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That Mysterious Waves Of Pain

christmas day
i saw the boy
the white boy
skiny, thiny thing
who could only be
two scores of age
smiling so
innocently in phuket
the elders surrounding him
cajoling
i saw a little boy
black plump little thing
barely two, i guess
almost nude, running
carefree, near the sea
close to the waves
and into the waves
looking, discovering
danger, no,
a thousand miles away

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poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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The Christmas Day before Tsunami In Phuket

Christmas day
I saw the boy
the white boy
skinny, thin thing
who could only be
two scores of age
smiling so innocently
in Phuket’s Patong Beach
the elders surrounding him, cajoling
I saw a little boy
black plump little thing
barely two, I guess,
almost nude, running
carefree, near the sea
close to the waves
and into the waves
looking, discovering
danger, no,
a thousand miles away
I saw a granddad

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poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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The Day Before The Tsunami in Phuket 2004

H! That white boy
Skiny, thiny thing
Did god claim him too?

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christmas day
i saw the boy
the white boy
skiny, thiny thing
who could only be
two scores of age
smiling so
innocently in phuket
the elders surrounding him
cajoling
i saw a little boy
black plump little thing
barely two, i guess
almost nude, running

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poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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The Village Saturday Night

The damsel from the field returns,
The sun is sinking in the west;
Her bundle on her head she sets,
And in her hand she bears
A bunch of roses and of violets.
To-morrow is a holiday,
And she, as usual, must them wear
Upon her bodice, in her hair.
The old crone sits among her mates,
Upon the stairs, and spins;
And, looking at the fading light,
Of good old-fashioned times she prates,
When she, too, dressed for holidays,
And with light heart, and limb as light,
Would dance at night
With the companions of her merry days.
The twilight shades around us close,
The sky to deepest blue is turned;
From hills and roofs the shadows fall,
And the new moon her face of silver shows.

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poem by Count Giacomo Leopardi
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0135An informal note to God

In case you were on holiday, this nice sunny weather,
(and may I say, what a great idea the Sun is?)
I thought I'd dropp you a line to say, in case you missed it
that our great President, the Bush
who burns with virtue like an oil well yields,
approves that 'Intelligent Design' should be made
along with the Theory of Evolution
a cornerstone of the education of our great nation.

So just in case you felt a little reduced in function
and come back from holiday to
'Oh, were you away? We hadn't missed you...'
and your new official status, that you were simply around
(around? hmmm) to 'flick the switch'
while two something-or-others got together
to evolve a Creation with its quaint old ideas, like love,
(and by the way, your bright idea
of one, two and three, etc., was cute, too...)

I'd just like to take this opportunity to say

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poem by Michael Shepherd
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The Evening Of The Holiday

The night is mild and clear, and without wind,
And o'er the roofs, and o'er the gardens round
The moon shines soft, and from afar reveals
Each mountain-peak serene. O lady, mine,
Hushed now is every path, and few and dim
The lamps that glimmer through the balconies.
Thou sleepest! in thy quiet rooms, how light
And easy is thy sleep! No care thy heart
Consumes; and little dost thou know or think,
How deep a wound thou in my heart hast made.
Thou sleepest; I to yonder heaven turn,
That seems to greet me with a loving smile,
And to that Nature old, omnipotent,
That doomed me still to suffer. 'I to thee
All hope deny,' she said, 'e'en hope; nor may
Those eyes of thine e'er shine, save through their tears.'

This was a holiday; its pleasures o'er,
Thou seek'st repose; and happy in thy dreams
Recallest those whom thou hast pleased to-day,

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poem by Count Giacomo Leopardi
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Merry Questmas

Once upon a Christmastime
A number of years ago
I thought about my Christmases
With a warm and nostalgic glow.

A vivid memory of my youth
Combined fun, excitement and pretty,
Was the holiday trip I’d take with Mom,
To see Christmas in New York City.

I wanted to share my childhood
And of all the things I did.
It might add more meaning to stories
That start; “Well, when I was a kid.”

We’ll take the kids to Manhattan,
It’s really not that far.
Only ninety minutes by Long Island rail
Or maybe, a three hours drive by car.

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poem by Edward Iacona
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April Ate

April 2012 is National Poetry MOnth
April Ate
Late for my own Funeral twice denied my citezen rights becoming blind online the power cord they sold me at wal mart is not the right kind for my machine is in need of a screen refused service and gouged hard a P C Outlet is a joke they must have seen me coming over worked and trying despiritdly to type between the cracks of Jesus on my broken LED screen it is almost hopeless unless eye get the right cord or a refund from Wal Mart nothing can be done quickly eye must ride like the wind to be free again the song video at least keeps playing in my mind as April Ate my time. The chord is made for a home computor a tower plugs in the monitor they simply got it wrong. Meanwhile there is a movie at the Bijou Eastern Theatre called the Western SKy is King it is in the Southern Hemisphere of the Northern Lighting is very dim. The Easter Holiday will not prevent me from most things that need to be procrasstinated then putt off the buss then the wal mart then back to the Alamo eye wish to see the pawn shop offerings and then prehaps the Movie iff its not raining in the Ampitheater Saint Anthony must be willing now to help me all these schedulings on a Holiday notwithstanding as eye vainly pen this ode to predestination people who help me only take from the things they need they seek the power and the edifice it all belongs in the pockets of the thieves there is only a few people who actually help me for me to have these things are mine to them it is still fine they fleece the innocent and dine my macho friend is two macho for eye think someday to get him in trouble he will be too macho to someone who is not the dog the little puppy is what he has called me for not fighting at the dropp of a hat it is not something to be enjoyed as they must think to wish to fight all the time yet he shows me only talking no bruises eye think he must think eye am not very macho in his eye think it fits my theme to be the little puppy dog is to be tied to all the living and it is better to be alive then dead a hero on Good FrYday dont you see it April Ate

poem by Charles Hice
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Face Down On The Bureau

'This holiday season' she said, I will not cry into the pity towel
or prostrate myself on the ground floor of self-loathing and self-denial
I will not sink into hate-mongering and dagger-eyed revenge dreams
for these taint the soul and foul the spirit.

I’ll resist the demi-urge of vengeful retaliations
secretly committed slights and verbal cuts
aimed at you across the tabletops
of friends gravely nodding
offering sympathy.

I will roll up my heart-break carpet and put it away in my doily-topped bureau where your photo is turned face down beside my stack of lavender sachets and the box of turtles I had meant to give you before I found out
about her.

Bruised true but also elevated, yes elevated
not from the harm done but from my own new vision
as the kind of person who can summon
the souls spirit and see in my mirror a better person come
emerging from the shadows;
not smiling that would be an untruth,

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poem by Lonnie Hicks
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She

We had been going steady for over a year
and she assumed a wedding was near.
But I was too young and enjoyed my life,
and wasn’t ready just yet to take a wife.

Though two years younger at seventeen
she was the most sensitive girl I’d ever seen.
If we argued she would openly weep,
she worked me well, even in my sleep.

She filled my mind when I wasn’t with her,
she was my Cleopatra, my Mona Lisa.
I shared her insatiable appetite for sex
and never knew when it would happen next.

She spoke of children and wedding rings,
detached houses, and domestic things.
I didn’t actually say that I didn’t disagree,
which really was ambiguous of me.

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poem by Orlando Belo
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