contemporary poetry
What It Is
POSTED IN contemporary poetry October 6, 2013
What It Is
It is what it is because of what it is not
Being what it is not because
Nothing is not what it isn’t
By virtue of what it is.
Notwithstanding that what it isn’t
Is not what defines what it is,
Though what it isn’t is part of the is that it is
Because it is without what it is not,
Therefore being part of what it is, nonetheless
It is still somewhat defined by what it is not—
am I making myself clear?
D E Navarro
Dark clouds over Salisbury
POSTED IN contemporary poetry October 4, 2013
Dark clouds over Salisbury
The sun stayed low all day.
Reddening the clouds.
Blinding me occasionally
as I turned a corner
or window shopping,
caught it’s reflection.
But the sun brought no warmth.
It stayed cold and the slush remained.
Too warm to freeze.
Too cold to melt.
The spire threw wide shadows
down my side of the street.
Dreary and gloomy
like the very world was unhappy,
and knew that I was ready to sell
my dad’s gold chain.
from the volume “Newbury Makar”,2013
John Black
Untitled
POSTED IN contemporary poetry October 4, 2013
Untitled
May I never become jaded through the poetry I write
May the words I use be never written purely out of spite
May the seeds of healthy inspiration grow inside my mind
May that inspiration never be too difficult to find
May creative winds blow gently if I stumble in my quest
May the flicker of a sudden thought allow me time to rest
May there be moments woven into rhyming artistry
May the colors and the patterns create written harmony
May I find peace and contentment as each day comes to an end
In this simple little offering I call my poetry friend.
Wanda Kiel-Rapana
Poetry For President
POSTED IN contemporary poetry October 4, 2013
Poetry For President
Tell me Mr President, I’d really like to know
How you built a whole campaign from your poetic flow?
Did you feel that strategy would be the way to go?
Did you seek advice from others also in the know?
Tel me Mr President, when you first felt the call
What was your game plan for this political football?
Given there were others more experienced and all
Or did you just know you would not be the one to fall?
Tell me Mr President, after the race was run
There was nothing left to do, nothing was left undone
All the votes were counted and you’d definitely won
Was the deal to gain appeal -“Go hard, but make it fun”?
Oh yes Mr President, before I go away
And leave you in peace to re design the USA
Love your long term vision to keep misery at bay?
“Do the rhyme wins every time”; looks like you’re here to stay!!
Wanda Kiel-Rapana
Mole
POSTED IN contemporary poetry October 3, 2013
Mole
Considering where he’s been
mole is quite sleek and clean.
Nose sharp, an arrow head’
his a keen sense of smell
guides him through the dark.
Moles eyes like pinheads
his dense fur, soft, so brown
it’s almost black. His pink
hands, are scoop shape, five
long white claws, to scrape
and toil, tunnel through soil
in search of worms, he churns
it to a fine tilth. The mole
is muscular and fat, he must
have eaten many juicy worms
before he ran into our cat.
Gael Bage
World Between Worlds
POSTED IN contemporary poetry September 30, 2013
World Between Worlds
Two lively green eyes
appraise her reflection.
A pretty face is mirrored
in the brass clock dial.
Trapped in time, afloat
inside rainbow bubbles.
She waits for them to burst.
juggles new spheres blown
from her mind.She watches
people frolic in the lake
of fire. Light streams out
from behind locked doors,
but there are no walls.
Past one door a cinder path
leads to the distant hills.
The sky upon the horizon
is a blaze of hot coals,
where clouds billow like smoke.
She sees many doors, no walls.
A blue flame burns bright
reflects on a mirrored door
opens to a walnut davenport.
She pens a poem quick before
raindrops bleed the colours.
I’m thunder and lightning
illumination of man’s spirit
a trigger for Earth to Eden,
a neon positive luminosity.
One who is moved by poetry.
I’m star dust on the road
to destiny, souls map with
heart aflame. A mystic seer
I’m your bolt from the blue,
poet’s third eye. As lemmings
we run to the edge of a cliff,
or we fly to our golden era ?
Gael Bage
Pregnant
POSTED IN contemporary poetry September 29, 2013
Pregnant
Elopes. Pregnant the first week.
Turns eighteen. Glows.
At commencement, her mama’s face
burns, but she is proud to show
the bulge beneath her skirt—
her life-till-now’s work.
The world is her bouquet—
dogwood with ten-penny wounds,
lacy fringe tree, meadowsweet,
morning glory in the hay.
In idle August, she hauls her belly
to the store for a Co-Cola.
The streets under her soles are
soft and hot as pudding.
The heat puddling the blacktop
looks so wet she could mop it up
and wring it into a cup,
but she sees it rise and shimmy
like her one silk blouse on the line.
She faints on Goolsby Street.
Night. He sleeps. Aroused
by heat and thunder, she
fingers the gouge in his cheek
from a knife fight over dice.
She runs her hand over his thighs,
caressing the old wound puckered
by a nail in a loose board.
To him, she’s already Mama.
He’s Daddy to her. She sighs,
My man, all mine.
He turns on his side. His arm rises
like a flag. The hand above her
hovers for hours as he sleeps.
The first week she hardly slept,
afraid of sudden collapse.
Always done it, he swears. But now,
she fears no blow or punch
from his hand that’s clenched
as if it holds dice and cocked
as if about to roll craps.
Stan Absher
Mary Ascending
POSTED IN contemporary poetry September 29, 2013
Mary Ascending
Eight couplets for your tale Magdalena
Antognetti, model for the Pilrgim’s Mary,
Infant in your arms, your face in afternoon sun
haloed by whispers: Trysts with Monsignor
Crescenzi, and Cardinal Montalto; shadows
cast by courtesan’s mantle in Corso’s grey hours.
Drowned woman from Tiber risen, so the story’s
told, you return to the living to portray Mary Dead.
Laying your body out, your limbs are washed
with vinegar. But staring at the assembled host
from painted eyes, it’s the countenance of a whore
they recognise, and cover your face with cloth.
Gathered in St Agostini’s floodlit chapel, Nokias
and Leicas now congregate at your feet. Standing tip-toe
at the doorstep, red dress taut against your thigh,
your eyes are upturned, as if you could fly.
Gershon Holtz
Untitled
POSTED IN contemporary poetry September 29, 2013
Untitled
Lone sentinel on Cape Smokey,
rooted in rock hard ground,
dancer in the wind,
guardian of the north Atlantic.
The distant sound of a fog horn
trembling your limbs,
naked to the cold and wet
of this dark island.
Cries of drowning men
captured by your branches,
drawn from your carved body
by the rosin and the bow.
Knowing its place on the mountain,
the lonely spruce
turns and bows
to its partner the wind.
Thomas Hemeon
England’s Rose
POSTED IN contemporary poetry September 23, 2013
England’s Rose
No longer in the first flush
blush red with splashes of cream,
at center a golden heart to draw
the bees. When my spines hook
you, take me tenderly with care
enjoy my honeyed essence.
Petals open wide, drink in sunlight
temptation bids you trace my curves
always a little wild I’ll ramble
tumble around you and flourish
with your support. I rise mature
red and fruitful with rosehips.
Gael Bage
