A Showcase For P H Poets: August 2015: Section 'A'.... [sharing Poems; Not A Contest; Monthly On Bri Edwards' P H Site] Poem by Bri Edwards

I’ve started a 'showcase' on my PoemHunter site,
which is NOT a contest; it’s no arena for a fight,
but instead a place where once a month I shall post..
a poem* from you, a PH member, which you’d like read most.

NO title, topic, nor length* do I plan to require.
Just send in a poem to set the PH members on fire.
Send to 'A Showcase For PH Poets', care of me.
Let's show off our stuff, and this also is free!

I was intending this to showcase poems by you, the member,
BUT, heck, send someone else's ** if you'd like, BUT remember....
to NOT get me involved in copyright disputes, please.
Of course if I were sued, there is NO money from me to squeeze!

(February 28,2015)

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******POEMS MAY BE 'old' OR 'new' TO PH AND THE WORLD! In most cases they will NOT be 'BORROWED', though some may be 'BLUE'.

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CHANGE IN JULY and AUGUST:

Starting in July showcase I plan to list the poets and list their poems in DESCENDING order, starting with the most recent entry. That way, if you visit the showcase more than once, the poets or poems previously near the top of the list may have descended below more recently entered ones. This should make it easier for the readers I hope, and more likely that ‘newer’ poems will be read.
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I hope some of you will decide to share poems in August and also read some [or all] of the submissions.


*I now allow and welcome TWO poems per month from each PH member. At least one of them should be not much longer than 24 lines in length, but I’ll judge each case separately, trying to be fair to all.

So, now for some information about my monthly SHOWCASE for PH poets:

In anticipation of a great response for my first showcase, in February,2015, [I sent notices to about 75 members from my inbox and my list of PH friends], I added to my poem's title: “section ‘A’ ”, but there MAY never be a “section ‘B’ “.

I plan to submit one of my own short (24 lines or less) poems, and one of my LONG ones (which may go on for a couple of pages) . Therefore, and since I will allow other members to also submit two poems per month [if one is 24 lines or less], I may well add a second, third,4th, etc. 'section' so readers will not have to scroll up and down too much to refer to poems and the comments area below the poems. Understand? I hope so. This first 'section' is 'A' and I shall follow the English alphabet: A, B, C, etc. IF I FEEL A NEED (or desire) TO DO SO.


I also plan to have a LIST OF POETS [whose poem(s) are included in a following section] above the posted poems.

**I WOULD LOVE TO HAVE ALL POEMS BE WRITTEN BY PH MEMBERS, and be submitted by the authors. If you choose to submit a poem by another PH member I will try to verify that the member agrees. Poems attributed to non-members I may want to ask about also.


[PLEASE READ THE POET'S NOTE ALSO FOR MY 'A SHOWCASE FOR PH POETS'.]

I WILL ALWAYS GIVE THE AUTHOR’S NAME WITH THE POEM POSTED.

My first showcase was in February 2015, and I consider it to be a success, with almost 20 poems to view, from almost as many poets. My thanks go to all contributors! ! This is meant to expose poems and poets to readers and to provide some entertainment and/or enlightenment and/or knowledge to PH members [and I guess non-members who, I think, can also view the poems but not comment].
Some of the poems may not be on the authors’ PH sites. But if you are enthused about a poem, I hope you will visit the poet’s site and read more and leave comments.

Did I forget anything? ?

[[some ages of poets' may be age+1.
AND i use PH for the names and countries and gender as well.]]

[AND I TRY TO keep typos etc. out of the poems, but if i miss some, OR if the poets wants their poems added as they've given them to me, then i'm not going to edit the poem! ]

[In last month's (July’s) showcase, there were 18 poems from 13 poets.]
HERE WE GO……………

THE POETS AND THEIR POEMS …………………(listed in REVERSE ORDER of when I entered them into this showcase) . After the list of poets and their poems you will find the poems. Enjoy!

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'THE POETS':
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Thirty-six: ELENA PLOTKIN (United States; I'd guess Female; ageless?)


Mistakes, I'Ve Made A Few... Thousand

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Thirty-five: ABEKAH EMMANUEL (Ghana; Male; 23)


A Poem To A Poet

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Thirty-four: BRIAN JOHNSTON (United States; Male; 72) (2nd poem)


Night Vision

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Thirty-three: BRIAN JOHNSTON (United States; Male; 72) (1st poem)


My Mother's Art - New Eyes

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Thirty-two: BEACH GIRL (United States; Female; 45)


Lake Tenkiller

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Thirty-one: DOUGLAS SCOTNEY (Australia; Male; 62) (2nd poem)


Wages And Surveillance
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Thiry: CHARLES DARNELL (United States; Male; 65)


Lazarus

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Twenty-nine: CLARENCE PRINCE (Canada; Male ;)


Something/Nothing!

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Twenty-eight: MELVINA GERMAIN (Canada; Female; 70) (2nd poem)


I Love You…je T’adore

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Twenty-seven: EUGENE LEVICH (United States; Male; 78) (2nd poem)


'A Poem Should Not Mean...But Be! '

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Twenty-six: EUGENE LEVICH (United States; Male; 78) (1st poem)


A Military Campaign Against The Nomads... By Li Qi (690-751 Ce)

[Eugene's translation]

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Twenty-five: MELVINA GERMAIN (Canada; Female; 70)


A Night Of Love

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Twenty-four: AKHTAR JAWAD (Pakistan; Male; 70)


A Grandchild

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Twenty-three: SAVITA TYAGI (United States; Female; 67)


Sharing A Sunset

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Twenty-two: GREG DAVIDSON (Australia; Male; 60)


At The Close Of The Day

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Twenty-one: STEPHEN KATONA (United Kingdom; Male; 45)


Koko's Poem For Robin Williams

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Twenty: BRI EDWARDS (United States; Male; 67)


I Made Her Laugh.......[short; Humor; Community]

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Nineteen: VALSA GEORGE (India; Female; 61)


Silence That Speaks

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Eighteen: KIM BARNEY (Brazil, via U.S.A.; Male; 100?) (2nd poem)


The Beggar

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Seventeen: KIM BARNEY (Brazil, via U.S.A.; Male; 100! hmm?) (1st poem)


The Best Poem Ever


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Sixteen: GING TAPING (Philippines; Female; 44) (2nd poem)


What Life Is..


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Fifteen: GING TAPING (Philippines; Female; 44) (1st poem)


Bitter Sweet Goodbye...


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Fourteen: M.J. LEMON (Canada; Male; unknown) (2nd poem)

Corn Chips

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Thirteen: M.J. LEMON (Canada; Male; unknown) (1st poem)


Ice

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Twelve: JOHN WESTLAKE (United Kingdom; Male; 31) (2nd poem)


242. My Beautiful Angel In Blue

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Eleven: JOHN WESTLAKE (United Kingdom; Male; 31) (1st poem)


240.

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Ten: DARLENE WALSH (United States; Female; 21)


My Thief

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Nine: IS IT POETRY (United States; Male; 100 hmmm?)


Daffodils

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Eight: JAK BLACK (United Kingdom; Male; 41) (2nd poem)


Guess Who.


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Seven: RUTH WALTERS (United Kingdom; Female; 63) (2nd poem)


A Marmite Sandwich


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Six: RUTH WALTERS (United Kingdom; Female; 63) (1st poem)


A Doll's Eye View

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Five: RAY HART (Australia; Male; 69)


My Love Flies

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Four: XELAM KHAN (Pakistan; Male; 96 hmm?)


Funny World

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Three: JAK BLACK (United Kingdom; Male; 41) (1st poem)


Time

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Two: DOUGLAS SCOTNEY (Australia; Male; 62) (1st poem)


Chuzzlewit X: To Laugh Again


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One: BRI EDWARDS (United States; Male; 67) (1st poem)

Alphabet Fun...... [fun With Letters A, B, C, Etc.; My Rarely-Used Vocabulary; 'Bad' Vs. 'Good']


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THE POEMS:

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Thirty-six: by Elena Plotkin


Mistakes, I'Ve Made A Few... Thousand


When it comes to mistakes I have to admit I‘ve made a few... thousand.
Thankfully all or most of my mistakes have never been physically counted.
However many have been lumped together, ridiculed, and put on exhibition,
Mostly before company and always for the grand purpose of contrition.
It wasn’t, in fact, until I reached mistake number six hundred and ninety-six,
That I realized my panache for making mistakes may never ever get fixed.
Now, some of you may be saying why didn’t she realize all this way before
Like somewhere around mistake number five hundred and eighty-four?
And to you I say, ‘hindsight is twenty-twenty’ and I try to never look back,
I always look forward and never dwell out of fear of confronting what I lack.
“Judge not least ye be judged” and “let he without sin cast the first stone”
Preferably from as far away as possible and when I am not around at home.
And for those others who just like me are rounding number three thousand and five.
I say lift up your head and walk with pride because frankly it’s a marvel you’re still alive!
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Thirty-four: by Abekah Emmanuel


A Poem To A Poet


And so today I write to you oh fellow poet!
Yes, I know this will take you by surprise
For I know, you write about host of issues;
From life to death, from heaven to hell,
From wedding to funeral, from good
To evil, from ugly to the beautiful
Just to mention, my friend, but few.

My writing to you is like buying a steak
For a cowboy and a gun for a soldier,
For you can understand and speak
The language of the wise.
And so I am not crippling myself
With the manacles of rhythms nor rhymes,
Though with sweetness and beauty,
They grace our poems.

Now lend me all your ears, my friend,
And hear all that I wish to tell.
Many a time have you, with dexterity,
Described the ugliest scenes
With perfect skill and beauty,
Many a time, with your powerful words,
Have you melted the hearts of tyrants,
Even the last time in school,
I read, with your poems, you changed
The course of history and ideas.
It is amazing, how you are are adorned.

But I wish to make one request from you,
Be calm and do me but one favour,
When I am left with few seconds
On my death bed, pick your pen
And describe the scene to the world
So that no one will be sad,
Describe it to my children,
So that no one will cry,
Describe it to my family,
So they wont feel the loss,
This I ask of you, oh fellow poet!

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On Abekah's poem page i've left the 'penned note' for his family etc. which he requested. It is also to be in my list of poems on my site. Of course, maybe Abekah wasn't writing about himself!
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Thirty-three: by Brian Johnston


Night Vision *


Although Hubble’s frozen eye may never dance
With light gathered from your visage,
My mind’s eye knows that you are there,
The constellation you inhabit
Perhaps unknown in earthly realms,
You, my soul mate from the moment
That creation itself chose our far flung paths,
Imagined the perfection of our wanderings,
Two puzzled pieces of God’s imagination,
Me without you, you without me, yet part
Of a wholeness, a twinkle in God’s eye,
In life and in death embracing the other as self.

What makes the night beautiful,
What gives the night its voice,
Is that somewhere you are singing softly,
An evolutionary force of nature
That has not had time to mature yet,
The missing variable that drives the Big Bang,
And explains once and for all,
How galaxies, each a dream in God’s imagination,
Now thought to be rushing into oblivion
And apparent cold death, can turn the tide,
Finally merging with God’s heart once more,
Where every piece at last finds peace….

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* on Brian's PH site this is in his poem list as:
'Ph: Love: Night Vision'

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Thirty-two: by Brian Johnston


My Mother’s Art - New Eyes


I was young when I realized my mom was different,
Different from me at least, for sometimes
She would draw or paint and miracles would happen.
Her penciled or charcoaled strokes on paper projecting life
Into two dimensions, though color, of course, was absent,
Like God, a multi-dimensional entity, manifesting Himself
Into the three-dimensional flesh of Jesus Christ,
God’s Presence too much for mortal man to take in.
Her images drawn from a world of fragmentary illumination,
Pre-dawn scenes where mind supplies the missing detail
That eye cannot quite gather in, so soft, so colorless the light.
Proportions too are faultless: contours never flat,
Roof lines never too long or short, you are with her,
Mountains exactly where God put them,
Though not strictly photographic, as if aware of her gaze,
And truly wanting to look their best for …. the Artist.

And colors too, the amazing blend of watercolors that
Always complimented even nature’s imagination.
A few strokes of her brush and a girl’s face would emerge from
What would be mere daubing on my part, believe me, I tried.
But for mom, the colors always ran, flowed into perfection,
Making it seem sometimes like gravity was up not down.
You wanted her to win, and somehow, she almost always did.
The paint itself would evolve with time to become
Who the girl herself would be, if only she knew how,
Perfection shining through the textures of mere colors,
Even the rose colored light of the rising sun wherein she posed
Erupting from her image as if Venus herself broached the shore,
Floating as it were, erect on shell, on a sea born of man’s tears.
Oh, my mother said everything with the genius of new eyes.

Only with my words do I dare to paint images that so touch
The emotions that shook me to the core of my being as a child.
Did my mother wreck me, did she draw me into coral reefs
Of her imagination like a siren might a forlorn sailor.
I leave that for you to judge, my reader, my friend, my lover,
Whose mind is the intangible parchment of my self-expression.
Her parting legacy to her son, the gift of my very own new eyes.

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Thirty-two: by Beach Girl


Lake Tenkiller


Listlessly floating, reaching out
Fingers drawing playful aqua swirls

Bright, beauteous days of blues and whites
Clouds drifting, growing, changing shapes

Gently disappear in their slow journey
To a misty, mysterious grave

Nary a breeze, still and mean
Starkly, staring glaring heat

Sweet salty sweat on upper lip
Languid streams flow 'tween my breasts

Smells of sun baked road and gravel
And earthy, lusty, dusty soil

Crunch of rocks and broken twigs
Tromping roughly down the trail

Funky, musky dead thing scents
Lie in swamplike ditches beside the road

Flowers, fragile, wild girl weeds
Harshly thorned and twining

Vines wrapped about, and choking trees
In an endless embrace of love or not

Lake smells of floating, rotting fish
Mildewing, brown leaves decomposing

Silent sails glide 'cross glistening waves
Tacking to and fro across the lake

Low droning hum of nameless bugs
Sing mindless dirges through the night

The owl's inquiries, never answered
Lull me to sleep's soft embrace

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Thirty-one: by Douglas Scotney


Wages And Surveillance


You feel there's a connect
between our tolerances
of wage disparities and increasing surveillance
and want to find it
and express it in a poem
because a poem convinces best.

You don't know what's diluting the math
that makes it blatantly obvious
that something has to be done
about wage differentials
to arrest disquiet.

You do know
that self-preservation
is diluting what has to be done
about too much information.

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Thirty: by Charles Darnell


Lazarus


Ah Jesus! You do me no favors!
You give me life, but not my life!
You raise me up, what am I to do?
You are borne away with the crowd,
Shouting hosannas as you go,
Like the retreating tide
Pulls pebbles from the shore.

I am like shells on the sand.
Empty, hard husk, standing out for the curious,
But I shall not be picked up by wondering hands.
Those who know me, loved me, know me not now.
I am not the phoenix reborn with youth and soaring strength,
Just Lazarus, already tottering to my second tomb.

Those who loved me, wept with joy with my return.
How soon before the side-long glances reveal
The recollection that those little sins
They know I know were resurrected too?
How soon before the happy embrace
Is replaced by distance carefully maintained
As if the death-stink was still on me?

I see my future years ahead,
The unnatural soul moving alone
Through my unnatural days.

My God, my God,
Why have you forsaken me?

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Twenty-nine: by Clarence Prince


Something/Nothing!


I am Something
I met up with Nothing
He wasn't hard to find
I asked him what he was doing
He said, he wasn't doing anything
I asked him where he was from
He said, he was from nowhere
I asked, where's that, nowhere
He said, same place, nowhere
Then who's there I asked him
He said, he had ever been there
Nothing aside Nothing
Just a Nothing
Even so, there's hope
One day I'll be something

I am Something
For sure he's just Nothing
I asked him, if he'd known anything
He said, he knew Everything
So I asked him, who Everything was
He said, the father of everything
That's him, who's Everything
I asked him, where the father is
He said, the father is everywhere
Doing all things from nothing
By Nothing, he made everything
Yet I am still Nothing
Just a Nothing
Even so, there's hope
One day I'll be something

I am Something
You bet he is just Nothing
Here, he had got me confusing
As if I weren't already overly musing
He is Nothing, the father is Everything
So I say take me to father Everything
He said, but you are already with him
Seemly I thought doesn't Nothing cared
Then he said, he cared for all things
But never any one cares for Nothing
Other than father Everything
I am still Nothing yet
Just a Nothing
Even so, there‘s hope
One day I'll be Something

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Twenty-eight: by Melvina Germain


I Love You…je T’adore


When you whispered into my heart, touching me
gently and kissing my soul. A tingling sensation,
granted me a wish and a prayer, O my sweet Lord,
please don’t let this feeling disappear.

I no longer want to rest in slumber or lay amidst in
euphoric bliss. This reality that touches my soul,
the sweet taste of the warmest kiss, takes my breath
away. Yes my darling, better than any dream is a
reality such as this.

You have become my mountain, my valley, my
ocean and my sea. The quintessence of my thoughts,
The Royal beauty in my dreams. My heart, now
unlocked, only you holds the key. O darling this
undying love felt deep within my being is eternally
there for all the world to see.

Stars will never disappear, no they multiply in mass.
My love for you resembles that monumental view, for
all who gaze upon us will stand in awe, of me…of you.
May the rumbling of the sea, be our hearts, and the calm
of the ocean be our soul. May the arms of God’s trees be
our embrace, and may all that is good, keep us whole.

I love you, Je T’adore, O my sweet Prince, it is only you
I adore. Let the Heavens open wide, let the sky shine
radiant blue, may the colours of a rainbow be an arch
within our view. May the ambiance of nature be
potent and surreal. O yes, may all of this be our treasure,
as we walk among the blanket of flowers along the
field.


I Love you…Je T’adore, may the buds of our flowers
blossom forever more…..

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Twenty-seven: by Eugene Levich


'A Poem Should Not Mean... But Be! '


'A poem should not mean... but be! '
Say those who advocate incomprehensible poetry.
But let them defend this view in an incomprehensible essay.
'An essay should not mean... but be! '
And its authors will be accused of idiocy.
For words strung together without any meaning
Are gibberish in an essay-
Or in poetry—-and constitute nothing but inanity.
What blather!

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Twenty-six: by Eugene Levich (a translation from Chinese)


A Military Campaign Against The Nomads... By Li Qi (690-751 Ce)


During the day scouts climb the hills to watch for signal fires.
At dusk soldiers lead horses to water at the river frontier.
They struggle to listen through the dark swirling sandstorms for sounds of warning.
The princess plays many sad and bitter songs on the strings of her guitar.
Not a single city wall stands within ten thousand li of our encampments.
Rain and snow pelt us interminably as we march across the great desert.
Wild geese cry mournfully night after night as they fly by.
Wild Tartar children shed tears upon tears... their eyes never dry.
We hear that the Yumen Pass garrison lies still under siege.
To fly to their rescue we send fast-moving charioteers.
Year after year the bones of our dead are buried in this wilderness.
In recompense the Tartars send only grapes as tribute to the Han.

古從軍行 Gu3 cong2 jun1 xing2

李頎 Li3 Qi2

白日登山望烽火 Bai2 ri4 deng1 shan1 wang4 feng1 huo3
黃昏飲馬傍交河 Huang2 hun1 yin3 ma3 bang1 jiao1 he2
行人刁斗風沙暗 Xing2 ren2 diao1 dou3 feng1 sha1 an4
公主琵琶幽怨多 Gong1 ju3 pi2 pa2 you1 yuan4 do1
野營萬里無城郭 Ye3 ying2 wan4 li3 wu2 cheng2 guo1
雨雪紛紛連大漠 You3 xue3 fen1 fen1 lian2 da4 mo4
胡鴈哀鳴夜夜飛 Hu2 yan4 ai1 ming2 ye4 ye4 fei1
胡兒眼淚雙雙落 Hu2 er2 yan3 lei4 shuang1 shuang1 luo4
聞道玉門蕕被遮 Wen2 dao4 yu4 men2 yu2 bei4 zhe1
應將性命逐輕軍 Ying1 jiang1 shing4 ming4zhu2 qing1 jun1
年年戰骨埋荒外 Nian2 nian2 zhan4 gu3 mai2 huang1wai4
空見葡萄入漢家 Kong1 jian4 pu2 tao2 ru4 Han4 jia1


[Bri's note: i recommend reading Eugene's poet's note on the poem's page on his site]
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Twenty-five: by Melvina Germain


A Night of Love


You set a table for two,
Oh babe, just for me and you.
Poured a glass of red wine,
handsomely dressed, you look so fine.

You looked at me and I at you,
we were meant to be.
The world belongs to you and me.
Your eyes met mine,
the feeling, so divine.

Oh Lord, don’t let this feeling end,
you’ve given me a lover and a best friend.
Is this a dream, will I wake up soon…..
Ahh, the music… playing… my favourite tune.

Please let this evening last,
no thoughts of yesterdays past..
You bring me joy, set my heart on fire.
Babe, you are the only one I desire.

Hold me close, let your heart meet mine,
Squeeze me tenderly, our bodies entwine.
I will truly love you, till the end of our days.
No matter what may come our way.

The music plays on and on,
dancing into the night listening to sweet song.

Swinging and twirling, with smiles on our faces,
so blessed, we have found that special place.

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Twenty-four: by Akhtar Jawad


A Grandchild


I see a grave very small,
Inside it an infant is sleeping,
His soul is away but where is the soul,
I shall tell you, wait, and let me fly,
To the first sky,
I see the infant and I see a fairy,
Breast feeding the infant,
Singing a sweet melody,
What a lullaby is this!

I see a grave not too small,
Inside it a child is sleeping,
His soul is away but where is the soul,
I shall tell you, wait, and let me fly,
To the second sky,
I see the child and other children,
Making too much noise,
Playing hide and seek,
What a game is this!

I see a grave bigger than the two,
Inside it a boy is sleeping,
His soul is away but where is the soul,
I shall tell you, wait, and let me fly,
To the third sky,
I see the boy with a sweet lovely girl,
They are sharing snacks,
And cold drink,
What a drink is this!

I see again a grave is it,
Inside it a teenager is sleeping,
His soul is away but where is the soul,
I shall tell you, wait, and let me fly,
To the fourth sky,
I see the teenager keenly watching,
The forbidden fruit on the bosom of a tree,
With his keen thirsty eyes,
What a fruit is this!

I see another grave,
Inside it a naughty youth is sleeping,
His soul is away but where is the soul,
I shall tell you, wait, and let me fly,
To the fifth sky,
I see the youth with his old girl friend,
Desirous to taste the fruit,
But her decisive refrain,
What a refrain is this!

I see one more grave,
Inside it a father is sleeping,
His soul is away but where is the soul,
I shall tell you, wait, and let me fly,
To the sixth sky,
A lovely woman with all her charms,
Relieving the father of his pains,
And hard working for the child,
What a child is this!

I see last of the graves,
It’s waiting yet for the old grandfather,
His soul is away but where is the soul,
I shall tell you, wait, and let me fly,
To the seventh sky,
I see nothing an Angel informed,
His soul is in his lovely grandchild,
What a grandchild is this!


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Twenty-three: by Savita Tyagi


Sharing A Sunset


Sun was setting on hills
Shadows across valley elongating
Creeping, covering
A dark light descending
Miles and miles of hills covered
In a mysterious truth
Held in silence
Peace covering strife
Close your eyes and follow the shadow
My arms long and elastic
Wrapped around you
Silence stretching, moving
Spreading across valley
Sun goes down
Sky changing colors
Not enough clouds around!
sun set isn't that magnificent!
Neither are we....
Silence soaks in
Small crowd disperses
Shared images locked in
A promised return of tomorrow.

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Twenty-two: by Greg Davidson


At The Close Of Day


It’s Friday, at the close of day,
Homeward bound, on a crowded motorway.
My half-made plans in disarray,
Align like crimson lights along the road.
As orange winks reference a highway code
Above, blue sky softly fades to grey,
With hot pink streaks in brief display.
It’s Friday, at the close of day.

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Twenty-one: by Stephen Katona



Koko's Poem For Robin Williams


How I wish you'd let me know,
Before you decided to go.
When you came to play,
You seemed to be okay.
I, a gorilla with thick fur,
And you, practically a sir.
Your heart was so warm,
Friendship took me like a storm.
I'll never forget that silly grin,
That made me feel we were kin.
How could I have missed your pain?
I saw no sign of hidden rain.
Over your darkest gloom,
You wore a glowing costume.
If only I had seen your plight,
And filled your black world with light.
How did you come to forget,
Our funny little duet?
Now I know when you played the clown,
Your heart was always up and down.
We should allow ourselves to cry,
For this man who started out so shy.
Then honour how he made us smile,
By speaking his unique style,
With a 'Good Morning Vietnam' scream,
And look at people around us and beam.
Let our every single remark,
Be one to find and banish dark.
Teach by example every young and old mind,
How to be truly kind.
No more grunting,
Just 'Good Will Hunting'.
Be as silly as Mork.
Don't worry if we look a dork.
Let this 'Fisher King',
Lead us all to sing,
And fill every street,
With dancing 'Happy Feet'.
How he would desire,
An end to war and 'Fire'.
Come on all of you, shout!
So no-one has any 'Doubt'.
Keep every child safe from harm.
Call your troops to disarm.
We must be in a hurry,
To end this world of worry.
Let the pain of your loss,
Drive you like the Red Cross.
Keep his 'Poet's Society' alive,
Stand up straight and strive.
For together we really could,
Fill this world with good.
In his name we must all cry,
'Let no more die.'


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Twenty: by Bri Edwards


I Made Her Laugh.......[short; Humor; Community]

As I walked this afternoon downtown (I didn't drive but took my feet) ,
I passed a popular shop where you can obtain a yummy ice cream treat.
And once you've got it......., (in a chair in front of the shop) , you may take a seat.

In a short distance I came abreast of a couple eating from cones their sweet,
and I said 'Excuse me, don't you know the law against ice cream eating on the street? '
[a brief pause and then……..]
The man chuckled; the woman followed with a laugh.

MY day was now complete.

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Bri's note: true story (above) , but i said 'sidewalk', not street

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Nineteen: by Valsa George


Silence that Speaks

Silent move the meek docile lambs,
Behind the shepherd to be huddled inside.
Food and shelter is all they need,
And abide to be sheared with no trace of dissent.

Silent are the beasts that trot along,
Miles on end through rugged roads,
Blissfully ignorant of what awaits,
They stagger lamely to the slaughter house.

Mournful is the silence of the slaves,
Thrashed and flogged to bear the yoke,
Stifled is their cry within the throats,
Never once let out to break the calm around.

Heart rending is the silence of the dumb,
Trying in vain to utter fleeting thoughts,
Through signs and gestures crude to view,
Lisping and blabbering in broken sounds.


Fierce is the silence that lingers on,
The ones subdued under stark threat of life,
Gagged and tied unable to moan or move,
While looted of all that is hoarded in life.

Woeful is the silence that befalls,
On the man who watches and passes unmindful,
An innocent, brutally hunted down,
Bathed in blood and pleading to be saved.

Cruel turns the silence of the one,
Who neither accedes nor dissents,
The anguished plea of the devout lover,
To bind the hearts and share the life.

Venerable is the silence of the monk,
Who withdraws into his cloistered cell,
To commune with the Benign Power within,
In a language not audible to anyone around.

Silence turns golden for the sober man,
Who remains sedate when taunted or abused,
And shuts his mouth with great restraint,
To prevent a brawl from brewing up.

Silent lie the dead, beneath the sod,
Actors who once rocked the stage,
They exited out from this turbulent world,
To be shrouded within the dark crevices still.

Grave is the silence of those alive,
Who stay cocooned within their impenetrable self,
Never responding to Time’s clarion call,
To wake up and rout the belligerent troupes around.

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Eighteen: by Kim Barney


The Beggar


Where is the beggar that frequents this place?
I've searched high and low but can't see his face.
I have here some cash to give to that man
So I really must find him if I can.
Yesterday he asked, could I spare a dime?
I shrugged and moved on; said I had no time.
I've thought long and hard, and I have been cruel,
And so today I will become God's tool.
Ten dollars I have, to help that poor guy
And that's why, you see, I really must try
To find him right now. Can you tell me how?

So sorry, my friend, but you are too late.
Such are the twistings and turnings of fate:
Poor Joe starved to death at twenty past eight.

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Bri's note: i would have sworn 'beggar' is spelled 'begger'!
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Seventeen: by Kim Barney


The Best Poem Ever

My brother is writing a poem;
He's been writing it for years.
It'll be the best one ever,
Of that I have no fears.

If it were a mountain,
His poem would be Everest.
That's one way of saying
It surely is the best.

If it were an ocean,
Pacific it would be,
Because his words are deeper
Than waters of any sea.

His fame will spread both near and far,
And last beyond his death,
But until he finishes the poem,
I will not hold my breath!

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Sixteen: by Ging Taping


What Life Is..

Life is,
full of surprises
full of mystery
full of fashion
full of conflict
full of misery..
we are aware of today
how about tomorrow?
we live today
How about tomorrow?
We never know what lies ahead...
Whatever may come
accept the bad times
not only the good times..
Because,
everything happens for a reason
conveys a lesson...

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Fifteen: by Ging Taping


Bitter Sweet Goodbye...


'Twas brunch time
When the heat of summer is just around the corner.
Curtains swayed as the wind passes by,
Morning sunlight reflects inside the corridor.
Everything flows gently, flows in a right rhythm.

One day,
I didn't expect I was surprised!
You came home wearing shades so I can't read your eyes.
W/out a single word encapsulate clothes from the closet
One by one pack inside the suit case.
I was shocked nailed feet I can't move I was stuck.
But in one snap I was back!
'Can we talk? I said
Nothing to talk anymore she replied
Then shut the door..

Pain is killing me like a knife.
Helpless, fold down my knees.
Tears like a falling rain down my cheek..
My palm offered help so I wipe..
Now that you're gone all was left-
the indiscernible sketch of yours.
Don't need me no more..

Days rushing so fast, lonely w/out you by my side.
Claimed I am happy but I lied.
Memories rolled by I devoted my time to you.
Extending my patience when you were out of line.
We laugh we giggled
Never ending promises down the lane.
' we will stay together 'till the end'.

Now I have moved on..
Picking up the pieces that once shattered.
Bitter sweet refrain still linger.
But slowly leaving the pain behind.
Living my life alone my dear.

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Bri's note: Ging authorized me to make some 'corrections'.
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Fourteen: by M.J. Lemon


Corn Chips


The word emergency reaches through eons
and radio, lunges out animates the print headlines
travels with humanity through time
and trades like currency
with social media

Always reassuring us
the world is about to end
or someone is to suffer ill fate
or that all civilization will be stuffed
in a crate across the grate

Of commentary started with
the invention of a twig scraping sand
becoming the drawing on the cave then
pen paper typewriter and touch screen

Shrill with the solemn silence of
suffering, genocide, natural disaster
detailing what we see, smell, hear, taste
Wanting to or not when

Gazing into the soul of calamity.
But I had no idea then and still
do not feel or understand your pain
over a corn chip emergency.

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Thirteen: by M.J. Lemon


Ice


The humble ice cube
reminded me of us
of where we were and how
we lived and then it spoke

Saying, do you remember
that other day when i sat?
There i was on the counter
doing much of nothing

I crackled and twitched
and sweat began to run
until that was done
little had begun

All at once i shifted and
moved and ran along until i
was all gone, no more
what i did to bore

my exit through impasse
thanks to heat and light
cost my being and makes me ask
do you too live as ice passing?

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Twelve: by John Westlake



242. My Beautiful Angel In Blue


Oh my love you are so wonderful
there is no one I love more than you
though you have no halo
you are my beautiful angel in blue

You have no wings but make my heart soar
you make me feel like I can fly
want to spend my whole life with you
together we can touch the sky

Let me wrap my robes around you
to warm you when you get cold
through all seasons I want to be with you
let us stay until we are old

If someone asks me who you are
I will be honest and tell them true
'this woman here is my shining star
my beautiful angel in blue'

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Eleven: by John Westlake


240.


Far beneath the surface of every ocean
travel the ghosts of every boat and ship
that has been lost at sea
since the dawn of time

From the first coracle made by man
to the man of war under full sail
even the most modern war ships and subs
all can be found here

On every vessel the crew can be found
carrying out their orders efficiently
no trace of fear can be found on their faces
no sign of how they met their fate

With no course or destination set
they travel ever on
hoping that one day they can port
and return to the ones they love

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Bri's note: John is 'looking' for a title. Any suggestions for him?

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Ten: by Darlene Walsh


My Thief


In loneliness all my life I was standing apart
until I met you and life had a start
your presence is magic that will never depart
Should I call you a thief for stealing my heart

where would I be without you
I haven't got a clue
except my heart would be a dark brew

You looked at me and I thought you were jok'n
your words were things I've never heard spoken
you touched my hand and life was awoken
Should I call you a healer for mending what was broken

where would I be without you
as each day love grew
I awaited the drop of the other shoe

Maybe you thought loving the odd one was the fashion
a passing thought you were lying made me go ashen
but in my soul I felt true compassion
Should I call you a lover for filling me with passion

where would I be without you
everything's now so new
my reasons to be had been so few

When you first hinted true feelings it brought a tear
was this just another speed bump in life I had to bear
or was it your life you truly wanted to share
Should I call you a friend for always being there

where would I be without you
I knew you loved me too
our lives together would forever be true

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Nine: by Is It Poetry


Daffodils


She doesn't mind the great length
or the girth of it.
Bushes without leaves
are not green as he kisses it.
The woods
are not deep without trees
that are seen.
While the path that she walks
he chose in her dream.
Stooping she dropped what it was
that he picked.
A daffodil that bleeds white sap
if too hard it is picked.

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Eight: by Jak Black


Guess Who.


A woman he sculpted
From a tub of ice cream.
Delights of his life
Wrapped up in one dream.
His insatiable hunger
He no longer hid.
He said, “I could eat you”,
And that’s what he did!

- - - - - - - - - - - - -
Bri's note: guess 'Who' Jak is writing about!
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Seven: by Ruth Walters


A Marmite Sandwich


Maggie always made me feel small,
she was always on the defence,
could never talk quietly.

She was the thistle in my side,
the carbuncle on my bottom,
the maggot in my crisp, Cox's apple.

I'd watch her bully her way through the day,
though I marvelled at her techniques
as I could never quell her and it rankled.

Next time, next time, I'd know just how to answer,
give as good as I got, tell her off,
but the next time I was as silly as the first.

Maggie always made me feel bad,
made me feel dull, ridiculous and stupid.
She was the Marmite sandwich

that was supposed to be jam
that your nasty aunt made you swallow
as it's rude to spit out.


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Six: by Ruth Walters


A Doll's Eye View

Dolls sit among the cushions
as though they are waiting for her.
Their porcelain smiles, fixed,
their eyes wide, a cobalt blue,
and their dresses have lace collars.

Tiny tea cups on saucers are
arranged on a small table.
There's a pot with yellow flowers,
taking centre place. It's surrounded
by plastic cakes and pastries.

On her bed is a huge rag doll,
it's flopped over, looking helpless.
Her nightie is on the floor
covering her slippers but the toes peep through.
Soon she'll be returning.

She'll run in daintily,
go straight to the corner where I sit.
I, with my broken arm, my one eye
and bald head. Then she'll pick me up
and call me her baby.

I was the first doll she ever had,
still here, still treasured,
but failing now, roughened by use,
by play times, but thoroughly
and most definitely loved.


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Five: by Ray Hart


My Love Flies.


Love makes giants out of wimps, men out of boys. Young men feel more manly, young women feel more glamorous. Love makes the heart take flight.


My love flies gently from cloud to cloud,
My searching heart, it cries aloud.
The desperate heart buys the devils creed,
The patient heart cries wait the angels heed.

My love flies like a feather on the breeze,
Until a truthful resting place does appease.
A harbor provides secure rest in a storm,
My love is secure in you til forever morn.

My love flies across the sky in joy,
Like a summer sunset as beautiful as Troy.
Helen had her beauty unsurpassed,
My loves beauty leaves Helen aghast.

My love flies nay wafts gently to it’s bed,
My passion dominates both heart and head.
I desire no longer in search to fly,
For loves joy brings tears to my eyes.



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Four: by Xelam Khan


Funny World


It's really a funny world
where we live in...
Here we cage butterflies
and set the scorpions free
to reign.
And here the nights fall
when day gone wild, and
the noiseless wind sings
hymn of the baffled minds.
And my wandering eyes ride
the unseen hue
in the falling rain
to paint
the gloomy sky
with my dreams serene.

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Three: by Jak Black


Time


The hands of time sweep onward,
And it seems at gathering pace.
Our lives are metered constantly,
By numbers on the old clock face.

That old clock tells us when to rise,
When to rest and when to play.
It tells us how we structure
Every minute of the day.

It can cause us to be anxious!
Are we early, are we late?
We often race against it
To keep that important date.

Our lives are governed by the clock,
Each minute of every hour,
Each day of every week and year.
Silent sweeping points of power!

Should we be controlled by Father Time,
And live our lives in haste?
Or should we somehow slow things down,
Nature's pleasures more to taste?

The working class rushes to and fro,
Constantly running to stand still.
Time, relentless as a millstone,
Grinds the bedrock of goodwill.

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Two: by Douglas Scotney


Chuzzlewit X: To Laugh Again


Archaicly,
as wry fish,
we called
where we were tempted
to buy food,
bait-places*.

To be wry again,
not unfunny suckers,
what thing
could now we be,
and what
those places?

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One: by Bri Edwards


Alphabet Fun...... [fun With Letters A, B, C, Etc.; My Rarely-Used Vocabulary; 'Bad' Vs. 'Good']


[A, a …Around an august alphabet are actions awfully awesome.]

[The “mostly-bad” Awesome. Read onward.]

B, b…Behold Bellowing Bellicose Beasts behaving by being bad:

C, c…Conspicuously crusty critters cavort, creating citizen-concerns.
D, d…Diverse devils delve deeply, demanding dastardly deeds.
E, e…Enormous errors evolve excitedly, ensnaring every effort.
F, f…Felonious forces fleece forgiving, fearful fellows forever.
G, g…Gargantuan gargoyles gather gloomily; gazing, gawking gnomes.
H, h…Horrible hazards hinder happy, headstrong heathens.
I, i…Invisible, insidious 'injuries' inflicted inside innocent individuals.
J, j…Jealous journalists join jittery jet-setters, jiving judiciously.
K, k…Kicking Kangaroos knowingly knocking kooky kookaburras.
L, l…Licentious liberals leaving lonely ladies, ……laughing.
M, m…Monstrous monolithic money-makers making many men miserable.
N, n…Nervous Nellies, needing needles, needlessly nodding numbly.

[The “mostly-good” Awesome. Read onward.]

O, o…Optimistic operators openly offering opportunities overflowing.
P, p…Progressive politicians pounding past petty political principals.
Q, q…Quintessential quietude quietly quelling querulous queries.
R, r…Responding rescuers resuscitating ramshackle-raft rafters.
S, s…Sympathetic society-sweethearts serving shaky seniors.
T, t…Thorough thinkers tirelessly tinkering towards triumph.
U, u…Unsung utilitarians uncompromisingly urging utilitarianism.
V, v…Voracious vegetarians vetting various vital vegetarian vittles.
W, w…Wise winning-women wanting wholesome weddings.

and

[X, x… Xanthous xiphoid xebecs xchanging xenophobes (for) xenophiles.]
[Y, y…Yesteryear’s youngsters: yelling, yearning, yellowing. Yikes! ]
[Z, z…Zealous Zen zealots zigzagging, zeroing (in) .]

In this case the “Bad” outnumbered the “Good”.
I had to credit A, J, X, Y, and Z as neither.
If I’d planned better, “Good” could have “won”; it Could.
But I’ll leave it as is; I need a breather! !

(November 24,2013)