The Water Lilies Of Knas
ABOVE the water lilies
of KNAS
is the whole body sculpture
of a national hero
in black suit, well defined hair,
tight white pants
nice mustache on the face
of his bravery
on his right arm is the heaviness
of books
on his left his famous
coat taken from the city
of Brussels
below this history
is a pond of goldfish
bubbling
knowing nothing about
heroism
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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White Hat White Coat
To the late doug whalan.... from your daughter.....
White hat white coat and greying in hair
he would dance around the dance floor with plenty of flair
White hat white coat black pants to boot
the men would all say 'silly old coot'
Whitehat white coat and a big friendly smile
when he went to a dance he'd dress in style
White hat white coat and a beat in his feet
it's of to the dance and people to meet
White hat white coat and a scotch on the rocks he'd love to dance
and the men would all mock
White hat white coat asleep at the wheel
he's danced all night 'boy i know how he feels'
White hat white coat have been put to the test
it's time to go home for a well earned rest
White hat white coat clean shirt and socks too
he's all geard up and ready for round two
White hat white coat so tired and run down
close your eyes and dream of your nights on the town
White hat white coat you've seen better days
your torn around the edges and your starting to fray
White hat white coat the time's come for us to part
but always remember ' i love you with all my heart '
poem by Debbie Gregory
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River Lilies
Saw a boy three lilies white,
Lilies in the river,
Half heart-open to the light,
Full of golden arrows bright,
Each a silver quiver.
Lilies, lilies, lilies white,
Lilies in the river.
Said the boy, “I’ll pluck you there,
Lilies in the river!”
Said the lilies, “If you dare
You shall drown, or homeward fare
Dripping and a-shiver!”
Lilies, lilies, lilies white,
Lilies in the river.
Wilful still the boy would clasp
Lilies in the river;
Tumbled in ere he could grasp,
Scrambled out with puff and gasp,
Plucked no lilies ever.
Lilies, lilies, lilies white,
Lilies in the river.
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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Got Chocolate?
Snowflakes the size of marshmallows fall to the earth;
Frosty icy winds play havoc with her red curly hair.
She delights in frolicking in snow so deep;
Bundled up in bright green coat and leggings,
pink hat, scarf and gloves
she brightens up the gray day.
Grandpa dons his own snow gear, dark brown coat,
black ear muffs, gloves and red Santa hat;
shovel in hand he begins to clear the path
when 'she' playfully jumps into it re-snowing it
to Grandpa's chagrin as he grins
pretending to be annoyed.
but he re-shovels again with great patience.
The worst of the storm has passed. The white stuff
is the perfect setting this day, this Christmas Eve.
Cold, wet and tired Grandpa and granddaughter
come in to warm up to hot chocolate with marshmallows
and it reminds curly head of the snow fall today.
Grandpa's white mustache is chocolate dyed.
Curly Head's mouth says: 'Got chocolate? '
Bedtime has evolved, Santa's on his way.
Curly head has left him a treat in a cup.
Santa arrived;
he put Curly Head's presents under the tree
Santa's white mustache gave him away;
he looked at himself in the mantle mirror
and laughed a hearty, 'HO, HO, HO'
His white mustache was chocolate dyed
and he cried aloud:
'GOT CHOCOLATE?
'HO, HO, HO! '
© Mel Patterson,11-2011
poem by Mel Patterson
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Her My Body
about the left nipple
of the woman in the bathroom.
She is drying her hair, the woman
whose left nipple is sore.
We looked this evening
for diagonal cuts
or discoloration
or bite marks from small insects
that may be in our bed.
It is a good bed, a faithful bed.
A bed that won’t be hurt
by the consideration we gave
to the possibility of small
though disproportionately
strong insects in our bed.
The blow-dryer sounds like a jet
taking off. The first time
I flew to Brussels, people began
the journey happy but ended
with drool on their shirts.
She is drying her hair
though she has never been to Brussels.
Drying her hair
though she could be petting a dog.
Drying her hair
while having red thoughts
about what the pain in her nipple means.
I would not dry my hair
in such a moment but I am bald.
The body of the woman
has many ways to cease
being the body of the woman.
I have one way
to be happy
and she is that way.
I would like to fly with her to Brussels.
We would not be put off by the drool.
This is what happens when people sleep.
We would buy postcards of the little boy
who saved Brussels when he peed on a fire.
We would be romantic in public places.
For the moment
these desires can best be furthered
by petting a dog.
I’m also working on this theory.
That sometimes a part of the body
just hurts.
That the purpose of prayer
is to make the part of the body
that sometimes just hurts
the little toe or appendix.
Something vestigial or redundant.
Something that can be jettisoned.
I have no reason
to use the word cancer
while petting a dog.
Here is a piece of a second
during which a jet is not flying
nor is it on the ground.
I’m working on a theory
that no one can die
inside that piece of a second.
If you are comforted
by this thought you are welcome
to keep it.
I Don't Want To Be A Hero
I don't want to be a hero renowned for my bravery
All I want is heaps of money and of my worries I'd be free
To pay my bills I have to struggle I live close to poverty
I don't want to be a hero what use would that be to me? .
I don't want to die in battle and be honoured posthumously
And be seen as an example and left for posterity
And the crazy army general say there's none so brave as he
I don't want to die a hero what use would that be to me? .
I don't want to die a hero I don't yearn for such renown
But I would like to own a big house on the outskirts of the town
With a rolls royce in my car port and I sunning by the swimming pool
And a nice dip in the water just to keep the body cool.
You would like to die a hero fighting for your Country's pride
And a stone plaque to your memory and your fame known far and wide
Millions of brave men died in battles they like you believed the lie
That your name will live forever if for your Country you will die.
You would like to be remembered as one of the noble dead
But I don't want to die a hero bullet through my heart or head
I don't want no crazy general saying there's none so brave as he
All I need is heaps of money and of my worries I'd feel free.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Gothic Angel
Beautiful raven black hair with red streaks
Compliments her pale white heart shaped face
Encases the jeweled blue eyes
Her long Tripp pants rattle as she walks away
The black and red striped top hugs her upper body
Black platform boots make heavy footfalls, fingerless gloves warm her
One day she hopes to get her fluffy black wings
And what she wants the most: her black halo
Then and only then will she truly be a gothic angel
poem by Justina Nicole Haner
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Black Boys In The Corner
Black Boys On The Corner (Lynott)
------------------------
One of the black boys said
"I need none of your pity"
It's your mama that don't
Like you loose in the city
But stick about, take note
Take a tip, take no back lip
Come come a little closer
Let me see you snap your fingertip
Because standing on the corner
Just might suit you or maybe baby
There's something else you wanna do
Like rolling dice, nice
Like shooting pool, hey that's cool
I'm a little black boy and I don't know my place
I'm just a little black boy, I just threw my ace
I'm a little black boy, recognize my face
One of the black boys said
"I'm a giving a warning"
"People been putting me down"
"I'm so tired I'm yawning"
A new suit, pretty boots to boot
And I'm feeling slick
Gonna go to town, look around
And pull a chick
Of course standing on the corner
Might suit you or maybe baby
There's something else that you wanna do
Like playing poker, joker
Like to back a race, ace
I'm a little black boy and I don't know my proper place
I'm a little black boy, get my head in its space
I'm a little black boy, I just play my bass
I'm a little black boy, it's no disgrace
song performed by by Thin Lizzy
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Climatic Sorcery
When frost's all on our winder, an' the snow's
All out-o'-doors, our 'Old-Kriss'-milkman goes
A-drivin' round, ist purt'-nigh froze to death,
With his old white mustache froze full o' breath.
But when it's summer an' all warm ag'in,
He comes a-whistlin' an' a-drivin in
Our alley, 'thout no coat on, ner ain't cold,
Ner his mustache ain't white, ner he ain't old.
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Black Boys On The Corner
One of the black boys said
I need none of your pity
Its your mama that dont
Like you loose in the city
But stick about, take note
Take a tip, take no back lip
Come come a little closer
Let me see you snap your fingertip
Because standing on the corner
Just might suit you or maybe baby
Theres something else you wanna do
Like rolling dice, nice
Like shooting pool, hey thats cool
Im a little black boy and I dont know my place
Im just a little black boy, I just threw my ace
Im a little black boy, recognize my face
One of the black boys said
Im a giving a warning
People been putting me down
Im so tired Im yawning
A new suit, pretty boots to boot
And Im feeling slick
Gonna go to town, look around
And pull a chick
Of course standing on the corner
Might suit you or maybe baby
Theres something else that you wanna do
Like playing poker, joker
Like to back a race, ace
Im a little black boy and I dont know my proper place
Im a little black boy, get my head in its space
Im a little black boy, I just play my bass
Im a little black boy, its no disgrace
song performed by by Thin Lizzy
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Exile On Princes Street
(DickKellyMosleyRotheryTrewavas)
I saw a blue umbrella in Princes Street Garden
Heading out west for the Lothian Road
An evening news stuffed deep in the pocket
Little did I know that even a heavy load
I found us walking Grierson's dockyards
Where the only thing working was foreign film crews
Making an impressive documentary
For the big news
To the satellite
And all we're left with is the black black oil
With a sense of pride and identity
The waters left behind we shouldn't forget
Laid low in the books of history
I saw the starlings wheel round Georgian spires
Gathering on patrol in the skies
In the distance burns the flame of Grangemouth
And the dream is lost
Everything what it could inspire
From the take you know there is no distance
How we talk about in the secret affairs
Taking our ride into the distance
To be what it was or could have been
What I should have said
And all we're left with is the black black oil
With a strong sense of national pride
'Till we take some more steps to unity
Take it back to me
Take it back
In a city run out of luck
And all we're left with is the black, black oil
With a strong sense of national pride
Calling the ... for identity
What it meant to me, what I said
What we could have had
I saw a blue umbrella in Princes Street Garden
Heading out west for the Lothian Road
An evening news stuck deep in the pocket
Little did I know that he'd fall
Carrying a heavy load
And all we're left with is the black black oil
With a strong sense of national pride
Calling a name in the sake of unity
What it means to me you'll never know
You'll never
song performed by by Marillion
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Will One Day Go.
Sorry about
your granddad's death
Judith said
as you stood
beside her
by the pond
at the back
of the house
in the woods
the autumn sun
lighting up patches
of the water's skin
it was sudden
you said
my uncle told me
she took
your hand
in hers
and squeezed
her soft skin
on yours
her thumb
rubbing
the back
of your hand
best remember him
as he was
she said
living and smiling
not some place
lying dead
you nodded
trying
to conjure up
when you'd
seen him last
sitting in
the back garden
of his house
months earlier
talking
of his flowers
he'd grown
from seed
his white hair
moved slightly
by the breeze
he liked my new suit
you said
thought it looked smart
she kissed your cheek
and said
hold on
to things
like that
your memories
place them
in a drawer
inside your head
a jackdaw flew
across the skin
of the pond
the black and white
of wings and tail
reflected
in the water
below
what comes
from God
she whispered
whether
nature's beauty
or ones
we love
will one day
sadly go.
poem by Terry Collett
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Water so Deep and Profound
Water so sinuous and devious,
And as mystifying as you.
Water is always hiding its true self,
Never in one form.
Water can be the shimmer,
Reflecting off the light of the pond,
Making the pond seem magnificent.
Water can be the rushing sound,
As it escapes the secretive pond,
And runes down into the vast ocean,
Seeking adventure and unfound dreams.
Water can be the feeling of calmness,
As it sits there, overlooking the pond,
With wonder and seeing how it made it what it is.
Water so supple and wondrous,
The pond is born from the water.
Water so deep and profound,
Just like you,
The pond so incomplete without water,
Just like your family.
poem by Music Galore
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Famous Daughters And Sons
In every town and city,
all have at least one famous daughter or son.
Someone who was born there
or someone who stayed there for a while.
For every town and city
will have least one,
some places have many
and celebrate that fact.
Some are famous entertainers;
some are writers and artists,
and some for their work
for the betterment of humankind.
Therefore, if you look through the history
of your town or city
you will find
some famous daughters or sons there.
14-15 February 2008
poem by David Harris
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A formalist
In coat and tie
Black suit
Well arranged hair
Well cut
Well suited
No air must come
To disarrange
Some hair
Or other parts of
Him,
He is stiff
He is stuffed
He is
A perfect gentleman
How can he ever
Dance this
Hip-hop
Of life?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Beauty is not in colours
Black hair is nice, but not black teeth.
White teeth are nice, but not whit hair.
Red lips are nice, but not red eyes.
Black eyes are nice, but not black lips.
Beauty is not in colours;
Beauty is in the concepts.
25.05.2012
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Like Alice Does.
Alice sits brushing her hair,
stroke following stroke,
her husband sitting
on the edge of the bed
watching, studying her
hand and brush going
downward and out and
downward and out, and
as he watches he suddenly
remembers his mother
doing likewise and he
standing by the doorframe
of her bedroom, sees her
hand pull the brush through
her tight black hair, and
hears her sobbing voice
over the old white radio
playing some country song,
and senses an uneasiness
fill him like a wetting of pants,
and his mother gazing at him
in the mirror before her with
her red rimmed eyes and he
knowing as she lifts the brush
threateningly, that that way
pain comes and danger lies.
poem by Terry Collett
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Please No More Sad Songs
Yes shes leaving on the train
Never coming back again
The lines go far ahead
Got a job fixed in the city
Wants to be a star shes pretty
And I dont get a part
So please no more sad songs
Ive heard enough today
Isnt it nice holding you tight, remember?
Left a note here on the floor
Where she used to knock the door
I found when I got home
Said youre gonna be a singer
Be a star and real swinger
I hope its very nice
So please no more sad songs
Ive heard enough today
Isnt i t nice holding you tight, remember?
Thought she was joking when I looked around
Went to her room and saw her things had gone
She must have flown, ahhh
Yes shes left upon the train
Never coming back again
The lines went far away
Got her job in the big city
She became a star so pretty
Now I dont know her name
So please no more sad songs
Ive heard enough today
Isnt it nice holding you tight, remember?
(repeat)
Isnt it nice holding you tight, remember?
song performed by by Electric Light Orchestra
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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4. A Fishy Tale
A haven for wet wildlife
Within our pond there’s load’s
Lots of newts and tadpoles
And many ugly toads
Swimming in among the weeds
A goldfish only one
We once had two shabumkins
But now we haven't none
I found some telltale footprints
Showing heron came to call
He’d eaten our shabumkins
And left us none at all
Last night we kept a vigil
And caught the neighbour’s cat
As he polished off the goldfish
So that’s the end of that
poem by David Threadgold (2008)
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The Changes Of The Garden
was it the time? or was it us?
or was it change itself that keeps on wriggling
through history like a worm
or like a cocoon finally getting into a short-lived butterfly?
i remember green grass and blooming roses here.
there was a pool of goldfish and water lilies.
now when i come back
everything is gravel and rocks and trees without leaves
the clouds are heavy and gray
and the roots are foul and rotten
shall this be a stage of change? shall this be just temporary?
do you water all these with tears?
the winds have turned into
sobs?
shall i believe you? shall i pretend that this garden is still livable?
when shall be start changing the change?
i will sit here and wait for you.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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No Rescue
Civil war:
Again you are visiting
the childhood.A green pond.
Smoke filled eyes ask, what
was a home?
A black city of white hills.
You were climbing on dreams
to reach a baby moon.
And the night
was very long, like a bad name
you cannot spell.
The anthills, fireflies and
snakes. You are still lost
in cobwebbed age.
Pawned:
After books there were no other
tales.
poem by Satish Verma
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