contemporary poetry
Jumbled thoughts
POSTED IN contemporary poetry November 2, 2013
Jumbled thoughtsThe random thoughts that come to me
are what create my poetry
Just thoughts all simply passing through
Unplanned, ad hoc, with no clear view
Thoughts scattered from another space
With no clear boundaries, out of place
So many times I think, I plan
I sit for hours with pen in hand
Trying to pick that perfect theme
to create that poetic dream
add structure to my poetry;
That strategy won’t work for me
It seems only the random style
is all that makes my poems smile
So when you read a write I’ve wrote
considering just how to vote
Remember whether strong or weak
most have been written tongue in cheek!!
Wanda Kiel-Rapana
Miniscule Malevolence. ( Blake style )
POSTED IN contemporary poetry November 2, 2013
Miniscule Malevolence. ( Blake style )
I stood and watched a vagrants fire
a flea’s ghost leapt out from the pyre.
He thirsts; such thirst is plain to see,
his red eyes sear the flesh of me.
His tongue darts in and out again,
eager to sup blood, like a drain.
I’m a cup that sets his eyes alight
this ghost who drains my blood tonight
Whose soul confined within the flea
ravages each body with glee.
I wonder if the tramp is dead,
or lives on, in that furnace head?
Speckled Thrush
POSTED IN contemporary poetry October 31, 2013
Speckled Thrush
O speckled thrush
so cold, so stiff, so dead!
Your flame extinguished
a faded silhouette
a flyblown curiosity
no glimmer of light
from your half- moon eye.
Stark contrast
to those sparkling beads of lace
a delicate throw
on Nature’s grand bed
a sticky, intricate snare
where
Death also awaits
upon his secret tight rope
wraps his victims tenderly in silk
then sucks out all life
leaves nothing but an empty husk.
Is this your fate
O, speckled thrush
as you ‘push up the daises?’
Heavens no!
You are surrounded
by graceful, innocent
‘Christ-children’
damp with early morning tears
mourning your death
yet rejoicing in the dawning
of a new day …
And look … O look!
A tulip cup
ablaze with glory
toasts the heavens
Feasts
upon the rising sun
A herald of Spring and all
dappled, variegated things
Shouts out its certainty –
Your death, speckled thrush
Is Nature’s celebration
A new beginning ….
You have fulfilled your role
your purpose
In the eternal, circle of life.
Amanda Edwards
It starts with faeries.
POSTED IN contemporary poetry October 29, 2013
It starts with faeries.
I watch you shut your book
with a satisfying thud
and shout:
“I believe in faeries”
And I see God’s smile
shimmer through the stardust
As the morning stars
sing together
and all the angels shout
for joy
You hug to yourself
a child-like certainty
that now, this very minute
another faery has been saved!
Never lose
that sense of wonder
For you
everything is a miracle
there is nothing seen
or unseen
that you cannot believe
Faeries are like angels
invisible friends who
sparkle in the sunlight
dance and twirl like leaves
Little puffs of wind
playing in your hair
whispering
“Here I am, isn’t life grand?”
They watch you play hopscotch
on the pavement
soothe ointment on your knees
Slowly release their breath
when you climb the tallest trees
nestle there
reach out to the clouds
And dream …
Feathered angels
trill their secret messages
hop from branch to branch
watch over you
one foot carefully placed
after another
as you descend
Some angels
pile up freshly made scones
smothered in jam and cream
on your favourite plate
and watch you eat
so much in love with you
They read you endless stories
over and over
for they know you love to
feed your imagination
and can never get enough
Sometimes
when you least expect it
a furry angel jumps on to your lap
kneads you up and down
dribbles and purrs!
And did you know …
A guardian angel
listens to your prayers at night
sends them heavenward
with a sprinkling of faery dust
Where God catches them
and smiles
While His angels shout for joy
and the night sky shivers in delight.
Amanda Edwards
Ashes
POSTED IN contemporary poetry October 27, 2013
Ashes
We carry the weight
of all our yesterdays,
in large awkward boxes
with no handles,
till aching arms
force us to lift it
to a shoulder.
Pain and sorrow
are packed in the bottom
for stability and balance
with laughter and joy
on top
to try and lighten the load.
Today
I will go outside
and burn them
knowing that
tomorrow I will
sift through the ashes.
Tom Hemeon
The Green Man
POSTED IN contemporary poetry October 27, 2013
The Green Man
I am a kiss that wakes the long dead winter,
a sleepsong that rouses new heart beats.
I am air and water, the fruit on the vine.
I am tomorrow, with memory in ancient tales
that told of rainbow colour, woven in rich greens,
my roots delve beyond the painted caves of Lascaux
I’m mineral, plant and animal, with touch of divine,
the tree of life grew the column of my spine.
In thickly forested places, I am the wood – the wood
is me. In earth I am the stone – the stone is me.
Carpenters and stonemasons carve me, form myriad
faces that grin and gurn, add lustre to my mystery.
I spew forth a fruiting vine from antlered head.
My breath blows upon the wings of time. Fingers
pay homage to the great dome of the sky where
sycamore, beech and oak leaves twine
with tendrils that flourish round my face.
My wildness is the preservation of the world,
there’s no city where man will recognise my grace,
illumination comes where nature is unfurled.
From PoetryZoo.Abigael
Gael Bage
Autumnal Dawn
POSTED IN contemporary poetry October 27, 2013
Autumnal Dawn
Dawn rises to a singed
orange horizon, her beauty
a prayer hung in the air.
The sleepy valley lies
shrouded in shadow where
dark trees slumber
Sun risen, flame red
like the berries that glint
on faded gold leaves.
The hydrangeas pink
and blue colours sun-faded
to a gentle, subtle hue.
In wabi sabi garments
autumn blends in perfection
with deeps of evergreen.
Gael Bage
Two Pairs Of Socks
POSTED IN contemporary poetry October 27, 2013
Two Pairs Of Socks
“Your poetry sucks.”
“What do you mean?”
her eyebrows knitting a sweater
and two pairs of socks.
“Your poetry section, it sucks.
Not enough for a good fire,
though god knows,
most of it should have been burned.”
“I don’t pick the books,
and who are you anyway?”
“Nobody,
you on the other hand must be the duster.”
Her hand moves toward a letter opener.
“I’m sorry” I said
bringing us back from the brink,
“I have these books I want”.
“Late charges” she says triumphantly,
“that will be ten dollars.”
“I don’t want to buy the library”
“You don’t get any more til you pay.”
Stomping them back to their shelves
I peel the label from the 1946 winner,
so the Pulitzer prize is now where it belongs,
a gold medallion on the Alden Nowlan.
Out the door, no books, just two pairs of socks.
Tom Hemeon
Stone
POSTED IN contemporary poetry October 22, 2013
Stone
God doesn’t live
inside a stone,
on top of a stone
or under a stone.
God
was always
a stone.
A Sisyphus stone
rolled forever
up and down
the mountains
of the absurd.
Should we wait
until the stone
grinds down,
Ares bored
with war;
for Hades
to unchain
the universe?
Perhaps there is
another way
Sisyphus, Hades
and Ares lost;
just throw away
the stone.
Tom Hemeon
Weeping Willows
POSTED IN contemporary poetry October 20, 2013
Weeping Willows
Peace lies
along the river bank
sit quietly
under a crack willow
her bark
is coarse and craggy
leaves hang
fringing the river
in cool shade
draped all around you
wafting gently
in the summer breeze
inhale deeply
the damp and earthy aroma
electric blue
damselfly flit in the reeds
fish
rise to take a fly
kingfisher
dive to take a fish
lose self
at One with mother nature
underneath
Britain’s most elegant tree.
Gael Bage
