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Mastering The Self, Though Uglier At First, And Clumsier...

sometimes you look for a pattern
you walk at the road leading to some other paths
along the way are the yellow flowers
wild with the rain last night
and giving the best
their bests this morning
when you still have to wash your hands
and clean your shoes
and comb your hair
in such a parting mode
between your
chin
a canal of
indifference

there are so many patterns to see
how does this rays of light come like daggers? are they like knives
or simply flowing waters in a pattern of subsumed invincibility?

distrust of self makes one find patterns

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poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The early blackbird

A blackbird has been sitting outside the window
for some time this morning, and
I’m trying to tune in to its blackbird thoughts,
if indeed it’s burdened with such tiresome
delaying tactics to action…

it seems indecisive, though; evidently, plumply,
having well breakfasted; does
the head switching left, right,
a little slower than with alarm,
signify some Hamlet thought?

it could be wondering, if,
in view of what a blackbird would call
global warming rather than
an early summer,

it should sing?

since the early bird, it must have been

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poem by Michael Shepherd
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Elegy For Brenda Fasie

There will be another special
Friday when the true lovers of music
Will gather world wide to honor
Your legendary memory
There will be another Weekend
Special but no imitation will
Equal the fabulous majesty
Of the original classic
Those who hoarded your fortunes
Will be brought to justice
They're watched and they kow it
Goodbye pride of our country
There was never a dull moment
In your eventful unforgettable life
Goodbye our beautiful rose
Goodbye queen of our music
They refuse to build your statue
The will not induct you
In the hall of fame the deafening
Silence of officialdom means

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poem by Ngaka Motaung
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The Poet Orders His Tomb

I summon up Panofskv from his bed
Among the famous dead
To build a tomb which, since I am not read,
Suffers the stone’s mortality instead;

Which, by the common iconographies
Of simple visual ease,
Usurps the place of the complexities
Of sound survivors once preferred to noise:

Monkeys fixed on one bough, an almost holy
Nightmarish sloth, a tree
Of parrots in a pride of family,
Immortal skunks, unaromatically;

Some deaf bats in a cave, a porcupine
Quill-less, a superfine

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poem by Edgar Bowers
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O' Tigress of Those Veiled Temptations

O' tigress of those veiled temptations hinted.
Your slow prowl eases,
To goose bump my laments.

Foolish I'm not feeling,
As a drool spills to unleash my naughty thoughts.
Nor am I feeling embarrassed at all,
I use my sleeve to wipe it off.

I wish I could pick up,
My defenses quick.
After exposing publicly,
My uncontrolled shaking.
And trembling lips.

How simply I can be,
By you distressed so willfully.

You tigress of those veiled temptations...
Hypnotically are your intentions scented,

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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0361 Over My Dead Body..

The central aisle – more, an asphalted roadway –
of Brompton Cemetery would be hard to beat.
It’s no Forest Lawns, Pere Lachaise, but great
for passing trade, of all peculiar sorts – a
constant stream of cyclists,
rollerskaters, boardies, headphoned joggers, even
snowboards briefly – tourists,
lovers, quaintly; and all, as in
John Donne’s verse or Stanley Spencer’s paintings,
shoulderbone to shoulderbone
desperately calling for our attention
to that which we least wish to
attend to right now, while there is
a now.
And since the undergrowth
between the aisles grows
like the fireweed of desire,
it’s Dangerous Liaison Central
fit to make some of these turn in their graves.

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poem by Michael Shepherd
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To My Daughter

My child! thou seest me content to lead
A lonely life. Do thou, in imitation,
Not happy, nor triumphant, learn the need
Of resignation.

All guileless be, commercing with the skies,
And as a sun to glorify the whole;
My child, within the azure of thine eyes,
Put thou thy soul.

For none are happy, none triumphant here;
To all their little span is incomplete.
Our life is but a shadow, and, my dear,
The shadows fleet.

Yes! of their weary lot all men complain.
To happiness, oh! strange and cruel fate,
All things are wanting, all! we seek in vain,
Or find too late.

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poem by Victor Hugo
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Ode, written 1739

Urit spes animi credula mutui.-Hor.

Imitation.

Fond hope of a reciprocal desire
Inflames the breast.

'Twas not by beauty's aid alone
That Love usurp'd his airy throne,
His boasted power display'd;
'Tis kindness that secures his aim,
'Tis hope that feeds the kindling flame
Which beauty first convey'd.

In Clara's eyes the lightning view;
Her lips with all the rose's hue
Have all its sweets combined;
Yet vain the blush, and faint the fire,
Till lips at once, and eyes, conspire

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poem by William Shenstone
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The Resolve

In Imitation of An Old English Poem

My wayward fate I needs must plain,
Though bootless be the theme;
I loved, and was beloved again,
Yet all was but a dream:
For, a her love was quickly got,
So it was quickly gone;
No more I'll bask in flame so hot,
But coldly dwell alone.

Not maid more bright than maid was e'er
My fancy shall beguile,
By flattering word, or feigned tear,
By gesture, look, or smile:
No more I'll call the shaft fair shot,
Till it has fairly flown,
Nor scorch me at a flame so hot;-
I'll rather freeze alone.

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poem by Sir Walter Scott
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Dreams of Great Things (2)

Jumping straight into summer going from three
jerseys to swimsuit and shorts, I bought fairy
flip flops with diaphanous roses and sequins
too beautiful to wear, the sweet scent of
jasmine filling the air

The crocodile within me lay in the sun yesterday
luxuriating in the cool wind stroking and teasing
my skin, the inviting pool too cool for swimming
yet I dipped my head in the icy water while
my ankles froze

A layer of misty cloud wisps obscuring the sun
today, almost too late to go outside again, the
crocodile restless, inspired by dreams of great
things while all that is expected is cleaning the
kitchen; I wonder

Did Edith Holden, Edwardian author of the Country
Diary, ever wash dishes, feel angry, dream of new

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poem by Margaret Alice Second
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