Moonlight
Moonlight
dances
over the gourd
and its vines
on the roof of the village hut house
while
the white
pebbles
greet it
joyfully
down in the stream.
(October 17,1997)
poem by Sangnam Nam
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Love In The Air
The moonlight shimmered on the water
of a small woodland stream.
We sit on the bank,
watching moonbeams dancing
on the growing ripples on the water,
from the pebbles that we throw.
The sound of the wise old owl,
and the rustle of the leaves
ruffled by the breeze.
The plop of our pebbles
dropping into the stream,
and our two hearts beating,
as we sit together
with arms around one another
underneath the moon.
We sit there enjoying
the love that is in the air.
24 June 2007
poem by David Harris
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Our Little House
Our little house upon the hill
In winter time is strangely still;
The roof tree, bare of leaves, stands high,
A candelabrum for the sky,
And down below the lamplights glow,
And ours makes answer o'er the snow.
Our little house upon the hill
In summer time strange voices fill;
With ceaseless rustle of the leaves,
And birds that twitter in the eaves,
And all the vines entangled so
The village lights no longer show.
Our little house upon the hill
Is just the house of Jack and Jill,
And whether showing or unseen,
Hid behind its leafy screen;
There's a star that points it out
When the lamp lights are in doubt.
poem by Thomas Walsh
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My October
My October
let me deliquesce
within the moonlight
on your lips
till the oceans recrudesce
in your breath
Let me be the the profound fire
in your eternal eyes
as they gaze through
the depths of my odyssey
towards the infinite portals
of your most divine soul
Let me be
the nucleus of your immortal light
as I end this discourse
in the dances of the wind
that carries me
to your most absolute heart
my October
until now, until forever.
poem by Jaypee Belarmino
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At Way of Village
At Way of Village
At way of village
In harmony with tom-tom
The dancer dances
Putting on nose ring
Wearing anklet on leg
Lolita dances
Dance with word time
Wind parody of season
Band of joy maker
Dance with flute
Bend waist looks as snake
Dance in pleasure
Flash of lightning
Causes swinging the earth
Come make dances
poem by Bongokobida Zakaria
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Exile House
EXILE HOUSE
Our tiled roof dripped
and the four walls threatened to fall apart
but we were to go home soon,
We grew papayas
in front of our house
chillies in our garden
and changmas for our fences,
then pumpkins rolled down the cowshed thatch
calves trotted out of the manger,
grass on the roof,
beans sprouted and
climbed the vines,
money plants crept in through the window,
our house seems to have grown roots.
The fences have grown into a jungle,
now how can I tell my children
where we came from?
Changmas – a tree usually planted for fences; flexible and flourishing
poem by Tenzin Tsundue
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Lodging with the Old Man of the Stream
Men's hearts love gold and jade;
Men's mouths covet wine and flesh.
Not so the old man of the stream;
He drinks from his gourd and asks nothing more.
South of the stream he cuts firewood and grass;
North of the stream he has built wall and roof.
Yearly he sows a single acre of land;
In spring he drives two yellow calves.
In these things he finds great repose;
Beyond these he has no wish or care.
By chance I meet him walking by the water-side;
He took me home and lodged me in his thatched hut.
When I parted from him, to seek market and Court,
This old man asked my rank and pay.
Doubting my tale, he laughed loud and long:
'Privy Councillors do not sleep in barns.'
Joyfully
When I was drowing in a sea of darkness
The Lord sent me a light
And the light that he sent me was
JOYFULLY... JOYFULLY
I thought the Lord had abandoned me
Why, I didn't know
So He sent me an angel
To tell me it wasn't so
And the angel that he sent me was
JOYFULLY...JOYFULLY
She told me that He loved me
That He would never let me go
Just turn back to the Father
That He would make me whole
Now I'm thanking the Lord for sending me
JOYFULLY...JOYFULLY
When I was drowning in a sea of darkness
poem by David Kush
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Still You
There's a stream through a glen
Where wild apples grow
It runs down to old cliffs
Where foxes and deer
Watch the wild waters foam
White upon winter shores
And I know it's still you
In the waves on the shore
In the stream through the glen
Still you in the moonlight
Where apple blossom glows
And sweet breezes still blow
On the braes by that stream
In cool morning dew
There's a world fresh and free
and still time to dream
of the old and the new
to remember what's true
And I know it's still you
In the waves on the shore
In the stream through the glen
Still you in the moonlight
Where apple blossom glows
And sweet breezes still blow
Now the stream calls me home
And in its wild song
There's a lost harmony
And here in this glen
By the moon's rise and fall
I know where I belong
And it's with you, still with you
By the waves on the shore
By the stream through the glen
With you in the moonlight
Where apple blossom glows
And sweet breezes still blow
where I'm with you, still with you
Visits to St Elizabeths
This is the house of Bedlam.
This is the man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is the time
of the tragic man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is a wristwatch
telling the time
of the talkative man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is a sailor
wearing the watch
that tells the time
of the honored man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is the roadstead all of board
reached by the sailor
wearing the watch
that tells the time
of the old, brave man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
These are the years and the walls of the ward,
the winds and clouds of the sea of board
sailed by the sailor
wearing the watch
that tells the time
of the cranky man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances weeping down the ward
over the creaking sea of board
beyond the sailor
winding his watch
that tells the time
of the cruel man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is a world of books gone flat.
This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances weeping down the ward
over the creaking sea of board
of the batty sailor
that winds his watch
that tells the time
of the busy man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is a boy that pats the floor
to see if the world is there, is flat,
for the widowed Jew in the newspaper hat
that dances weeping down the ward
waltzing the length of a weaving board
by the silent sailor
that hears his watch
that ticks the time
of the tedious man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
These are the years and the walls and the door
that shut on a boy that pats the floor
to feel if the world is there and flat.
This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances joyfully down the ward
into the parting seas of board
past the staring sailor
that shakes his watch
that tells the time
of the poet, the man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is the soldier home from the war.
These are the years and the walls and the door
that shut on a boy that pats the floor
to see if the world is round or flat.
This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances carefully down the ward,
walking the plank of a coffin board
with the crazy sailor
that shows his watch
that tells the time
of the wretched man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
poem by Elizabeth Bishop
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From The Terrace
White house
brown roof
windows with outsretched arms
speak to my eyes
urging acceptance
Walls lift roof to gray sky
breeze flowing through the columns
floor, not for walking
but for ascending
request my steps
to be uplifted
Arches curve upwards
and downwards
dancing like the waves
invite me to join
all is in place
all agog with excitement
My soul flutters
knees buckle
and answer no
to House built with greed
not sweat of labour
Here I stay
on the terrace
watching house
not Home
blocks and roof
not sweat and contentment
poem by Mark Nwagwu
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Transitions....
at first the house is one kind of a party
more friends are coming
you even let the mailman to have a drink
and stay for a while
though he has nothing to say just like
the masons and some carpenters
then the house was almost burned
there was so much panic that day
the whole village talked about it for weeks
of course, the house as usual is silent like
most rocks
to regain its solidity
it listens to the refreshes of the sea breeze
it resumes its pacific nature
facing the sea and learning from the past storms
then something so horrible happens
but no one in the house is telling about it
the pillars shook and some walls gave in
a part of the roof was taken by the hurricane
but the house is still in tact
changes come into play
the gates are closed
the mailman is having a hard time pressing the door bell
the mail box is broken
and some thieves are anticipating that someday
they can get in and make their presence felt
perhaps to take
what is essential
what they did not know is that
no one lives in this house anymore
all the memories are put into boxes and kept in the cellars
the house has become one mummified pharaoh
a pyramid that points to the sun
the village only talks about the built-in mysteries
it is one kind of a cadaver surrounded by flowers
whose heart has been removed a few days ago
and then the talk stops
and that was only when the last prayer was said.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Greek Wedding
Flowers are white
They were everywhere
the bride went
People in white robes stood around
the bride
singing a farewell song
I cried.
The bride then stepped
out towards the alter
with her mother
The father was unfaithful
They didn't mind
The people kept singing
the farewell song
I cried.
(October 9,1997)
poem by Sangnam Nam
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At The Second Floor
at the second floor of the old house
he goes up
taking the creaking stairs
as though telling him some old stories
about the falling of the
clan house to ashes for years
no one dared say
about the fall of this family
there are whispers
not louder as a thud of a cat's foot
limping on the carpet
up there is the open space overlooking the blue sea
a white sail and some foams of the sea caps
catch his attention but he can not withstand such a distant view
his eyes are hurt by too much light and tiny object
he looks at the nearby tree
old mahogany spreading its branches touching the roof
there is this single leaf that falls
a hush of the wind
twirling to the shaded space
it lands on the pebbles
nothing is heard but he has seen it all
the fall.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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On The Highest Crest
On the Highest Crest
Beautiful October
God has gone main-stream
Ignores the seasons
Wants to be loved by us all
Before the big deluge
Lovely October
God disregard the cycles
My river is dry
While I sunbathe by its shore
And think of buying camels.
Godly October
Vacation’s our new deity
Tomorrow is today
Frost and snow are banished
But Himalaya is an island
Pretty October
We fight for a place to sit
The strongest win
Design a new national flag
And build a golden temple
Scenic October
The Sea is heaven’s mirror
God was a dream
No echo of man lingers
The long stillness has begun
poem by Oskar Hansen
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A House Without Stairs
do not say
that without the stairs
the house is not a house anymore
without the ceiling
the more the house becomes to me
take the roof
if you want
or the beams
or even the floor and window frames
my house will still be a house
the sky its roof
the stretching grassy plain its floor
all the stars become
my magnificent ceiling
whatever is taken
we must imagine that all things are still there
lest we only have a house
that crashes on the floor
with all of us
dead
crushed to the death of
our imaginations
a door without an exit
because you have not seen hope coming
the lock and key
are all in the mind and heart
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Sphinx Tattoo
Entrancing and pale
Like the autumn moonlight,
The young girl with blue October eyes
Dances in the sidewalk leaves
Offering inspiration
To furtive midnight deities.
After a sudden explosion of love,
She will float butterfly-like
To a downtown apartment terrace
To reveal her soul and Sphinx tattoo
To a perplexed but efficacious lover.
poem by Uriah Hamilton
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Most Romantic
Rituals are wonderful, the marvellous ritual of
greeting beloved landmarks, when we were
small my sister and I used to greet a bridge
we passed frequently, I greeted a house
resembling an over-decorated cake
Nowadays I greet three wonderful white houses
as we drive to work, wondering about impressive
styles, how could their forms have evolved - the
third being the most romantic: a Baroque wall
with a glimpse into a sloping garden
Just a whiff of a gigantic house, luxurious, sprawling,
green poplars all round – whenever my attention
wavers and I do not see the last glowing white
residence so impressive; I feel cheated, can’t
wait for tomorrow to say hello…
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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October in New Zealand
O JUNE has her diamonds, her diamonds of sheen,
Meet for a queen’s neck, if Death had e’er a queen!
June has her blue days, jewels of delight,
Set in the ivory of Alp-land white,—
But October, October’s the lady o’ the year!
O January’s garland is redder than the rose,
And the wine-red ruby of January glows
All the way to madness and half the way to sin,
When sleep is in the poppy and fire is in the whin!
But October, October’s the lady o’ the year!
October will ride in a mantle o’ the vair,
With the flower o’ the quince in her dew-wet hair;
October will ride to the gates of the day,
With the bluebells ringing on her maiden way;—
For October, October’s the lady o’ the year!
poem by Jessie Mackay
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My White Mouse
At dusk I saw a craintive mouse
That sneaked and stole around the house;
At first I took it for a ghost,
For it was snowy white - almost.
I've seen them in captivity,
But this white mouse was wild and free,
And every eye with stealth it stole
And foraged in the garbage hole.
I told the folks, yet wondered why
No one could see the mouse but I;
For it was really, truly white,
And not just silvered by moonlight.
And then there came a big black cat,
And thought I said: "Get out of that!"
It stared at me with savage eyes,
As big and yellow as moonrise.
And often times I wonder whether
They didn't just go off together,
In the bright moonlight, paw in paw,
For never more my mouse I saw.
poem by Robert William Service
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In The Moonlight
In The Moonlight
With fingers entangled in each other’s hand,
we walk together along the golden sand.
The rolling waves hiss a melody
that we can only hear
like our lover’s soft words
just whispering in our ear.
The moonlight dances across the waves
that roll endlessly to the shore.
We stop for a moment
to listen to our passion’s call.
Enveloping our arms around one another
in the stillness of the night.
Two lovers in the moonlight,
a forever memory to both
as they grow older and greyer.
Both will remember how
they stood on the moonlight shore
embraced within the passions
of two lovers in the moonlight.
18 November 2008
poem by David Harris
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