Kissing In The Dark
KISSING IN THE DARK
I write our names
on opposite pages
of an out-of-date
diary.
I scrawl myself
on JULY 27th 1986.
I scribble you
on JULY 27th of
that self same year.
It is now
JULY 27th 2012.
We exist...so:
in a time that is no longer
no longer exists.
We are the only words
on our respective pages
as if we were the only
happenings those days
as I close
the book on us
the words of us
touch
each other
word to word
until the last lower case 'e'
of you
fits into the first
capital 'D' of me
like the soft sigh
of a clasp
the syllables of us
kissing in the dark.
poem by Dónall Dempsey
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Related quotes
Canadian Censorship June 27th,2012
CANADIAN CENSORSHIP June 27th,2012
BY
JAMES BREDIN
I feel sorry for the great Ezra Levant but what can I do?
A group of agitators want to close him down, so what's new?
They called in the Canadian Broadcasting Standards Council, some time ago,
They want the government to close down his great TV show.
Because he used some words in Spanish for added Latin flair,
That was enough for them to call the censor to get him off the air,
They also want the Internet controlled by CRTC soon,
The upcoming inquisition will be a great left-wing boom.
Canadians will have to return to a more submissive age,
Where we only listen and learn and cannot show our rage,
Will we get a list of what is allowed and what is banned?
Will we all enjoy this new censorship and think it's grand?
June 27th,2012
poem by James Bredin
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27 For 27th
Riddles and parables are like the sayings of a muse,
But how i hope to be there for this marriage;
Like the appitude of a beauty with the brightness of love.
27 for 27th when one is about to be married!
Of a joyful heart i do write this poem;
Like the writer's pen with you at times.
The date of an occasion,
Of riddles and parables to respect the muse;
But beauty baths you when the rhythms of the blues are all over you.
Love is like the roses that blooms,
And this is your day in the garden of love;
With the rhythms and the blues to debrief you like a teacher.
This is for your eyes only,
And try to live your life on this day to shine like a star!
Of the hint and the excitments that will swing you with love.
Elevated with the mix of the pleasure to crown 27 for 27th,
Like to say something very witty on that day;
So dance to your muse and,
You will be very pleased to hear the cloud of your extintions!
Like a sweet life on the horizon.
Of a breakdance on a victory lane,
On the muse of this marriage to crown the day;
27 for 27th is the date you will always remember.
Love verses marriage,
Life verses beauty,
A breakdance on a victory lane when two hearts meet;
How i hope to be there for you.
27 for 27th,
Absolute released in the eyes of the people;
And, the adventure is undeniable!
Like the riddles and the parables of life.
The love story about you two,
With the set up of things to this date;
Like a great scene of a marriage which will be in the history books!
Soon to be united as husband and wife.
'Is he smiling? '
'Is she smiling? '
Like the sayings of a muse that unites you two into one today;
This is all about 27 for 27th.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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My Heart Is In July
shifting away from June's bud
to leave dandelions scattered in the yard
this dawn of July
marks the end of a lie
a lie from past season
for a strong reason
in July
robin will make herself shy
and cover her reddish breast
with her celestial hued crest
then flap her wings to fly
close against the sky
i want to kiss July
and make July
lasting forever
in beauty but not ephemeral
i will preserve July
on my canvas and with magic brush
so that she will be enthralled and blush
i will paint July
with charming colour
so that she will be captured in delight
and her soul enraptured
because my heart is in July.
poem by Niji Chrys
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July....
July is the month where the families get the barbeque grills fired up.
July is the month where the night sky is light up with fire works.
July is the month where many families go out of town to be with family.
July is the month where many kids are dreary because it’s a month away for school.
July is the month where America gets to celebrate its independence from England.
July is the month where many people are dying of the heat of the summer.
July is my favorite month because it’s the time that I get to be myself around my family.
poem by Natasha Ligons
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One Critical Word
The poet must write a sonnet
In praise of a grand and just man.
To meet a deadline at the end of July,
He must begin as soon as he can.
He starts to compose - it's May.
We'll see this is none too soon,
For the lack of one critical word,
The poet has stalled - It's June.
He still lacks the critical word (in July)
To describe the man grand - and just.
The word comes to him now, but too late.
Worse yet, it's a pun - it's au`gust.
poem by Richard von Geldern
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The 27th of May
From the very early morning
my phone is buzzing with calls,
I answer them today all.
More than that: my computer is hanging
sprinkling me with messages and SMS.
My mailbox is groaning because of loading
but it’s ok for today,
somehow my electronic friend will survive
giving me a drive to hive
in my alive computer
which looks today even cuter
or more like a beehive.
And it seems today I will revive.
So you ask me why?
Here is my reply:
Today on the 27th of May is my birthday.
This is my favorite holiday
which I celebrate every year
without any fear that I become older.
I get presents, good wishes, attention,
nobody mentions my age,
I feel like being on a stage.
May be it sounds a bit egotistic
but I love this day
and for me it is just poetic.
At least once a year I can feel like that
without any regret of the passing years.
I was curious to know
who else was born on this day
and have seen a slide show:
poets and writers, actors and artists….
But the biggest surprise was:
Buddha Purnima, the creator of Buddhism
Was born on the 27th of May.
It is hard to believe today.
Another interesting fact:
Catherine the Great on the 27th of May
Had written a decree
To construct a city Odessa
In the Hadzhibay area,
Now my terra is here.
And my name Larisa means seagull
My parents had chosen it for me
To sail in the sea of life
With a reliable scull.
So, today on the 27th of May
I proclaim Laura's Day. Hurray!
Don’t be afraid to send me messages, love and kisses,
My computer will accept them all,
And under my control will write on your walls:
Love you! Kiss and hug you,
And many thanks to all without end my dear friends.
Larisa Rzepishevska (Odessa, Ukraine)
poem by Larisa Rzhepishevska
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Democracies Can Change Oct 27th,2012
DEMOCRACIES CAN CHANGE OCT 27TH,2012
BY
JAMES BREDIN
If Pauline Marois can get death-with-dignity for Quebec,
It will then be provincial health and we wont be up to our neck,
Because, if she can do it, we can do it, despite Ottawa crowd,
While they scream that death-with-dignity is just not allowed.
How many times can we read their assisted-suicide stuff?
Both sides claiming that they are right and they've had enough,
From politicians and priests and judges who claim that they care,
And others who would go to Switzerland if they had the fare.
Our inability to change is a sign that something is wrong,
Like Sue Rodriguez, dying in pain and forced to go along,
If Canada is a true democracy; then why can't we change?
If we can find a good political leader and why is this so strange?
OCT 27TH,2012
poem by James Bredin
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February 27th
i was born in the month
second to the first month
of the year 1985 on the 27th
a wednesday it were, my day of birth
i was born and blossomed on earth
i shall be gone and faded by death
i was raised from the walks of many
i was chased from the talks of any
i was faced in stare from the looks by many
i was traced to each way of i destiny by plenty
my circumstance were many, mine without penny
still to the moment of circumstance i carry
the wish to my own penny like any of empty
i still deny my heart a chance
i denied my heart a second chance
by the matters of the heart at once
and urge
my heart to the edge
of any that matches
and live
to leave
when gone and faded
by death than hatred
i was born
i would have gone
so alone
with none
but my own
body and soul
and all that knew me,
would have known
that i was born
on my earth strong
opn05122012/1028
poem: feb.27th
book: the melody of my heart
book no.14 of 2012
facebook: opnmambo
twitter: @opnmambo
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(p) & (c) OPN GROUP OF COMPANIES (Pty) LTD t/a MAMBO MUSIC & POETRY
poem by Onalethuso Petruss Ntema
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July Paints of Winter
July paints masterpieces
kissing my canvas with lively breezy strokes
July paints what she sees
adding intrigue to yellow folks
She paints a cold numbing winter
adding icicles on Christchurch trees
She paints a briskly Tasman salty sea
Sitting at a window overlooking her muse
July can't see colour til summer’s shines it's hues
poem by ArmourQuill Hunter
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July!
Raindrops of one July
gifted me flowers of friendship
and for the change in season
the same July offered
me flowers of hatred,
I turned speechless
without any words
like a silent earth...
July 10,2009
poem by Rema Prasanaa
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My Idea Book (Cinquain)
Richness
Treasured pages
Gems of wisdom therein -
Bountiful ink from which I write
Bible.
'The unfolding of Your Words gives light;
it gives understanding to the simple.'
Psalm 119: 130
.......................................... ......................................
July 7,2009
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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The Memory Place
Shelves tower over me; crowed with bound pages
of events, people, places, ideas.
Of memories.
Of captured feelings pressed like flowers between the pages;
for people to be inspired by someone else's words.
My eyes caress the titles printed on bright spines
as I run my fingers across
what holds the memories together.
I pick up a book, turning yellowed pages,
the scent of gentle time traveling to my nose.
I close my eyes and smile:
it brings back memories of my own,
but these pages are not for me.
I put back the soft bundle of pages
and continued to search in the Memory Place
until I find my own belonging among the words.
poem by Zoe Guillory
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That City
Should not throw back
Memories of Hotel Universo
Mouth could not utter a word
Nor could it take “comida” daily
Not for a matter of choice
But the realities of that City.
Should not throw back
Memories of Olof Palme Avenue
Initially rejected as a “Ninja”
At times locked out in the cold
Not for sheer forgetfulness
But the realities of that City.
Should not throw back
Memories of Karl Marx Avenue
Satiated with profit motive
Yet saved from succumbing to death
Not for a matter of choice
But the realities of that City.
Should not through back
Memories of that little house
Life became renewed, where
Care and love knew no frontiers
Yet it is in that same city
That City of Maputo!
Dedication: To Greatson Raphael Kamoto,
true friend who separates kindness, justice,
and love from their respective opposites.
Monday,27th July 1992.
Tete, Mozambique.
poem by Isaac Maliya
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Delay
now, we have the September.
is clear and solar
but he likes the July,
not to say the August.
then everything is so kind,
all warm and cosy.
oh well, a September
it is a September.
doesn't worry about it
isn't taking over.
is taking the other
wall diary out
of the drawer is.
he is hanging up
and he is placing
the appropriate date still
and is raising
oneself spirit.
everyone are in September
and he still in August,
not to say in July
so he is able to be delayed
until pleasantly
it is getting at very thought
I... mainly,
I am entire year... in May.
poem by Maria Barbara Korynt
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July
I can’t believe it’s already you, July.
Half the year has now passed me by.
A moment ago it was New Year’s Day
With fresh resolutions to pave my way.
My chagrin is rescued by wondrous July
As gorgeous fireworks light up the sky.
This freedom that I assume is owed
Was purchased by many a bloody road.
Though air is sultry and mosquitoes bold,
I prefer you, July, to the winter’s cold.
poem by Gregory Huyette
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It Was July
I am resurrected, after dying for want of you,
It all came down upon me in sunny July,
Where had you gone, I wish I knew,
That I care no more, should come as no surprise,
I can live without you now,
It's like I never loved you at all,
The numbness seeped in after my death,
It was in July, if you recall,
Things were fine in May and June,
I don't know what I did wrong,
But in July you sang a different tune,
And you left me all alone,
My heart once again belongs to me,
As I look back to last July,
The sunshine once again I see,
No tears to cloud my eyes,
So let me stay as you left me,
I won't even say goodbye,
You're now a fading memory,
But I'll never forget July,
poem by Vallerie Lobell
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A WayFarer
The cliffs are the edges of paper--
That time has torn away...
Eroded rock-solid paper...
Jagged reminders of yesterday;
Once a diary of stone-hearted entries--
Surfaced as hardened clay...
But worn away from the Springtime downpours...
And collapsed in Wayfarers Bay;
Pages and pages of dogeared cliffs...
Hanging with no support in mid air...
Rock solid words of our ending---
Oh, the stories the sailors do bear;
Longings from eternities upon the ocean...
Needs that we all have been known to share...
Are written upon the cliffs of yesterday---
Eroded in rock solid despair;
The Essence
July,2010
poem by Theodora Onken
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I practised in London for Olympic Heats?
A beggar like old man once read my palm in a city Railway station and he predicted: You'll be a Pilot or a constant runner in your whole life.
Yes, It's getting closer the date,27th of July.
And I practised outside the Olympic stadium
on a lonely street for the 800 meters Relay?
Suddenly I was caught by a police officer
and he questioned me of my valid papers.
Then I said; 'Don't worry Sir!
I am one of your colonial cousins
and I never forget the hospitality.
I have participated the Royal Wedding
and the Queen's Diamond Jubilee
with my old Gabardine suit.
Don't you remember once you arrested me
under suspicion of stealing the Big Ben? '
They handcuffed me and I was awake
to the jerk & batton beating in the police car.
I asked my wife where my running shoes?
'O sorry darling! I left them in the police car.'
She's worried and brought the Sugar-meter
'Don't know whether you're getting the coma again? '
She looked embarassed!
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Writing
My words they no longer flow like a calm river
They rip, through, delicate flowers wither
Not in a long time have I wrote pure gold
One more worthless word and I'll explode
So I write these words to help express
That to me my writing can no longer impress
If the letters I write turn to heavy stone
Maybe I should try changing my tone
Even when words sing a merry tune
When the words hit me like a monsoon
I look back and scowl at scribbles and letters
And know there is a need for them to be better
So I try to write something funny, add humour
Rhythms with big cats, small rats, lions and pumas
But it all seems to lack that special spark
Something with a vicious bite and a gentle bark
Let's try and make it dark, murder and death
Something that literally stops ones breath
Words that hide the killer, build suspense
But this dark angst and pain is all pretence
A rhyme about love, happy and quite light
A poem about everything that can go right
Maybe just maybe it will all fit together
But these words take too long, almost forever
I guess I'll just carry on in this infuriating way
I'll continue writing the words I just can't say
So when I feel the need to write I'll let it all out
Then you will find out just what I will write about
poem by Rebecca Pepper
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The Weaving (Love Poem)
July was always the month for me. I cling
to July as if there are no doubts about
July. I feel human enough and animal enough
in July. I identify with those harvests flying
just above the rock walls, and then bursting
from themselves into the ground, into each other.
I'm talking about a plain garden with apricots
and lemons, where the cicadas play in the sage but never
show their watery guitars. And what is that harvest
all about? Their music is a harvest, an overflowing
harvest, whether those musicians and their instruments
are visible, or not.
I'm saying I have everything in July. I'm saying
that July is the birth of it. July
the spiders born in the camellias. July
the hummingbird and the olive―
and that's Linda Janakos' hummingbird
asleep in her lap, that's Linda Janakos' olive,
the one with the breast inside of it.
This is what my sister stitched
to the weaving inside her brother's head.
poem by Doren Robbins
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