Section A In February 2017's ' A Showcase For P H Poets'... [ Up To 15 Poems From P H 'friends'; Expanding Horizons For P H Members & Visitors! ; Different Poems For Varied Tastes] Poem by Bri Edwards

This poem's SECOND stanza I did mostly borrow …
from LAST month's Section A. But lest sorrow …
come to you, I now say: 'The rest of this is NEW,
and written for you and You and …………YOU! '

As January 2017 comes to its final week.
allow me to ink some words quite meek.
[they won't be heard above a mouse squeak]
'Please, at this showcase, will you peek? ? '

For months I've suspected my showcase Readership …
is less than I'd like it to be. But I promise I will not slip …
into a deep dark depression.: (: (: (; (Not me! !
I've said all along this is for all to use or not. You are free …
to browse or NOT, to comment or NOT. I'll survive; I WILL!
[But WHO will pay my huge psychiatry counseling bill? ? ! ]

I'll keep up the showcases, at least for now. My cost is low.
In fact, most of the cost is my time, which I would surely ‘blow' …
on some other project(s) which, in the scope of all, is/are insignificant.
So, onward and upward? we now shall go. No more, for now, will I rant.

(January 25th, 2017)

Bri Edwards aka (in the ‘real' world) Brian Edward Whitaker :)

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Some information for Contributors AND Readers of the showcases:

Each Section (A, B, and maybe C) will hold 15 poems, maximum. EACH Section will accept ONE poem per poet, any length, any topic, any style, BUT I, Bri, will decide which poems are used. Unless a poet has arranged for me to ‘help myself', I shall wait for poems to be offered by the authors, all of whom ALWAYS will receive recognition for THEIR words.

The poems need not be new, need not be on PH already, and need not be in English [but English translations of non-English poems will be appreciated! ].
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THE POETS (and titles) , up to a maximum, usually, of 15, listed chronologically (more or less) in the order I received them:


1 - Eugene Levich

When You Die You Die

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2 - Della Perry

Gem Of The East

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3 - Lynn W. Petty

A Writer's Block

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4 - Bri Edwards

The Man In The Checkered Shirt …. [outward Appearances; Human Ones; My Thoughts; Medium]

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5 - Is It Poetry

Come Hurry And See I Think She Is Coming

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6 - Annette Aitken

The Cat in the Stripy Stilettos...

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7 - Valsa George

The Plaintive Ballad

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8 - John Westlake

552.

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9 - Clarence Prince

A Poetic Easter Seasons Story, With Advice!

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10 - Unnikrishnan E S

Mother Of Emmet Till

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11 - Long Tooth

Life in 'Say It, Say It, Say It'

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12 - Andy (aka Paul) Brookes

Trilogy Part Iii Buddhas A Buddy But Better By Far Are You

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13 - Bharati Nayak

A Day For Myself

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14 - Kavita Singh...(writing in the Hindi language)

Zindagi *

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15 - Douglas Scotney

Desert Weather




[up to a maximum (usually) of 15 poems in each Section] [go to Section B ]

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THE POEMS (and their authors) , up to 15 (usually) , listed in REVERSE ORDER of when I received them.


[up to a maximum, usually, of 15 poems in each Section]


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15 - by Douglas Scotney


Desert Weather

The insensitivity
behind waking up to gazpacho
after a dream of luxurious sweets
had poet turning over
and going back to sleep.
'If I have to wake up to gazpacho
I'll dump dream desserts;
I'll dump food altogether;
I will dream desert weather.'

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Bri's Note:

gazpacho: a cold vegetable soup

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14 - by Kavita Singh


Zindagi *

ye hamari zindagi ke panne...
kavi bikhre, kavi simte...
tufano ke thapedon me...
kavi tute, kavi sambhle...
ulajh si gai hai zindagi...
na jane kis dorahe pe...
jise suljhate huye, ...
mujhe beetein kai arse....
safar lamba hai ye mera...
dagar aasan nhi lagte...
yaha pal-pal me jane kyu...
mausam hai badalte...
hai ummid ek jaria...
chali hun main jis vaste...
kavi to mil hi jayengi...
mujhe wo manjil ke rashtein....

#ye hamari zindagi ke panne......

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Bri's Note:

This poem has an English translation by Unnikrishnan E S on PH.
I shall include the translation, entitled 'It Is Life', in February's Section C, but as of 1-18-17 Section C is not ready. :)

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13a - by Bharati Nayak


A Day For Myself

My life sails
Pass by, the days, months and years
Who keeps their records?


These are my treasure
I give them away with no bounds
Take it
As much as you wish
But leave
Only a day for me.


This day
I shall leave aside
All fears and doubts
And devote it only to myself.


This day
I will give to myself
the sweetness of love
tenderness of affection
And I will open before myself
All words spelt-unspelt.


This day
I will collect
the pollen from flowers
colors from butterfly wings
to adorn my face
and beautify my being.


This day
I will decorate myself
With my songs and poems
And from the cuckoo
I will learn my language.


I will ask the clouds
To lend its black
For my eyes' decor
I will ask the rain
to wash me pure.


I will ask the sky
to lend its vastness
and ask the ocean
to give its depth
for my poems.


This day
I will be only me
With not an iota of
apprehension or pretension
and my heart be blessed with
heavenly illumination


This day will be my day
May it be my last night
or the last day.

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13b - [English translation to poem in 13a]


Nija Paain Dinatie (A Poem In Odia Language)

Mo jibanara dina, masa, barsa
Bhasi jae, biti jae
Kie rakhe taa'ra hisaba, nikasa?

E sabu mora dhana
Mu baanti diie akunthare
Jahara jete loda
Nei jaa
Matra chhadi jaa
Dinatie
Mote mo paakhare

Ei dinati
Mu mote samarpibi
Mora bhaya bhranti
Glani, dwidha, dwanda dwibidha
Tejibi mu aaji
Aaji dinati
Nije nijaku samarpibi

Nijaku arpibi
Sneha, prema, raga, anuraga
Nija paase kholidebi
Jete bhasa byakta abyakta

Nijaku sajeibi
Mo sangeeta, mo kabitare
Phularu renu aani
Mu aankibi
Chandanara tika, mo nija mathare
Prajapati denara rangare
Mo kesa basa sajaibi
Koili thu mu aaji mo bhasa sikhibi

Meghaku maagibi kajala
Mo aakhira susama pain
Aakasu aanibi jala
Nijaku dhoi deba pain
Samudraku maagibi
Gabhirata
Mo bhasa kabita pain

Ei dinati kintu
Mu kebala
Mu hoi rahibi
Nathiba tahni
labamatra
Chhalana o prabanchana
Na thiba taihn
Mithya aba andhakar
Kebala aaloka madhye
Udbhasita heba mo antara
Ei dinati
Kebala mu mote samarpibi
Ei dinati
Heba bodhe
mora sesha dina aba sesha ratri

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Poet's Note:

This [see above] is the original Odia version of my poem 'A Day For Myself'
I have made slight change in its English translation.

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12 - by Andy Brookes


Trilogy Part Iii Buddhas A Buddy But Better By Far Are You

So the art of Zen. I love zed words even those that start with ex
you know xylophone or Xenophon or Xenophobe,
which we British have made into an art form, coldly priggish that we are.
well Zen, that word is not so cosy, oriental but means, well... I'm not sure.
the breath of understanding, self control through meditation.
discipline.

so the garden rings with truth, the trees red maple and yellow acer
nature's rebirth calms me, makes me, infinitesimally small and insignificant
at one with what some call Gaia,
that suits me, being a grain. being ingrained in Catholic sin, it set me free.
I walk with death everyday, it matters not, death is but a beginning
or an ending or a passage way, presaging new births or old deaths

so the 1980's, those days of mortification, anger, angst, despair;
when we walked with death or dying or bereavement, every day.
day after day, all the long dark nights of vigil, well death ceases to either have attractions
or fear value. Death's not too pleased but then he's a cold guy no real,
and respecting him, emotions, so you walk with him and he loses his mystique.

Therefore I seek calmness. calamity has befallen me, us, them, we, you, and you lie in earth
I walk the earth and carry you in my heart everywhere.
I have seen the Pyramids, The Great Wall of China, Caribbean Islands.
gone through the Panama Canal, travelled at first to escape, then
to go to all those places we dreamed we would go when you were well.
but it was not to be. I carried you to all those places in my heart
but the only patch of earth in this wide, complicated, beautiful planet,
the only scrap of land that matters in this Earth is four feet wide
by nine feet long covered in green Wiltshire grass and where you lie.
but Zen brings me calmness and serenity, to accept and forgive.
so that little patch of green is where I am, my heart is and where my sifted
ashes will lie when I go on the next journey to wherever you may be.

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11 - by Long Tooth


Life in 'Say It, Say It, Say It'

What I am hoping that you'll get...
The truth is that you're deeply loved,
By me I think till end of time,
Till poets lose the gift of rhyme.

What matter if you're gay or straight,
Are Buddhist, Christian, Atheist,
My dreams are light years caught in jar,
To me you are momentous star.

I've taken a deep look inside,
And find that it expands my heart,
To know that you know I exist,
What does it matter if we've kissed?

No problem then who's by your side,
No jealousy is felt and yet,
It's like you've filled my arms before,
A hundred lifetimes, maybe more.

I would not shed commitments though
To any another that I love,
Nor ask your heart to do the same...
But quiet moments speak your name.

There's not a heart that fear can't touch,
But Spring will come to those who wait,
With futures changing as we prep,
Our dreams dream of the heart's next step.

Our purpose is to love not die,
Heart closed to love is life in vain,
Rejoice in God's love if you can,
And mine as well, though just a man.


(January 8,2017)

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10 - by Unikrishnan E S


Mother Of Emmet Till

Emmet Till
A little boy of fourteen
A little black boy of fourteen!
Now on his mutilated head
He wears a Yoruba crown.

The mother of Emmet Till
Decided, his last journey
Shall be in an open coffin
So the whole world would see
What they did unto him.

Emmet on his black skin bore
The sweat, hunger and pain
And the blood spilled by the workers
Of his clan, all mercilessly slain
In the cotton farms of Georgia
The tobacco fields of S. Carolina
The sugarcane fields of Louisiana,
Where black skin was a sin.


From every drop of his blood
There arose a thousand Emmets.
A Martin Luther King
A Harriet Tubman.

But
Tallahatchie River still weeps
And her pale green eyes shed
Blood; cold black blood.*

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Part of Poet's Notes left on the poem's page:

Notes:
1. Emmet Till was murdered by two white men in 1955 in Mississippi, for speaking to a white woman, shot in the head; his mutilated body buried in Tallahatchie River. His mother Mamie Till insisted that his last journey would be in an open coffin, so the whole world saw what they done to him.

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9 - by Clarence Prince


A Poetic Easter Seasons Story, With Advice!

Once there lived a woman whose name was Esther
She was one who had certainly loved lots of chatting
The best of her many friends was her cousin Lester
There was time she would visit Lester just for a chat

Only she wouldn't missed out visiting him at Easter
Mostly that's the time they'd share a drop more wine
However Lester holds great confidence in the Divine
And he was always ready to lecture on the Scriptures

Then he'd preach to anyone who'd listen to a lecture
And with a drink Esther will listen to the Scriptures
Therefore to avoid lots of foolish chatting from Esther
And seeing as Lester is a cultivator of the grapevines

He was never short of having a little wine in the house
Yet there was certain time when he'd let alone drinking
Not so for Esther, she wasn't keen on learning Scriptures
Although she'd visit regularly, it was mainly for the wine

What's good, the wine makes Esther more easily incline
To listens to the inspired words by Christ Jesus the Divine
And so whenever Lester is going to teach her Scriptures
He would've used a little wine from his own grapevines

Sadly drinking had left Esther a thing to remember
As once when she was at Lester's home, drinking
It seemed on that special day she wasn't quite herself
For she had bumped her arm on a wall in the hall

Then a picture's frame having tacks into it fell….
She had accidentally stepped upon one of the tacks
The very one by which the old picture's frame was fixed
Stepping on the tack gave Esther's foot quite a fester

It made her more careful when she went visiting Lester
As it reminded her that she shouldn't just drink and chat
Instead she should be prepared to absorb the Scriptures
Which Lester is trying to teach her, God is more than wine

Everyone needs to listen to God's word mostly at Easter time
Given that, for many people, it's the Holiest time of the year
When more than ever everyone should be giving God a praise
Take advice, seek Him in faith, there are blessings for the meek

He is the helper of the humble; He is the strength of the weak
Indeed both Esther and Lester are departed a long time ago
Yet God's Holy Easter seasons still come about year after year
Therefore you need to make this coming Easter your best ever

Remember Esther and Lester how they had shared the Scriptures
Then how about you finding a friend to share few of God's words
Try it at this Holy Easter's seasons there is a reason for blessing
Take a little advice; give to God thanks and praise, Happy Easter.

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8 - by John Westlake


552.

A lion ant had a bet with a stone penguin
to see who was most full of cheer
but neither could compete with the fiery snow man
singing with his glasses to his ears

The sheep kangaroo was dancing
well out of step with his eyes
his hair ran off to the oven
to stop it freezing the bed pies

The pillows had formed a brass band
to play for the helicopter lime
the rotor blades have cooked for the puppies
as the penguins don't have the time

The kittens set a laser printer to stun
and it ate a lemon horse of jelly
now they are going back home
to the eyes in a egg tree's belly

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Bri's Note: almost too silly for me. [ALMOST]

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7 - by Valsa George


The Plaintive Ballad

The heavens grew darker with rain clouds
The day looked like a misty shroud
Soon rain pelted down, whip lashing
Lightning unleashed its lethal rapier
Brandishing the blazing steel across the skies
Thunder growled and rumbled
Like a giant stamping in rage
Causing vibrations like seismic tremors
Sending fear through every nerve
Men sought shelter in the shade of trees
Some ran to the shelter of roofs
Sound of wind whistled and boomed
Trees arched and shook, leaves flew about
Unceasingly the sky wept in torrents for days

As the men grumbled on being shut indoors
I heard the plaintive ballad of the homeless!

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6 - by Annette Aitken


The Cat in the Stripy Stilettos...

The cat in the stripy stilettos
walks high above the ground
tip toeing on the rooftops
is where he can be found.

Though many try to beckon him
encourage him to come down
instead, he flashes his stripy stilettos
hidden underneath his gown.

For even though our cat's a Tom
he likes to dress up nice
for when he's dancing on the tiles
he likes to stand out, bright.

Now when Tom or our Tomettea, as
he sometimes likes to be known
is dancing in his ballgown
his stripy stilettos glow.

He struts his stuff, majestically
he smiles and never frowns
the time when he is happiest
is high above the ground.

The cat in his stripy stilettos
loves his nights out on the tiles
for every night when midnight strikes
Tomettea can be found.

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5 - by Is It Poetry


Come Hurry And See I Think She Is Coming

Oh hurry and see, can't you see she is coming.
And he sits in wait and watches the moon
It is setting.
Up past the stars, down underground,
Here nobody's watching.
He enters slowly, the air opens up,
Moving and stretching.
Could love be the answer, as the bush
Closes around me.
Once as a rose bud, the sky clear and sunny.
Yet here is snow, melting around her
Lips that are full open and pouting, as he
Strains to hear words that she whispers.
He sheds many tears over the years,
The wind softly moaning through all the trees,
Leaves that when green can feel everything.
Come hurry and see, I think she is coming

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Bri's Note:
As i sometimes do, with the knowledge of the poet,
i have done some minor editing. YES! i know i have not
been capitalizing the personal pronoun 'I'. hee-hee.

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4 - by Bri Edwards


The Man In The Checkered Shirt …. [outward Appearances; Human Ones; My Thoughts; Medium]

As I sat in car at downtown curb,
I wondered with what title I'd disturb ….
the readers of this poem.

I glanced into the rear-view mirror,
and what do you think did appear?
A man in a checkered shirt.

I don't believe I've ever met the man.
I don't know if he's a Mark, Tom, or Stan.
But I see he is quite young.

His hair on head is dark and short.
I wonder 'Does he play a sport? '
I'll likely never know.

Is he married or is he single?
Is he a loner or does he mingle?
I'll likely never know.

His sleeves are short, he wears no hat.
He looks neat, well-shaved, and kind of fat.
These could be some clues?

It's cool and breezy, and clouded over.
I think he's a local native, not a rover.
Of this I'm somewhat sure.

BUT, looks may not help me discover …….
what's he's ABOUT inside his 'cover'.
I mean he could be student OR teacher,
architect, barber, OR church preacher.
He could be unemployed OR 'filthy rich',
live in a mansion, OR in a tent which he does pitch.
He may speak English, French, OR be a mute.
He may walk to work OR by bus commute.
He may be happy, sad, OR in between.
He may be super-macho (like me) OR a drag queen ….
[at times].

He may be nice, he may be mean, OR, ….
like I said above, he may be in between.
He might eat red meat at least once a day,
OR he might live his life the vegan way.
He may pray to God OR pray to the Devil,
OR eschew 'those things', and just in Nature revel.
He may be called a genius OR called 'stupid'.
He may have a 'Love' OR fend off Cupid.

So, you see, 'looks' show what's on one's surface,
but to reveal the 'whole person' ….… 'looks' may serve NO purpose.

(May 22,2015)

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3 - by Lynn W. Petty


A Writer's Block

With pen poised over the blank white sheet,
Waiting to receive writings, inspirational or automatic,
Through some sphere of psychic channeling,
My mind remains still.

Bleak snow-covered tundra in an arctic freeze,
The whiteness of the paper blinds the eye of my imagination.
Feeling the chill breath of solitude sweeping
Across the barren flats of reflection,
I cap my pen and swear to never write again.

Then, faintly seen, upon a distant slope of thought,
A vague impression, a word, a sentence
Lights this winter sky; line by line
Trails of creative expression mysteriously appear
Across that stark, and frozen plain.
Like some great river's ice broken up
At first breath of spring, a poem is freed to float.

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2 - by Della Perry


Gem Of The East

Camels and oxen, silhouettes
Ripples in golden sands
Whispers of abundant harvests
In a prosperous land.

Peaceful throng, market trade
Samarkand shrines, sellers' calls
Blue ribbed cantalope** domes with
Turquoise, mosaic walls.

Glades of wild jasmine
Mountains of scented flower
Trickle of fresh water, clear
This the place, this the hour.

Grains, silks, glass, skins;
Scents of pleasing spices
Stones, tea, flax, rugs, cattle
Pilgrims faith, no vices.

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Bri's Note:

Cantaloupe (also cantelope, cantaloup, muskmelon (India and the United States) , mushmelon, rockmelon, sweet melon, Persian melon, or spanspek (South Africa)) refers to a variety of the Cucumis melo species in the Cucurbitaceae family.

BUT i bet a lot of people spell it the way Della did. ;) bri
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1 - by Eugene Levich


When You Die You Die

When you die you die
In your grave you lie
There ain't no pie in the sky
In the sweet bye and bye.

When you say goodbye
It's really goodbye
You ain't gonna meet
Aunt Tilly again
In the sweet bye and bye.

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Bri's Note: bye bye
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NOW: IF you have read your 'fill' from the treats above, please consider going to Section B of January 2017's showcase [when it's ready! ].

Bri :)

aka (in the 'real world') Brian Edward Whitaker