Sorry
Dear parents,
I forgive you my life,
Begotten in a drab town,
The intention was good;
Passing the street now,
I see still the remains of sunlight.
It was not the bone buckled;
You gave me enough food
To renew myself.
It was the mind's weight
Kept me bent, as I grew tall.
It was not your fault.
What should have gone on,
Arrow aimed from a tried bow
At a tried target, has turned back,
Wounding itself
With questions you had not asked.
Submitted by Andrew Mayers
poem by Ronald Stuart Thomas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Chapel Deacon
Who put that crease in your soul,
Davies, ready this fine morning
For the staid chapel, where the Book's frown
Sobers the sunlight? Who taught you to pray
And scheme at once, your eyes turning
Skyward, while your swift mind weighs
Your heifer's chances in the next town's
Fair on Thursday? Are your heart's coals
Kindled for God, or is the burning
Of your lean cheeks because you sit
Too near that girl's smouldering gaze?
Tell me, Davies, for the faint breeze
From heaven freshens and I roll in it,
Who taught you your deft poise?
Submitted by Andrew Mayers
poem by Ronald Stuart Thomas
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First Shot
I said I was hunting deer. I knew the trails, the split tracks and pellets of shit; circles
where they bedded down together. I faced a buck once, for almost ten minutes I think;
I moved first and it left me. I ran home to think.
I had a bow, target arrows, a target on straw. My father said be careful, and I was, but
I sneaked my bow and arrow to the woods. I surprised a tiny rabbit near a hole. It
froze. I had an arrow on it. I moved and it ran for the hole. I never shot.
They had a blanket, in a clearing of wiry grass that sloped to the north. He had her
down, her hands all over his back. I thought I knew her. They hadn't seen me. I notched
an arrow. His head turned my way, vague, like he needed his glasses, and maybe afraid.
I got scared, I wasn't sure what it was; I shot my arrow, my first shot, wild I think, and ran.
I waited for something for weeks, for more than weeks. I couldn't answer questions. I
thought I saw her a few times, later. I never went back until I was sixteen, almost, and
nothing was there but I only stayed for a minute.
poem by Eric Torgersen
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We the unforgiving
and we’ll never quite forgive our parents
for being our parents
and we’ll never never forgive that one
we thought our best friend
for stopping being our friend without
an explanation or anything
and we’ll never ever forgive our first lover
our first for heaven’s sake
for dumping us and ruining our whole life
and we'll never quite forgive -
no, let's not go there; that's
too close to home...
and we’ll never forgive God for,
oh everything, if we knew
how to not forgive God
and secretly we’ll never forgive ourselves
for all the things we wish we hadn’t done
although of course we deserve to be forgiven
for it wasn’t really our fault was it..
how could we forgive ourselves, when there’s that
that dark figure lurking behind us saying
don’t you dare forgive yourself,
you ungrateful little…
and if you forgave everyone, you wouldn’t
know who you were… it’s not
as easy as that, oh no
oh yes it is. oh yes it is.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Poetry For Supper
'Listen, now, verse should be as natural
As the small tuber that feeds on muck
And grows slowly from obtuse soil
To the white flower of immortal beauty.'
'Natural, hell! What was it Chaucer
Said once about the long toil
That goes like blood to the poem's making?
Leave it to nature and the verse sprawls,
Limp as bindweed, if it break at all
Life's iron crust. Man, you must sweat
And rhyme your guts taut, if you'd build
Your verse a ladder.'
'You speak as though
No sunlight ever surprised the mind
Groping on its cloudy path.'
'Sunlight's a thing that needs a window
Before it enter a dark room.
Windows don't happen.'
So two old poets,
Hunched at their beer in the low haze
Of an inn parlour, while the talk ran
Noisily by them, glib with prose.
Submitted by Andrew Mayers
poem by Ronald Stuart Thomas
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Don't Be Put Down
Some say I’m over weight- while some say I’m fat.
I say I’m big boned - my doctor told me that.
What does weight matter? - does it mean I can’t love?
I was made this way - by GOD up above.
My brother is tall and thin- they say he’s bones and skin.
Why does weight matter?
Can any of us ever win!
They say when we walk down the street
We look like ABBOTT and COSTELLO
He looks like a bamboo stick
While I look like a cello.
We’ve learned how to accept the jeers
And to control our rages and emotions
For “IN GOD” we put our devotion.
Love lives in any size bodies!
Big or small, short or tall
GOD has given love to all.
Why do people love to criticize and find
Fault with every one, when they themselves
Have faults, which can not be undone.
When I was growing up, there was a saying
For both fat and thin, and no matter
which way you put it
Both sides would always win.
They would say: the closer the meat to the bone the sweeter it is
And: the more the meat, the better the treat.
So to all you criticizers! We will not be put down.
For you are the one
who walks with the heavy crown.
poem by Louis Rams
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The Unknown Man
THE UNKNOWN MAN
For the tall unknown man
Who keeps hunting my mind
I always wonder who you might be
Just tell me your first name
To ease my inner turmoil
Weeks and months are passing
And I more and more
Think about you
the tall unknown man
Even though I know I shouldn’t
I look out to have a glimpse at you
Now I take the opportunity
I must give it a try
This is as if another me is pushing
Do not judge me wrongly
Please be assured
no intention to bother you
Maybe you have an idea
Who I might be maybe not
Forgive my impudence
This isn’t naturally me
But I take this one and only chance
To get in touch with an unknown man
Who keeps hunting my mind
So please be kind
poem by Morhardt Carmen Mencita Monoi Angel
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Primrose
Upon a bank I sat, a child made seer
Of one small primrose flowering in my mind.
Better than wealth it is, I said, to find
One small page of Truth's manuscript made clear.
I looked at Christ transfigured without fear--
The light was very beautiful and kind,
And where the Holy Ghost in flame had signed
I read it through the lenses of a tear.
And then my sight grew dim, I could not see
The primrose that had lighted me to Heaven,
And there was but the shadow of a tree
Ghostly among the stars. The years that pass
Like tired soldiers nevermore have given
Moments to see wonders in the grass.
Submitted by Andrew Mayers
poem by Patrick Kavanagh
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Album
My father is dead.
I who am look at him
who is not, as once he
went looking for me
in the woman who was.
There are pictures
of the two of them, no
need of a third, hand
in hand, hearts willing
to be one but not three.
What does it mean
life? I am here I am
there. Look! Suddenly
the young tool in their hands
for hurting one another.
And the camera says:
Smile; there is no wound
time gives that is not bandaged
by time. And so they do the
three of them at me who weep.
Submitted by Andrew Mayers
poem by Ronald Stuart Thomas
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The Village
Scarcely a street, too few houses
To merit the title; just a way between
The one tavern and the one shop
That leads nowhere and fails at the top
Of the short hill, eaten away
By long erosion of the green tide
Of grass creeping perpetually nearer
This last outpost of time past.
So little happens; the black dog
Cracking his fleas in the hot sun
Is history. Yet the girl who crosses
From door to door moves to a scale
Beyond the bland day's two dimensions.
Stay, then, village, for round you spins
On a slow axis a world as vast
And meaningful as any posed
By great Plato's solitary mind.
Submitted by Andrew Mayers
poem by Ronald Stuart Thomas
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Breeze Breeze Breeze
your parents are not your parents
though you come from them
or though not
your parents are not your parents
they are merely the bows and you are
the arrow
mind the direction where the force
of the hand shoots you
mind the wind that gives you the push
mind the arrow
and let us see where fate takes you
why do we have to quarrel about the origin
of children
or the origin of the species?
move forward and find the real purpose
of the stars
you are here. Go there.
Does it really matter where do you come from?
there is more out there. Busy yourself
about the things to come
and give the best that is found inside
the chambers of your heart.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Death Of A Poet
Laid now on his smooth bed
For the last time, watching dully
Through heavy eyelids the day's colour
Widow the sky, what can he say
Worthy of record, the books all open,
Pens ready, the faces, sad,
Waiting gravely for the tired lips
To move once -- what can he say?
His tongue wrestles to force one word
Past the thick phlegm; no speech, no phrases
For the day's news, just the one word ‘sorry';
Sorry for the lies, for the long failure
In the poet's war; that he preferred
The easier rhythms of the heart
To the mind's scansion; that now he dies
Intestate, having nothing to leave
But a few songs, cold as stones
In the thin hands that asked for bread.
Submitted by Andrew Mayers
poem by Ronald Stuart Thomas
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Everybody is Getting Out of Town
Population getting out of town,
Population wearing running shoes,
Population wondering which road to choose,
Everybody's getting out of town.
They all want to leave; they would if they could,
But right now the road ain't no good,
If you ain't crying, you might as well laugh,
While you're trying to get out of town.
Power plant, glowing in the dark,
Nobody sure what set off the spark,
They say the island is sinking fast,
Everybody's getting out of town.
Population looking for a sign,
Whose fault is it, living on the fault line,
Better do better if there IS a next time,
But for now, just get out of town.
Population looking for something to eat,
Population looking for what was the street,
If you leaving, all you got is your feet,
Good luck getting out of town.
poem by Richard Jarboe
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How Did You Manage
Ooh mmm, ooh yeah
Ooh mmm-mmm-mmm
Ooh mmm, ooh uh
Ooh uh-uh-uh-uh
You made the sun
You made the moon
Gave seasons change
(Whoa)
You made the clouds
You put the rainbow
After the rain
(Whoa)
Created time
Now which one's mine
Gave pictures frames
(Whoa)
Created man
Gave him woman
Why did you do that for me?
These are the questions asked (these are the questions)
Before I lay me down and go to sleep (yeah, ooh sometimes I wonder)
Sometimes I wonder why you decided
To keep your hands on me (hands on me)
Of all the miracles, signs and wonders
There's still one mystery
How did you manage... to love me?
You breathe the life
Right into me
Then made my heart beat
(Whoa)
Created the mountains
All of the deep seas
Flowers and the trees
(Whoa)
You made tomorrow
Come again
You calm the strong winds
(Whoa)
And after all I've done
You gave me a son
Tell me why would you do that for me?
These are the questions asked (yeah)
Before I lay me down and go to sleep (right in the middle of my prayers)
Sometimes I wonder why you decided (oh yeah)
To keep your hands on me (hands on me)
Of all the miracles, signs and wonders
There's still one mystery
How did you manage... to love me?
(How did you manage that)
How did you manage... to love me?
Said I've got to know how...
(How did you manage to love me?)
After all the wrong I've done oh Lord, how...
(How did you manage to love me?)
After I've been so bad oh Lord, how...
(How did you manage to forgive me?) Oh I
Even when I didn't believe in me you believed in me Lord, how
(How did you manage to forgive me?)
Jesus you sacrificed your very life for me
(How did you manage to forgive me?)
Ohh Lord tell me...
(Why did you pay the price... for me?)
Whoo... you... why...
(How did you manage to love me?)
song performed by by R. Kelly
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Parents Are Not Payable
Listen, dear brothers, sisters,
Look back in nostalgia;
Think about dear mother,
dear father,
The ones who gave life to you
And thaught you how to be
a man, a woman too;
Your mother who suckled you
Nine months she bore you
in her womb;
From his own sweat your
father paid for your school
And made sure your belly is
never emptied with food.
Think about them in
everything you do.
For some day you wil be
a father, a mother too
And your children will think
about you in everything
they do
They will think of the
troubles you went through
To help them pull through.
PARENTS can never be repaid
No matter the wealth you
may have attained.
Parents are not payable,
You just have to make them
feel comfortable,
And that would be enough
for their troubles.
poem by Efe Benjamin
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An Old Man
Looking upon this tree with its quaint pretension
Of holding the earth, a leveret, in its claws,
Or marking the texture of its living bark,
A grey sea wrinkled by the winds of years,
I understand whence this man's body comes,
In veins and fibres, the bare boughs of bone,
The trellised thicket, where the heart, that robin,
Greets with a song the seasons of the blood.
But where in meadow or mountain shall I match
The individual accent of the speech
That is the ear's familiar? To what sun attribute
The honeyed warmness of his smile?
To which of the deciduous brood is german
The angel peeping from the latticed eye?
Submitted by Andrew Mayers
poem by Ronald Stuart Thomas
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Be there an introspection
Parents type I:
You feed the dog;
It guards the yard.
You pay the maid;
She is your aid.
Bone and flesh,
Parents gave you.
Without their nod
You flee with a lad.
You are ungrateful;
Parents are indignant.
Parents type II:
Plants give flowers
For bees to hover.
Moon sends light
For lovers to delight.
Cow yields calf.
Calf selects the bull.
Your bone and flesh-
Out of parents’ blush.
Give bone and flesh,
With one you wish.
Your joy parents cherish.
They have no remorse.
Which parents are you-
The one demanding a return
Or the one retaining the love?
22.11099
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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On The Farm
There was Dai Puw. He was no good.
They put him in the fields to dock swedes,
And took the knife from him, when he came home
At late evening with a grin
Like the slash of a knife on his face.
There was Llew Puw, and he was no good.
Every evening after the ploughing
With the big tractor he would sit in his chair,
And stare into the tangled fire garden,
Opening his slow lips like a snail.
There was Huw Puw, too. What shall I say?
I have heard him whistling in the hedges
On and on, as though winter
Would never again leave those fields,
And all the trees were deformed.
And lastly there was the girl:
Beauty under some spell of the beast.
Her pale face was the lantern
By which they read in life's dark book
The shrill sentence: God is love.
Submitted by Andrew Mayers
poem by Ronald Stuart Thomas
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Children's Song
We live in our own world,
A world that is too small
For you to stoop and enter
Even on hands and knees,
The adult subterfuge.
And though you probe and pry
With analytic eye,
And eavesdrop all our talk
With an amused look,
You cannot find the centre
Where we dance, where we play,
Where life is still asleep
Under the closed flower,
Under the smooth shell
Of eggs in the cupped nest
That mock the faded blue
Of your remoter heaven.
Submitted by Andrew Mayers
poem by Ronald Stuart Thomas
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And I asked
How are you and where are you? ‘
Would you mind if I ask something to you?
Urge ran high so I asked you,
Do you think it right if I so ask you?
You were so nice and dear,
You are far away but still I could hear,
Pain is running high but I will have to bear
I can find no means to stay very near,
Did I try to displease or tried to offend?
I have lived so simple and also tried to mend
flowers and roses have found their way
I could find no easy way to offer or say
I dreamt about you and thought of your glamour
You may be as beautiful and delicate as flower
I wanted to ask you the same for an answer
I was hesitant to get reply from you however
I could make little imprint in the mind
I tried to draw different lines to find
Exact picture of you for my satisfaction
Still it was distinct possibility and out of question
I asked the one from you for simple reference
You were annoyed and drew different inference
You were averse to meet my demand
You gave cold reception and took me to remand
You declined for a simple photo,
Even I had no bad intention or motto,
still asked for a flicker,
But alas! You proved as tinker,
had it not been the business in your blood?
You would have rushed to me like flood
Since I was sincere and gentleman
You were acting s perfect business woman
Do you consider love as commodity?
Do you find nay use in its continuity?
I have always considered it as strong bond
I am like fish and can’t live without pond
It must result in happiness with a reality
It has to be reunion with rare quality
Let us not create any rift or look with farce
Let all heavenly bodies smile at us including
I have found in you always a rare treasure
it gives enjoyment which can’t be measured
Safety and security I always assure,
but you buckled under normal pressure,
what would happen next I don't know?
In a prayer I wish her happiness and bow,
Still it remains mystery for no reason
It can puzzle me more as person
You may stay calm and cool,
All will be fine and I only remain fool,
I wish it to happen sincerely
It will be good combination and considered rarely
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Questions
I don't remember my first question asked
Might have been to my mother while in my crib I basked
Or maybe it was to my father when he kissed me goodnight
Then he said a prayer for me and then he turned off the light.
Many questions I have asked since the day I was born
Many questions I have answered and many I did mourn
Some of them were the truth, but them I had masked
I don't remember why, but I remember they were asked.
Questions are needed to understand our life
Answers are needed so we too might avoid strife
Life is full of questions and are as many as drops of rain
And like rain drops not two questions are really the same.
Questions will be a part of us until that day we die
We will come across them daily with who, what, where or why
I dread not the future, but I do dread the past
I also dread the day, not knowing which question of mine will be last.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
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