Royal place
Painted fresh
Red and white
With even little squares
To Give a rich look
The look of royality
A table cloth
Laid out for a Queen.
Evenly placed on the ground..
A royal place
A splended place
For my knee to rest
Am I worthy
Comming before the Queen.
There on the cloth
Its settings
The plate
The cup
The numbers were in two
Off to the side a deep green
Bottle of wine
My Invitation
But my knee is resting on the ground
Her hand extended toward me
Beckoning my kiss
My lips caress her wrist.
Her invitation
Is to dine with royality.
poem by Howard Johnson
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Empty Chairs
A large willow tree
Still budding
With small leaves
Taking in warmth
and the suns rays
Set back from the
Well traveled street
Narrow lane
leading to
A enchanted white house
Generously shaded
By that starting
Willow tree
Away from it all
Noise and fury
A table mostly white
Its age is shown
By the bleeding rust
Its companions
Too similar chairs
The severity of winter
has left its punishing touch
Their forms
rugged and sound
Years of resting
On that paved brick ground
On the top
A cloth
Of colors
Filled with streaking
Lavander, Crimson and white
On that cloth
For my thirst
A glass dew dripped,
Filled with ice and lemonade
In this beauty
there I sit
With an empty seat
Enjoying the gentleness
Of this place.
poem by Howard Johnson
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First Death In Nova Scotia
In the cold, cold parlor
my mother laid out Arthur
beneath the chromographs:
Edward, Prince of Wales,
with Princess Alexandra,
and King George with Queen Mary.
Below them on the table
stood a stuffed loon
shot and stuffed by Uncle
Arthur, Arthur's father.
Since Uncle Arthur fired
a bullet into him,
he hadn't said a word.
He kept his own counsel
on his white, frozen lake,
the marble-topped table.
His breast was deep and white,
cold and caressable;
his eyes were red glass,
much to be desired.
"Come," said my mother,
"Come and say good-bye
to your little cousin Arthur."
I was lifted up and given
one lily of the valley
to put in Arthur's hand.
Arthur's coffin was
a little frosted cake,
and the red-eyed loon eyed it
from his white, frozen lake.
Arthur was very small.
He was all white, like a doll
that hadn't been painted yet.
Jack Frost had started to paint him
the way he always painted
the Maple Leaf (Forever).
He had just begun on his hair,
a few red strokes, and then
Jack Frost had dropped the brush
and left him white, forever.
The gracious royal couples
were warm in red and ermine;
their feet were well wrapped up
in the ladies' ermine trains.
They invited Arthur to be
the smallest page at court.
But how could Arthur go,
clutching his tiny lily,
with his eyes shut up so tight
and the roads deep in snow?
poem by Elizabeth Bishop
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Vile
I am so down and out I wish
some earthshaking news to
shake up my day for instance
George Bush and Saddam
Hussein in bed scratching
each other's back as they whiled away
their time talking about how much
they had succeeded in destroying
themselves and their own nations
and how with some makeups, they
can play twins in a hollywood
movie titled 'How to take Your Country for a Ride'
or like Queen Elizabeth II
taking down her crown in place
of a shroud, saying she would
abdicate to become a Catholic nun
in Ireland because she has a vision
telling her to do so
or like Prince Charles coming out
into the open detailing all the
women he had taken to the bed she
shared with Diana and that royal love
is like it has always been royal,
for the sake of securing progeny
Prince Philip decrying he was
secretly in love always with Diana
how life is so devastatingly
meaningless as a one woman man
Leonardo da Vinci declaring
that Mona Lisa is actually half him
and half the rich woman she painted
because that was the only way he could
immortalise his love for her and how
feverishly he had fallen in love with her
as he tried to transfer her into his canvas
his bossom with his colours and passion
a perpetual smile to consecrate a living
secret both carried to their graves
or the news that Hilary Clinton's mad
craze to be back in the White House
is because she loves making love in
the nook and corner of the haunted
presidential buiilding and that she actually
has a fetish peeping on Bill unleashing his
charms on the ladies and the fact that she
just loves white, being white and nothing else
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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A strange glimpse of remembered moments
Dozing this morning – was I awake,
or was I asleep? for many minutes,
I entered a bright and shining world,
but of my own remembered moments;
yet more than visual memories:
that state of mind, that happiness
which knows no other..
all was brightest colour:
the first Mickey Mouse Weekly
to come out in full, rich colour; (I'll swear
it smelled different, too..)
the new craft room at school,
the intoxicating smell of open tins
of bright coloured enamel paint,
the smell of fresh-cut wood…
sunlight on ancient grey-gold stone;
oh, a whole repertoire of memories
on which there was no need to dwell,
for they declared their shared totality…
but one brief, vivid glimpse I’ll share
for your amusement and what else:
slightly curled, from being rolled in the post,
a copy of ‘American Home’ from the late forties:
against a blue blue sky, white clapboard and
white picket fence; inside, a gingham apron,
a sweet-smelling pipe, proudly ruffled hair..
a gingham table-cloth, hand-stencilled furniture,
blue and white plates against a butter-yellow wall..
all radiated promise, satisfaction, happiness;
as if winter sings of Spring;
all things were possible, and live on now;
but, above all, in myself,
a glorious sense – of ordinariness…
as if I was in place; had always been;
would always be; no other place to be,
no other self to seek, no world seen alien;
our holiest, most precious,
self-sacred moments, when experienced,
have this glorious matter-of-factness;
saying, how could this be other?
The glorious, here, is ordinary…
and back in your familiar world,
the ordinary must be glorious; deserved;
and to be savoured as its truth…
I opened my eyes, eventually;
saw no reason to deny that world;
to cover it with yes but, or, maybe;
later thought, only a poem,
to share this, give this back.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Okie From Muskogee (with The Beach Boys)
We don't smoke marijuana in Muskogee;
We don't take our trips on LSD;
We don't burn our draft cards down on Main Street;
We like livin' right, and bein' free.
We don't make a party out of lovin';
We like holdin' hands and pitchin' woo;
We don't let our hair grow long and shaggy,
Like the hippies out in San Francisco do.
I'm proud to be an Oakie from Muskogee,
A place where even squares can have a ball.
We still wave Old Glory down at the courthouse,
And white lightin's still the biggest thril of all.
Leather boots are still in style for mainly footwear;
Beads and roman sandals won't be seen.
Football's still the roughest thing on campus,
And the kids here still respect the college dean.
And I'm proud to be an Oakie from Muskogee,
A place where even squares can have a ball.
We still wave Old Glory down at the courthouse,
And white lightin's still the biggest thril of all.
We still wave Old Glory down at the courthouse,
In Muskogee, Oklahoma, USA
song performed by by Grateful Dead
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Bacolod 2012
it is not planned
but just the same i went there
i've been there many times
bathed in its hot spring
felt the coldness of its trees
and scaled the vastness of its
fullness
i stood on top of a hill
felt the sun
ached my eyes for its mountains
wrote about its beauty
nothing extraordinary
in a final note it is not about its name
or history
not even about a place
or anyone
not about myself, it is indescribable
it cannot be said
it cannot be thought for long
because once you settle upon it
longer than you wish
it too is gone away
and when you step upon the stairs of another plane
you forget and try to remember another place
no, not another person
it is this travel of non-attachment at all
the bed that you sleep last night
is no longer a bed
the table cloth that you stained with the sap of
the luscious ripe mango fruit is no longer a cloth
you are on top of the world
on top of the white clouds that block all view
from the earth from all memories
and you keep saying now and writing each piece
piercing you and you do not mean anything
it is just the passing and the going and the non stopping
out of your mind out of this world
out of what dissipates like light in darkness
it is cold you cover your face with the blanket of
the plane
and then you cease
that is the story that you have written
it is intended for no one
now, not even for this earth
or the imagined heavens
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Nostalgia
you visit your mother's burial place
white painted cemented mausoleum
she has a picture on the cover of
her own solitary place
you go near
and touch her glossy cheek
she has the smile
that takes you again
somewhere
in that room where you were with her
she kisses you
while you were this little boy
sleeping
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Quicksilver Fever
You left
on a Friday
lifetimes ago
you chose
not
to see me
again and again
soon
I must
choose
a place
that does not
include you
where pain
loneliness
disappointment
can
touch me
no more
far far away
a new place
where disappointment
can hurt me
no more
where fresh memories
cannot run
like fever
like fresh
quicksilver fever
in my veins
a place
my still beating
heart may be still
and all thought
is suspended
in the eternity
of a restful
moment where
heart and mind
beat pulse
in unity unending
where molten liquefied
white globular metal
pulses not in seared veins
poem by Terence George Craddock
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I would rather be the Queen's English
given the chance to
to be Queen of England
or the Queen's English
(Queen of English)
I would pick the latter
with not a wink of the eye
more power have i
than the queen
tap, tap, tap
as i summon my men, women,
on the computer
they would come running
to take their rightful place
to carry out my ambition
to shape, shake up world
men, women, children
in the wrong place
are all thrown out
exterminated from their lines
tap tap tap and they are purged never to be seen
it is done so efficiently
it is quieter than
the dropp of a hairpin
the best world's secret police would even stand in awe
the queen of english
is also a queen of terror
worse than hitler's men
when it comes to her ambition
and right representation of her spirit
not a word is allowed to play truant
whenever her muse comes
visiting, clothing them
up to dazzle their way
into everybody's heart
is her prime concern
line up all of you words!
i am your queen
be at the right place
and stay in line
or else a single tap
and you blink into oblivion
not a single space
is allowed
for disloyalty
the Queen of the
English Language
is but a fastidious queen
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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From A Blue Cloud
From a blue cloud at the two o’clock
And out of the rain,
With a long step and a swift nod
The master came.
Swinging behind him a painted box
In an old and tattered bag,
He watched my eye on the mystery box
And sat on a damson rag.
Under the pleat of his purple cloak
Was the Queen of petty spades,
‘We’re off to the end of the rainbow, Jack
To the long, black end of days.’
Ducking the light of the morning star
We hid in a tulip bed,
But caught the beam in a bottle-jar
To light the way ahead.
The master took some tinsel foil
To shake on the fairy phlox,
He said: ‘You can have the Queen of Spades
Or the painted mystery box.’
I chose the Queen, who dredged a pit
To place the box within,
He tipped his hat with a weary nod,
‘I’m on my way again.’
Now often I notice the Queen of Spades
Look long and long at me,
With a sad smile, she whispers on:
‘Oh what, and what might we? ’
While I still watch for the blue cloud
And the two o’clock bus,
In hopes that he and the mystery box….
He never does!
12 September 1983
poem by David Lewis Paget
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Don't Give Up
Don't Give Up" by Peter Gabriel with KaTe Bush
In this proud land we grew up strong
We were wanted all along
I was taught to fight, taught to win
I never thought I could fail
No fight left or so it seems
I am a man whose dreams have all deserted
I've changed my face, I've changed my name
But no-one wants you when you lose
Don't give up
'cos you have friends
Don't give up
You're not beaten yet
Don't give up
I know you can make it good
Though I saw it all around
Never thought that I could be affected
Thought that we'd be last to go
It is so strange the way things turn
Drove the night toward my home
The place that I was born, on the lakeside
As daylight broke, I saw the earth
The trees had burned down to the ground
Don't give up
You still have us
Don't give up
We don't need much of anything
Don't give up
'cause somewhere there's a place
Where we belong
Rest your head
You worry too much
It's going to be alright
When times get rough
You can fall back on us
Don't give up
Please don't give up
Got to walk out of here
I can't take any more
Going to stand on that bridge
Keep my eyes down below
Whatever may come
And whatever may go
That river's flowing
That river's flowing
Moved on to another town
Tried hard to settle down
For every job, so many men
So many men no-one needs
Don't give up
'cause you have friends
Don't give up
You're not the only one
Don't give up
No reason to be ashamed
Don't give up
You still have us
Don't give up now
We're proud of who you are
Don't give up
You know its never been easy
Don't give up
'cause I believe there's a place
There's a place where we belong
song performed by by Kate Bush
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Tale Of New Year
The table sits in darkened room
Its fare all spent its contents strewn
All use now ended, empty shell
A place where only thoughts now dwell
For this is last years empty table
Feasted on by all those able
Some who sat and joined the fest
Have left our mortal life to rest
Friends anew have stepped on board
As life continues rest assured
For in the light of room next door
The circle starts again once more
A brand new table full to flowing
What it holds not ours for knowing
Be sure this though safe from fear
To take your place for this New Year
Amongst the newly laid out feast
When hope and faith are all increased
Savour what this new year brings
As midnight bells chime 12 strong rings.
poem by Dave James
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Happy New Year?
The table sits in darkened room
Its fare all spent its contents strewn
All use now ended, empty shell
A place where only thoughts now dwell
For this is last years empty table
Feasted on by all those able
Some who sat and joined the fest
Have left our mortal life to rest
Friends anew have stepped on board
As life continues rest assured
For in the light of room next door
The circle starts again once more
A brand new table full to flowing
What it holds not ours for knowing
Be sure this though safe from fear
To take your place for this New Year
Amongst the newly laid out feast
When hope and faith are all increased
Savour what this new year brings
As midnight bells chime 12 strong rings.
poem by Dave James
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Mount Kunchenjunga
Till its bright, till ones' sight,
It’s all white, it’s all white.
Silver flakes have covered,
Or billion tonnes milk is poured;
From here, clouds look down,
It is my Countrys' Crown.
Cloth of snow is spread
and Snowy is the run,
Rocks & plants have to wait,
Months, to see the sun;
Snowy mountain wearing
snowy gown,
It is my countrys' crown.
The horizon turns golden
In the morning Sun rays,
Springs fall shouting
Give me the way;
A place, like Angels' town,
It is my countrys' crown.
The God’s unique architect,
Beyond ones' belief;
Creatures stepping here,
Surely get relief;
A Wonder place, nature has grown;
It is my countrys' crown.
(c) S.D. Tiwari
email [email protected]
poem by S.D. Tiwari
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A Fruitfly!
It was there on the red table cloth,
Of the Chinese Restaurant,
Where the chef use their left hands,
To pick up the right ingredients,
To put into the hot pans and pots,
To dish out the delicious fries of boneless meat,
Laced with Ketchup and in MSG puddle,
I forgot the ‘It' on the table,
It was like a grain of sand,
Suddenly started to crawl like an ant,
A small little cute ant took a stroll,
Beside my plate and cutlery,
Then it stopped crawling, I thought it was tired,
I took the servitude and folded it into a cone,
Touched it softly to provoke it,
Then it woke up from the slumber,
And started to crawl like any toddlers do,
When I tried to touch for the third time,
It spread its tiny wings and flew away,
In a split of a second, either it knows,
That it is in the wrong place,
To show its tiny fist thinking as hulk's
Or might have gone to the right place,
Where the rotten fruits are found.
poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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A Place At My Table
And youll always have a place at my table
Hey dinners ready come on and eat
Get her done
This aint no Memphis soul songs
And Motown rhythm and blues
Or smoky broken soundtracks
Of my every childhood moves
Soothing are the cameras looking out at my back 40
Lord I dont know where Id be if not from Berigordi
See my story aint that simple and it dont stop here
Patsy Cline still echos through my younger years
I know you can hear me cause the music never stops
George Jone sang me to sleep whether he knows it or not
CHORUS
And Ill always lend a hand if Im able
And youll always have a place at my table
Ive been this whole world over with Detroit on my mind
But Ive got friends in Tennessee Atlanta and Caroline
We dont need no money and we dont want no grief
But if you came to give some youll be pickin up your teeth
REPEAT CHORUS
Thats your Uncle Kracker sittin back there on that back porch
And I think sittin back here I can see everything I need to see
I think back here I can see poor old Mr. Bradford fuelin up the Benz
Everything is truly everything
Thats all it can ever be
And that sure is good enough for me ha ha
(And Ill always give ya help if Im able
And youll always have a place at my table)
REPEAT CHORUS Get her done
song performed by by Uncle Kracker
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Maintaining Standards.
To make the grade in Biggleswade.
Teatime is taken seriously.
The cake you serve must be home made
and rather plain not too fancy.
Of course the table must be laid
with your best china on display
A snow white cloth the finest made.
Things must be done the proper way.
The good ladies of Biggleswade.
Intent on keeping standards high,
will try their hardest to persuade
new ladies that they must not buy
Rich fresh cream cakes to serve for tea.
They must maintain tradition.
I’m not convinced too easily
and so I wait’ til they have gone.
My man and I prefer our tea.
Strong hot and sweet from half pint pots.
We eat while watching the TV.
We think they are a stuffy lot.
But we are not from Biggleswade
and we do things a different way.
More casual not stiff and staid.
More suited to the world today.
We don’t fit in, in Biggleswade,
we do not like formality
we never will I am afraid.
But we don’t care we’d rather be
allowed to live the way we choose.
And not by rules we must obey.
So quite politely we refuse
and send the ladies on their way.
The leading ladies of the town.
The great and good of Biggleswade.
I am quite sure have marked us down
Unsuitable to make the grade.
Sunday,13 June 2010
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers.
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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The Last Resort
She came from providence,
The one in rhode island
Where the old world shadows hang
Heavy in the air
She packed her hopes and dreams
Like a refugee
Just as her father came across the sea
She heard about a place people were smilin
They spoke about the red mans way,
And how they loved the land
And they came from everywhere
To the great divide
Seeking a place to stand
Or a place to hide
Down in the crowded bars,
Out for a good time,
Cant wait to tell you all,
What its like up there
And they called it paradise
I dont know why
Somebody laid the mountains low
While the town got high
Then the chilly winds blew down
Across the desert
Through the canyons of the coast, to
The malibu
Where the pretty people play,
Hungry for power
To light their neon way
And give them things to do
Some rich men came and raped the land,
Nobody caught em
Put up a bunch of ugly boxes, and jesus,
People bought em
And they called it paradise
The place to be
They watched the hazy sun, sinking in the sea
You can leave it all behind
And sail to lahaina
Just like the missionaries did, so many years ago
They even brought a neon sign: jesus is coming
Brought the white mans burden down
Brought the white mans reign
Who will provide the grand design?
What is yours and what is mine?
cause there is no more new frontier
We have got to make it here
We satisfy our endless needs and
Justify our bloody deeds,
In the name of destiny and the name
Of god
And you can see them there,
On sunday morning
They stand up and sing about
What its like up there
They call it paradise
I dont know why
You call someplace paradise,
Kiss it goodbye
song performed by by Eagles
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Heaven And Hell
On top of the sky is a place where you go
If you've done nothing wrong
If you've done nothing wrong
And down in the ground is a place where you go
If you've been a bad boy
If you've been a bad boy
Why can't we have eternal life
And never die
Never die
In the place up above you grow feather wings
And you fly round and round
With a harp singing hymns
And down in the ground you grow horns and a tail
And you carry a fork
And burn away
Why can't we have eternal life
And never die
Never die
On top of the sky is a place where you go
If you've done nothing wrong
If you've done nothing wrong
And down in the ground is a place where you go
If you've been a bad boy
If you've been a bad boy
Why can't we have eternal life
And never die
Never die
Never die
song performed by by Who
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Dont Give Up
In this proud land we grew up strong
We were wanted all along
I was taught to fight, taught to win
I never thought I could fail
No fight left or so it seems
I am a man whose dreams have all deserted
Ive changed my face, Ive changed my name
But no one wants you when you lose
Dont give up
cos you have friends
Dont give up
Youre not beaten yet
Dont give up
I know you can make it good
Though I saw it all around
Never thought I could be affected
Thought that wed be the last to go
It is so strange the way things turn
Drove the night toward my home
The place that I was born, on the lakeside
As daylight broke, I saw the earth
The trees had burned down to the ground
Dont give up
You still have us
Dont give up
We dont need much of anything
Dont give up
cause somewhere theres a place
Where we belong
Rest your head
You worry too much
Its going to be alright
When times get rough
You can fall back on us
Dont give up
Please dont give up
got to walk out of here
I cant take anymore
Going to stand on that bridge
Keep my eyes down below
Whatever may come
And whatever may go
That rivers flowing
That rivers flowing
Moved on to another town
Tried hard to settle down
For every job, so many men
So many men no-one needs
Dont give up
cause you have friends
Dont give up
Youre not the only one
Dont give up
No reason to be ashamed
Dont give up
You still have us
Dont give up now
Were proud of who you are
Dont give up
You know its never been easy
Dont give up
cause I believe theres the a place
Theres a place where we belong
song performed by by Peter Gabriel
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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