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The Bee with Honey Combs her Hair

The Bee with honey combs her hair
with yellow pollen pads,
in honour of the sun’s gold glare,
the golden pollen adds.

This she applies with special care –
‘tis one of her few fads –
to head and thorax, everywhere,
which her detractors mads.

Nectarine nectar necklace fair,
demanded by ‘light winged dryads’,
and furred abdomen cincture rare
masks caudad sting with which she’s clad.

Antennae waving in the air
send signals by the chiliad,
she has ‘no time to sit and stare’
copes, mopes not in jeremiads

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poem by Jonathan Robin
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Singing For Change

Before we begin, the audience chatters.
In the nearby café bar, cutlery clatters.
Stood on the stage, I look all around,
Taking in all the sights and the sounds.

With so many watching, I feel slightly shy,
But my spirit within, is soaring so high.
I open my mouth, and I sing out real loud.
Our concert has drawn a really big crowd.

The hall we are in, is a massive space.
We watch our Conductor keeping pace.
Our choir sings out many a great song.
A couple of times, I sing a note wrong.

There is a real bright sparkle in my eyes.
The joy within my heart begins to rise.
The smile on my lips, I just can't hide.
Singing with Voicelab, I feel such pride.

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poem by Angela Wybrow
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Sometime at a concert hall, in recollection...

Sometime at a concert hall, in recollection,
A Brahms intermezzo will wound me-I'll start,
Remember that summer, the flowerbed garden,
The walks and the bathing, the tryst of six hearts,

The awkward, shy artist, with steep, dreamlike forehead,
Her smile, into which one would dive for a while,
A smile, as good-natured and bright as a river,
Her artist's appearance, her forehead, her smile.

They'll play me some Brahms-I will shudder, surrender,
And in retrospection the sounds will evoke
That faraway summer, the hoard of provisions,
My son and my brother, the garden, the oak.

The artist would stuff in her overall pockets
Her pencils, and objects with fanciful names,
Or would, inadvertently dropping her palette,
Turn much of the grass into colourful stains.

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poem by Boris Pasternak
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Our Warmth Seeking Souls

The sun, she kisses my lover's cheek,
forehead, nose, and lips,
Caresses my eyelids.

One final embrace before she departs,
leaving us, to continue her maternal journey
breaking the night's raucous hold over the globe

Though it pains our warmth seeking souls
we know we have no say in the matter,
we must let her go.
And though she is certain
she will once again cast her warm,
glowing embrace upon us
in the light of dawn's new morning dew,
inside ourselves we must harbor the notion,
the drowning possibility,
we may never again cast our glances upon her
free burning
ever nurturing face

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poem by Gregory Allen Uhan
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Big Bang Theories

Hawking says it begins this way
a thought expressing itself in the
darkness of nothing: 'no thing'
and then exploding itself across the vast expanse of time
we are composites of these
deposits - particles shooting
out our momentary brilliance
much like the tiny fragments
leftover from this God's eye
burning out in our own atmosphere
a shooting star

I saw a shooting star
arc its way across the sable tapestry
which in profundity is a miraculous
dice game of chance
some etymological particle left
from the Big Bang of the universe
spewing its essence across the
facade of time

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poem by Khristian E. Kay
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Dogs Are Shakespearean, Children Are Strangers

Dogs are Shakespearean, children are strangers.
Let Freud and Wordsworth discuss the child,
Angels and Platonists shall judge the dog,
The running dog, who paused, distending nostrils,
Then barked and wailed; the boy who pinched his sister,
The little girl who sang the song from Twelfth Night,
As if she understood the wind and rain,
The dog who moaned, hearing the violins in concert.
—O I am sad when I see dogs or children!
For they are strangers, they are Shakespearean.

Tell us, Freud, can it be that lovely children
Have merely ugly dreams of natural functions?
And you, too, Wordsworth, are children truly
Clouded with glory, learned in dark Nature?
The dog in humble inquiry along the ground,
The child who credits dreams and fears the dark,
Know more and less than you: they know full well
Nor dream nor childhood answer questions well:

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poem by Delmore Schwartz
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Fonction Du Poète (The Poet's Function)

(extrait)

Peuples ! écoutez le poète !
Ecoutez le rêveur sacré !
Dans votre nuit, sans lui complète,
Lui seul a le front éclairé.
Des temps futurs perçant les ombres,
Lui seul distingue en leurs flancs sombres
Le germe qui n'est pas éclos.
Homme, il est doux comme une femme.
Dieu parle à voix basse à son âme
Comme aux forêts et comme aux flots.

C'est lui qui, malgré les épines,
L'envie et la dérision,
Marche, courbé dans vos ruines,
Ramassant la tradition.
De la tradition féconde
Sort tout ce qui couvre le monde,
Tout ce que le ciel peut bénir.

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poem by Victor Hugo
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From deep inside

Smile comes from deep inside
If you have dream with full desire outside
It gives some sort of contentment
A means to smile for happy moment

I am not sure for airing open views
But yes certainly it was very much due
As I heard he had proposed for me in open
Among all friends and that too with surprise and sudden

I have made tremendous success
All the essential things with easy access
I keep smiling with light heart
As time has taught me to show it as an art

Not to loose heart with little problems
As my roots were deep in soil and coming out of stem
I could withstand any onslaught caused by nature
I had full commitment towards life for future

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poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Bells of Barangay San Jose

The Bells of Barangay San Jose

The bells of Barangay San Jose
Rang against the din of the windblown rain
Struck from bell towers from four directions
The wet July weather deadened the tolling
Unable to reverberate in the thick as soup fog
Eager acolytes swinging on strong bell ropes
Coaxing the brass cones to clang out loud

The bells furiously called out the faithful at dawn
Loud summons to attend the eucharistic celebration
Nuns in white with colorful umbrellas stepped lively,
Matrons with missals tucked in braided belts
Waddled through the half opened seminary doors
Rosary beads dangling, in quickened half steps
Hurrying before the wet fog turns to cold rain

A blessed Sunday morning in Barangay San Jose
My love and I eavesdropped on the early birdsong

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poem by Eddie Roa
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A June-Tide Echo

(After a Richter Concert.)

In the long, sad time, when the sky was grey,
And the keen blast blew through the city drear,
When delight had fled from the night and the day,
My chill heart whispered, " June will be here!

" June with its roses a-sway in the sun,
Its glory of green on mead and tree."
Lo, now the sweet June-tide is nearly done,
June-tide, and never a joy for me

Is it so much of the gods that I pray?
Sure craved man never so slight a boon!
To be glad and glad in my heart one day--
One perfect day of the perfect June.

Sweet sounds to-night rose up, wave upon wave;
Sweet dreams were afloat in the balmy air.

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poem by Amy Levy
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