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No yardstick

No yardstick

"You can't display my picture"
If you are not confident and sure
I am nobody's imagination
I want to preserve that beautiful relation

You poets are quite imaginary
Draw the picture and raise height unnecessary
Get so much involved with work and later feel sorry
Much of part emotionally drawn with worry

Fear grips mind with sole concern
The inspirational object may slip away in turn
The heart may feel hurt and fingers burn
To bring tragic end futile search in turn

How come she refuses for mere character show?
That raises her status on horizon to grow
As river rushes in spate to meet her future

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poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Stuck In A Dream

How do we quell the angering giant.
With a cradle and song to sleep.
Into a far away place we dream.
Visiting the pastures where it is always green.
Drinking from the magical stream.
A cool refreshing taste.
On the astral plane we do embrace.
In fantasies we do live.
If only for moment.
Before reality forsakes us.
Speaking in foreign tongues of their being no escapes.
What we see, what we know, oh how can this be.
Questioning the entire galaxy.
If for nothing else then reason.
To explain away the impossible painful memories.
A empty door to empty space.
Steps to retrace.
Following like lost little sheep.
Once the wool is gone, is it possible we might freeze?
A fear of who we are.

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poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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True Origin of the Ewes

Some say that we come from old Tado
others say ancestral home is Notsie
but our traits point us to old Egypt
while our practices do depict Jews
in dorflefle, trekosi and homtodzo

does what we shroud now tritely aloft
secret dialects we speak in sacred shrines
do explain or not why it sounds Hebrew
on the lips of our stark illiterate priests
or a minority feared, envied this much?

if our open secrets we hide in silence
to explicate the prejudice we feel now
is our incurable idolatory from ages past
stoked the wrath of the Ancient of Days
to estrange us in pillage from the old fold?

what excuse then do we have as curators
to our perplexed progeny in strange lands

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poem by Dela Bobobee
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Queen without crown

I am queen but have no crown,
I still rule firmly but people not frown,
Down to dusk and dust to down,
All big cities and small small town,

I am straight and act very swift,
Curb the crime an deal very strict,
Criminals on run and their entry restrict,
Happy all towns, cities and district,

What do I ask more from citizens?
Obey the rules and not prove burdens,
Never become unruly and create more hurdles,
State may have peace with no more loop holes,

State is not body but holy invisible institution,
May not have written all in symbolic constitution,
Still it remains and has its existence,
Only welfare measures and no other insistence,

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poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Sheltered Garden

I have had enough.
I gasp for breath.

Every way ends, every road,
every foot-path leads at last
to the hill-crest --
then you retrace your steps,
or find the same slope on the other side,
precipitate.

I have had enough --
border-pinks, clove-pinks, wax-lilies,
herbs, sweet-cress.

O for some sharp swish of a branch --
there is no scent of resin
in this place,
no taste of bark, of coarse weeds,
aromatic, astringent --
only border on border of scented pinks.

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poem by Hilda Doolittle
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A Highly-Colored Romance

Ben Green was a New-Hampshire boy,
Who stood full six feet two:
A jovial chap this same Ben Green,
Though he had oft been blue.
He loved a girl named Olive Brown,
Who lived near Bixby's pond,
And who, despite her brunette name,
Was a decided blonde.
"A Highly Colored Romance."
A pink of rare perfection she,
The belle of all the town;
Though Ben oft wished her Olive Green,
Instead of Olive Brown.
And she loved Ben, and said that nought
Should mar their joy serene;
And, when she changed from Olive Brown,
'Twould surely be to Green.
She kept her word in-violet,
And vowed, ere she was wed,
Although when Brown she had Be(e)n Green.

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poem by Charles Follen Adams from Yawcob Strauss and Other Poems
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Haunted Chambers

The lamp-lit page is turned, the dream forgotten;
The music changes tone, you wake, remember
Deep worlds you lived before, deep worlds hereafter
Of leaf on falling leaf, music on music,
Rain and sorrow and wind and dust and laughter.

Helen was late, and Miriam came too soon;
Joseph was dead, his wife and children starving;
Elaine was married and soon to have a child.
You dreamed last night of fiddler crabs with fiddles.
They played a buzzing melody, and you smiled.

Tomorrow—what ? And what of yesterday ?
Through soundless labyrinths of dream you pass,
Through many doors to the one door of all.
Soon as it's opened we shall hear a music:
Or see a skeleton fall.

We walk with you. Where is it that you lead us ?
We climbed the muffled stairs beneath high lanterns.

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poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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The House Of Dust: Part 03: 03: Haunted Chambers

The lamplit page is turned, the dream forgotten;
The music changes tone, you wake, remember
Deep worlds you lived before,—deep worlds hereafter
Of leaf on falling leaf, music on music,
Rain and sorrow and wind and dust and laughter.

Helen was late and Miriam came too soon.
Joseph was dead, his wife and children starving.
Elaine was married and soon to have a child.
You dreamed last night of fiddler-crabs with fiddles;
They played a buzzing melody, and you smiled.

To-morrow—what? And what of yesterday?
Through soundless labyrinths of dream you pass,
Through many doors to the one door of all.
Soon as it's opened we shall hear a music:
Or see a skeleton fall . . .

We walk with you. Where is it that you lead us?
We climb the muffled stairs beneath high lanterns.

[...] Read more

poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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Looking

I'm standing here..
On the threshold of change.

Standing on a precipice
High as the sky
Thin as a hair
Sharp as a razor.

And, I'm looking below

One wrong move, and, I'll be cut to pieces..

I don't know
Where to look anymore..

I've looked high and low
In the eyes of strangers

I never found me, and I haven't found you.

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poem by Rabia Minhas
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Accidentally Finding Aglaia

I was startled and happy
Accidentally Finding Aglaia
On Ushakov Avenue
Near the coffee shop
On the summery day
After not having seen her
For several years
That witnessed my divorce
As well as other dramatic downfalls
Like the loss of friends
Through tragic ends.

She reminded me of our youth
On Dnipro beaches
Swimming in the sunlight
And kissing in the sand
As children laughed at us
And then later holdings hands
Nears St. Catherine’s Cathedral
Where her mother wed.

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poem by Uriah Hamilton
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