contemporary poetry
the plot:
POSTED IN contemporary poetry July 15, 2013
the plot:
how long will this apple tree sustain the wither
gnarled limb unattended
hung in sad fruit
once loved tender
not a member of any orchard
never was
standing by itself
loved all the same
now casting thinnest of shadow
over farmer and wife
father and mother
as if misplaced
field creeping inward
bramble and bush
withering ages unseen
how long i wonder
inhaling idle cigarette
walking to car
how long i wonder.
George Gekas
The voices of water
POSTED IN contemporary poetry July 15, 2013
The voices of water
The voices of mountain water
slide down slope, shying at shallows,
circle through sandy-bottomed sinks,
shifting stones. “See,” they sing in unison,
“We shelter fish, sift gravel, sail fallen trees
off to shore somewhere else,
satisfy thirst and soul, make things grow.
We are a Sierra stream.”
But at night they disagree: Creek, Stream, River?
Rivulet, Waterway, Snowmelt, Rapids?
The shared sound they sashayed downstream with
disappears as sunlight does.
Stars appear in eddies; Stream takes off its mask
and it’s every splash for itself:
arias, arguments, yarnspinners and baritones.
Valkyries, lovers, distant mothers and owls.
Ghostriders, clowns. Hounds and whistlers.
All night the voices of water dance naked on the boulders.
They push and shove, bellow and bark.
They do-si-do, squeak, hoot and hum.
In the morning they whisper in unison.
They know how to look
like a small mountain stream.
Teresa McNeil MacLean
SAVE ME
POSTED IN contemporary poetry July 15, 2013
Save me
Rescue me
from the demons in my head
Save me
from the creatures
I have fed
Rescue me
from the church of Rome
Save me
to find my way home
Rescue me
we’ll never be alone
Save me
when the end comes near
Rescue me
we’ll have no fear
the biting rain
the sting of pain
a thought unchained
a runaway train
nothing to gain
the blackness of the night
covers me
thoughts of you
saved me
rhythms of the night
moved me
hypocrisy of the world
sickens me
lies of the church
disgust me
someone to blame
nothing but shame
the pounding rain
the screams of pain
a soul unchained
Glen Alexander
Unbelievers believe …
POSTED IN contemporary poetry July 6, 2013
Unbelievers believe …
Unbelievers believe they are right
Based upon a lack of insight
Speaking only of what they see
Disclosing its very paucity.An inner life they can’t describe
Is greeted with a diatribe
A wholesome fear of being misled
Frightens them away from what is said.Mistaking faith for blindness
Only fools show kindness
Images appear
From the things they see and hear.Courage to engage in symbolic thought
May give them a glimpse of what they sought
When truth was found in denying
Things they had not seen for trying.
Raymond Joy
A poet is a dandelion
POSTED IN contemporary poetry July 4, 2013
A poet is a dandelion
The dandelion
Sends out its seed
on parachute wings
drifting, noticing,
catching the breeze
a twirling fairy dance
spreading magic to
the Universe,
taking root amongst
us with confidence
and ease
Amanda Edwards
If I were a button
POSTED IN contemporary poetry July 4, 2013
If I were a button
If I were a button,
What button should I be?
Perhaps a little pearly button
To show the magic side of me.
Maybe a chunky button
Which can’t quite fit the hole
No matter how you twist me
I’ll never fit the mould.
A bobbly little button
So frivolous and gay,
Alas you’ll lose me often
With your rough and tumble play.
Square or round or oblong,
Big or small or plain,
Snaking down your shirt front
Not one of me the same.
Or rattling in a button jar
With all my button friends
Waiting to be picked by you
To fasten your loose ends.
Amanda Edwards
New Zealand
A Special Day
POSTED IN contemporary poetry July 1, 2013
A Special Day
Each time it comes around I search for words,
for what is just one day in every year,
that reveals itself in several iterations:
some bring celebration, some a tear;
some can bring together lasting friends
and then surprise you when you feel them sway
your otherwise unshaken disposition;
then some will come like any other day
and make you feel you sort of wish there would
be someone, who could make it otherwise;
bring you flowers, take you somewhere special,
for a picnic with some birds and butterflies.
Perhaps they will prepare a special meal,
the one you always relish, come what may;
command your sense of duty take a rest,
allow you to indulge yourself all day.
But, come the day, when someone says I love you
and brings a cup of tea for you in bed
and says this is your day, do as you will
doesn’t this mean just as much instead?
John Anstie
Fortune
POSTED IN contemporary poetry June 29, 2013
FortuneThey see our hard earned fortune there,
in marbled city suites,
floating on a silky sail,
the nap of leather seats.We had the opportunity,
the pool of genes in code,
a secret reservation for
a public school and Spode.We had the opportunity
to own the reason why,
that predicates no chance for those
unable to comply.Our felony, was founded on
a life of common good,
to serve as flotsam in the sea
of guns and power and food.Consuming guns and power and food,
an irony indeed
that helps the cause of those, who crave
a hope of being freed?It’s more because they need the work
to feed their flesh and blood;
prevent starvation, declining health
and keep them from the flood.But threats to blood will ensure
their easy motivation.
So much to recommend the source
of limitless privation.They have much more, by way of help:
attention of the press;
the poets and the playwrights too,
but nothing of redress.It’s irony to say ’twas fuelled,
on rapid growth by debt
who is to benefit thereby,
who is to win and, yet …who is to say what fortune means
if nothing else but luck?
Should we condemn all those who have,
who wouldn’t give a buckfor those whose sad congenital crime,
their birthright, is to blame,
for them, their lot, their plight, their fight,
but who should feel the shame..?
UK
Compassion Hurts
POSTED IN contemporary poetry June 26, 2013
Compassion HurtsConnected to everything
we carry the universe
or are crushed by it.
We must be strong to love
the world. It’s hard
to sit at the table
of earth’s worst horrors
My rich imagination
is the power that shoves
me off the seat of self
and shows how blind
my eyes turned in can be.Let me close enough to you
that your tears will appear
on my cheek, as you seek
to share experience
that I may never meet.
I must grow strong enough
to love the world as it is
and be empty enough
to stay with your pain.
Let us huddle together
to keep out the cold,
for we need eyes
that still can weep,
and smiles so big
we can’t see ourselves.
Gael Bage
UK
My Gran had a Time machine
POSTED IN contemporary poetry June 26, 2013
My Gran had a Time machineMy Gran had a time machine
There’s no other explanation.
She had no CCTV screen
or snitches to grass me in,
from friends or neighbours looking
behind twitching curtains, unseen.
But she always knew what I had done
when I was naughty, bad or cursed,
or played cards on the Sabbath day
or stole or spat or worse.
No lie detector tests for her-
just those burning eyes
that looked deep down inside you.
and saw right through your lies.
She was always an old lady so
no point of view of a kid.
no secret mirrors or x-ray specs
or invisibility cloak where she hid.
She wasn’t psychic or a 7th daughter
Of a 7th daughter, it would seem
There’s no other explanation.
My Gran had a time machine
John Black
UK
