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A Solitary Poet

A lone flower peaks
Out over the city
From a tenement roof.
She is speechless
In her small pot
In the immense void
Of cold concrete and steel.
A solitary poet
Brought her there
To gaze upon
As he scribbles
Mad, translucent verse
Disconnected from sterile reality,
Preserving ancient poetic breath
And breeze of idyllic
Romantic past.

poem by Uriah Hamilton
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The Void

By Samuel Sweetnam

Cold is the Void
That is what we are not
That is where we are to go
That is what we are to become

Dark is the void
That steals the night
That fills the heart
Of the greedy man

Black is the void
That hides the lost
That feeds the beast
That hunts the good

The void is cold
The void is dark
The void is black
The void is torture

If the void is all
We are to become
Then what is left
Is there no hope?

For one small child
Born one dark night
Among the void
Consuming the night

He brought the life
He brought the hope
Some two thousand years ago
He brought us light

So remember this
My dear friend
Of the babe born
On Christmas morn

He brought the Warm
He brought the light
He brought the Love
Among the night.

poem by Samuel Sweetnam
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Urban Effusion

the greys of the city
lingered and deepened
in its aged structures
a mature effusion
beneath wearing rain
and wind and sun

an elemental artistic
achievement visualising
the demise of urban
reality

here and there
within the inner city
pockets of concrete
and synthetic blossoms
brightened the shadows
of ancient abodes
reminiscent of the
floriferous space
of the suburban
environment...

beneath
a puniceous sky
the new and the old
stood solitary

poem by Liam ó Comáin
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Everyday

Part I
sands, sands, sands
and the dunes
the waves and wind

PartII
the city, city, city
steel and brick
and slabs of concrete
Part III
the dreams, dreams, dreams
that I had when
I was young

Part IV
reality, reality, reality
what I grew up
to be everyday

poem by Midnights Voice
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The Wind

The cold breath of sage and kind
has become the light breeze,
touching the heart and soul,
The warm out hale of living things
has become the moderate breeze,
amazing the tired and trees,
The hot breath of lovers,
has become the strong breeze,
cleaned the dirt and rejoice the living.
The scotching breath of infidels,
has become the storm,
immense pleasure and thunderous crying.
The selfish breath of politicians,
has become the hurricane,
uprooted families and wasted nations.

Thank you Dave and Eric, your poems were the inspiration for me to write this poem.

poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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Skeletons

Between yellow cranes groaning and bended
I saw people small as ants,
I saw people gather at skeletons of steel and concrete,

lost between ovens that cook glowing,
between hell-hot fires of iron and metal
I saw people struggle in the dusk

and this morning I came
past huge, long pipes that hiss like snakes
between yellow cranes groaning and bended.

Where white smoke are stoked through round chimneys
people were trapped and caged
between hell-hot fires of iron and metal

busy with their work as if dumb,
as if only machines with their humanity missing
I saw people gather at skeletons of steel and concrete,

through walls, doors and roofs that block off
lost in the circles that the city draws,
people were trapped and caged

with crying, screaming, gnashing machines everywhere
without any natural refreshment or relief
between yellow cranes groaning and bended

with tiredness, disconcert, alienation on every feature
they kept building
lost in the circles that the city draws.

Like beings coming from another planet,
ghosts just waiting for a coffin,
I saw people gather at skeletons of steel and concrete,

while some were clinging to black pipes
and children were laughing without concern
they kept building

on terrains with danger signs on the outside
without worrying, with there destiny determined.
Between yellow cranes groaning and bended
I saw people gather at skeletons of steel and concrete,

with their lives tinned, day and night
lost between ovens that cook glowing
and children were laughing without concern,
I saw people struggle in the dusk.

[Reference: Past skeletons of steel and concrete by Gert Strydom.]

poem by Gert Strydom
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Lone Yellow Flower Waves In The Open Fields

lone yellow flower
waves in the open fields
bowing according to the tune
among the sea of green;
lone yellow flower has no one to blame
and it seeks none to praise
for it knows all life comes in
when the conditions are right;
lone yellow flower knows
death comes in like the wind;
lone yellow flower
is never alone
for it is a part of the expression
of the earth and time and the universe;
lone yellow flower sees what is before and around
lone yellow flower observes what is within and about
and so lone yellow flower lives with no delusions
no beliefs of heaven and hell
fears none and does not live or die
to please or amuse or appease;
and lone yellow flower
blossoms and shines
and shrivels and ceases
in harmony
with what actually is;
lone yellow flower
waves in the open fields
bowing according to the tune
among the sea of green

poem by Raj Arumugam
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Concrete & Steel

Hard and cold, like a street of gold,
Its easy to find but so hard to hold.
Smooth and strong but it wont last long,
When the rust sets in, shell be good as gone!
Concrete, concrete and steel.
Its like concrete.
Hey baby, whats the deal?
A heart of stone make you feel alone,
But what can you do when your hand is blown?
Hard as ice, its like tumblin dice,
Before you fall for her boy, you better think twice.
Concrete, concrete and steel.
Its like concrete.
Hey baby, whats the deal?
Dark as night, diamond bright,
Never seen such a strange delight.
Slick as glass, and just as fast,
Youll feel the pain, but it wont last.

song performed by by ZZ Top
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sonnet # 17

Though I know thy heart is taken
These words to you I must say
Thou art lovely to gaze upon my dear
Your pretty smile shines brightly forth each day
No offence to thee is intended
But by a poet's honour I am duty bound
That when ever inspired by beauty such as yours
Poetic words of love must be written down
Sweet words of stirring romantic verse
Every other line to rhyme,
If only to say that if thy heart were free
I would swim the widest ocean to join your heart with mine
Your an angel sent from heaven you be just like a star
Thee ever seeming so close but yet so far

poem by John A. Hancock
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The Concrete and the Abstract

The concrete is visible,
the abstract is invisible.
The concrete is the outside,
the abstract is the inside.
The concrete is objective,
the abstract is subjective.

People go on searching for
God in the concrete.
'We would like to see God'
-they say.

But only the concrete can be seen;
the abstract has to be felt.
The concrete can be seen-
with the eyes open,
the abstract has to be seen-
with eyes closed.

God is inside you, as you.
You cannot stand outside God
and see Him;
you can see Him
only from the inside-
by being Him.

If you see a flower,
you can look at it scientifically.
You look at the chemistry of it,
You dissect it and
you come to know
about the components of it.

But something is missed
in that very analysis.
The beauty is missed,
because beauty is not a component.
If you ask the scientist -
'Where is the beauty that was in the flower? ’ he will say-
'That was not there,
it was just an illusion.'

'I have dissected it-
all and all,
and these are the things
that I have found.
These chemicals were there,
this matter was there,
these atoms, these molecules....
but there was no beauty.'

But when the scientist
gives the flower to his wife,
he knows deep within his heart
he is not giving her
something chemical,
He is giving to her
the beauty of the flower.

A poet said -
'Beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder',
But I say it lies in the heart of the lover.
That beauty is not be seen,
it has to be felt,
not from the outside,
but from the inside
by being the flower itself.

poem by Nazmul Haque
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Ban The Void

Ban the void.
Tch.
Ban the void.
Tch, tch.
Ban the void.
Tch.
Ban the void.
Tch, tch.

Grandma stopped baking cakes.
Tch.
Ban the void.
Tch, tch.
Brought me my first heartbreak.
Tch.
Ban the void.
I told her I couldn't take it.
She 'had' to bake another cake for me!
Tch.
Ban the void.

She said she was going on strike!
Tch.
Ban the void.
And even though I didn't like it!
Tch.
Ban the void.
She's not gonna cook in the kitchen,
She's itching to do something else to please!
Tch
Ban the void.
Tch.
Ban the void.

She brought herself a brand new car.
Tch.
Ban the void.
Tch, tch.
And drove to wherever she wanted.
Tch.
Ban the void.
She said she had her own special needs.
And will come and go whenever that need pleases!
Tch.
Ban the void.

I got so annoyed...
And I tried to stop that void deep down in me!
Oh...
Ban the void!

I couldn't go to sleep!
I dreamt of grandma's baking,
And it teased me!

I even cried my eyes.
But grandma's sweet potato pie kept creepin'.
Oh...
Ban the void!
Ban the void!
Oh...
Ban the void.

Grandma loved her brand new car.
And never got one ticket,
For her speedin'!

Ban the void.
Tch.
Ban the void.
Tch, tch.
Ban the void.
Oh...

Dedicated To:
In loving memory...
Clara Louise Countryman Pertillar

'Miss you, grandma! '

Love,
Larry

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Incognito! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !

Walk in
City’s familiar
And unfamiliar
Bylanes;
Incognito…

Can leave
The mask home
Who has time to glance?

It’s a city
Without a heart,
With only emptiness;
Spaces, though cramped
one jostles,
To wander
In anonymity,
Tears flowing
Down your cheeks.

It’s a city
Without a spirit, yes-
Cold and hard
Like steel concrete benches
in the foggy park
on a winter eve.

poem by Mamta Agarwal
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Past The Adolescent Childish Age

Some refuse today to comprehend or face,
That they're...
Past the adolescent.
Past the adolescent.
Past the adolescent,
Childish age.

Some sit with wishes they could duplicate,
Those...
Adolescent.
Their adolescent days,
Long faded away.

They are,
Trapped and disconnected.
Trapped and disconnected.
Trapped and disconnected,
Broken from decay.

Some sit with wishes they could duplicate,
Their adolescent days.
But they're,
Past the adolescent.
Past the adolescent.
Past the adolescent,
Childish age.

And
They
Are...
Trapped and disconnected.
Trapped and disconnected.
Trapped and disconnected,
Broken from decay.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Memory Of Me As A Poet,

memory of me as a poet,
My doleful soul need's the great memory of me as a poet,
The pure memory taught me of the spontaneous event's of life,
How creation gave me authority to reveal such a strong poetic verse,
I recited the poem in my mind only to realise the great motor memory,
But pure memory revealed all my past writing,
I can relive my past only by the memory of the great history,
Global memory took my mind to think of the great poet.

poem by Maxim Muyu
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Sibiu, my love!

Yes yes yes indeed!
Sibiu, my lovely city
It is the One
On which, by taking walks
At quiet times,
It filled my heart with.. Beauty
Yes! ! .. Made me feel apart
Of present's ugly world
Which never stops to grow
On concrete, steel
with complicate design
the darkest glass,
uughhh! yeack! ! the smell
of black asphalt!
Take my hand, come
I'll show you this kind,
soo lovely city
Built on baked clay
painted with love
On light, in many shades
Of warmest red!
See how the chestnut
old romantic trees
Majestically bow to us
And then let's
take our shoes off
To walk or valse
on city's
ancient stones
feel, breathe, smell,
Live its history, let free
our soul, time travel,
dream of other ways
to live again
forgotten ways
of quiet sunny
happy days.

*Sibiu, the city I had seen the light for the first time
the place I had been raised, its in the heart
of one beautiful land called Romania.

poem by Elena Sandu
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Poet's Pride

Oh, it is a quiet harmless pride
Of simple and innocent poet's heart;
It is the heat inside a hearth
That is cool and calm outward.

It can burn and engulf the steel,
Dissolve the earth to fluid dreams
While sits upright on the golden throne
Of the poet's safe candescent heart.

The poet's pride is on a tripped ride
While exposed on an open road,
Like a patient from a mental ward
With inward versus outward fight.

While expanding to far off horizons,
Poet's pride is light like birds;
While grim like clouds,
It cools and pours confidence around.

It is a strange candescence inside
That exposes nuances of the self;
It is a strange candescence inside
That seizes shams from its shades.

Poet's pride is frozen enlightenment,
Pure and thick fog of innocence;
Poet's pride is a cleansing holy fire
That melts gold to give it shine.

Warm like a dear darling's hug,
Cold like Antarctic ice-shelf,
Soft like gold and hard like steel,
The poet's pride is humility in disguise.

It creeps like cool breeze
Or sweeps like a tempest;
It spreads sweet fragrance
Or leaves back sad wreck.

A rare grace of imbalance is pride
In the deepest caves of a poet's mind,
The eerie smoke of the poetic brood
Fills the air with a soothing indolence.

Poet's pride soars like a kite in the sky
While calm reflections delve to the self;
Poet's pride dips deep when hurt
While the sham world ignores his worth.

Pride is a wall that blocks path
Of easy virtues for a speedy flourish,
A riddle of likes and dislikes is pride,
Where walks a poet with royal grace.

The poet's pride, his strength and worth,
A protective sheath that absorbs shocks;
The poet's pride, his being's depth,
Whence uprises his poetic breadth.

poem by Praveen Kumar
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This concrete city
infects the sky...turning it
into concrete too.
Concrete sun and concrete rain.
Concrete humans... cry...real tears

tanka by Dónall Dempsey
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Delivering Those Moments

You must of thought I was a fly by night poet.
Someone who regurgitated aches and pains.
And declared that in some poetic verse.
To flow a tear with anger to disperse.
Bursting with bitterness at the seams.

I like to speak my mind historically.
With a probing into the archives.
To undercover a falsity.
Or perhaps some truth that has been hidden.
Since much of that has been smothered in the past.

Sometimes I like to stir things up.
With innuendos like being black...
In a white coffee cup!
Or sipping tea with leeches who are corrupt.

You must of thought I was a fly by night poet.
Someone who regurgitated aches and pains.
And declared that in some poetic verse.
To flow a tear with anger to disperse.
Or scream from a passion singed in erotic heat!

I can do that if I wished.
But I am not feeling that at this moment.
It is too nice of a day...
To prove I can dazzle with my abilities!
However...
Please do not assume you hide desires,
Of your lust for being teased!
And I...
So enjoy,
Delivering those moments!

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Poetry Groupies

Where are the poetry groupies
Those girls who’d give their hand for a poem
Who’d lay down for a verse so finely written
In the hope of some poetic dedication
If I write it, will they then come
To pay homage, adoration to my pen
Where are the girls who’d give their all for a poem
Those who are drawn to such a man
A romantic who writes to seduce
To sway the heads of each pretty girl
With poetic tales of a great love
How beautiful the object of all affection
What are all these poems and tales worth
If this question remains unanswered
Where are the poetry groupies
Who’d give their hand to a poem
And their all to a poet

poem by Matthew Holloway
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Sympathy

My Muse is simple,--yet it's nice
To think you don't need to think twice
On words I write.
I reckon I've a common touch
And if you say I cuss too much
I answer: 'Quite!'

I envy not the poet's lot;
He has something I haven't got,
Alas, I know.
But I have something maybe he
Would envy just a mite in me,--
I'm rather low.

For I am cast of common clay,
And from a ditch I fought my way,
And that is why
The while the poet scans the skies,
My gaze is grimly gutterwise,
Earthy am I.

And yet I have a gift, perhaps
Denied to proud poetic chaps
Who scoff at me;
I know the hearts of humble folk;
I too have bowed beneath the yoke:
So let my verse for them evoke
Your sympathy.

poem by Robert William Service
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Self-Analysis

A single candle illuminates a solitary figure
Whose reflection in the window stares
Back at a tormented soul dwelling
In the transparent realm of illusion
While hunch'd o'er a wooden desk
In a fevered bout of creativity
Bleeding upon tatter'd scraps of paper
Erratic emotional insights to copulate
With inspirational flights of fancy
Thus giving birth to childish words of
Romantic gibberish of sorrowful lines
Of misery fill'd lamentations
The flicker candle settles momentarily
Allowing blended shadows of light and darkness
To fall upon this lone occupant
Of a complex and occasional twisted reality
Who betwixt isolated lapses of confusion
Calls himself a poet

poem by John A. Hancock
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