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Give and Take

The lion finds his stare unnerving,
double pairs of tusks upcurving,
lowers razor honed by uppers' rub.
Warthog's charge is bold, unswerving,
lion favours skin conserving,
prudently conceding to the snub.

The lioness inspects a furrow,
sniffs abandoned aardvark burrow.
Patiently, she digs towards the hub.
Gently plucks the squealing farrow,
warthog piglets, soft bone marrow,
playthings given live, to please her cubs.

The lion saved from warthog scarring,
topples king of pride in sparring.
Murders rival's cubs in buchu scrub.
Rain applauds with thunder jarring.
Warthogs root for food not barring
scattered shreds of cub in gummy mud.

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poem by Diane Hine
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To The Countess Of Blessington

You have ask'd for a verse:--the request
In a rhymer 'twere strange to deny;
But my Hippocrene was but my breast,
And my feelings (its fountain) are dry.

Were I now as I was, I had sung
What Lawrence has painted so well;
But the strain would expire on my tongue,
And the theme is too soft for my shell.

I am ashes where once I was fire,
And the bard in my bosom is dead;
What I loved I now merely admire,
And my heart is as grey as my head.

My life is not dated by years--
There are moments which act as plough;
And there is not a furrow appears
But is deep in my soul as my brow.

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poem by Byron
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REbel for friend Rema

The cockerel crew at break of day.
Bid working men to make their way
to where they earned their honest crust
when hunger drives a man needs must.

Obey the cockerel’s clarion call.

So harness Dobbin to the plough
and leave behind a straight furrow
or hasten to the factory
amongst the grim machinery.

Obey the cockerel’s clarion call.

Of if perchance you’re office bound
surrounded only by the sound
of papers shuffled to and fro.
You have no choice you still must go.

Obey the cockerel’s clarion call.

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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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An Epitaph for a Husbandman

He who would start and rise
Before the crowing cocks, --
No more he lifts his eyes,
Whoever knocks.
He who before the stars
Would call the cattle home, --
They wait about the bars
For him to come.
Him at whose hearty calls
The farmstead woke again
The horses in their stalls
Expect in vain.

Busy and blithe and bold
He laboured for the morrow, --
The plough his hands would hold
Rusts in the furrow.

His fields he had to leave,
His orchards cool and dim;

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poem by Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts
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Throw Yourself Like Seed

Shake off this sadness, and recover your spirit;
Sluggish you will never see the wheel of fate
That brushes your heel as it turns going by,
The man who wants to live is the man in whom life is abundant.

Now you are only giving food to that final pain
Which is slowly winding you in the nets of death,
But to live is to work, and the only thing which lasts
Is the work; start there, turn to the work.

Throw yourself like seed as you walk, and into your own field,
Don’t turn your face for that would be to turn it to death,
And do not let the past weigh down your motion.

Leave what’s alive in the furrow, what’s dead in yourself,
For life does not move in the same way as a group of clouds;
From your work you will be able one day to gather yourself.

poem by Miguel de Unamuno
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Ask The Ashkenazic

Who set the wild donkey free? !
Life is like the words from the Encyclopedia Judiaca;
But, can you tie the wild ox in the furrow with ropes? !
Even though the wings of the ostrich wave proudly,
They cannot be compared to the pinions and the feathers of the stock.

Like a fool pounded in a motar,
Ask the Ashkenazic for more!
With the Babylonian Talmuds tested through the praises when,
One looks back on life and history.
As a face is reflected in water,
So does a man's face mind reflects his activities on this earth.

Red is for the roses and for the wine but,
Whosoever tends thew fig tree will surely eat from it.
Ask the Ashkenazic for more facts,
And learn from others to know how this world is made up;
Like the face of a man being reflected by water.

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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April Rain

The April rain, the April rain,
Comes slanting down in fitful showers,
Then from the furrow shoots the grain,
And banks are fledged with nestling flowers;
And in grey shaw and woodland bowers
The cuckoo through the April rain
Calls once again.

The April sun, the April sun,
Glints through the rain in fitful splendour,
And in grey shaw and woodland dun
The little leaves spring forth and tender
Their infant hands, yet weak and slender,
For warmth towards the April sun,
One after one.

And between shower and shine hath birth
The rainbow's evanescent glory;
Heaven's light that breaks on mists of earth!
Frail symbol of our human story,

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poem by Mathilde Blind
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Summer's Kiss

Write me a summer song
plant here a warming kiss
seed it in these furrows long
in sunsets' languid dip.

Sing lyrics to my buried soul
which lives beneath
in numbing receded cold.

Sing to me underground
another season's bloom.
See my soul steeled against
against this dying cold abyss.

I shall not die in winter's cold
nor miss this year's summer's kiss
I'll bloom my soul's flower
in garden green-
my petals high sky'ed-

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poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Beat Generation Reborn

“On the Road”, “Naked Lunch”, “Howl”
Kerouac, Ginsberg, Burroughs
In a hostile society they went afoul
Yet a nation's psyche they did furrow

Their words against oppression still live
Tyranny rampant then, still so today
A new wave of poets offer alternative
They strive to teach 'n show the way

It’s said;

“The more things change,
The more they stay the same”
True words that may sound strange
To a few who try to shift blame

Beat the drum of freedom Bards
Be fearless, move in a swift motion
Know that World needs Vanguards

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poem by Ray Lucero
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Daisy

The dayseye hugging the earth
in August, ha! Spring is
gone down in purple,
weeds stand high in the corn,
the rainbeaten furrow
is clotted with sorrel
and crabgrass, the
branch is black under
the heavy mass of the leaves--
The sun is upon a
slender green stem
ribbed lengthwise.
He lies on his back--
it is a woman also--
he regards his former
majesty and
round the yellow center,
split and creviced and done into
minute flowerheads, he sends out
his twenty rays-- a little

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poem by William Carlos Williams
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