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Confiding is a pleasure

Thought of love,
Its events and progress,
And pitfalls if any,
He or she must have
A companion
To confide to and verify with.
Spirit then is relived.
Paradise is revisited.

Alas, he and she
When entangled
In an aberrant love
Are helpless
And in recluse,
Mincing it themselves,
And missing the very prod
A companion can lend.

Guilt ruling the roost,
Shame cripples her

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poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Restless You

He's a special man
That can't be found
So if you're smart,
you'll wait around
Don't push and prod
his feelings so
'Cause he just wants
to take it slow
And when he's there,
he'll let you know

If it's him you want
Best give it time
This man is not
The game playing kind
And sweet perfumes
And frilly lace
And make-up on
Your pretty face
Won't change a thing

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poem by Maggie Mundi
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Heart Of Hearts

I'm in a frame of mind
You wouldn't wanna frame in your mind
See, in my mind
I love you and show you so
But in your mind my love for you has
withered more
The space in time makes you no longer
mine
This space in time takes my all, but
that's fine
Though far from me and all these thorns
If you stay one more day, you'll see the
roses born
Times like these have always been
The pain you bear I've always seen
On days like those I don't seem to be
your kin
Just know I bear my own sin
As the knives they prod your delicate
skin

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poem by Jenim Dibie
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You Hide From Them Your Soul

Oh the tangle weaves of life
Make us as human beings
So unworthy in our lives
To others who think
It’s just all a bad dream
We stand upon the edge
Of life’s calculated risks
Wondering can we be
What others can see
All they ever see
Is the shell that hides your soul?
They poke, prod and question
What kind of life you lead
You hide from them your soul
The journeys of life’s mystery
They think they know you best
But in reality all they see
Is a shell of a being?
That holds your soul to be
One that hides the ghost of pain

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poem by Kaila George
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Finding My Peace

I got to find my peace so I cut to ease the pain,
Escaping the life I'm living, escaping a life of vain,
Quieting the cries, as my eyes let free its rain,
Body becomes weak and tired, as my strength I try to gain,

I want to find my peace, some peace of any kind,
Needle penetrates my skin, but to the damage I am blind,
So high up off these drugs, so high up in my mind,
Guess I'll just keep on using, until my peace I someday find,

I need to find my peace, so I drink the stress away,
Now so intoxicated, but it's only a temporary state,
I'm in a better place, so I guess it makes it okay,
But I still haven't found my peace, so I'll try another way,

I think I've found my peace, in a place that's rather odd,
No needles, no bleeding, no cutting, just prayer for His approval nod,
I think I've found my peace, and to my better half I'll prod,
Because I know I've found my peace, and I found it with myself and God,

poem by Niakeva Thomas
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Farewell

the city is sinking - i have measured it
it is on its last legs - though i treasred it
you few who stood agape & rebelling
you may now found a new city where one had been sitting

only i implore you look fpr the higher ground
because if words are rendered that does not make them sound

you must draw from the greats that preceded you
otherwise you will dish out a pedestrian stew
no one alive - poet or lumberjack - can stop learning
bent as he or she may be the midnight oil burning
words or axes must be sharpened with time
to fell a great tree or snare the perfect rhyme

as for me, i am going abroad
i am leaving the groups with one final prod
it will so much for the better i presume
to find likeminded poets who give spacious room
we will accomadate

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poem by Stan Petrovich
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Showing My bladder Who's Boss!

Oh what an annoyance
It happens to be
When my bladder, at night
Wakes me up for a wee

I'm often too sleepy
And stubborn I get
So I drift back to sleep
As I'm sure I won't wet

The nerves from my bladder
I try to block out
As to nod off again
Is what I am about

You then try to trick me
By hijack of dreams
But I've learnt not to cave
In your dreamed up latrines

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poem by Stevie Taite
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The Ape And God

Son put a poser up to me
That made me scratch my head:
"God made the whole wide world," quoth he;
"That's right, my boy," I said.
Said son: "He mad the mountains soar,
And all the plains lie flat;
But Dad, what did he do before
He did all that?

Said I: "Creation was his biz;
He set the stars to shine;
The sun and moon and all that is
Were His unique design.
The Cosmos is his concrete thought,
The Universe his chore..."
Said Son: "I understand, but what
Did He before?"

I gave it up; I could not cope
With his enquiring prod,

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poem by Robert William Service
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The Old Armchair

In all the pubs from Troon to Ayr
Grandfather's father would repair
With Bobby Burns, a drouthy pair,
The glass to clink;
And oftenwhiles, when not too "fou,"
They'd roar a bawdy stave or two,
From midnight muk to morning dew,
And drink and drink.

And Grandfather, with eye aglow
And proper pride, would often show
An old armchair where long ago
The Bard would sit;
Reciting there with pawky glee
"The Lass that Made the Bed for Me;"
Or whiles a rhyme about the flea
That ne'er was writ.

Then I would seek the Poet's chair
And plant my kilted buttocks there,

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poem by Robert William Service
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He Was Not A Stranger

I awoke rubbing my eyes,
For someone disturbed my sleep;
A figure I witnessed in the light,
The intruder made me perplexed,
Though the door and all windows were shut,
Even a fly had no slit to prod her head,
Yet he entered into my sleeping-room,
And I was marveled, baffled more and more;
I stifled my shriek lest he should be an angel,
Or an agent, ministering the hell.
He was roughly clad, his dress was ragged,
No better than a scarecrow with torn sleeves and hems,
He had long disheveled hair with entangle bits of straw,
His mouth dribbled, his fleshy belly was round,
Skin all black with many coats of filth,
Hands with the fingers long, enormously nailed,
The eyes were horrible, grey sightless, gave no impressions.
Overcoming morbid I questioned, “O! Stranger who are you,
How did you hop in, what mischief you intend to do? ”
He jerked his dribbling jaws and responded,

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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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