Quotes about robust, page 13
A Poem for Valentine
the girls they feel like flowers today
touched, fresh and loved
something to keep each leaf
of memory textured like roses
forever an 18 year old who could
dig into their garden of recollections
for a robust bloom of romance
fhe flower sellers too grin like love wishes
on the bright bouquets sent out to paint up
the life of blessed girls who have been
praying for a rainbow to love paradise
how they wish everyday can be a Valentine
when eager boys would help pile up
the cash boxes with their months' savings
when bouquet of roses can be sold
at five times their price right up
to three in the early morning
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poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Jaundice
I found you there, clad fully
In a tawny velvet in the visage
Of the sun seekers espionage
Cringing in the svelte beams
Seething through the yawning
Of the assuaging curtains and
The vestiges of your quintessence
Meander with the vacuous
And suspended breathing,
Fringing the cholera slathering
The solitary holidays
In this robust abode, a turret,
The sooty pockmarks
In the pallid tangerine bricks
Condensed the slumbering veneer
Like a hefty ripple in a cesspool
Garish rays swooned marauding
With prismatic buoying mirth
Rather rudimentary and hollow
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poem by Norman Santos
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The Dead Follow Every Wind
Logos of pride
Burning eyes of phallus poetry
The over man of Nietzsche
Caged in robust vanity
Scarborough of delicate sanity
We suffer like condemned tribes
The pall of Prometheus fire
All are punished in the true mirror
All are swarthy madmen
Along the shore a ray of sun
Wise hour deems blue asylum
Men of the seventh seal
Tombs of radiant jewels
She hands skeletons her potion
We dance like poised slaves
Numb in totem revelry
Circle around mountains of myth
No fountain of youth shall respite
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poem by Joseph Narusiewicz
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Yulo....
he passes by the house
though there is a doorbell he calls my name
(in fact, he is shouting that there is a man
with a covered face overtaking him and
takes refuge in the flowering bushes beside the fence)
i compromise and pretend that i agree with him
he is drunk, his wife left him, his children too
and lives in the old house
all alone,
and so where is the man? he says it is a shadow
a robust one, and it is running too fast past him
he is tipsy, his curly hair is glistening with oil
i mean it is unwashed for days
he is with a gay friend, a transvestite and
more beautiful than his wife
there is no man, there is no shadow,
i know, that he is lost, there is nothing to fear
but he has all these fears
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poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Egotistical Appeasement Paid: Ignored
Infertile lecturers driving dozens
of [post] college – aged [course run] lemmings
off... [structured] [sterile] [subscription] cliffs
of limited [secondary read] imagination.
Synopsis
secreted as university
toilet tagged graffiti
grandiosed.
Free thinking radical undergraduates
tiptoe through traditionalist minefields
imploding academia researched unsound
arrogance abortionist mentality bound.
Where grows choice rare grain
seeded cross-fertilized truth?
Where grows unique clairvoyant ray insight
transcendent as ultimate undisputable proof?
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poem by Terence George Craddock
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Poetry Is Dead
Is this the end?
Is this the death?
Death has not always been an end
It may be a new beginning
It could have been a funeral
But it has to be the matrimonial
Of lust and hunger
Alas! Poetry is dead
She died last night
Of cerebral malaria
In the febrile fits
Of plagued identity
In the rigors and chills
Of seasonal insanity
In the aches and pains
Of bodily desires
Poetry died
Silently, invisibly
In the blast
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poem by Dr Kamran Haider Bukhari
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Show me my Africa!
Show me my origin...
Show me my land...
Show me my Africa...
Shine and support the spirit of UBUNTU.
Take me back to where i belong,
Where birds fly well peacefully,
Where every creature is happy.
Let me hear African stories,
Let me see its natural beauty landscapes.
Show me my land...
The land of great heroes,
Where Nobel peace price winners were born.
Where fighting and murder is a sin,
Where all people wish one thing,
Where all people preach one thing,
Where all people practice one thing,
Where everyone wants PEACE.
Let me hear those voices of hope...
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poem by Siyabonga A nxumalo
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The Métier of Blossoming
Fully occupied with growing--that's
the amaryllis. Growing especially
at night: it would take
only a bit more patience than I've got
to sit keeping watch with it till daylight;
the naked eye could register every hour's
increase in height. Like a child against a barn door,
proudly topping each year's achievement,
steadily up
goes each green stem, smooth, matte,
traces of reddish purple at the base, and almost
imperceptible vertical ridges
running the length of them:
Two robust stems from each bulb,
sometimes with sturdy leaves for company,
elegant sweeps of blade with rounded points.
Aloft, the gravid buds, shiny with fullness.
One morning--and so soon!--the first flower
has opened when you wake. Or you catch it poised
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poem by Denise Levertov
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I'm New at This
A robust return to a 'then' that has diminished...
Complete with backyard barbecues,
And Sun drenched bathers.
Sitting along the family pool,
That's fenced in and envied...
By binocular using neighbors.
Can now be considered as historical occurrences...
Of a time when plastic reigned.
And good credit was an interpretation,
Of a bank that has closed.
With executives overqualified to flip burgers.
While those too poor to step through doors,
Without being escorted out by security guards...
Now find themselves annoyed by those complaining,
About what they don't have and the difficulties experienced...
Trying to feed themselves on foodstamps.
'You're kidding?
Well...
I'm one of those 'useless' welfare people.
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Visalakshi-2
Her husband died of a car accident.
It took place about three years ago.
Now she is free of encumbrances.
Hence I could talk to her as freely as
I did fifty two years back in her village
Where I met her, where we fell for each other.
I managed to get her phone number.
The last meeting of us was in her house
With her spouse, some twenty years ago.
She has married seven years after
Our episode, in the year I married,
Both being unaware of each other.
I saw her there after thirty two years
By when a lemon skinned beauty queen
Has turned into a dry skinned wrinkles.
I got her over phone and shared her grief.
She was upset, implying her bond with him.
She declined my offer of any meeting,
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poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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