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Dreamcatcher

There are no dreams that go astray,
there is no duty one must pay,
sleep taps spontaneous recall
unwraps capped limits one and all,
discarding strictures though men say
obey.

Fey mind behind blind mask may rise
to challenge stereotypes, surprise.
Imagination's magnet makes
light of past downcast, fast mistakes,
inner orbits [b]ring twinned sway
night, day.

One hand may weave a web as fine
as silken spider's, line by line,
mind mesmerized, net-knit, winged, may
hoodwink [l]one hand when interplay
is woken by unspoken sign
today.

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poem by Jonathan Robin
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I Wonder Atop the Dunes

Will your Summer breeze,
Captivate my thoughts on Fall.
When the air is thick,
And hot with sticky humidity?

Will my Autumn wishes,
Be of those you select and pick?

I like to sit atop the dunes,
At Cape Cod and Padre Island.
I am closer to my thoughts.
When the seagulls and waves,
Exchange as nature wishes.
With sounds that attract,
My need to be distracted.

Then I make eye contact with it.
Pulling me in like a magnet!

And I see you...

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Dream Matcher's Response to Dreamcatcher's Dream Hatcher - 1518 - Current Version

'The stranger by the sandman's side
had moonlight in his hair
His eyes were blue like sapphire stars
His face was wondrous fair' K Smart

There are no dreams that go astray,
there is no duty one must pay,
where spontaneity on call
may conquer limits one and all,
discarding strictures though men say
obey.

Fey angel eyes may mesmerise,
can take fond Cupid by surprise,
attraction's magic magnet makes
light of past downcast, fast mistakes
repairs to pair two hearts' twinned sway
night, day.

One hand may weave a web as fine

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poem by Jonathan Robin
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An end to activities

Day is full of hectic activities and come to an end
Tile to pack up in time and feelers are sent
You are taken off the mind for the moment
Homeward journey with lot of hopes and movements

Remembering all advices given before leaving home
Not to miss a single call especially coming from
No energy is left in body still fell fresh and energetic
Feet move in one direction without being pulled from magnet

It is real home coming with no worries or tension
Days work left in office and not to find any mention
It is real test to hide it in most sober and diplomatic way
Wife too may not notice while serving water in tray

Evening brings special message of making another move
All the fears and anxieties are left behind or removed
The mild wind may blow from all the directions
It is time to get fresh and prepare for love actions

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poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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The Pastor's Letter

At twenty eight he had a ministry,
They said for him it was a prophecy.
Fired up, schooled, oh so brilliant,
Preached with an eloquence defiant.

After a year with the same congregation,
He met the lady that caught his attention.
Confused he was at the sudden attraction
But her eyes, they held his heart's condition.

The devil knew just where to strike him,
For he cunningly knows each man's whim.
Love filled the pastor's heart to the brim,
No one will ever know, or so it seems.

The lady, she was a delicate being,
At forty, her appeal like a magnet did bring
Unaware and naive at the hidden suffering
She was causing her young pastor, that poor thing.

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poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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Parrot In Paradise

Parrot in the cyclone eye
spread his sodden wings to dry.
Wall of wind approaching sly
snapped him up and flung him high.

Swept aloft a hundred mile,
dropped on black volcanic isle,
Parrot viewed the ashy pile;
not the jolliest exile.

Parrot flew around the peak,
finding there a pleasing scene.
Brought a smile to his beak,
a little paradise of green.

After roaming full extent
sadly, it seemed evident,
on this fertile lava vent
he alone was resident.

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poem by Diane Hine
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The Dark Companion

There is an orb that mocked the lore of sages
   Long time with mystery of strange unrest;
The steadfast law that rounds the starry ages
   Gave doubtful token of supreme behest.

But they who knew the ways of God unchanging,
   Concluded some far influence unseen --
Some kindred sphere through viewless ethers ranging,
   Whose strong persuasions spanned the void between.

And knowing it alone through perturbation
   And vague disquiet of another star,
They named it, till the day of revelation,
   "The Dark Companion" -- darkly guessed afar.

But when, through new perfection of appliance,
   Faith merged at length in undisputed sight,
The mystic mover was revealed to science,
   No Dark Companion, but -- a speck of light.

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poem by James Brunton Stephens
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Fly On The Window

Fly on the window, trying to get out
for hours, incessant erratic movement,
as if it were looking for a parking spot.
Strokes its legs as if it were sharpening carving knives.
Firesticks. Witching wands. Who knows?
Nothing ignites. Cul de sac. Dead end.
Aerial view of Captain Cook exploring Bella Coola,
a kamikaze at Midway looking down
into a totally translucent sea
that proves there's an outside on the bottom
all the way to the bank across the street.
Will undaunted, the ferocity of life,
and its commitment to it,
its savage insistence on
walking itself to death on a windowpane
as immaculate as the grimy glass
even in something the size
of a mythically inflated punctuation mark.

Musca. Fly. Liar. Spawn of Beelzebub.

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poem by Patrick White
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Proletaria

THE SUNNY rounds of Earth contain
An obverse to its Day,
Our fertile Vagrancy’s domain,
Wan Proletaria.

From pole to pole of Poverty
We stumble through the years,
With hazy-lanterned Memory
And Hope that never nears.

Wherever Plenty’s crop invites
Our pitiful brigades,
Lurk cannoneers of Vested Rights,
Juristic ambuscades;

And here hangs Rent, that squalid cage
Within which Mammon thrusts,
Bound with the fetter of a wage,
The helots of his lusts.

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poem by Bernard O'Dowd
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I Make This In A Warring Absence

I make this in a warring absence when
Each ancient, stone-necked minute of love's season
Harbours my anchored tongue, slips the quaystone,
When, praise is blessed, her pride in mast and fountain
Sailed and set dazzling by the handshaped ocean,
In that proud sailing tree with branches driven
Through the last vault and vegetable groyne,
And this weak house to marrow-columned heaven,

Is corner-cast, breath's rag, scrawled weed, a vain
And opium head, crow stalk, puffed, cut, and blown,
Or like the tide-looped breastknot reefed again
Or rent ancestrally the roped sea-hymen,
And, pride is last, is like a child alone
By magnet winds to her blind mother drawn,
Bread and milk mansion in a toothless town.

She makes for me a nettle's innocence
And a silk pigeon's guilt in her proud absence,
In the molested rocks the shell of virgins,

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poem by Dylan Thomas
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