Surroundings-12
Pesticide
Sick plants
Disheartening
Flit, flit..acrid odour
Dead sprayed..more disheartened.Just said
Sorry
poem by Indira Renganathan
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Song Of The Butterfly
'butterfly
butterfly
why do you fly? '
I’ve got wings
I’ve got aerodynamics
so I flit about
and I fly:
for I just got to be
'O I wish
I really wish
I too could fly
flit and fly
fly and flit
just like you
I wish I could fly'
O you can
O you can
flit about and fly
you mortal on the ground
you can fly
if you use your mind
if you try
if you try
poem by Raj Arumugam
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An Innocent Victim
She was a lively
and a bubbly girl of three,
running around and playing
with her brother in her flat.
As the sun went down
she fell ill and
started vomitting.
Short of breath
she was rushed to the hospital
she began sinking
Inhaling the pesticide
sprayed in a
neighbouring flat,
she struggled with life now
ultimately she gave up
and died
without an antidote
for the banned pesticide.
Was she destined to die like this?
A question left unanswered.
poem by Rizvana Parveen
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The Missing of One
Sick in pit of stomach, sick
Thick thoughts of trips gone so quick
Photo trick, when album flicked
Sit n flick, bit by bit
Brick by brick memories flit
Only Good times tick, not kick n kick
Grap my kit, snap out of it
No longer need this shit.
poem by Casual Diamond
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Sick of Being Sick
I’m sick of being rejected;
I’m sick of being emotionally neglected;
I’m sick of crying so many tears;
I’m sick of running away from my fears;
I’m sick of my childhood nightmares;
I’m sick of being told to do those stupid dares;
I’m sick of not having friends;
I’m sick of all these dead ends;
I’m sick of myself for what I’ve become;
I’m sick of feeling oh so numb;
I’m sick of watching myself drown;
I’m sick of my heart falling to the ground;
I’m sick of this life;
I’m sick of this everyday strife;
I’m sick of not having a dad;
I’m sick of getting mad;
I’m sick of my childhood past;
I’m sick of being harassed;
I’m sick of the dread;
I’m sick of wanting to be dead;
I’m sick of being the one who’s always so strong;
I’m sick of being somebody that doesn’t belong! !
poem by Shelby Brockway
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The Sandpiper
Across the lonely beach we flit,
One little sandpiper and I,
And fast I gather, but by bit,
The scattered drift-wood, bleached and dry.
The wild waves reach their hands for it,
The wild wind raves, the tide runs high,
As up and down the beach we flit,
One little sandpiper and I.
Above our heads the sullen clouds
Scud, black and swift, across the sky:
Like silent ghosts in misty shrouds
Stand out the white light-houses high.
Almost as far as eye can reach
I see the close-reefed vessels fly,
As fast we flit along the beach,
One little sandpiper and I.
I watch him as he skims along,
Uttering his sweet and mournful cry;
He starts not at my fitful song,
Nor flash of fluttering drapery.
He has no thought of any wrong,
He scans me with a fearless eye;
Stanch friends are we, well tried and strong,
The little sandpiper and I.
Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night,
When the loosed storm breaks furiously?
My drift-wood fire will burn so bright!
To what warm shelter canst thou fly?
I do not fear for thee, though wroth
The tempest rushes through the sky;
For are we not God's children both,
Thou, little sandpiper, and I?
poem by Celia Thaxter
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To One who Loved not Poetry
THOU liest dead, and there will be no memory left behind
Of thee or thine in all the earth, for never didst thou bind
The roses of Pierian streams upon thy brow; thy doom
Is now to flit with unknown ghosts in cold and nameless gloom.
The Swallow
The morning that my baby came
They found a baby swallow dead,
And saw a something, hard to name,
Flit moth-like over baby's bed.
My joy, my flower, my baby dear
Sleeps on my bosom well, but Oh!
If in the Autumn of the year
When swallows gather round and go -
poem by Ralph Hodgson
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Bugs (On a Summer's Day)
On any hot and sunny, summer's day,
Millions of bugs appear, to work and play.
Butterflies flit to and fro: they flit high and flit low;
Bringing a touch of beauty, wherever they may go.
Crimson red, with little black spots, is the ladybird.
My whole face lights up, whenever it's name is heard.
The honey bees, are industrious in their work:
Their responsibilities, they never ever shirk.
Then there's the ant, aka the earth excavation engineer;
One, I can stand, but a whole army feels me with fear.
I freeze with fear, when by a wilful wasp, I'm pursued.
They hang around, even when I don't have any food.
Likewise, different species of fly, varying in shape and size,
Look for food - to keep it covered, you'd be extremely wise.
Hoverflies, however, do pretty much as their name suggests,
But, unlike wasps, who look quite similar, they are not pests.
Storm flies may well be extremely tiny and titch,
But when they crawl on you, they don't half itch!
Outdoors, I dash away, if the sound of buzzing gets too close;
'Ha! I chased her away! ' the insects, to each other, I bet, boast!
Tiny bugs, which crawl about in my hair,
Is one thing which, I really can not bear.
Woodlice, however, do not like the scorching sun,
And, if disturbed, to a new shelter, they'll quickly run.
Lacewings look pretty, with wings, all delicate and lacy,
But emitting a nasty smell to predators, they aren't tasty.
In the evening, Grasshoppers and crickets chirp away,
Signalling the closing in of yet another summer's day.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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Our Secret Sonar Romances
bats are back
their fruit trees in fruit
night feast flight
flit flit flutter flight
fruit passion consumed
in tree dance flight
season past season
come dance our night
under shades of moon
I click my fingers
a few bats flit flight
fly up circle come
fly past my face
a few feet away
flit flight greetings
they like the audience
sonar image my face
thought whisper greet
ink veil night magic
moon crescent night magic
arch phases paint magic
dark building backdrops
stand tall solid frame trees
in background night prayers
silhouette shadow salutes
sky heaven altar glorious
heart stirs in night shades
friend bats flutter flight
disappearing back into trees
feast feed ripe flower fruits
friend bats I know
your ways of disappearing
friend bats I know
your night vision trails
your night vision paths
your night cycle dances
flowers fade into rebirth
organic petal forget me nots
out of sight out of mind
love is bat night flight born
bats my rest break companions
we share night flight visions
this realm of darkness
our mind flight mansions
our secret sonar romances
Dedicated to Miroslava Odalovic who shared a few of my nights with conversation between ritual night writing songs of creativity.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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The Daft Days
The midnight hour is clinking, lads,
An' the douce an' the decent are winking, lads;
Sae I tell ye again,
Be't weel or ill ta'en,
It's time ye were quatting your drinking, lads.
Gae ben, 'an mind your gauntry, Kate,
Gi'es mair o' your beer, an' less bantry, Kate,
For we vow, whaur we sit,
That afore we shall flit,
We'se be better acquaint wi' your pantry, Kate.
The "daft days" are but beginning, Kate,
An we're sworn. Would you hae us a sinning, Kate?
By our faith an' our houp,
We will stick by the stoup
As lang as the barrel keeps rinning, Kate.
Thro' hay, an' thro' hairst, sair we toil it, Kate,
Thro' Simmer, an' Winter, we moil it, Kate;
Sae ye ken, whan the wheel
Is beginning to squeal,
It's time for to grease an' to oil it, Kate.
Sae draw us anither drappy, Kate,
An' gie us a cake to our cappy, Kate;
For, by spiggot an' pin!
It's waur than a sin
To flit when we're sitting sae happy, Kate.
poem by Hew Ainslie
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Unsinging Sparrows in Aussie Cold
My grandchild bawled at
the sparrows on the tall tree.
They chirped and flit off.
poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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Fantasy: *Characters* On Ship In Outer Space
Sitting at my desk, translating a French text
indicating right amounts of pesticide to prevent
us dying suddenly - while the characters in my head
On a ship in outer space are collecting the charred
bodies after an exploded nuclear reactor while
feeling deepest sympathy with the maimed still alive
My protagonist, with hair as black as coal, falling
to her shoulders like a silky-soft waterfall, is in a
state of shock on seeing the devastation wrecked
By technology run amuck – she also knows how
much pesticide there already was in the bodies
of the dead – I suffer from emotional fatigue
With all this going on….
poem by Margaret Alice
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Pleasures flit by - they are only for yourself; work leaves a mark of long-lasting joy, work is for others.
quote by Dmitri Mendeleev
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The air tells a thousand stories
in the mind are mechanics
that trigger a burst of delight
when hit by scents of spring blooms
in the air are pockets of varied odours
from homo sapiens coded with their
latest adventures, condition
as distinct as fingerprints
and the rainbow gently
precipitated by a drizzle
in the street are clusters of sweetness,
joy, wonder, pessimism, optimism
and a whole spectrum of experiences
from the city's residents
if your nostrils are sensitive
enough to pick them up
the human body emits odour
like how feelings work on
muscles of the human face
estacy induces estatic odour
joy - joyful odour
and gloom - depressed odour
this works down to our roots
indians have indian odour
chinese chinese odour
and americans, american odour
those into mysticism will know
even that God has his odour
the devil his own
and ghosts, ghastly odour
one noon in a hotel room in Kota Baru
my nose picked up a scent
that reminded me of the Most High
because of the sacredness
it evoked in me i reckoned
that it could only be God
who gave us each a nose
to sniff out his presence!
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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My Canadian Chronicles 15
Sitting on the deck in the morning
enjoying the sun and blue skies
as the birds flit about my friend’s garden.
Relaxing chatting
under a Calgary sun
who could ask for more,
not me.
11 June 2009
poem by David Harris
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It is an honorable thought,
It is an honorable thought,
And makes one lift one's hat,
As one encountered gentlefolk
Upon a daily street,
That we've immortal place,
Though pyramids decay,
And kingdoms, like the orchard,
Flit russetly away.
poem by Emily Dickinson
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So Sick
im sick of not knowing,
im sick of not showing,
im sick of all the starring
im sick of not caring
im sick of being labled bad
im sick of always looking sad
im sick of feeling locked in bars
im sick of all the painful scars
im sick of all the thugs
im sick of all the drugs
im sick of asking myself why
im sick of telling myself i want to die
im sick of feeling like i always want to cry
im sick of living a lie
im sick of not having a dream
im sick of lifes borring theme
but thares only one was out...
so what does that mean?
poem by Ricky Baker
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