Beautiful Game
These shoulders
almost wide enough
to play the hand
fountain quill fanning
talon wingtip splayed
My God;
You The One So Beautiful
we the airborne glide drawing
cards laid
tenuous tempest
hearts and spades
hearts in spades laid
tessellate tightrope
clawing down-wind
downe betraying
light with shade splayed
copyright Randy Resh 2007
poem by Randy Resh
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The Death Of A Ballerine
as of tomorrow brought aside
room cornered snares
your ballet shoes cast
the feet in sorrow can no longer glide
the caring sun spares
your dance of dust
you're here to prove
the sun never sets
for beautiful hearts
and their pirouettes
corner-alone
too tiny a dress
and naked shoulders
eyes made of stone
dark line can guess
the sight that smoulders
heart piercing sigh
in an empty gape
so wishful to die
but no escape
too tired to move
the music starts
you're here to prove
the sun never sets
for beautiful hearts
and their pirouettes
you'll stand up and fetch
those white laced shoes
put your hand up and catch
the final moves
an empty chair watches
a sight in despair
darkness encroaches
swallows the air
the doors knock open
all corridors free
a curled lock token
in the light to see
you're here to prove
the sun never sets
for beautiful hearts
and their pirouettes
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Each player must accept the cards life deals him or her: but once they are in hand, he or she alone must decide how to play the cards in order to win the game.
Life is like a poker game. If you don't play your cards right, you can lose with the best hand, but if you know how to play your hand, you can win even with a bad hand.
aphorism by Viorel Vintila
Submitted by anonym
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I Play
I play some card to hand over
So that the game finishes always.
The cards are fully proper
And nobody lies too much.
I lose a game when it is absurd,
I love the game that I have consulted
With open arms, the arms are long.
I play some cards to finish the game,
It is gaming always on the world,
It is rich how we obey the world.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Beautiful Me
They look at my dark complexion and they laugh.
But that don’t bother me.
For I’m beautiful.
Beautiful me.
I love my wide nose,
and thick lips.
I’m beautiful.
Beautiful me.
Now, my hips are wide,
and I got a lot of junk in my trunk.
But I’m beautiful.
Beautiful me.
My hair may be coarse,
And my breast are not enhance.
But I’m still beautiful.
Beautiful me.
So they may point, and laugh if they want too.
They may even call me names because of my
dark skin. I won’t cry because beauty is in
the eye of the beholder. And in my eyes
I’m beautiful.
Beautiful me.
To My Friend
we meet again
and we play this game of cards
we talk about something else
some misfortunes
longings
regrets as you shuffle the cards
for another
game today
we drink
not on the same glass
we do not clink
the edges anymore
like the excitements of
past marriages
the kiss
for the bride
that the guests did ask
the throwing of the bouquet
the biting of the garter
the slicing of the
cake
& the dance and the
merrymaking of the night
till morning
my friend, i have laid all my cards
on the table
no aces, no kings
just the numbers
and i will be losing to you again
but it does not matter
what matters most
is this meeting
of our present
and future
your hands your smile
the comfort of a second home
a life extended for another turn
a hum
a whistle a brush of friendship
that must last
for my lifetime
thank you very much.
poem by Antonio Liao
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The Arrival
I heard there was no lying
Your baby is arriving
You say that it’ll be a baby girl
From that oyster comes forth
A precious pearl
If she comes out like the mother
She’ll be as beautiful as can be
And she’ll be at the computer writing her poetry
Words and feelings will come easy
And she’ll capture the hearts of man
For it is in the cards, it is in the plans
She will roll in, like a MIDNIGHT STORM
This is what she’ll do
The reason she was born
Lightning and thunder will follow
All of her days, and with men s hearts
You know she will play
She will have a beauty deep within her soul
This is what makes her unique
This is what makes her whole
She will spread her wings and take to flight
That is the reason she will be called MIDNIGHT
poem by Louis Rams
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Hope
When I do not understand the darkness,
the things that prison you away from me
at places where no light can fall
it’s as if my whole life is extradited
to the one or other power
which destiny claims as its own
and I am just another player
who in Black Jack can count cards
but this is a totally different game
where the power of destiny
and of luck
always has the upper hand
and at times like in Hearts
you fold
and put your cards down on the table
and not always
are dealt the right, the best hand
by forces which you do not comprehend
are forced
to keep on playing the game
while life keeps on
dealing out new cards
and at times the loss is far greater
than you can comprehend
and you loose the hope
of a new tomorrow, of deliverance
somewhere along the way
and wonder about the hope,
the power of love.
[Reference: Hoop (“Hope”) by Mandi Engelbercht Out of: Speel vir Tyd.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Song: The House of Cards
Come look at the house,
the wonderful house,
and admire it's lavish facades.
The hearth's as transparent,
as the heart of young Faust,
in the beautiful house of cards.
And on the balcony suite, where all powers meet;
as made men they're known as goodfellas.
See the play of elites, who admit no defeats,
but display their true corporate colours.
Come look at the house,
the wonderful house,
lest like glass it shatters to shards.
When you hold up a mirror,
they scatter like grouse,
in the beautiful house of cards.
Like fat cats in heat, or on hunting retreat,
at ranches, estates, gated villas.
All pall-bearers beat or quail at their feet,
as befits these natural born killers.
Come look at the house,
the wonderful house,
protected by cameras and guards.
No-one 'scapes notice,
not even a mouse,
in the beautiful house of cards.
And on the mezzanine floor, they scrabble and squall,
to preen their fine hubris, unscissored.
And in congress they roar, they babble and bawl,
their small-minded rubrics like wizards.
Come look at the house,
the wonderful house,
the home of the brazen canards.
The cowboy and spouse,
in faux denim strauss,
in the beautiful house of cards.
Like insects they swarm, as a cold war gets warm,
or pick at the dead flesh like buzzards.
As the press runs to form, in the frat house and dorm,
and hazes the public as dullards.
Come look at the house,
the wonderful house,
once praised by the poets and bards.
What pest not oppressed
will soon be deloused,
in the beautiful house of cards.
While the huge hulking mass, of opinion is crass;
as it sits on it's ass to prove,
that the lumpen foundation of once a great nation,
like bedrock is slow to move.
Come look at the house,
the wonderful house,
for the debris is minimally charred.
The walls may be burning,
but soon will be doused,
in the beautiful house of cards.
Come look at the house,
the wonderful house,
while the world still gives it's regards.
A dream once espoused,
is now lost, and anonymous,
in the beautiful house of cards.
poem by David SmithWhite
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THE Cards
All cards are marked it's a game of chance
Fate collides leading us a merry dance
Slight of hand very quick
Nine or twenty one card trick
Luck never gives it only lends
Playing the cards always contends
Fate never looses it deals so svelte
It was always to be the hand that was dealt
So now all cards are marked
And all fates will collide
When at the table you next reside.
poem by Hazel Connelly
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Stay
Now the journey is ending,
the wind is losing heart.
Into your hands it's falling,
a rickety house of cards.
The cards are backed with pictures
displaying all the world.
You've stacked up all the images
and shuffled them with words.
And how profound the playing
that once again begins!
Stay, the card you're drawing
is the only world you'll win.
poem by Ingeborg Bachmann
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Have I Told You...
Beautiful, are you, as the flowers of the field.
Beautiful, is the sound of your voice.
Beautiful, is the touch of your hand.
Beautiful, are the eyes that speak of love.
Beautiful, is your understanding and kindness.
Beautiful, is the way you always consider others.
Beautiful, are the courage of your convictions.
Beautiful, are the silent, countless words of, I love you.
Beautiful, is the softness of your touch.
Beautiful, are the children that you hold dear.
Beautiful, is your faith, honesty and loyalty.
Beautiful, are the people, you bless with your love.
Beautiful, are you secret acts of charity.
Beautiful, is the goodness, you give to all.
Beautiful, is the way your never judge anyone.
Beautiful, is your never dreaming...that you are indeed so beautiful.
Beautiful, is your heart...your very soul.
Beautiful, is the way you have made this a better world.
Beautiful, is the helping hand, you extend to all.
Have I told you, you are beautiful in every way?
Winner Take All
Written by dennis deyoung, charles lofrando
Lead vocals by james young
Youve got to be strong
If youre going to make it baby
Youve got to stand tall
If youre going to survive
So just take my hand
And Ill show you how to feel alive
Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah
Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah
Winner take all
Thats the way I play it
Playing my cards as the world goes by
Winner take all
Thats the way that I get high
You live your own life
Always needing someone baby
Then I appear to answer your call
Together I know
We can ride the highway past them all
Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah
Winner take all
Thats the way I play it
Playing my cards as the world goes by
Winner take all
Thats the way that I get high
High high
Winner take all
Thats the way I play it
Playing my cards as the world goes by
Winner take all
Thats the way that I get high
song performed by by Styx
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Providential Headstart - Home is where the heart...
Head flies outside through joy espied,
Offers new day begun,
May side by side fore’er abide
Eternally as one.
If care’s denied tears may be dried
Sun highlights scope and fun
While soul that cried’s now healed inside
Hearts’s karmic leap is won.
Each dawn beside shared orbit’s glide
Rhymes well, joy’s never done,
Each night is eyed as welcome ride
Hand, hand, tied, ne’er undone,
Entwined, allied, with time defied,
As limits overcome
Restore bridge wide which bona fide
Teams with sweet dreams none shun …
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Portrait
PORTRAIT
A lurid looking impasto indeed
With grisly colors dappled all over
Like puddles of cuddled blood
Daubs of violent reds! Gloomy black patches!
Erotic blues and skinflint browns!
Resigned auspicious yellows,
Ashen virtuous whites and
Paled prosperous greens
He is often slipping his palette
Dripping the hues and tripping the easel
His lines running in zigzag jumble
Drawing He, with his quivering quill
The frazzled veteran Artist of unknown origin
“Your mighty hand must be aging! Oh my Master!
Muster your energies to depict on Earth
Your best ever portrait to reinvigorate
Your original beautiful oeuvre in whole for ever”
Sathya…….
poem by Sathya Narayana
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Brevity (Cinquain)
Time saved
Direct, no frills
Points like cards laid down here
Get the aces, hearts, and diamonds -
Winner.
............. ................................................. .................
July 7,2009 Tarlac City Philippines
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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You Are Indeed Beautiful
Beautiful, are you, as the flowers of the field.
Beautiful, is the sound of your voice.
Beautiful, is the touch of your hand.
Beautiful, are the eyes that speak of love.
Beautiful, is your understanding and kindness.
Beautiful, is the way you always consider others.
Beautiful, are the courage of your convictions.
Beautiful, are the silent, countless words of, I love you.
Beautiful, is the softness of your touch.
Beautiful, are the children that you hold dear.
Beautiful, is your faith, honesty and loyalty.
Beautiful, are the people, you bless with your love.
Beautiful, are you secret acts of charity.
Beautiful, is the goodness, you give to all.
Beautiful, is the way your never judge anyone.
Beautiful, is your never dreaming...that you are indeed so beautiful.
Beautiful, is your heart...your very soul.
Beautiful, is the way you have made this a better world.
Beautiful, is the helping hand, you extend to all.
Have I told you, you are beautiful in every way?
Have I told you, my beautiful one, that I love you?
One Mans Opinion
Beautiful, are you, as the flowers of the field.
Beautiful, is the sound of your voice.
Beautiful, is the touch of your hand.
Beautiful, are the eyes that speak of love.
Beautiful, is your understanding and kindness.
Beautiful, is the way you always consider others.
Beautiful, are the courage of your convictions.
Beautiful, are the silent, countless words of, I love you.
Beautiful, is the softness of your touch.
Beautiful, are the children that you hold dear.
Beautiful, is your faith, honesty and loyalty.
Beautiful, are the people, you bless with your love.
Beautiful, are you secret acts of charity.
Beautiful, is the goodness, you give to all.
Beautiful, is the way your never judge anyone.
Beautiful, is your never dreaming...that you are indeed so beautiful.
Beautiful, is your heart...your very soul.
Beautiful, is the way you have made this a better world.
Beautiful, is the helping hand, you extend to all.
Have I told you, you are beautiful in every way?
©Joe Fazio
Beautiful Are You...
Beautiful, are you, as the flowers of the field.
Beautiful, is the sound of your voice.
Beautiful, is the touch of your hand.
Beautiful, are the eyes that speak of love.
Beautiful, is your understanding and kindness.
Beautiful, is the way you always consider others.
Beautiful, are the courage of your convictions.
Beautiful, are the silent, countless words of, I love you.
Beautiful, is the softness of your touch.
Beautiful, are the children that you hold dear.
Beautiful, is your faith, honesty and loyalty.
Beautiful, are the people, you bless with your love.
Beautiful, are you secret acts of charity.
Beautiful, is the goodness, you give to all.
Beautiful, is the way your never judge anyone.
Beautiful, is your never dreaming...that you are indeed so beautiful.
Beautiful, is your heart...your very soul.
Beautiful, is the way you have made this a better world.
Beautiful, is the helping hand, you extend to all.
Have I told you, you are beautiful in every way?
Have I told you, my beautiful one, that I love you?
We are blessed to know, one who is as beautiful
as you, in so many ways.
P.S.
I love you.
The Fountain
A Conversation
We talked with open heart, and tongue
Affectionate and true,
A pair of friends, though I was young,
And Matthew seventy-two.
We lay beneath a spreading oak,
Beside a mossy seat;
And from the turf a fountain broke
And gurgled at our feet.
`Now, Matthew!' said I, `let us match
This water's pleasant tune
With some old border-song, or catch
That suits a summer's noon;
`Or of the church-clock and the chimes
Sing here beneath the shade
That half-mad thing of witty rhymes
Which you last April made!'
In silence Matthew lay, and eyed
The spring beneath the tree;
And thus the dear old man replied,
The grey-haired man of glee:
`No check, no stay, this streamlet fears,
How merrily it goes!
'Twill murmur on a thousand years
And flow as now it flows.
`And here, on this delightful day,
I cannot choose but think
How oft, a vigorous man, I lay
Beside this fountain's brink.
`My eyes are dim with childish tears,
My heart is idly stirred,
For the same sound is in my ears
Which in those days I heard.
`Thus fares it still in our decay:
And yet the wiser mind
Mourns less for what Age takes away,
Than what it leaves behind.
`The blackbird amid leafy trees,
The lark above the hill,
Let loose their carols when they please,
Are quiet when they will.
`With Nature never do they wage
A foolish strife; they see
A happy youth, and their old age
Is beautiful and free:
`But we are pressed by heavy laws;
And often, glad no more,
We wear a face of joy, because
We have been glad of yore.
`If there be one who need bemoan
His kindred laid in earth,
The household hearts that were his own, -
It is the man of mirth.
`My days, my friend, are almost gone,
My life has been approved,
And many love me; but by none
Am I enough beloved.'
`Now both himself and me he wrongs,
The man who thus complains!
I live and sing my idle songs
Upon these happy plains:
`And, Matthew, for thy children dead
I'll be a son to thee!'
At this he grasped my hand and said
`Alas! that cannot be.'
We rose up from the fountain-side;
And down the smooth descent
Of the green sheep-track did we glide;
And through the wood we went;
And ere we came to Leonard's Rock
He sang those witty rhymes
About the crazy old church-clock,
And the bewildered chimes.
poem by William Wordsworth
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