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One Heart Calls Out To Another (Without Word)

Should one heart call out to another, without word,
Through the many miles that now separate them,
I wonder: 'will the call of my heart be heard? '
What about love, does it elevate them
To a different level, where words are no longer needed?
This heart calls out to its counterpoint, in another,
Yet I know not surely, whether the call is heeded-
Or perhaps, the latter heart, sees the former, as a bother!
Time shall surely reveal what is now, a mystery;
Will the call of this heart, find in the other, a response?
If I were to venture a guess, based upon our history,
I would say that time and space are not long for these bonds-
Naught shall stand in the way of this love, divined;
True love is a force of nature unto its own
And shall overcome all; it shall never be just left behind,
As though the refuse of time-as our's has shown!
True love distinguishes itself in its re-incarnation,
Where false love runs its course, then withers.
True love allows not, unworthy imitation-
As one may only gift the perpetuity it delivers!

poem by Maurice Harris
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He Got You

he got you into this art
of acting out things but not really
this harmful pretension
that which defrauds or swindles

it is just the art of mimicry
well, may be not just to entertain
but could be
also to survive

this is an art of life
imitating art and of
art imitating life oh,

this is all about disguises
the man disguising as a clown
to please the lonely kid in town

the clown in turn disguising as a man
to help another one

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poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Wide World of Intellectual Iliteracy-WWII

Slavery Institutionalized Slavery

You didn’t take me away from aplace
You extricated me from a sacred space Me

You developed and trained mu mind
To blend in with your kind
To put you in the fore front
And leave myself behind

My mind was open to assimilation
And closed to self-realization
Education was the agent of control
Substituting society for my soul
An act of self-suicide for the good of the whole

Was it not the great minds of our times that sanctioned
Self hatred
Made the truth oblique
Made education a conditioning process

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poem by Josephine DixonBanks
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Mimesis: Time Shift Re-interpreted

Plato
contrasted
mimesis

imitation
with diegesis
narrative

mimesis
morphed
shifted

mimesis
use changed
re-interpreted

mimesis
assumes
political

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poem by Terence George Craddock
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Narrative: Look Toward Home For The Holiday

Everyone’s talking of brave warriors—
Like you and the place where you’re assigned.
They say you’re inspired—stand for love
Devoted to country and mankind.

You don’t leave my mind day or nighttime,
Belong to me even in my dreams;
I’m either praying or reliving us
In one way or another it seems.

Sometimes I see your lonesome shadow
Framed by the horizon’s afterglow;
You’re quite worthy of imitation
As the loyal peacekeeper I know.

Tonight I placed a praying angel
Near a flaming Christmas candlelight;
On the windowsill, to light your way,
To the place your heart lives ev’ry night.

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poem by Caryl Ramsdale
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From: A King Of Kings, A King Among The Kings

Come, let us rejoice in James Joyce, in the greatness of this poet,
king, and king of poets
For he is our poor dead king, he is the monarch and Caesar of English,
he is the veritable King of the King's English

The English of the life of the city,
and the English of music;

Let them rejoice because he rejoiced and was joyous;
For his joy was superior, it was supreme, for it was accomplished
After the suffering of much evil, the evil of the torment of pride,
By the overcoming of disgust and despair by means of the confrontation of them
By the enduring of nausea, the supporting of exile, the drawing from
the silence of exile, the pure arias of the
hidden music of all things, all beings.
For the joy of Joyce was earned by the sweat of the bow of his mind
by the tears of the agony of his heart;
hence it was gained, mastered, and conquered,
(hence it was not a gift and freely given,
a mercy often granted to masters,

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poem by Delmore Schwartz
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Suitcase

Its silver clasp looks like a man grasping
his hands above his head in victory;
the latches, like twin hatchbacks headed away.

There are no wheels, just four steel nipples for sliding.
A hexagonal seal announces the defunct
"U.S. Trunk Company." The frame is wood—

big, heavy, cheap—covered with imitation leather,
its blue just slightly darker than Mom's eyes.
"It's beautiful. Much too expensive," she told Dad,

and kissed him. The lining is pink, quilted
acetate. Three sides have pouches with elastic tops—
stretched out now, like old underwear.

I watched Mom pack them with panties and brassieres
when I was so little she didn't blush.
The right front corner has been punctured and crushed.

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poem by Charles Harper Webb
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Left In a Comfortable Snore

Too pageantry.
With a trained and camera ready indulgence.
There is 'more' excitement,
In watching the wind blow snow into drifts.

There...
You may be in presence.
But a forced and unnatural delivery...
Leaves you detached.
Like a pair of mismatched socks!
Worn to shock...
But,
Bores.

Too polished!
Hypnotizing one into a deep sleep.
And left in a comfortable snore.

A connection to feeling,
Has been demolished.

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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I measure every Grief I meet (561)

I measure every Grief I meet
With narrow, probing, Eyes--
I wonder if It weighs like Mine--
Or has an Easier size.

I wonder if They bore it long--
Or did it just begin--
I could not tell the Date of Mine--
It feels so old a pain--

I wonder if it hurts to live--
And if They have to try--
And whether--could They choose between--
It would not be--to die--

I note that Some--gone patient long--
At length, renew their smile--
An imitation of a Light
That has so little Oil--

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poem by Emily Dickinson
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IMMENSELY DEAR (Revised)

A personal favourite is Symbolism, I prefer
symbolic special objects to the real, love the
purity of crystals with their ethereal power;
yet to convince me thoroughly snowflakes
need only ersatz imitation crystals

Charmed by symbolism of religious books
but dry catechisms are abhorrent – love the
significance of diamonds but do not want the
real thing – only symbols to magnify light,
the diamond itself is much too cold

Preferring as a child to play with boxes
and twigs clad in tinsel representing houses
and magic wands – anything suggesting
what it might be, then becoming whatever
I dream – drawn inexorably,

I love glitter – it says sunlight is creating
pearls and crystals of delicate things like

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poem by Margaret Alice Second
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