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There’s A Kind Of Loveliness (In Answer To Percy Bysshe Shelley)

There’s a kind of loveliness
a kind of unreal beauty,
while in nature it is displayed free
from any unkindness,

and it has the divine instruction to bless,
are present in everything that we see,
are in the best hopes of what we wish to be,
in every tender touch, are caught in every caress.

Its presence is everywhere
and although it is unseen
traces of it can be seen
all about us, right here and there,

in faces that sometimes look and stare,
in places where people had been
and something of it’s is keen
to reach out with a kind of loving care.

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poem by Gert Strydom
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Jar of Origami Cranes

In rooftops, in trellises
People strut like an alley cat
Gyrating their flamboyance
And trying hard to enthuse
The blasé of the spectators below

In gardens, in sea shores
People will prod for a gazebo
And conceal their precious jewels
Screen them from the thorns and tides
And from the sweltering sight of the sun

In planes, ships, or trains
People would doze in the expedition
And rest their lethargic heads
To miss the motion picture
Playing outside their windows

In bedrooms, in churches
People would utter a prayer

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poem by Norman Santos
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Feet, feet that walked away with the toes

Heavy the hoods of the eyes
that laboured the scan of horizons
Heavy the course of the thoughts
that sat unstirred on the sill of the stare

Heavy this ancient bottomed nose
sitting in judgment over this meat
Endlessly shunting the frenzied workers
now sniff-drunk and steam-bellowed in the street

This the scull careered through rutted scars
the primeval hair bushed in pathways
Where long tribes with long lances
prod the undergrowth for signs of lost bones

These the ears that heard the wake of worlds
wandering in the ever irretraceable tread
Ears though that admit the silent secrets
ever still and hospitable to the panicky refrain

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poem by T. Wignesan
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If I Were The King

If I were the king,
I would do nothing unusual,
Repeating the same old practice;
I would discard, set aside all bodies,
Even remotely linked to the name of law.
I would not allow anyone to share my office,
My powers and my authorities.

I would ride on the back of my nation,
For the long time against her consent,
Like a child as it rides the wooden horse,
And on finding it static drags the structure.

I would prod my fingers into the porches of my ears,
Lest any cry, shriek or sound should intervene,
My lascivious activities.

I would distribute all prominent high places,
Among my dear ones and hired villains of the state,
I would summon all beauteous pieces in the court,

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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Next War

You young friskies who today
Jump and fight in Father’s hay
With bows and arrows and wooden spears,
Playing at Royal Welch Fusiliers,
Happy though these hours you spend,
Have they warned you how games end?
Boys, from the first time you prod
And thrust with spears of curtain-rod,
From the first time you tear and slash
Your long-bows from the garden ash,
Or fit your shaft with a blue jay feather,
Binding the split tops together,
From that same hour by fate you’re bound
As champions of this stony ground,
Loyal and true in everything,
To serve your Army and your King,
Prepared to starve and sweat and die
Under some fierce foreign sky,
If only to keep safe those joys
That belong to British boys,

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poem by Robert Graves
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Cruising The Chesapeake

Skyline fading in evening haze...
The air is warm and still...
Music lost in the sweltering heat - and
No one brave enough to dance
Although the beat is good.
Baltimore, we hail your flickering lights in the
Distance as we graduate toward your land marks...
Ft. McHenry first - we salute you!
Bouys flash caution while smoke and night
Darken the sky...
Waves whisper as we cruise - no air to prod them
On to loud conversation!
Baltimore skyline,
Shadows etched in dark and light harmony...
No breeze echoes the crowd but light laughter
Makes the evening sweet.
Card players top side...slap - slap...
No other motion in that corner...
Wind indicator tells a sad tale but we trail
The water path gallantly waving at the

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poem by Dorothy Holmes
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The Living God

Living proof of The Living God, surrounds you wherever you trod,
The creation itself is proof, that God does exist with all His Truth.
And friend, He is a loving God, comforting you with staff and rod,
He’s the Shepherd from above, guiding us with an awesome love.
Friend, He is a personal God, smiling down upon you with a nod,
He wants to be to you a friend, guiding you personally to the end.

The Lord indeed is a Holy God, for purity and holiness is His lot,
Friend, we are to live a holy life, to reflect our Lord Jesus Christ.
He is indeed a Righteous God, and coming back with an iron rod.
Unrighteousness will be no more, when Jesus reigns forevermore.
And He, my friend, has no façade, simply open The Word of God,
You can read the many pages, where God’s been for many ages.

The Lord, He is a faithful God, and you my friend, He will not cod,
God will never fool you friend, for God, Righteousness is His end.
He is not an overbearing God, your heart He will just gently prod,
As He waits for you to believe, and then His Son, you do receive.
He is a God who died for you, upon a wicked cross for all to view,
And just like The Lord Jesus Christ, we are to be a living sacrifice.

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poem by Bob Gotti
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Canto 49

For the seven lakes, and by no man these verses:
Rain; empty river; a voyage,
Fire from frozen cloud, heavy rain in the twilight
Under the cabin roof was one lantern.
The reeds are heavy; bent;
and the bamboos speak as if weeping.

Autumn moon; hills rise about lakes
against sunset
Evening is like a curtain of cloud,
a blurr above ripples; and through it
sharp long spikes of the cinnamon,
a cold tune amid reeds.
Behind hill the monk's bell
borne on the wind.
Sail passed here in April; may return in October
Boat fades in silver; slowly;
Sun blaze alone on the river.

Where wine flag catches the sunset

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poem by Ezra Pound
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Canto XLIX: For the Seven Lakes

For the seven lakes, and by no man these verses:
Rain; empty river; a voyage,
Fire from frozen cloud, heavy rain in the twilight
Under the cabin roof was one lantern.
The reeds are heavy; bent;
and the bamboos speak as if weeping.

Autumn moon; hills rise about lakes
against sunset
Evening is like a curtain of cloud,
a blurr above ripples; and through it
sharp long spikes of the cinnamon,
a cold tune amid reeds.
Behind hill the monk's bell
borne on the wind.
Sail passed here in April; may return in October
Boat fades in silver; slowly;
Sun blaze alone on the river.

Where wine flag catches the sunset

[...] Read more

poem by Ezra Pound
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Feeling Like A Crippled With No Wings

Crippled and no wings, acid in the eye oh how it stings. How much did you bring. I'll tell you right now it will never be enough. To break through shell in which is someone's hell. The skin is tough, rough almost irritable. I want to stand but can't, I want to see but I m so blind, I want to hear but you screams are so silent, crippled and no wings. The demons encircle me, they point and laugh, pick and prod, hey say the fisherman's son look what we caught I think its a cod, look at it flop, so helpless breathless. To hell with ya and you deformed view of what I am. Don't you know it ain't nice to melt the ice before their ready for their drink, do you even use that head and think. Comformity, fitting in amongst those not welcome. A criminal by tributes and scars. Just cause you say you are. Never can you remove the gun from under you pillow. Always looking towards the shadows. I'm just another crippled with no wings. Still don't treat me any differently, common courtesy, common respect, I m not a reject, I know exactly what is being said, I have had enough of it. Ill show you rabid dog, watch out for that bite. It can be nasty. Crippled and no wings, oh the anger it brings. To hell with what you think. Your just mad cause I wasn't the loser you were use too. You like to be told what to do. Well here's one f*ck you. What do you think I was doing their. Making cookies for the boy scouts. Ugly are my eyes. When I how I wasted my time on someone who didn't really want me. You faker, you disease, you brought me knees, then stepped on me. Now I m crippled with no wings, but no longer that foolish to fall for such tricks again. So come on lets see what you got, bet you have no luck. Cause you just ain't that hot. It was about more than that. You broke a contract. I hope you go to hell an rot. For creating the crippled with no wings.

poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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