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Grotesque

Why do the lilies goggle their tongues at me
When I pluck them;
And writhe and twist,
And strangle themselves against my fingers,
So that I can hardly weave the garland
For your hair?
Why do they shriek your name
And spit at me
When I would cluster them?
Must I kill them
To make them lie still,
And send you a wreath of lolling corpses
To turn putrid and soft
On your forehead
While you dance?

poem by Amy Lowell
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Enkindling Fire

daunting
like shower
of hope best that last
for a lifetime,
thou it always drives
forward to gain
the momentum
of Calvary the stream comes
in the lewd of vulgar
fun

host the cluster
of bones
muscle in the strength
that never be strong,
thou the humble load
the young
in the hood of
every arm

[...] Read more

poem by Antonio Liao
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The Leaf

This silver-edged geranium leaf
Is one sign of a bitter grief
Whose symbols are a myriad more;
They cluster round a carven stone
Where she who sleeps is never alone
For two hearts at the core,

Bound with her heart make one of three,
A trinity in unity,
One sentient heart that grieves;
And myriad dark-leaved memories keep
Vigil above the triune sleep,--
Edged all with silver are the leaves.

poem by Duncan Campbell Scott
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Random Birth

A unique, irreverent intruder:
in my dying dreams,
of a domain beyond the gifts.
The corridor was full of
specters in boiling air.
The DNA will not cover the naked strands
of desires.

Put out to sea, my boat
in cloud cluster, I will meet
the eye of cyclone in its full furry.
The tempest was the moment of truth
to know the self. One night I will
become a palm tree wearing the
mask of history.

poem by Satish Verma
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To My Wife

(With a set of Roman Pearls)
Pray, take these pearls!-and my thanks for them
You lavished, the home of my youth to gem!
The thousands of hours of peaceful luster
Your spirit has filled, are pearls that cluster
With beauty blest
On my happy breast,
And softly shining
My brow are entwining
With thoughts whence the truth gleams: Thus gave his wife,
Who jeweled with tenderest love his life!

poem by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
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Today... 'A Cluster of Henna Blossoms

A cluster of Henna and Camphire is He
The Son of God Who came down to earth for me.
No greater love has any man ever known
Than the love that Jesus for me has shown.

With fragrance so sweet and blossom so fair
None to my Belovèd can ever compare.
For the One that descended down from heaven
stands unique amongst the races of men.

(see also the additional information in the Poet's notes box)

poem by Roy Allen
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Delicate Cluster

DELICATE cluster! flag of teeming life!
Covering all my lands! all my sea-shores lining!
Flag of death! (how I watch'd you through the smoke of battle
pressing!
How I heard you flap and rustle, cloth defiant!)
Flag cerulean! sunny flag! with the orbs of night dappled!
Ah my silvery beauty! ah my woolly white and crimson!
Ah to sing the song of you, my matron mighty!
My sacred one, my mother.

poem by Walt Whitman
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A Prosaic Gift

I harvested a small handful
of beautiful dandelions
arranged them in a special way
that their mini-globe candelas
illumined a yellow aura
surrounding the nosegay cluster.
Their subtle, invisible breaths
exhale a perfumed atmosphere
that becomes irresistible.
And she who shall hold this bouquet
is impelled to whiff its essence;
to discover its true purpose;
and accept this prosaic gift
of my undying love for her.

poem by Albert Ahearn
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A Punkish Experience

A cluster of pent-up energy,
Chugging guitar riffs,
Hardcore pounding drums,
Deep basslines, and
Rough vocals suffocates me.

A volatile atmosphere compels
Me to headbang to the rhythm,
As if the music has possessed
My very soul.

All of my rationale is clouded
By a barbaric instinct to groove
In a violent manner.

I am a willing slave,
A free captive,
Forfeiting my spirit
To the animalistic majesty
Of the music.

poem by Alex Gomez
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Mundane Beauty

A cluster of Day Lilies glow
like embers beneath the shadow
of a time-worn Box elder tree
that's plainly visible to see
if looking for mundane beauty.
Their golden flowers so briefly
lived poses for a single day;
at days end they wither away.
Their presence always call to mind
that beauty last the briefest time
but I possess a memory
where beauty lives eternally.
Though they will die I'd soon exhume
I'd close my eyes they'd still be bloomed.

poem by Albert Ahearn
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