Too late said,
you are beyond my voice
beyond my summons,
beyond understanding.
This I know,
until you squeeze my hand in acknowledgement
then slip into my past.
Hanging On
I stare through the frost and soot
coating my distorted window,
watching wood smoke rush out the chimney.
It hurries to greet the pale blue sky
only to implode on itself
as it meets the cold indifference
of the day.
Sundogs beam knowingly at its impudence,
but quickly regain their icy composure.
With a smile I think,
how life mimics nature,
but I shake myself back to reality.
Life a mime?
I fear not,
simply another device.
An expedient means
for dispelling our fears,
assuaging our uncertainties.
Just another stab
at remaining intact.
|
|
John Tiong Chunghoo, MY
Free Verse
French
Lieutenant's Woman
from the waves
she comes to your dream
a cauldron of longings
seeking your reassuring touch
thighs, legs, hands, breasts
blowing a tempest
in a bed of passions
please don't hold on to her
when it is over,
the waves will take her
to where she belongs
between the waves,
twinkling lights
charted by the breeze
and stars
the beautiest of passion
is what leaves
a bed full of memory
which one can hold
tightly to
reassuring
as a treasure chest
warm as two sworn lovers'
bridge to paradise
legs, thighs,
hands, breasts..
the woman
that comes with passion
the rolling of
incessant waves
and goes away,
quiet and swift
as a morning star
diluted by light of day
God's
Obsession with Geometry: A Poem
you may not be all knowing
but it does not mean you
would not know the all knowing
for instance the fact that he is
obsessed with geometry
the lines you see everywhere
in the butterflies, the birds,
the insects, animals
what do they have in common?
such an overpowering exquisite
range of shapes and patterns
the obsession develops into
creating things to carry and
dance with those mind-boggling,
at times, eerie, alluring and simply
ingenious and haunting designs
his favourite should be the shape of a ball
all things important are crowned with a roundness
that conveys his fondness for them
it starts from your two eyeballs, then the earth
then the sun, the whole planetary system
even the way they move, circular lines
the rest of his geometric insanity,
you have to run for them in the butterflies,
the birds, the mollusks, the shells,
each earth particle, the crystals
and did I say our very own face.
every line on the face makes us another person
you need not be all knowing
but that does not mean you
would not know the all knowing
his preference, his dos and don'ts
the way he talks in symbols using
things around us, and the cycle of things
his obsession with geometry
you pull a
tide in me
you pull a tide in me
like the full moon
upon the wildest of sea
a strange longing
inches its way
into me the day you
appeared,
plays shadow
with my senses
the thousand smiles
over the sea
they are mine for you
the million sighs
over the sea
they are mine
under the gentle
touch of love
the butterfly's
frenzied joy
as it perches
over the cup
of honey wrapped blossom
it is that poem
swept awry in the sea
of my heart
|
|
Andreas Gripp, CA
Free Verse
Francesca,
Weeding the Garden
My daughter, all
of six
and bursting with a Big Bang
sort of energy,
zigzags across our fenced backyard,
picking dandelions she holds
in her fist,
for an “I love you daddy” bouquet,
like the lofty ones
I snagged for her mother
before the tumors took her away,
their sunny heads of yellow
jutting freely from curling fingers,
my steady, sturdy voice
now a downcast, trembling shell,
saying they last a little longer
than flowers,
we’ll wish you better
when they turn to spores.
|
top of
page
|