Rain
When it rains
Roads, trees, houses, birds
Fences, lawns, porches, terraces
Flowerpots, climbers, flowers, windows
Words, books, poems, conversation
Dreams and faces
Sun and shades
All get wet
Memories are inundated
Life spans turn into ephemeral moments
Dry eyes are filled with water
(and are washed clean)
When it stops
Winds start blowing.
poem by Naseer Ahmed Nasir
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Windows
Windows open vistas for us
Windows - of hearts, of minds or of eyes
Windows - which might open outward
Or inward
They bring the light on the other end to this end.
Windows converse
They open the alphabetical locks of our lips
When night weaves nets of darkness on windows
Life-spans speak out in whispers from abysses of pain
Windows then perforce remain silent
Suffer days of tongue-tied laws
Nights of oppression
And epochs of tyranny
Windows are self same stories of dreams
Of centuries
Mute testimony of chasms
Court yards and ruined houses
Evidence of rusted eons rattling with exhaustion
in tyrant time's primordium continuity
Windows have the heart of a woman
They open their body's wings of each clime
With a little waft of wind
With fragrance, sunlight, rain or moon beams.
They blow away paper-light images
And waste away life in uncharted desires.
When butterflies fly in front of windows
Eyes glued to window panes become tearful
With noontide memories.
Evenings look forward to a wayfarer passing by
When they're covered with climbers
holding forth red and white flowers
They fill closed fists with the touch of fire-flies.
Windows often insist on being kept open
They're surprised to watch cloud, birds
And the blue sky's expanse
If they're kept shut
They're afraid of the life breath of
Walls and rooms getting strangulated.
They're afraid of dwellers forsaking their houses
They also feel life's desertion
They also feel despondent
Windows are human beings!
Poem by: Naseer Ahmed Nasir
Translated from the original Urdu into English by Satyapal Anand.
Copyrights (C) All rights reserved.
poem by Naseer Ahmed Nasir
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My Best Neighbors
my best neighbors
are those that do not mind me
though
there are times when our paths
cross
and so we say hello
just that
and then we go back to our
own preoccupations
our poetry our short stories
our dogs
and chickens and our higher
fences this time
our roofs do not meet
our garage gates do not face each other
our plants are different
we never want to have the same lawns
our fruit trees do not bear fruits at the same
that would be an insult
(how crazy have we become?)
their cars do not make any honks
we keep this silent agreement
this noiseless world we live in
this mind your own business thing
when it rains so hard
we do not open our windows and look outside
(are we afraid to see our sad faces?)
we are what we are
we do not even know each others' names
how cruel
and yet how peaceful.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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How Many Poems/Can I Make Of/ These Flowers and Trees?
HOW MANY POEMS/ CAN I MAKE/ OF THESE FLOWERS AND TREES? /
How many poems
Can I make
Of these flowers and trees?
How many times
Can I say
‘The Beauty I see with my eyes
has no words for it.’?
How many times
Can I write and write,
‘The wonder of joy of this life
Fills my soul with gratitude and Awe’?
How many times can I thank God?
Everyday-
For the rest of my life-
As long as I have eyes and mind and words and heart.
Every day.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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My Childhood Faded Away
My childhood has faded away
In those days I had no bills to pay.
I close my eyes and remember those days.
Childhood dreams filled with love,
Hide and seek, my baseball glove,
No heavy chains,
Warm summer rains.
Fiery dragons, flying high in the sky,
Pirate ships, Captain Bligh.
Munching sweet apples,
Candy peppermint,
Rosy red cheeks,
Innocense.
Long ago, not by chance,
Under my bed, monsters danced.
Through the years a backward glance,
Wishing I had my bell bottom pants.
Eyes so bright,
Flying a kite,
Birds singing cheeful songs.
Quiet days, star filled nights,
Winter snow, on frozen lawns.
I wish that I was back today,
But I've put that life far away,
My childhood moments that I recall,
Childhood years, were the best of all.
poem by Philip Lore
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Pictures In A Book
High on a tree a red cardinal sings
Snow melts under a free blue sky
It is Sunday and church bells ring
I love to watch the spring geese fly
The kitchen with flowers in the vase
She loved lavender lilacs on the table
Some memories never do get erased
Give your love while your still able
Now the rains and the winds blow
Mountains fill with great waterfalls
Streams swell with melting snow
Pine trees grow stalwart and tall
I remember roses on her summer dress
We loved to walk a moonlit mile
Her long hair flowing down her breast
Haunted by her laugh and sweet smile
Soon the fine tulips will start to bloom
The brown grass will turn deep green
Frogs will breed under the full moon
Wild flowers will grow by oak trees
I wonder if she often thinks of me?
We met when apple blossoms grow
Love seemed like an eternal sea
Parted when fall winds turned to snow
Now we are memories from another day
Pictures in a book neatly tucked away
poem by Joseph Narusiewicz
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Fish In A Bowl
Everywhere I go
A thousand faces stare at me
Eating from the palm
A date from hand to mouth
Break a leg!
The shoes are on the bottom
On your way
But the wardrobe always stays wide open
All washed up
Stood on the shore
The wave is over
But Im all washed up
Fish in a bowl
Everywhere I go
All bob and weave
Or sew it seams
Aiming low in life
They keep their noses clean
All washed up
Stood on the shore
The wave is over
But Im all washed up
Fish in a bowl
An ordered life from start to finish
And my timing is out
All washed up
Stood on the shore
The wave is over
But Im all washed up...fish!
song performed by by Haircut 100
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Root Beer Float Afternoon
It was one of those
kind of afternoons
When ball games were heard
From open windows
And houses had porches
And porches had swings
Where voices murmured softly
Into velvet humidity
It was the most precious of things
In the most treasured of times
It was a root beer float…
Kind of afternoon
poem by David Whalen
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Before My Eyes
I see before my eyes the wonderful words,
Speak them around the mouth to sustain,
So that meanings are clear to the birds.
I saw so many reasons to master and also afterwards,
Seen so many sessions of praise of this book to attain,
I see before my eyes the wonderful words.
Created and longed for, the books and pages are blizzards,
Looking for times so tight with sin again,
So that meanings are clear to the birds.
May we attain longevity when we read books backwards,
Leaning against the wall to hasten the air plane,
I see before my eyes the wonderful words.
Pleasing us one way is like living a way of life with hazards,
Leading is a disease of words, so frightening for after pain,
So that meanings are clear to the birds.
Can the heraldry of our country be the same innards,
Liking this sign captures the books’ meanings from the brain,
So that meanings are clear to the birds,
I see before my eyes the wonderful words.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Monsoon Rains
The Monsoon rains have set at last,
A bit delayed than in the past!
The state is water-logged a lot;
The water-table, up somewhat!
No doubt, the rains are welcome but
Many have lost their lives and hut;
The torrent was sudden and big,
And left most people with no wig!
Many now suffer by the rains;
The water is from sky and drains;
It takes a month to settle down;
This is the scene in every town!
Yet, who does clean the cities’ dumps?
’Tis Nature cleaning dirt, clogs, sumps!
For, no one does this job so well,
Like rain from God that pours like hell!
Nevertheless, it does just good,
Though farmers lose their fields and food!
And roads and bridges get damaged,
They are the bad ones and the aged!
Thank God for Monsoon rains that came,
And give Him praises and not blame!
The world needs water that is fresh;
If not, no one can drink, refresh!
Oh, let the rains come in big way!
And let it rain by night and day!
Let’s face the strife those, come what may!
The Sun will shine when we make hay!
Copyright by Dr John Celes 26-11-11
poem by John Celes
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This Po-Optic Truth
Birds fly against a blue clear sky
Air fresh and clean...
Fresh of pollutants.
Faces of people appearing full of light.
A poetry mix with an optical fix
That plays over and over without drifting,
In the minds found misfit.
Judged by those who babble with booze
Lost without attention spans to cross.
Boasting and boosting themselves in garbage.
Where conflicts are enjoyed and mastered!
This po-optic truth...
Is said and seen,
And left behind!
As quickly as grim is washed from hands!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Evocative Wings
My words lay asleep
in the luminous quartz
with your phosphorescent
and pliant burl of chains
as I reckon your picaresque tales
and how it overlapped
my taut and tedious
windows and persiennes
and its ruminating
choreography
Because in these nights
when the wanton wind
fails to fan
the stars' white flame
I reckon how
our immense skies
wore different shades
And the countless miles
surrounding us
even those etched inside
in our lost fathoms
never failed
to break us asunder
in gentle goodnights
If I can only
plaster the winding roads
so I can at least
look back more carefully
but the lights blinded
my flustered eyes
and the maps
had already changed
along with all
the farce
shifting
How I loved you
in a spur of time
stronger than the waters
dividing the hills
or the blood
boiling beneath
Like birds
from the same nest
our evocative wings
and different plumes
were separated by
different climates
Reckoned by your moony eyes
and supple serenades
I broke into a smile -
a wry dancing in dementia
I hope for hope
for your steadfast gamble
against the ephemeral girdle
and though -
like these maps
and memories
we have waned
To me,
in this instilled soliloquy
I find you
perfunctorily
infinite.
poem by Norman Santos
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2 Birds Conversation
'Am I allowed to die here? '
'Why not? '
'With grass, flowers or words? '
'They may be'
'Like the birds lay the memories'
'Yes, suddenly disappear when you do not tell'
'After he died in peace without worry'
'Probably no one felt the loss'
'Is not love... but rather the loss of freedom'
'Without a conversation anymore'
'Then disappear in death'
'Yes, suddenly disappear when you do not tell'
'Flowers, grass and your words'
'Memories that will soon disappear'
East Colfax Avenue,2010
poem by Imam Setiaji Ronoatmojo
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The Room of My Life
Here,
in the room of my life
the objects keep changing.
Ashtrays to cry into,
the suffering brother of the wood walls,
the forty-eight keys of the typewriter
each an eyeball that is never shut,
the books, each a contestant in a beauty contest,
the black chair, a dog coffin made of Naugahyde,
the sockets on the wall
waiting like a cave of bees,
the gold rug
a conversation of heels and toes,
the fireplace
a knife waiting for someone to pick it up,
the sofa, exhausted with the exertion of a whore,
the phone
two flowers taking root in its crotch,
the doors
opening and closing like sea clams,
the lights
poking at me,
lighting up both the soil and the laugh.
The windows,
the starving windows
that drive the trees like nails into my heart.
Each day I feed the world out there
although birds explode
right and left.
I feed the world in here too,
offering the desk puppy biscuits.
However, nothing is just what it seems to be.
My objects dream and wear new costumes,
compelled to, it seems, by all the words in my hands
and the sea that bangs in my throat.
poem by Anne Sexton
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A Poem To Change The World
I wish I could write a poem that would change the world
A world with barbwire fences
Try to cross and you get stuck
You get pinned and you can’t come back
Ya
If I could just write a poem that would take those barbwire fences down
I wish I could write a poem that would change the world
With spotlights that blind rather than show the way
You have to look away
With spots in your eyes you cannot see
Ya
If I could just write a poem that would turn those spot lights away
I wish I could write a poem that would change the world
Airplanes that get you there if you can pay the fair
If you’re poor, you will work hard but go no where
Those who fly, are they thankful to the sky
Ya
If I could just write a poem that would make this world fair
I wish I could write a poem that would change the world
What is worse is war
And it is over there, where we send our children
There is nothing here but fear
Ya
I wish I could write a poem that make that no more
How much longer will the birds and trees
have to put up with our dirty breeze
All the water in this world
someday none of it will be safe to drink
If I could just write a poem that would clean up this mess
poem by Roger Harkness
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The Gippsland Hills
The hills of Gippsland were so green but that was in September
And songbirds piping happy songs as well I might remember
But now the Gippsland hills are gray since sun changed the grass colour
And though the sun shines hot today this countryside looks duller.
The Gippsland hills were green in Spring and grass growing winds were blowing
And all along the sunlit hills the wildering flowers were showing
And bell magpie piped his joyful notes and butcherbird was singing
And through those hills those happy hills the bushlark's voice went ringing.
The Gippsland hills the sunburnt hills grown lonelier and quieter
And like the shades of old man's hair they've turned a gray type whiter
The nearby creek in trickle flow, the birds have lost their voices
And not one of Nature's minstrels now on Gippsland hills rejoices.
The Gippsland hills the sunburnt hills have lost their Spring like colour
And though the sun shines hot today the Gippsland hills look duller
But Spring bring green to Gippsland hills Spring rains and soft winds blowing
And birds will sing on Gippsland hills and Gippsland creeks fast flowing.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Blackened...
blackened steel...
blackened faces,
blackened hearts,
blackened roads...
blackened eyes,
blackened dreams,
blackened prayers,
blackened gods...
blackened memories,
blackened fingers,
blackened windows,
blackened rooms...
blackened thoughts,
blackened nails,
blackened shovels,
blackened tomb!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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We are moving to places where our hands still touch
What you did was make this yard of cement
Some hard posts and high fences and barbwires
You call it safety; you call it clean to see
There will be no shrubs, no trees, just this
Big house and empty rooms, a garage full
Of cars, some phones and TV walls
We move to other places then since we disagree
We leave this place of cement and fences and walls
We move to the hills where we still have our trees
Our long winding rivers, the rocks and grass
The winds and skies, we move to places where
The birds are not caged, where they sing the sweetest songs
Where we and the rest of us are free
Where on mountaintops and cliffs and drifting clouds
Our hands still touch & shake the Hands of God.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Prevailing Winds
Every day the increasing winds
make themselves known.
Their whistling in the trees I see
seem to have grown
stronger in intensity,
bolder everyday.
And I wonder what the flowers think
that are blooming this month of May?
Their little colorful heads
try to hold their ground.
But the winds are fiercly blowing
and their heads are turned around.
They lean towards the left first
and then towards the right.
Then something magical happens.
It becomes night.
It's like someone waved a wand
and made the winds cease.
Now those delicate flowers of May
finally feel at peace.
But peace will be short-lasting
for the winds will come again.
I know this wind has got to stop.
The flowers are asking when?
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Oh The Poems
OH THE POEMS AND THE POEMS AND THE POEMS
Oh the poems and the poems and the poems
Oh the love of Literature
Oh all that stuff
I have given my life to-
Words and meanings and feelings
Pages and pages and pages –
What it is all this literary life for?
When out the window out the door
With our eyes we see in an instant other worlds other dreams?
I don’t know and I will never know
And Literature is certainly far more than I can say it is-
Oh the poems and this poem and this day turning grey
And all my life old and old and more old and more old-
Oh why oh why oh why
And always back to God
My last rescue and refuge and escape
I who have read so much Great Literature
And can only write this-
Oh the why and the oh oh oh and the words
And the whole world of Literature
I would belong to and do not.
Oh the words oh the world oh the Literature
Oh God help me please can’t you please help me a little or not?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Whatev’r Did I Get in Return?
I climbed the roof, replacing broken tiles
And many times I’d slipped;
I went to stores by walking many miles,
But I couldn’t be tight-lipped.
I dug the water channels for the trees,
And swept the ground so clean;
I prayed to God to maintain our home’s peace,
So cruel life had been!
I climbed the trees and plucked mangos, drum-sticks;
And put the fences up;
I paved the floors and built the walls with bricks
Life gave a bitter cup!
I washed the clothes, pots, pans and cleaned cob-webs,
And performed house-hold chores;
But never could prevent the way life ebbs,
I painted windows, doors.
So many things I’d done in my childhood
Whatev’r did I get in return?
And now I slog for my family’s good,
I continue to learn.
But this is how we spend our wretched life,
On earth since we’ve been born;
Alone we must be in joy, grief and strife,
Our earthly life’s forlorn.
And yet, our childhood life was good,
Despite all heavy odds;
And cooking was by fire-wood,
We got both love and rods.
And yet I loved the yesterday,
God showed me my own way;
And how I hate each new birthday,
Live, we must, come what may.
Copyright by Dr John Celes 22-1-2007
poem by John Celes
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