Sizzling
Sizzle the cloth of its fibres,
To cut a razor you are unable to,
But it burns your fibres and the cloth,
As an open weapon of warfare
Like the fighting and the bands of people
Who die in war,
Who liven the place with guts and glory.
poem by Naveed Akram
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The Cloth of Time
The concept of time is
Like a cloth
Waving in the wind.
The wind collides
And bounces,
Causing the cloth to sway.
We are the specks
Of dust
Nestled within
The fibers of time.
This cloth is where
We sleep and wake.
This wind is the result
Of our existence.
When the wind is still
The cloth of time
Hangs
Like a man
Whose time has run out.
poem by by unknown author
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Fractures Inside
Minute fractures come this way,
The bones of course mattered
But then the elements defeated
And established material was upset.
Many fibres contained in this cloth
Are like the bones inside you,
The shores inside you stir with waves
From the seas of blood
And those seas have contained many seas
And waves.
The bones are broken finally,
Giving a wheel a rolling character.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Art of Cloth
From fiber, to spinning wheel
From thread, to weaving mill
From textile, to sewing machine
Cloth is continuous ceremony
Whether knitting, whether embroider
Whether patchwork, whether bead work
The beautiful batik, the intricate songket
Cloth is concentration lesson
The strata symbol, the politeness norm
The body art, the cover part
Wedding dress, black tie suit
Cloth is human civilization
From skin, to fabric
From corset, to mini skirt
From blue jeans, to legging
Cloth is history record
Classic style, replied fashion
Color play, motif trend
Mismatch mode, big bang accessories
Cloth is social adaptation
Conservative nerd, ethnic vintage
Religion veil, punk rebel
Costume play, Gothic Lolita
Cloth is identity crisis
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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Racism man wearing white
No stop pushing me becos
of the colour of my cloth
if nothing is done my cloth
will torn
i cann't put on white to please
you
my cloth is n't white
so leave me with my
own colour
if you do n't leave me alone
i will be force to shout
for help and if nobody help
i will be force to fight
and if i fight i will fight
to the last
so stop this racism of white
and black cloth.
poem by Senator alufalism
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Peter's Report
Running all the way,
bent double in breathless pain
we peer and see
the gaping grave
open to the rising sun.
Slowly we enter, our eyes sun-blind,
when we see the empty bench,
the bloody cloth cast within.
I try to imagine
how light must have pierced the cloth,
the sudden shudder
of His broken body,
His sharp breath exploding
like a swimmer breaking the surface,
and I notice John’s eyes
outshining the sun,
and my own face
lighting even death's
darkest place!
poem by Steven Federle
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Fundamental of Liar Chapter CX: Ability
It’s not unable, it’s just not a favor
It’s not unable, it’s just reluctance
It’s not unable, it’s just not my style
It’s not unable, it’s just wrong
It’s not unable, it’s just no time
It’s not unable, it’s just out of place
It’s not unable, it’s just not consideration
It’s not unable, it’s just objection
It’s not unable, it’s just not effective
It’s not unable, it’s just stubbornness
It’s not unable, it’s just not important
It’s not unable, it’s just mercy
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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The Dark Knight Comes Too Pass
The dark knight has come
Fighting for his moment
Fighting for his glory
Fighting for his thrown
Fighting is all he has ever known
From a mere boy
Being raised by the wolves
Living in the darkness for just too long
Something just went so wrong
The dark knight has come
Fighting for his moment
Fighting for his glory
Fighting for his thrown
Fighting is all he has ever known
Was it a death so desperately
Forever in misery
A loves tragedy
Is always so sad to see
The dark knight has come
Fighting for his moment
Fighting for his glory
Fighting for his thrown
Fighting is all he has ever known
The not so dead family
A murder held with in their arms
With no recourse
With no remorse
The dark knight has come
Fighting for his moment
Fighting for his glory
Fighting for his thrown
Fighting is all he has ever known
He's the alternate ending
As the light comes to pass
Shadows lurk
They shouldn't be disturbed
Let them rest in peace
The dark knight has come
Fighting for his moment
Fighting for his glory
Fighting for his thrown
Fighting is all he has ever known
Festered hate fills his eyes
As he is victimized
By those desecrated his loves ones grave
Becoming of the nightly terrors
The dark knight has come
Fighting for his moment
Fighting for his glory
Fighting for his thrown
Fighting is all he has ever known
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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Latter day South Africa
The face of the old black woman
is plastered with mud,
a red cloth is wrapped around her head
and her feet treads burdensome
where she walks bare foot
on rocky roads
and every now and then
steps into a thorn
and almost fall over
while she removes it clumsily.
The child that she carries piggy-back
isn’t black,
nor white,
or yellow,
or eastern coloured,
he’s something of everyone
and is belted to her back
with a ragged cloth
and it’s difficult
since he’s restless
and the child is thirsty
and the hunger
burns from his stomach
to his throat.
In the distance
she hears people
gathering around a bon fire
drinking beer and dancing,
but she’s locked out
and the road is long
and she hobbles on
while the twilight is falling.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Discontented Manicure Scissors
Said the manicure scissors one day,
'The shears always have their own way,
And I think it absurd
That I am deterred
From entering into life's fray.
My task might be jolly for snails,
But I must confess that it fails
To give pleasure to me;
I am sick as can be
Of snipping the ends of pink nails.
I want to do work like the shears!'
So the scissors set out it appears,
And very much wroth
They tried to cut cloth,
And so split themselves open, my dears.
And the cloth, well you should have seen that;
It looked as if gnawed by a rat.
Now little folks, you
Must not think you can do
Whatever your elders are at.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Budget
It is alway not right to say cut
Your cloth according to your coat.
It is right to say cloth be collected
keeping in view the size of the coat.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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For A Poet
I have wrapped my dreams in a silken cloth,
And laid them away in a box of gold;
Where long will cling the lips of the moth,
I have wrapped my dreams in a silken cloth;
I hide no hate; I am not even wroth
Who found the earth's breath so keen and cold;
I have wrapped my dreams in a silken cloth,
And laid them away in a box of gold.
poem by Countee Cullen
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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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Serene
A sea of cloth on an early morning
A wooden boat afloat
The cloth of blue and gray clouds
Still touching
Hands and Lips
A man wearing a straw hat
A woman on green skirt watching
Him sail back,
A child cradled on her arms
Serene in sleep
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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What Seemingly Is Vis-a-vis What Really Is
at the shop all the while what you may see is that
the two are merely haggling on a piece of cloth
a woman customer quite long asking for the right color
always asking the man that she does not like this and that
she feels the cloth silky on her hands above the man's hands
between the sheet as their mouths keep talking about the price
their eyes are speaking about something else hidden beneath
what she is really after all, she at her 40's widowed for 2 years
he at his 20's looking for a a sugar-coated mama.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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My Lover - II
I know she's tired,
Yet conceal it from me she's tried.
Kneeling down my side,
She brings a cloth to water,
Taking my battered feet onto her thigh,
Starts to remove the foul.
Patiently washing away my pain,
Makes disappear all the strain.
Cleansing, whilst healing my skin,
She soaks a cloth in water,
Releasing my body from aching.
I forget my exhaustion,
When touched with such caution.
Oblivious of my physical boundary,
She holds a cloth with water,
Allowing calmness to permeate me.
This water refreshing my feet,
Nurturing me, emotionally.
Aware she'd be my water, heed,
If thirst ever threatened me.
Just when I think my strength has ceased,
My lover comes, and fortifies me.
poem by Gina Borrebach
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Robin
This foliage bolts fibres of wood,
Trees are the life so cultivated by Robin Hood.
poem by Naveed Akram
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It is all mixed up
A blue minifan
Turned on
Blowing miniwinds
To a
Red tulip
Made of
Chinese cloth
Let me turn it off
It is not good
To see
Life putting
Breath to
Something
Dead
Life to
Something
Fake, artificial
A tulip flower cloth
A plastic tulip
Too dusty, inanimate.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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In Memoriam
In memoriam
Tribute to Alfred Lord Tennyson
Old Yew, which graspeth at the stones
that name the underlying dead.
Thy fibres net the dreamless head
thy roots are wrapt around the bones.
Old Yew, which graspeth at the stones.
Hale and heart still long after
the aged men and withered crones.
Have ceased their life of love and laughter.
That name the underlying dead.
Fine samples of the mason’s art
in letters finely chisell’ed.
The stones remain though souls depart
Thy fibres net the dreamless head,
the flesh consumed to feed the tree.
Which lives long after they are dead.
Still clothed each year in greenery.
Thy roots are wrapt around the bones
An embrace closer than they knew
when they were wracked by passions moans
and no doubt longer lasting too.
4-Sep-08
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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The garment of Africa
We are all fibres making up the fabric of humanity
And only in our unity can we see the garment of destiny
We must remember that we are all inextricably connected
An issue affecting one affects us all unrelated
Some South Africans camouflaged their cultural identity
In an attempt to preserve their economical security
It is time children of this great land
To answer the call and form an unbreakable band
We are one people, in one nation, with one destiny
Aspiring to restore the mother-land to her former glory
Moreover, as children of light
Our responsibility is to brighten our corner with delight
poem by Astell Collins
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The Easter Decorations
O take away your dried and painted garlands!
The snow-cloth's fallen from each quicken'd brow,
The stone's rolled off the sepulchre of winter,
And risen leaves and flowers are wanted now.
Send out the little ones, that they may gather
With their pure hands the firstlings of the birth,—
Green-golden tufts and delicate half-blown blossoms,
Sweet with the fragrance of the Easter earth;
Great primrose bunches, with soft, damp moss clinging
To their brown fibres, nursed in hazel roots;
And violets from the shady banks and copses,
And wood-anemones, and white hawthorn shoots;
And tender curling fronds of fern, and grasses
And crumpled leaves from brink of babbling rills,
With cottage-garden treasures—pale narcissi
And lilac plumes and yellow daffodils.
Open the doors, and let the Easter sunshine
Flow warmly in and out, in amber waves,
And let the perfume floating round our altar
Meet the new perfume from the outer graves.
And let the Easter “Alleluia!” mingle
With the sweet silver rain-notes of the lark;
Let us all sing together!—Lent is over,
Captivity and winter, death and dark
poem by Ada Cambridge
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