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The Hueless Love

Unto that love must we through fire attain,
Which those two held as breath of common air;
The hands of whom were given in bond elsewhere;
Whom Honour was untroubled to restrain.

Midway the road of our life's term they met,
And one another knew without surprise;
Nor cared that beauty stood in mutual eyes;
Nor at their tardy meeting nursed regret.

To them it was revealed how they had found
The kindred nature and the needed mind;
The mate by long conspiracy designed;
The flower to plant in sanctuary ground.

Avowed in vigilant solicitude
For either, what most lived within each breast
They let be seen: yet every human test
Demanding righteousness approved them good.

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poem by George Meredith
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Depression's Impressions Variation of Monotony In Monochrome

Dusk dips down into darkness scarred
clouds backdropp moonless night,
day'd drips away, its greyness marred
by no hope glaring bright.

Time slips upon a wishing star
which blinks, then disappears,
trips out of touch, so far, too far,
and never re-appears.

Deep frozen tears suspend vain hope
on sable background dropp grim,
unconsciousness suspends pain's scope
choice sinks, control can't swim.

Depression seems to draw a blank
across whatever's screen,
enshrouds in clouds, wreathes thankless plank
from which steep dive is seen
to set scene tissue to ignore

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poem by Jonathan Robin
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Bones, A.B. is Reminded

Men of the sea (said Bones, A.B.)
Is touchy coves and curious,
They stands a lot, till some dark plot
Gets 'em all hot an' furious.
Tricks with their food brings on a mood
That's apt to be real shirty.
That's how come we once struck at sea
In days when ways was dirty
Them blastin', blazin', hazin' days
When ships an' seas was dirty.

We was 'Frisco bound in a ship ill-found
An' scarce a sound plank in 'er,
Wheh cook speaks free, an' he says, says he:
'There's no plum-duff for dinner!'
'Wot? No plum-duff?' we answers gruff
An' snarky like, an' surly.
'Avast!' says we. 'We'll strike at sea
Till we gets it, late or early
Down marlinspikes! The whole crew strikes!

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Missing in action

Although she’s mopping the kitchen floor,
Ella is crying.

Words come out of her husband’s mouth.
Some variation of “Stop now, Ella.”
Ed’s a good man,
keeps his lawn trimmed,
stays away from liquor and the racetrack.

Neighbours bring meals.
Roast chicken, gumbo, lasagna.
Ella remembers her father saying,
“Food is love, the only way some folks can speak.”

Roland’s room.
Ella stands at its threshold,
looks again at the wall poster of Sly Stone
wearing a rainbow-coloured cap,
on stage at Woodstock,
once a hit-maker,

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poem by Peter Bakowski
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The Aeolian Harp

_At The Surf Inn_

List the harp in window wailing
Stirred by fitful gales from sea:
Shrieking up in mad crescendo--
Dying down in plaintive key!

Listen: less a strain ideal
Than Ariel's rendering of the Real.
What that Real is, let hint
A picture stamped in memory's mint.

Braced well up, with beams aslant,
Betwixt the continents sails the _Phocion,_
For Baltimore bound from Alicant.
Blue breezy skies white fleeces fleck
Over the chill blue white-capped ocean:
From yard-arm comes--'Wreck ho, a
wreck!'

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poem by Herman Melville
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When A Feller's Itching To Be Spanked

W'EN us fellers stomp around, makin' lots o' noise,
Gramma says, 'There's certain times comes to little boys
W'en they need a shingle or the soft side of a plank;'
She says 'we're a-itchin' for a right good spank.'
An' she says, 'Now thes you wait,
It's a-comin' — soon or late,
W'en a fellers itchin' fer a spank.'
W'en a feller's out o' school, you know how he feels,
Gramma says we wriggle 'roun like a lot o' eels.
W'y it's like a man that's thes home from out o' jail.
What's the use o' scoldin' if we pull Tray's tail?
Gramma says, tho', 'thes you wait,
It's a-comin' — soon or late,
You'se the boys that's itchin' to be spanked.'
Cats is funny creatures an' I like to make 'em yowl,
Gramma alwus looks at me with a awful scowl
An' she says, 'Young gentlemen, mamma should be thanked
Ef you'd get your knickerbockers right well spanked.'
An' she says, 'Now thes you wait,
It's a-comin' — soon or late,'

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poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Tribute To The Jailer's Daughter

That which has entered through my eyes
Has most certainly progressed to dry my tongue
And like yesterday, my sanity has all but gone
Tracking through the woods in search of love.
Love that was found but does not make love,
For her eyes –like diamonds- are set on another
Whom she gazed upon from her high chair.
And I admit he’s fair, but knows not she’s there.

So, heed my call, and dance, my dearest fool,
With hands on your head, dance for your jewel.
Dance for me, dance, dance, and make me jolly.
Dance on the sand and then dance on the sea.
For the ship is battered and sinking in waves,
Dance on the plank, and dance, dance to your grave.
Below lies your redemption - I do not lie
Dance for all, dance, so you alone may die.

Though I haven’t a womb, something has moved.
My sacks are too full, know me, and that I’ll prove.

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poem by Leslie Alexis
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Taking Off Emily Dickinson's Clothes

First, her tippet made of tulle,
easily lifted off her shoulders and laid
on the back of a wooden chair.

And her bonnet,
the bow undone with a light forward pull.

Then the long white dress, a more
complicated matter with mother-of-pearl
buttons down the back,
so tiny and numerous that it takes forever
before my hands can part the fabric,
like a swimmer's dividing water,
and slip inside.

You will want to know
that she was standing
by an open window in an upstairs bedroom,
motionless, a little wide-eyed,
looking out at the orchard below,

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poem by Billy Collins
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In A/C With Ghosts

You can shuffle and scuffle and scold,
You can rattle the knockers and knobs,
Or batter the doorsteps with buckets of gold
Till the Deputy-Governor sobs.
You can sneak up a suitable plank
In a frantic endeavor to see—
But what do they do in the Commonwealth Bank
When the Big Door bangs at Three?

Listen in the cellars, listen in the vaults,
Can’t you hear the tellers turning somersaults?
Can’t you hear the spectres of inspectors and directors
Dancing with the phantoms in a Dead Man’s Waltz?
Some are ghosts of nabobs, poverty and stray bobs,
Midas and his mistress, Mammon and his wife;
Other ones are sentries, guarding double entries,
Long-forgotten, double-dealing, troubled double-life.
Down among the pass-books, money lent and spent,
Down among the forests of the Four Per Cent.,
Where the ledgers meet and moulder, and the overdrafts grow older,

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poem by Kenneth Slessor
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Scavenging Ravens

I am so scared to close my nose,
as I may offend the deplorable souls,
An earthen pot filled with boiling rice,
comfortably sits in the middle of flies,
Everyone's waste is disposed here,
varieties of things in variant grade,
rotten, rotting and sale able plastics,
two human squat there to separate,
what other disposed, have some values,
when ever I walk by the dumpster,
at the sides of these main roads,
I try to walk faster, not to inhale,
the horrible smell of decaying garbage,
the other day I was forced to stop,
the traffic jam created by,
around ten rickshaws and a bullock cart,
I tried to take a deep breath,
and walk past as fast as I could,
Then I saw the bed that was laid,
between the dumpster and the wall,

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poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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