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Hell Hath No Fury

Those scalded words
A slow slithered scathing sentence
As anger’s acrid smoke
Be-tombed that ruptured room
Those words, those words like devil darts
Took aim and slid sharp
Inside the heart of things not now unsaid
As the swirl of mess and circumstance
Took on lives full of their own
And the crash and shocks and shudders
Of nerves and feelings jangle-d with shrill metallic chimes
As if the world had opened up its wounds
Its testament of death
And then with quickened breath
Those things that had lay hidden
Rose for now and took control
Like strong steel to shard shattering
And then there was soft sound
'Hell hath no fury' said the waif
Once more Lucifer sang his wonder

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poem by David Keig
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Dark Poetic Mind

This poem bleeds dysfunctional desire,
Blood stains through the dirty streets
Mark the paths we trod,
Urban avenues of despair,
But I was still romantic for you,
Your thin unattractive body
And unwashed stringy blond hair,
Your ghost stare in the headlights’ glare,
Your wish to blend into streetlamps
Of non-existence,
Romantic for your perishing soul
Looking for a ride home from strangers
at 2: 00AM,
Something about drugs and tortured eyes
On a lost waif and her pointless life
Was registering as meaningful
In my dark poetic mind,
You offered me the best sex I could ever have,
But I thought, I better let it slide,
Just let you talk about it,

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poem by Uriah Hamilton
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A Man's Alexandria

A Man’s Alexandria

A woman came into the living room looking sideways
she brought ice cold beer and snacks, Alexandria, this
this was a modern Egyptian his waif’s face not covered
by a veil, the skin of her face was poke marked. I heard
voices in the kitchen it was of his daughters but I never
saw them, and that was ok, I do not know how to talk
to children. When we left the house they all had
disappeared into grey shadows, my Egyptian friend
shouted orders to no one in particular. Nightclub and
belly dancing, my friend disappeared with one of them,
I had been the stooge, but all bills had been paid, so ok.
Walked back to my ship alone, packs of docks along
the docks didn’t bother me; I had met a culture I didn’t
understand my Egyptian friend said that he didn’t had any
children since he didn’t have sons.

poem by Oskar Hansen
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The World Blasts Everyday

The world blasts in one nook or the other everyday.
It writhes amidst the stink of the burnt emotions.
Lullabies are mutilated in the roar of A.K.47.
A flock of black birds hovers in the sky.
Waif dogs and vultures carve the sculptures
On the scattered fragments of the innocence.
Infants fumble for the nipples among the debris.
Forlorn whimpering of the newest widow
Rises up with the smoke. Family men
Step in to the death wagons with bleeding thoughts.
White doves shudder to sit on the roof of the worship.
A hundred revenge kids are born in each blast.
All ‘isms' end in ‘revegisms'. Funeral of the peace
Is celebrated in the clattering of the weapons.
As the emotions lose the buttress of sense and reason,
The world blasts, then it bounces back.

(Pendle War Poetry, U K has selected and published this poem in the book, 'Selected Poems 2012')

poem by Fabiyas M V
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My God.

My God is an onion,
With imaginations’ layers,
He appears, and dismays,
My every search.

My God is a river,
His dictate is soap,
I bathe and wash myself,
My blind obsession He robs.

My God is a desert,
He keeps me alone as waif,
He enjoys my forlorn -cry,
And ardent suffering He reaps.

My God’s love is an irony,
To my every material hope,
He acts as inconsistent reversal,
To dwindle and down my scope.

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poem by Bazi alis Subrata Ray
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The prodigy of - art in the sea

Oh, the chasten carival of the brook
clamours it's way down
down, down, the caliph mountain trail
as avid Plain, longs to behold
the prodigal, bridal waif..
The porcession is destined
to see..
the prodigy of - art in the sea.
Oh, the belated sea recalls
'the art is not only on blazon lands
the sea too, thrives deep down
down, down, the sublime sands'
As the harmonic fiesta, the gaiety prevails
the ecstasy, of divinity sails
the sea, creats symphony-the high tide
of valiant turmoils, that raven inside!
Oh, the vestal sea takes in
the epics of past, that once deem
unbeknown..unknown lost monuments
the titanics, of it's self esteem.

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poem by Amit Anand
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The grandeur of justice

Running on descending estates
Trudging on greasy silts
Contesting against the odds of persistence
Contrary to all doubts of enduring
We are probing for existent time in the bottomlessness of earsplitting and enigmatic dungeons
We are seized in a contest to live on uprightly.
Athwart with a realm of forfeiture and clutter,
We are reaching for justice.
Amid a reeking and shattering anarchy,
We are beseeching integrity.
Like madcaps we are calling out to void prides and orchestras
Aggressive to be heard amidst waif clatters
Resounding from radical, societal and fiscal empires of stimulation
We believe that to the vanishing end, we can still race for justice
If we run on minus getaways
We can be protagonists of this glory of reverence and uprightness
Though we've been servants,
We believe we can conquer the valor of this challenge
To the grandeur of justice and honesty for all

poem by Irwiin Princessa
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Hoarder Or Collector (Fun Poem 101)

Some of us are hoarders
and we don’t know where to stop.
We say we are collectors,
of rubbish maybe.
For a long time I have loved books
and collected every waif and stray.
People gave them to me by the dozen
and I never turned them away.
My collecting went so mad
I have now ten thousand or more
within my library.
Enough is enough I would say,
but still more arrived.
Now I don’t live in a house anymore,
as it has become a library.
There are books in every room
and not just one or two,
but dozens and dozens of them.
Everywhere you go;
there are books here and there.

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poem by David Harris
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Waif

These many times, these two but half decades
A life of a street child lived, and as a sway
Daybreak and every sunset, wandering always in tears
Having no one as thought, nothing to befriend; not even a doll

For since that night, that night that a world’s greatest hero scythed
And that winter, when a loving lass away retrieves
Every he and she denied
Seeing many others together while alone he grieves

These many times, none telling “you are good”
All that ever did so, did sham
In pain always and every night with sorrow did dine
A servant many said, despised in their eyes, like ham

These many times, weeping every sunset on a ‘pillowless bed’
Wondering always, if the Heavens existed
Nothing did the waif hear, but the sheepishness many altered
Failing in little but with many, scorned by all

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poem by Nicholas Boateng
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We May Meet Again

Beneath long lashes, misty clad,
Your limpid eyes are sometimes sad;
They bring to mind a homeless waif
Engulfed in rain with nowhere safe

Most times I find a cheerful light
Within your eyes that sparkles bright,
And though my thoughts I try to hide
My happiness wells up inside

At times I see your eyes aglow
Like founts through which your passions flow;
And when I'm low they always loom
Like morning glories through the gloom

Your smile ashine beneath my gaze
Effulgent eyes beam all ablaze:
A look, a touch, a kiss I yearn,
You slowly make my body burn

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poem by Terry O'Leary
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