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Pocketing a Dollar

It's the season of terrorists threats.
When the government wont let...
Spirits of happiness flow,
Without fear to inflict.
And bestow.

And when the New Year comes around,
Just like the Fourth of July...
When the biggest crowds gather to celebrate.
With fireworks and other loud bursting sounds...
Not a word of terrorists,
Or their threats...
Are heard or shared!
Those are not the times for them to be declared,
There or anywhere.

And when those who filled the air,
With these fears and threats to scare...
Are gone.
So will the massive corruption,

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Debut

Eighteen roses
with manifold thorns
floridly swaying with
the flummox of motes
and then there was
a single carnation
unabashedly uncurling
and prying behind
the reticent curtains
of my endless nights

Eighteen candles
with mouthful of garish lights
devouring moths
with ludicrous invitations
and then there was
a lone chandelier
flickering many orbs
to a consummate glow
to deluge the dark and unfurl

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poem by Norman Santos
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Evil’s Root (3)

Evil’s decline won’t come with ease
With cunning, Satan fights
God’s troops, he’ll try to coax and tease
And tempt them from their heights

To play with evil’s more than dumb
Such fools will quickly fail
God’s judgement then that’s bound to come
Will see them lost in jail

All murder, rape and suicide
Are evil through and through
Now who can cross the great divide?
With such a sinful view

Who can sum or ever measure?
What sin there’s on the loose?
No degree of wayward pleasure
Can warrant evil’s use

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poem by Michael P. Johnson
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Child Of War

Child born under a red flag.
He gave up all he had.
For ultimate power.
For ultimate control.
For images that couldn't washed out of his head.
The blood ran as rivers of the dead flowed.
Bones littered the ground.
As a reminder of what he has done.
Even in the darkness the sun still shined.
Even upon all chaos some found peace.
A happiness was met on the horizon with grief.
Part of the daily living.
Hopefully soon all this would cease.
A testament to boy living in a war torn country.
He only understands one thing.
To survive you must kill.
To survive you must take.
All is yours if you want it is all he has ever known.
This is what we taught him.
Are we tell him that he must stop?

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poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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The Home of Peace

Trust and treachery, wisdom, folly,
Madness, mirth and melancholy,
Love and hatred, thrift and pillage,
All are housed in every village.
And in such a world’s mixed being,
Where may peace, from ruin fleeing,
Find fit shelter and inherit
All the calm of her own merit?

In a bark of gentle motion
Sailing on the summer ocean?
There worst war the tempest wages,
And the hungry whirlpool rages.

In some lonely new-world bower
Hidden like a forest flower?
There, too, there, to fray the stranger
Stalks the wild-eyed savage, danger!

In some Alpine cot, by fountains

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poem by Charles Harpur
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The Second Coming (Cavatina Sequence)

(after William Butler Yeats)

Anarchy, mere madness is loose,
a president
for life is enthroned (while voted out) ,
an incident
of total corruption occurs daily,
not diffident
a country is laid waist, in merriment
brought to an utter impoverishment.

His fifth brigade cleans Matabeleland;
killing, raping;
farmers are driven from their property
just escaping
with their bare lives from some murderous crowds,
with mouth gaping
he smiles on the conquest of fertile farmland,
causing famine, in victory holds up a hand.

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poem by Gert Strydom
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Big Brother Syndrome

Burning! Burning! Whole world is burning
Erased ghettos, razing down skyscrapers
Mowed out farms, fields and meadows
Smoldering woods, thickets and vines
Thawing glaciers and boiling polar waters
War-fire far and wide; wild and torrid
Melting earth into oceans

Asia and Australia in shambles
Africa reduced to hot ashes
And South America under mercenary cap

Screaming, shouting and crying everywhere
Whole human world looking like God’s acre
In the bloody gore, pillage, mire and pyre
Scurrying kith and kin, in rubble, gathering
Scattered limbs of their near and dear ones
Tragedy reigning; hungry cinders remaining
In ravaged homes and ruined lives

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poem by Sathya Narayana
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Grandad

Heaven's mighty sweet, I guess;
Ain't no rush to git there:
Been a sinner, more or less;
Maybe wouldn't fit there.
Wicked still, bound to confess;
Might jest pine a bit there.

Heaven's swell, the preachers say:
Got so used to earth here;
Had such good times all the way,
Frolic, fun and mirth here;
Eighty Springs ago to-day,
Since I had my birth here.

Quite a spell of happy years.
Wish I could begin it;
Cloud and sunshine, laughter, tears,
Livin' every minute.
Women, too, the pretty dears;
Plenty of 'em in it.

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poem by Robert William Service
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Water Under The Bridge

The sun repents and we vied
to make the loose ends meet
but our knots would not tie
like how our burned bridges did

As I craned to peek underneath
this coaxing pensiveness
the water under the bridge
revealed the mirrors in my eyes:

Discontent is a serpent
with venomous heads on both ends
and many a gnarl on the abdomen
but this titivation cannot be corrected

Satisfaction is the quelling
of ardor flames that burned the stars
and scintillated their insinuation
and should I lie to submission?

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poem by Norman Santos
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The Thorn Forest

Then dark with dripping blood it gave a howl
and cried again: 'Our damaged branches ache!
Your pillage maims me! Can't you feel at all?

We who were men are now this barren brake.
You'd grant us your respect and stay your hand
were we a thicket not of souls but snakes.'

As wood still green starts burning at one end
and from its unlit end the burning stick
drips sap, and hisses with escaping wind,

so from the broken stump there oozed a mix
of words and blood: a frothy babbling gore.
I dropped the branch. My fear had made me sick.

'Poor wounded soul, could he have grasped before,'
my sage replied, 'what now he sees is true,
and blindly trusted in poetic lore,

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poem by Dante Alighieri
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