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Lady Of Fayum

Do you know
you are about to die?

Did you know
you were about to die?
Was this naturalistic
painted portrait

upon choice wooden panel
commissioned veritable
painted prior
to encroaching death?

Prestigious portrait
face covering inserted
brilliant colours bright
in far gaze farewell

in height of Roman fashion
in hair styles clothes jewelry

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poem by Terence George Craddock
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Why it’s so only to me?

Why it’s so only to me

I was getting ready
To go to office
Dressed up
Reached dining table
For breakfast

I heard my wife
“The milk got spoilt
The bread got charred
Why it’s so only to me? ”
You were telling something

I asked my wife
“Just thinking something”
She said, making me realize
That I am now blessed
With the power of
Hearing what others think

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poem by Bashyam Narayanan
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Clean Dishes Inside A Dirty Sink

How can you give us away my blue ski turn into grey leaving out of grandma's house nothing was said no movement not even a mouse. And then thee abuse started. 

      The children there faces, moving into new places, the smile on there faces, the touch brought sad faces! His skin  his hand his penis did stand, our mouth he open he inserted it floated, nasty the taste, he replied for goodness sake! the night was his day that we became the prey, the kids tried  to fight, but he cut off the lights, his eyes, his vision the target the children the hall the kitchen, a Wilde animal became hidden and loose!  the rooster the goose, the duck the snake had escaped! the run the chase naked all day, the snake was up he tore the kids clothes off, the bed he played his snake did lay on us until it got sick and spit! he put back in the cave it went. Until the next day
 
    How can you give us away my blue ski turn into grey leaving out of grandma's house nothing was said no movement not even a mouse. And then thee abuse started. 
 

Tired and sleepy naked and chilly under the covers we lay, no one did say nothing! ! but we prayed that a decision be made that our mother would come and get us but she didn't! scared and weary up to see the visit form mommy at the place where tears became the case. Never did she ask what's wrong with her clean dishes that became place  in a space were the water is dirty. My mother time became over were back in the car, the odder the smell of the lotion that was put on the snake that made him sick and spit.
      The bathroom time was interrupted he made you feel decussated, the sight when you see him made you sick that you wanted to kill him! We were three brothers whose mom did us dis just. We played it off each and everyday for hoping of a change or a brighter day to take place but it didn't come but he did! ! ! ! ! !
 
who once was full of life became the victims  when the lights was turned off  by night. Can this be my reality or I'm dreaming.  My tears have a voice, on my inside  just die, where my tears resides and awaken when I had to face my reality each and everyday So confuse about whats in front of me, that the world that one was a custom to has now become a memory that's dead and left my mind  I shake my head to the sound of someone closing the door, because of the show  the molestation the performance that was headed to an all time encore that made my brothers and I sick. Because we were clean dishes inside the dirty sink.

poem by Clarence Williams
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Eyes Of Mr D (Part 3)

(The author recommends that you read Parts One and Two before reading this.)

For a week, he frantically looked
for her at the bus stop
and the surrounding area.
Unfortunately, he could not see her anywhere.
It was as if she had vanished into thin air.
He bought most every paper,
looking for her picture there somewhere,
but it never appeared.

At his ground floor flat, he paced about.
She was on his mind constantly.
He need to find her,
but was lost on what to do.
He could not go to the police;
they would take him as a crank,
or worst still,
accuse him of being a murderer.

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poem by David Harris
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The Southern Cross

(A Frustration)
Four stars on Night's brow, or Night's bosom,
Whichever the reader prefers;
Or Night without either may do some,
Each one to his taste or to hers.
Four stars—to continue inditing,
So long as I feel in the vein—
Hullo! what the deuce is that biting?
Mosquitos again!

Oh glories not gilded but golden,
Oh daughters of Night unexcelled,
By the sons of the north unbeholden,
By our sons (if we have them) beheld;
Oh jewels the midnight enriching,
Oh four which are double of twain!
Oh mystical — bother the itching!
Mosquitos again!

You alone I can anchor my eye on,

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poem by James Brunton Stephens
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Casebook Of Oliver Cyriax - Case 1# The Burning Bush (Part 3)

As the news, spread about the burning bush
visitors began to flock to Little Pebblebury.
They were amazed at the sight that greeted them.
Rumours soon began to spread
that someone had heard a voice
coming from the bush.
This prompted speculation
that Christ was warning of his return.
The locals were by now
used to the sight and paid little
or no attention to it,
except to direct visitors to it.

After my lengthy discussions
with several of the locals,
I returned to my room
and began to plan what I was going to do the next day.
I decided the best course of action
was to start where the phenomena first began.
The next morning after having a good English breakfast,

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poem by David Harris
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Mere Shadows March

Welcome to the shadow march
Longer then longest lines of the undying
To many reasons never enough answer
here another
here another
why the did this happen to me
why did everybody give up
when i was at my weakest
now ill shall surround myself with those who are silent
no ill intent
none want revenge
they just want to be avenged
given the respect do'ly deserved
as we all do we want those who wrong us to make it right
a little give then a little take
welcome to the shadow march
Longer then the longest lines of the undying
to many reasons never enough answers
here's another
here's another

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poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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The Ecstasy

The fleeting Joy that all things have beneath
Goes off like snow while Zephirs warmly breath
The happy wish that makes our bliss compleat
it is not wealth it is not to be great
To glide along on pleasures easy floud
Or in fames wreaths to shine above the croud
Weak man who charms in these alone can see
Hear what I ask & learn to ask of me.

Send to my breast Allmighty King send down
A beam of brightness from thy starry throne
Break on my mind drive errors cloud away
& make a calm in passions troubled sea
that the poor banishd Soul serene & free
May rise from earth to visit heav'n & thee.
Come peace Divine shed gently from above
Inspire my willing bosome wondrous love
& lend thy wings & teach me how to move

But Whither whither now? what wondrous fire

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poem by Thomas Parnell
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The Birth Of The Rail

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

LELAND, THE KID _a Road Agent_
COWBOY CHARLEY _Same Line of Business_
HAPPY HUNTY _Ditto in All Respects_
SOOTYMUG _a Devil_

_Scene_-the Dutch Flat Stage Road, at 12 P.M., on a Night
of 1864.

COWBOY CHARLEY:

My boss, I fear she is delayed to-night.
Already it is past the hour, and yet
My ears have reached no sound of wheels; no note
Melodious, of long, luxurious oaths
Betokens the traditional dispute
(Unsettled from the dawn of time) between
The driver and off wheeler; no clear chant

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poem by Ambrose Bierce
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Vertumnus and Pomona : Ovid's Metamorphoses, book 14 [v. 623-771]

The fair Pomona flourish'd in his reign;
Of all the Virgins of the sylvan train,
None taught the trees a nobler race to bear,
Or more improv'd the vegetable care.
To her the shady grove, the flow'ry field,
The streams and fountains, no delights could yield;
'Twas all her joy the ripening fruits to tend,
And see the boughs with happy burthens bend.
The hook she bore instead of Cynthia's spear,
To lop the growth of the luxuriant year,
To decent form the lawless shoots to bring,
And teach th' obedient branches where to spring.
Now the cleft rind inserted graffs receives,
And yields an offspring more than nature gives;
Now sliding streams the thirsty plants renew,
And feed their fibres with reviving dew.
These cares alone her virgin breast employ,
Averse from Venus and the nuptial joy.
Her private orchards, wall'd on ev'ry side,
To lawless sylvans all access deny'd.

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poem by Alexander Pope
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