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What I have in my hands

What I have in my hands
Are few petals

Of flowers in different colors
Some pure white, without odors

What I have in my hands too
Are little birds with some dreams

Wanting to fly to heights
Wanting to erase frights

What I have are some things plain
Something direct nothing to explain

Call them an essay or prologue to a play
No metaphors inserted nothing to display

Wisdom plain and simple
A tribute to a child’s dimple

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poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Not Just You

i, too, had it, not just once,
but many times, when i
wake up at the wrong hour
and think of you
and then i take my old
favorite pen and
yellow pad paper
and begin to write
a letter for you

you are a ghost now
far away
and i expect you
not to read this
letter that i am
not sending anyway

i will not even
read it
i will just keep it

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poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Song of a Man Who has Come Through

Not I, not I, but the wind that blows through me!
A fine wind is blowing the new direction of Time.
If only I let it bear me, carry me, if only it carry me!
If only I am sensitive, subtle, oh, delicate, a winged gift!
If only, most lovely of all, I yield myself and am borrowed
By the fine, fine wind that takes its course though the chaos of the world
Like a fine, and exquisite chisel, a wedge-blade inserted;
If only I am keen and hard like the sheer tip of a wedge
Diven by invisible split, we shall come at the wonder, we shall find the Hesperides.

Oh, for the wonder that bubbles into my soul,
I would be a good fountain, a good well-head,
Would blur no whisper, spoil no expression.

What is the knocking?
What is the knocking at the door in the night?
It's somebody wants to do us harm.

No, no, it is the three strange angels.
Admit them, admit them.

poem by David Herbert Lawrence
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An Autograph

Lines written at the request of a young lady and inserted in a mental Album.
We looked over the book, it was in form of questions and auswers. One
of the questions was 'who is your favorite poet?' We were quite amused
to find a number of different persons had written in answer, 'McIntyre.'
We believe that the most of them were joking, but we hope to inspire them
With loftier idea of our poetic power in the future.

In this Album you may trace-
If not the lineaments of face-
Here, at least, you will find
Photographs of the mind.

Some in earnest, some in fun,
some do lecture, some do pun ;
Here the maiden and the youth,
Each proclaim some precious truth.

And there is some fine pages-
Written by maturer ages-
They show that time is brief,

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poem by James McIntyre
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To The Rev. William Cawthorne Unwin

Unwin, I should but ill repay
The kindness of a friend,
Whose worth deserves as warm a lay
As ever friendship penned,
Thy name omitted in a page
That would reclaim a vicious age.

An union formed, as mine with thee,
Not rashly or in sport,
May be as fervent in degree,
And faithful in its sort,
And may as rich in comfort prove,
As that of true fraternal love.

The bud inserted in the rind,
The bud of peach or rose,
Adorns, though differing in its kind,
The stock whereon it grows
With flower as sweet or full as fair
As if produced by nature there.

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poem by William Cowper
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Can't be undone

The truth remains same and can't be undone
The past and by gone may remain always bygone
The God has given you beautiful mind to inscribe on paper
It is how you feel and ink it on the subject matter

It does not remain then poetry
They are hidden words and not mystery
Every kind heart might have felt its impact
Let us make it as unforgettable holy act

Some one may see it as real art
Some words may be inserted as skillful craft
What actually you are doing with words?
Making it sharper than even swords?

Mind may read several things and store
It may add little or even more
The imagery may not remain ever confined
The feeling may come out and stay as defined

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poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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The Next Poem

How much better it seems now
than when it is finally done–
the unforgettable first line,
the cunning way the stanzas run.

The rhymes soft-spoken and suggestive
are barely audible at first,
an appetite not yet acknowledged
like the inkling of a thirst.

While gradually the form appears
as each line is coaxed aloud–
the architecture of a room
seen from the middle of a crowd.

The music that of common speech
but slanted so that each detail
sounds unexpected as a sharp
inserted in a simple scale.

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poem by Dana Gioia
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Bangles

In festival seasons,
Miles walked bangle sellers
Tread the vennel unforgettable,
On feet, worn and torn,
With white clothe bundles,
Full of bangles and their lives,
On their heads wobble,
Whose calls village girls listen,
Break their clay pots,
In which they had collected coins,
And buy bangles
In hues and designs diverse.

Some unknown artists
Shaped the designs on bangles,
Who never came to the limelight,
Instead, wages collected
And withdrew in to silence.
Village girls put on bangles;
Always mesmerised beauty little pains out kept.

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poem by Fabiyas M V
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What Kind Of A Person

"What kind of a person are you," I heard them say to me.
I'm a person with a complex plumbing of the soul,
Sophisticated instruments of feeling and a system
Of controlled memory at the end of the twentieth century,
But with an old body from ancient times
And with a God even older than my body.
I'm a person for the surface of the earth.
Low places, caves and wells
Frighten me. Mountain peaks
And tall buildings scare me.
I'm not like an inserted fork,
Not a cutting knife, not a stuck spoon.

I'm not flat and sly
Like a spatula creeping up from below.
At most I am a heavy and clumsy pestle
Mashing good and bad together
For a little taste
And a little fragrance.

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poem by Yehuda Amichai
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Blessed Are The Poor In Spirit

Did you ever understand this?
If my spirit was poor, how could I enter heaven?
Was I depressed?
Understanding editing,
I see how a comma, removed or inserted
with careful plan,
can change everything.
I was reminded of this
when a poor young man
in Tunisia
desperate to live
and humiliated for trying
set himself ablaze;
I felt uncomfortably warm
as if scalded by his shame.
I do not have to sell vegetables from a cart as he did
or live in narrow rooms too small for spacious thought;
and, at this late date,
I do not worry that someone will
remove every single opportunity

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poem by Alice Walker
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